Lit & The Arts Favourite poem

Discussion in 'Literature & The Arts' started by junior_smith, Oct 15, 2004.

  1. junior_smith

    junior_smith Premium Member

    whats your fav poem, this is not the place for poetry-bashing lol. so if you like poetrty or a poem in particular post it here

    mine is probably sonnet 130, by #@!&% shakespeare, a cliche perhaps but so darn good
  2. helenheaven

    helenheaven Premium Member


    I love this poem

    William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

    The Daffodils

    I wandered lonely as a cloud
    That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
    When all at once I saw a crowd,
    A host, of golden daffodils,
    Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
    Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

    Continuous as the stars that shine
    And twinkle on the milky way,
    They stretched in never-ending line
    Along the margin of a bay:
    Ten thousand saw I at a glance
    Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

    The waves beside them danced, but they
    Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
    A Poet could not be but gay
    In such a jocund company!
    I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
    What wealth the show to me had brought:

    For oft, when on my couch I lie
    In vacant or in pensive mood,
    They flash upon that inward eye
    Which is the bliss of solitude;
    And then my heart with pleasure fills,
    And dances with the daffodils.
  3. Zsandmann

    Zsandmann Premium Member

    Chaucer, well the Prolog is kinda a poem.
    In Middle English even:
    Drilled into my head.

    Whan that April wit a shour a soutre
    the drought of March had perced to the roote
    and bathed eery vein in switch liquor
    of which verto engandered is the flour

    Spelling is most likely not correct, oh and theres more, much more.
  4. Off_the_Street

    Off_the_Street New Member

    I kind of like this one; it's in the style of the Cavalier Poets of the early 1600s.

    (I need not eyes to see, nor ears to ear)

    I need not eyes to see, nor ears to hear
    A soft voice that will not attenuate
    Its signal -- be it far or be it near
    That came unbidden to my mind of late.
    (I need not eyes to see, nor ears to hear)

    I need not ears to hear, nor mouth to speak
    Mine answer to those voices in my mind
    -- Perhaps replies' direction so oblique
    Have missed the one those words were meant to find!
    (I need not ears to hear, nor mouth to speak)

    I need not lips to feel, nor tongue to taste
    The honey guarded deep within the tree
    Whose leaves embower what I once embraced
    With mysteries concealed now from me.
    (I need not lips to feel, nor tongue to taste)

    I need not heart to love, nor breath to live
    For death does not imply my living's end
    And next-life's passion leads me on to give
    My love once more, when I see her again.
    (I need not heart to love, nor breath to live)
  5. amantine

    amantine Premium Member

    I'm not an expert on poetry. All I've read in english is what we have to do for school, WWI poets and Northern Ireland poets, and the poets from my favourite period, T.S. Eliot, Ezra Pound and James Joyce. I liked Joyce's collection Pomes Penyeach, but Chamber Music was a bit too conventional. I did really like The Waste Land by Eliot.

    Then you also have the latin poets we have to for school; Catullus, Horatius, Vergilius and Ovidius. They're all good, but I liked Vergilius and Catullus most. Catullus is a lot of fun to read, because he likes to play the Angry Young Man, offending everyone and everything, including Caesar, which almost got him killed. If you ever want to latin poetry and don't have the time for a huge epos, a translation of Catullus' Carmina is my recommendation.
  6. bigdanprice

    bigdanprice New Member

    This is my favourite poem:
    Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
    Enwrought with golden and silver light,
    The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
    Of night and light and the half-light,
    I would spread the cloths under your feet:
    But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
    I have spread my dreams under your feet;
    Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.

    -- William Butler Yeats
  7. junior_smith

    junior_smith Premium Member

    i like the yeats one, that is cool

    i didn't post 'Sonnet 130' so i will do so now:
    My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
    Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
    If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
    If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
    I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
    But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
    And in some perfumes is there more delight
    Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
    I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
    That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
    I grant I never saw a goddess go;
    My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
    And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
    As any she belied with false compare.

    William Shakespeare
  8. Bleys

    Bleys Phoenix Takes Flight Staff Member

    I have two that I always keep with me. WH Auden's Funeral Blues and Robert Frost's Nature's First Green is Gold.

