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Post a favorite poem!

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Fiddler:
I've always enjoyed W.B. Yeats even if it was assigned reading back in high school.

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

Lines:
Amor De Mi Alma - Garcilaso de la Vega (spanish and english translations)

Yo no naci sino para quereros;
Mi alma os ha cortado a su medida;
Por h?bito del alma misma os quiero.
Escrito est? en mi alma vuestro gesto;
Yo lo leo tan solo que aun de vos
Me guardo en esto.
Quanto tengo confiesso yo deveros;
Por vos nac?, por vos tengo la vida.
Y por vos ? de morir ye por vos muero.

I was born to love only you
My soul has formed you to its measure
I want you as a garment for my soul
Your very image is written on my soul
Such indescribable intimacy
I hide even from you
All that I have, I owe to you
For you I was born, for you I live
For you I must die, and for you I give my last breath

eveisdawning:
Thanks for posting that cummings poem! I hadn't seen that before.. I really love a lot of his work, but that was new to me. Lovely, really.

I also love Yeats, and Keats. :) My personal favorite, though, is Sylvia Plath. A lot of her poetry is kind of dark, but not all of it, and this is (probably) my favorite by her:
Black Rook in Rainy Weather

On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident

To set the sight on fire
In my eye, not seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.

Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Leap incandescent

Out of the kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then ---
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent

By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant

Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant

A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content

Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again,
The long wait for the angel.
For that rare, random descent.

eatyrspleens:
i'm not really into poetry, but i'm going to add to the sylvia plath and post "lady lazarus", because it's the only i can think of at the moment that i really enjoy.

Lady Lazarus
   
   I have done it again.
   One year in every ten
   I manage it----
   
   A sort of walking miracle, my skin
   Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
   My right foot
   
   A paperweight,
   My face a featureless, fine
   Jew linen.
   
   Peel off the napkin
   0 my enemy.
   Do I terrify?----
   
   The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
   The sour breath
   Will vanish in a day.
   
   Soon, soon the flesh
   The grave cave ate will be
   At home on me
   
   And I a smiling woman.
   I am only thirty.
   And like the cat I have nine times to die.
   
   This is Number Three.
   What a trash
   To annihilate each decade.
   
   What a million filaments.
   The peanut-crunching crowd
   Shoves in to see
   
   Them unwrap me hand and foot
   The big strip tease.
   Gentlemen, ladies
   
   These are my hands
   My knees.
   I may be skin and bone,
   
   Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
   The first time it happened I was ten.
   It was an accident.
   
   The second time I meant
   To last it out and not come back at all.
   I rocked shut
   
   As a seashell.
   They had to call and call
   And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
   
   Dying
   Is an art, like everything else,
   I do it exceptionally well.
   
   I do it so it feels like hell.
   I do it so it feels real.
   I guess you could say I've a call.
   
   It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
   It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
   It's the theatrical
   
   Comeback in broad day
   To the same place, the same face, the same brute
   Amused shout:
   
   'A miracle!'
   That knocks me out.
   There is a charge
   
   For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
   For the hearing of my heart----
   It really goes.
   
   And there is a charge, a very large charge
   For a word or a touch
   Or a bit of blood
   
   Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
   So, so, Herr Doktor.
   So, Herr Enemy.
   
   I am your opus,
   I am your valuable,
   The pure gold baby
   
   That melts to a shriek.
   I turn and burn.
   Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
   
   Ash, ash ---
   You poke and stir.
   Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----
   
   A cake of soap,
   A wedding ring,
   A gold filling.
   
   Herr God, Herr Lucifer
   Beware
   Beware.
   
   Out of the ash
   I rise with my red hair
   And I eat men like air.

Thicket:
heres something people might find intresting Robert Frost the famous poet...i my gret grandpa!

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