Do you have a favourite poem? This is one of mine, Did you take the trouble to read it?

"ELEGY WRITTEN IN


A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD"





The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,


The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,


The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,


And leaves the world to darkness and to me.





Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,


And all the air a solemn stillness holds,


Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,


And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:





Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower


The moping owl does to the moon complain


Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,


Molest her ancient solitary reign.





Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,


Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,


Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,


The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.





The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,


The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,


The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,


No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.





For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,


Or busy housewife ply her evening care:


No children run to lisp their sire's return,


Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share,





Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,


Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;


How jocund did they drive their team afield!


How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!





Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,


Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;


Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile


The short and simple annals of the Poor.





The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,


And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,


Awaits alike th' inevitable hour:-


The paths of glory lead but to the grave.





Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault


If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,


Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault


The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.





Can storied urn or animated bust


Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?


Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,


Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?





Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid


Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;


Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,


Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:





But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,


Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;


Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,


And froze the genial current of the soul.





Full many a gem of purest ray serene


The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:


Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,


And waste its sweetness on the desert air.





Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast


The little tyrant of his fields withstood,


Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,


Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.





Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,


The threats of pain and ruin to despise,


To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,


And read their history in a nation's eyes,





Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone


Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;


Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,


And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,





The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,


To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,


Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride


With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.





Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,


Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;


Along the cool sequester'd vale of life


They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.





Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect


Some frail memorial still erected nigh,


With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,


Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.





Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,


The place of fame and elegy supply:


And many a holy text around she strews,


That teach the rustic moralist to die.





For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,


This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,


Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,


Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?





On some fond breast the parting soul relies,


Some pious drops the closing eye requires;


E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,


E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.





For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,


Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;


If chance, by lonely contemplation led,


Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, --





Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,


Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn


Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,


To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;





'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech


That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high.


His listless length at noontide would he stretch,


And pore upon the brook that babbles by.





'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,


Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;


Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,


Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.





'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,


Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;


Another came; nor yet beside the rill,


Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;





'The next with dirges due in sad array


Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,-


Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay


Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'





The Epitaph





Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth


A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.


Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,


And Melacholy marked him for her own.





Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,


Heaven did a recompense as largely send:


He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,


He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.





No farther seek his merits to disclose,


Or draw his frailties from their dread abode


(There they alike in trembling hope repose),


The bosom of his Father and his God.





By Thomas Gray (1716-71).

Do you have a favourite poem? This is one of mine, Did you take the trouble to read it?
I did read it, but as it was a very long poem, it turned into browsing, which is not a great way of reading poetry. I will have to try it another time.





I will tell my favorite poem/lullaby, though. It is called "Wynken, Blynken and Nod" and was written by Eugene Field (1850 - 1895). As a child, it was my favorite bedtime story. My mother read it quite often. So often that she can still quote passages 40 plus years later after I gave up that obsession (so that gives you a picture of how important it was to me).





I have also read it to my preschool children, though I must admit it is very out of date for children of this age. But the rhythm is a timeless beauty.
Reply:Read, by me, at my father's funeral, at his request. His favorite as he resided in England at a time when life was easily and unexpectedly lost. (1942-45)


I followed it up with mine:





Cheerily then my little man,


Live and laugh as boyhood can,


Ah, that thou coulds't know thy joy,


Ere it passes, barefoot boy..."





Thank you.
Reply:i tried i really did. i'm just not in the mood! i shall star it tho and read it at a time i'm not so tired! sorry.
Reply:Self Pity





I never saw a wild thing


sorry for itself.


A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough


without ever having felt sorry for itself.





D.H. Lawrence











RAINBOW





Wouldn't it be terrible? Wouldn't it be sad?


If just one single colour was the colour that we had?


If everything was purple? Or red? Or blue? Or green?


If yellow, pink, or orange was all that could be seen?