    Funeral Blues

    Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
    Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
    Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
    Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

    Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
    Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
    Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
    Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

    He was my North, my South, my East and West,
    My working week and my Sunday rest,
    My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
    I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

    The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
    Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
    Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
    For nothing now can ever come to any good.

    Nothing Gold Can Stay

    Nature's first green is gold,
    Her hardest hue to hold.
    Her early leaf's a flower;
    But only so an hour.
    Then leaf subsides to leaf,
    So Eden sank to grief,
    So dawn goes down to day
    Nothing gold can stay.
  9. DeusEx

    DeusEx Member


    Author:Alfred Tennyson

    It little profits that an idle king,
    By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
    Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
    Unequal laws unto a savage race,
    That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
    I cannot rest from travel; I will drink
    Life to the lees. All times I have enjoy'd
    Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
    That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
    Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
    Vext the dim sea. I am become a name;
    For always roaming with a hungry heart
    Much have I seen and known,-- cities of men
    And manners, climates, councils, governments,
    Myself not least, but honor'd of them all,--
    And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
    Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
    I am a part of all that I have met;
    Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
    Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
    For ever and for ever when I move.
    How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
    To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
    As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life
    Were all too little, and of one to me
    Little remains; but every hour is saved
    From that eternal silence, something more,
    A bringer of new things; and vile it were
    For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
    And this gray spirit yearning in desire
    To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
    Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

    This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
    to whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,--
    Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
    This labor, by slow prudence to make mild
    A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
    Subdue them to the useful and the good.
    Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
    Of common duties, decent not to fail
    In offices of tenderness, and pay
    Meet adoration to my household gods,
    When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

    There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail;
    There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
    Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me,--
    That ever with a frolic welcome took
    The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
    Free hearts, free foreheads,-- you and I are old;
    Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.
    Death closes all; but something ere the end,
    Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
    Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
    The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
    The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
    Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.
    'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
    Push off, and sitting well in order smite
    The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
    To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
    Of all the western stars, until I die.
    It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
    It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
    And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
    Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
    We are not now that strength which in old days
    Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,--
    One equal temper of heroic hearts,
    Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
    To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

    Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson

  10. amantine

    amantine Premium Member

    There is a version of the Waste Land with notes on this page. I'll quote a small bit from the start (the entire poem is about 450 lines):

  11. Waxy cheesecake

    Waxy cheesecake Premium Member

    Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
    Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
    As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
    `'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
    Only this, and nothing more.'

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
    And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
    For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
    Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
    Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    `'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
    Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
    This it is, and nothing more,'

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
    `Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
    That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
    Darkness there, and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
    Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
    But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
    This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
    Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
    Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    `Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
    Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
    Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
    'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
    In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
    Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
    Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

    Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
    By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
    `Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
    Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
    Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
    Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
    Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
    Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
    With such name as `Nevermore.'

    But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
    That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
    Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
    On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
    Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
    `Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
    Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
    Of "Never-nevermore."'

    But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
    Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
    What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
    Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
    To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion's velvet violet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
    But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
    She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
    Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    `Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
    Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
    Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
    Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

    `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
    Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
    On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
    Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
    Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

    `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
    By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
    Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
    Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

    `Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
    `Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
    Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
    Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

    And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
    On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
    And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
    And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
    Shall be lifted - nevermore!
  12. Waxy cheesecake

    Waxy cheesecake Premium Member

    The book I read in my english has that poem in it. The book is called The Outsiders. Its a good book.
  13. JcMinJapan

    JcMinJapan Premium Member

    There once was a man from Nantucket.....

    ooops, sorry, that is a limerick.... Never mind.... :ch:
  14. junior_smith

    junior_smith Premium Member

    a limerick is still a poem dear boy, [puffs pipe] jsut as a limping man still walks.

    there once was a man from mitrass,
    whose [Spheres] were made of fine brass,
    in stormy weather
    they clanged together
    and sparks flew out of his [Bum]
  15. junior_smith

    junior_smith Premium Member

    just thought i would write this because im from the home town of the author of this poem, john mcrae, if you are interested in visiting his birth place (like i did every field trip i had) come down to guelph ontario canada. the poem you will likely have heard, i have memorised it because we had to preform it every rememberance day.
    it is entitled, Flanders Fields

    In Flanders Fields the poppies blow,
    between the crosses row on row
    that mark our place
    and in the sky
    the larks so bravely singing fly
    scarce heard among the guns below
    we are the dead short days ago
    we lived felt dawn now sunsets glow
    loved and were loved

    take up our quarrel with the foe
    to you from failing hands we through
    the torch; to you who hold it high
    if you break faith to us who die
    we shall not sleep though poppies glow
    in flanders field

    *snaps* snaps *snaps
  16. amantine

    amantine Premium Member

    Is it a WW1 poem? The references to poppies and Flanders seem to indicate that.
  17. Icewolf

    Icewolf Premium Member

    Tam O Shanter
    by Robert Burns

    When chapman billies leave the street,
    And drouthy neibors, neibors, meet;
    As market days are wearing late,
    And folk begin to tak the gate,
    While we sit bousing at the nappy,
    An' getting fou and unco happy,
    We think na on the lang Scots miles,
    The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,
    That lie between us and our hame,
    Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,
    Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
    Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

    This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
    As he frae Ayr ae night did canter:
    (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
    For honest men and bonie lasses).

    O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise,
    As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!
    She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
    A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
    That frae November till October,
    Ae market-day thou was na sober;
    That ilka melder wi' the Miller,
    Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
    That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on
    The Smith and thee gat roarin' fou on;
    That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday,
    Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday,
    She prophesied that late or soon,
    Thou wad be found, deep drown'd in Doon,
    Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
    By Alloway's auld, haunted kirk.

    Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
    To think how mony counsels sweet,
    How mony lengthen'd, sage advices,
    The husband frae the wife despises!

    But to our tale: Ae market night,
    Tam had got planted unco right,
    Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
    Wi reaming sAats, that drank divinely;
    And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,
    His ancient, trusty, drougthy crony:
    Tam lo'ed him like a very brither;
    They had been fou for weeks thegither.
    The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter;
    And aye the ale was growing better:
    The Landlady and Tam grew gracious,
    Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious:
    The Souter tauld his queerest stories;
    The Landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
    The storm without might rair and rustle,
    Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

    Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
    E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy.
    As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
    The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure:
    Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
    O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!

    But pleasures are like poppies spread,
    You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;
    Or like the snow falls in the river,
    A moment white-then melts for ever;
    Or like the Borealis race,
    That flit ere you can point their place;
    Or like the Rainbow's lovely form
    Evanishing amid the storm. -
    Nae man can tether Time nor Tide,
    The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
    That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,
    That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
    And sic a night he taks the road in,
    As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

    The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
    The rattling showers rose on the blast;
    The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;
    Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd:
    That night, a child might understand,
    The deil had business on his hand.

    Weel-mounted on his grey mare, Meg,
    A better never lifted leg,
    Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,
    Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
    Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet,
    Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet,
    Whiles glow'rin round wi' prudent cares,
    Lest bogles catch him unawares;
    Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
    Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry.

    By this time he was cross the ford,
    Where in the snaw the chapman smoor'd;
    And past the birks and meikle stane,
    Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane;
    And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,
    Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn;
    And near the thorn, aboon the well,
    Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'.
    Before him Doon pours all his floods,
    The doubling storm roars thro' the woods,
    The lightnings flash from pole to pole,
    Near and more near the thunders roll,
    When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
    Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze,
    Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing,
    And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

    Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
    What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
    Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;
    Wi' usquabae, we'll face the devil!
    The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,
    Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle,
    But Maggie stood, right sair astonish'd,
    Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,
    She ventur'd forward on the light;
    And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!

    Warlocks and witches in a dance:
    Nae cotillon, brent new frae France,
    But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
    Put life and mettle in their heels.
    A winnock-bunker in the east,
    There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
    A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
    To gie them music was his charge:
    He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl,
    Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. -
    Coffins stood round, like open presses,
    That shaw'd the Dead in their last dresses;
    And (by some devilish cantraip sleight)
    Each in its cauld hand held a light.
    By which heroic Tam was able
    To note upon the haly table,
    A murderer's banes, in gibbet-airns;
    Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns;
    A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,
    Wi' his last gasp his gabudid gape;
    Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted:
    Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted;
    A garter which a babe had strangled:
    A knife, a father's throat had mangled.
    Whom his ain son of life bereft,
    The grey-hairs yet stack to the heft;
    Wi' mair of horrible and awfu',
    Which even to name wad be unlawfu'.