Can you just imagine how dull our world would be


If just one single colour was all we got to see?
Reply:This is the Histroy category, not Poetry, did you take the trouble to read it?
Reply:It took me a while but I read it...its really deep seems to me...I'm not much into poetry but if Amazing Grace was a poem, it would be my favorite.
Reply:yes , i read it. quite nice, a bit sexist though, did women not die and have similar worth. Its of its time pre industrial revolution, slower times when persons were tied to land location and seasons. Bit too long for my liking but ok.
Reply:A very nice poem, of all that is lost in death, that is covered up and all of the fire and potential that has been robbed from the individual who died along with from our world. Also included in this poem is the famous phrase "Far from the maddening crowd" a great notion





And yes, I have a favorite poem also, always found in Robert Frost ... mending fences ... when the two neighbors, the only time they ever met, was once a year when they got together to build the stone wall that divided them ... a truly tragic yet poignant notion.
Reply:It had been a long time since reading this poem, so thanks for it. My favorites ( in no particular order) are:


"Rime of the Ancient Mariner" Samuel T Coleridge


"The Highwayman"Alfred Noyes


"If" - Rudyard Kipling





...and this really shouldn't be in history, but no matter I enjoyed it.
Reply:Love it. I see a lot of correlations to some Pink Floyd songs-wonder if they were influenced somehow. My longtime and current favorite is Longfellow's Song of Hiawatha.
Reply:Opportunity





THIS I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:-


There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;


And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged


A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords


Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner


Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.


A craven hung along the battle's edge,


And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel-


That blue blade that the king's son bears,-but this


Blunt thing-!" he snapt and flung it from his hand,


And lowering crept away and left the field.


Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead,


And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,


Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,


And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout


Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down,


And saved a great cause that heroic day.





Edward Rowland Sill

















g-day!
Reply:Very Nice my favorite is


Ozymandius by Percy Byce Shelley
Reply:A moth-eaten rag on a worm-eaten pole,


It does not seem likely to stir a mans soul,


'Tis the deeds that were done 'neath that moth-eaten rag,


When the pole was a staff and the rag was a flag.





Gen.Sir. Edward Bruce Hamley (British Army)


referring to the Colours of the 43rd Monmouth Light Infantry





(became the Royal Green Jackets until 1st Feb 2007, now a battalion of The Rifles)
Reply:This is my all time favourite.





The Lady of Shallot


Alfred Lord Tennyson





Part I





On either side the river lie


Long fields of barley and of rye,


That clothe the wold and meet the sky;


And thro' the field the road runs by


To many-tower'd Camelot;


And up and down the people go,


Gazing where the lilies blow


Round an island there below,


The island of Shallot.








Willows whiten, aspens quiver,


Little breezes dusk and shiver


Thro' the wave that runs for ever


By the island in the river


Flowing down to Camelot.


Four gray walls, and four gray towers,


Overlook a space of flowers,


And the silent isle imbowers


The Lady of Shallot.





By the margin, willow veil'd,


Slide the heavy barges trail'd


By slow horses; and unhail'd


The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd


Skimming down to Camelot:


But who hath seen her wave her hand?


Or at the casement seen her stand?


Or is she known in all the land,


The Lady of Shallot?





Only reapers, reaping early


In among the bearded barley,


Hear a song that echoes cheerly


From the river winding clearly,


Down to tower'd Camelot:


And by the moon the reaper weary,


Piling sheaves in uplands airy,


Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy


Lady of Shallot."





Part II





There she weaves by night and day


A magic web with colours gay.


She has heard a whisper say,


A curse is on her if she stay


To look down to Camelot.


She knows not what the curse may be,


And so she weaveth steadily,


And little other care hath she,


The Lady of Shallot.





And moving thro' a mirror clear


That hangs before her all the year,


Shadows of the world appear.


There she sees the highway near


Winding down to Camelot:


There the river eddy whirls,


And there the surly village-churls,


And the red cloaks of market girls,


Pass onward from Shallot.





Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,


An abbot on an ambling pad,


Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,


Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,


Goes by to tower'd Camelot;


And sometimes thro' the mirror blue


The knights come riding two and two:


She hath no loyal knight and true,


The Lady of Shallot.





But in her web she still delights


To weave the mirror's magic sights,


For often thro' the silent nights


A funeral, with plumes and lights


And music, went to Camelot:


Or when the moon was overhead,


Came two young lovers lately wed:


"I am half sick of shadows," said


The Lady of Shallot.





Part III





A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,


He rode between the barley-sheaves,


The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,


And flamed upon the brazen greaves


Of bold Sir Lancelot.


A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd


To a lady in his shield,


That sparkled on the yellow field,


Beside remote Shallot.





The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,


Like to some branch of stars we see


Hung in the golden Galaxy.


The bridle bells rang merrily


As he rode down to Camelot:


And from his blazon'd baldric slung


A mighty silver bugle hung,


And as he rode his armour rung,


Beside remote Shallot.





All in the blue unclouded weather


Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,


The helmet and the helmet-feather


Burn'd like one burning flame together,


As he rode down to Camelot.


As often thro' the purple night,


Below the starry clusters bright,


Some bearded meteor, trailing light,


Moves over still Shallot.





His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;


On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;


From underneath his helmet flow'd


His coal-black curls as on he rode,


As he rode down to Camelot.


From the bank and from the river


He flash'd into the crystal mirror,


"Tirra lirra," by the river


Sang Sir Lancelot.





She left the web, she left the loom,


She made three paces thro' the room,


She saw the water-lily bloom,


She saw the helmet and the plume,


She look'd down to Camelot.


Out flew the web and floated wide;


The mirror crack'd from side to side;


"The curse is come upon me," cried


The Lady of Shallot.





Part IV





In the stormy east-wind straining,


The pale yellow woods were waning,


The broad stream in his banks complaining,


Heavily the low sky raining


Over tower'd Camelot;


Down she came and found a boat


Beneath a willow left afloat,


And round about the prow she wrote


The Lady of Shallot.





And down the river's dim expanse


Like some bold seer in a trance,


Seeing all his own mischance--


With a glassy countenance


Did she look to Camelot.


And at the closing of the day


She loosed the chain, and down she lay;


The broad stream bore her far away,


The Lady of Shallot.





Lying, robed in snowy white


That loosely flew to left and right--


The leaves upon her falling light--


Thro' the noises of the night


She floated down to Camelot:


And as the boat-head wound along


The willowy hills and fields among,


They heard her singing her last song,


The Lady of Shallot.





Heard a carol, mournful, holy,


Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,


Till her blood was frozen slowly,


And her eyes were darken'd wholly,


Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.


For ere she reach'd upon the tide


The first house by the water-side,


Singing in her song she died,


The Lady of Shallot.





Under tower and balcony,


By garden-wall and gallery,


A gleaming shape she floated by,


Dead-pale between the houses high,


Silent into Camelot.


Out upon the wharfs they came,


Knight and burgher, lord and dame,


And round the prow they read her name,


The Lady of Shallot.





Who is this? and what is here?


And in the lighted palace near


Died the sound of royal cheer;


And they cross'd themselves for fear,


All the knights at Camelot:


But Lancelot mused a little space;


He said, "She has a lovely face;


God in his mercy lend her grace,


The Lady of Shallot."





The Lady of Shallot


Alfred Lord Tennyson
Reply:My favorite poem was written to me by my beloved husband before he passed away last September. As we discussed his death and my life afterward he said:





When the wind blows, I'll be in the trees.


When the birds fly, I'll be with them.


When the water flows, my spirit will be free.


I will never leave you....





What a sacrifice for him, a REAL man who did not believe in showing 'weakness.' Yes, I did read yours.
Reply:I have enjoyed reading the poems here, my favourite poem is by Lord Tennyson it's called Ulysses, Here is an extract





"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 "