    As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious,
    The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;
    The Piper loud and louder blew,
    The dancers quick and quicker flew,
    The reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit,
    Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,
    And coost her duddies to the wark,
    And linkit at it in her sark!

    Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans,
    A' plump and strapping in their teens!
    Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flainen,
    Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!-
    Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,
    That ance were plush o' guid blue hair,
    I wad hae gien them off my hurdies,
    For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!
    But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,
    Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
    Louping an' flinging on a crummock.
    I wonder did na turn thy stomach.

    But Tam kent what was what fu' brawlie:
    There was ae winsome wench and waulie
    That night enlisted in the core,
    Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore;
    (For mony a beast to dead she shot,
    And perish'd mony a bonie boat,
    And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
    And kept the country-side in fear);
    Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,
    That while a lassie she had worn,
    In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
    It was her best, and she was vauntie.
    Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie,
    That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
    Wi twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches),
    Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!

    But here my Muse her wing maun cour,
    Sic flights are far beyond her power;
    To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
    (A souple jade she was and strang),
    And how Tam stood, like ane bewithc'd,
    And thought his very een enrich'd:
    Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,
    And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main:
    Till first ae caper, syne anither,
    Tam tint his reason a thegither,
    And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"
    And in an instant all was dark:
    And scarcely had he Maggie rallied.
    When out the hellish legion sallied.

    As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
    When plundering herds assail their byke;
    As open pussie's mortal foes,
    When, pop! she starts before their nose;
    As eager runs the market-crowd,
    When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
    So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
    Wi' mony an eldritch skreich and hollow.

    Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin!
    In hell, they'll roast thee like a herrin!
    In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!
    Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
    Now, do thy speedy-utmost, Meg,
    And win the key-stone o' the brig;^1
    There, at them thou thy tail may toss,
    A running stream they dare na cross.
    But ere the keystane she could make,
    The fient a tail she had to shake!
    For Nannie, far before the rest,
    Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
    And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;
    But little wist she Maggie's mettle!
    Ae spring brought off her master hale,
    But left behind her ain grey tail:
    The carlin claught her by the rump,
    And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

    Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
    Ilk man and mother's son, take heed:
    Whene'er to Drink you are inclin'd,
    Or Cutty-sarks rin in your mind,
    Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear;
    Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.
  18. Icewolf

    Icewolf Premium Member

    Now that i think on it, it's a close run game between that poem and,
    To A Mouse
    by Robert Burns

    Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie,
    O, what panic's in thy breastie!
    Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
    Wi' bickering brattle!
    I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
    Wi' murd'ring pattle!
    I'm truly sorry Man's dominion
    Has broken Nature's social union,
    An' justifies that ill opinion,
    Which makes thee startle,
    At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
    An' fellow-mortal!

    I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
    What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
    A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request:
    I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
    An' never miss't!

    Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
    It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
    An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
    O' foggage green!
    An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
    Baith snell an' keen!

    Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast,
    An' weary Winter comin fast,
    An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
    Thou thought to dwell,
    Till crash! the cruel coulter past
    Out thro' thy cell.

    That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
    Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
    Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
    But house or hald.
    To thole the Winter's sleety dribble,
    An' cranreuch cauld!

    But Mousie, thou are no thy-lane,
    In proving foresight may be vain:
    The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men,
    Gang aft agley,
    An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
    For promis'd joy!

    Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
    The present only toucheth thee:
    But Och! I backward cast my e'e,
    On prospects drear!
    An' forward, tho' I canna see,
    I guess an' fear!
  19. amantine

    amantine Premium Member

    I recently read Howl by Allen Ginsberg and I liked it. You can find it here:

  20. drlau

    drlau Premium Member

    Two of a LONG list of favorites:

    Thomas Hardy's poem was written on New Year's Eve, 1900.