Your favourite poem?

(332 Posts)
lifechanger Wed 19-Oct-11 19:09:37

Ok, I know National Poetry Day was a few weeks ago, but how about sharing your favourite poems, happy, sad, melacholic or joyful?

This is mine:

Afternoons, by Philip Larkin

Summer is fading:
The leaves fall in ones and twos
From trees bordering
The new recreation ground.
In the hollows of afternoons
Young mothers assemble
At swing and sandpit
Setting free their children.

Behind them, at intervals,
Stand husbands in skilled trades,
An estateful of washing,
And the albums, lettered
Our Wedding, lying
Near the television:
Before them, the wind
Is ruining their courting-places

That are still courting-places
(But the lovers are all in school),
And their children, so intent on
Finding more unripe acrons,
Expect to be taken home.
Their beauty has thickened.
Something is pushing them
To the side of their own lives.

Sparklymommy Sun 05-May-13 20:10:29

Someone's nicked my knickers by Gez Walsh

Someone's nicked my knickers
And I just want them back
If I find out whose nicked them
I'll give them such I smack

I left them in my top drawer
So they would be easy to find
I can't go out til I find them...
Not with a bare behind!

I've looked in my wardrobe
From the bottom to the top
I looked behind my radiator
Where I found an old green sock

Oh, who has nicked my knickers?
Just where could they have gone?
Wait, I've just remembered
This morning I put them on!

2boysama Mon 22-Apr-13 12:36:03

Why do we look back and say
'I was happy yesterday'?
We read the stars, we hope, we seek
For happiness, next month, next week
Just give that job, that man to me
And see how happy I will be
I wonder why, I wonder how
We never think we're happy now

TennisFan42 Fri 04-Jan-13 23:07:08

The Price of Art in Luton by John Hegley

On the bridge approaching the railway,
the man was begging.
I said draw me a dog
and I'll give you a quid.
So I gave him some paper
and he did.
And I said, there you go, mate,
you can make money out of art!
Will you sign it?
As I handed him the one pound thirty-odd
I had in my pocket,
he informed me that the signed ones were a fiver.

sheeesh Sat 13-Oct-12 22:40:31

If you are mortar, it is hard to feel well-disposed towards to the two bricks you are squashed between, or even a sense of community.

Ivor Cutler

daddyorchipsdaddyorchips Fri 21-Sep-12 12:33:08

STRAWBERRIES by Edwin Morgan

There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open french window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates in our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates
laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memory
lean back again
let me love you

let the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick hills

let the storm wash the plates

ZombiesAreClammyDodgers Thu 20-Sep-12 23:29:35

Actually this is the translation that is nicest.

Pablo Neruda

Sonnet XVII (100 Love Sonnets, 1960)

I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

ZombiesAreClammyDodgers Thu 20-Sep-12 23:28:12

This is my favourite.

Sonnet XVII
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Pablo Neruda

AViewfromtheFridge Sat 15-Sep-12 13:58:10

Sorry to resurrect an old thread, but just wanted to add this:

Three or So by Berlie Doherty

Is the girl in the snapshot me?
The little girl in the woolen dress
By a broken door in a tiny yard
She's shy and laughing and ready to run
And shielding her eyes from the morning sun

I've forgotten the dress, and the colour of it
I've forgotten who took the photograph
I've forgotten the little girl, three or so
She's someone else now, to be wondered at
With my mother's eyes and my own child's hair
And my brother's smile, but the child who's there ----
The real soul of her -- fled long ago
To the alley-way where she mustn't go
Through the broken door in that tiny yard

Rough men on motorbikes, not to be looked at
Scrawny cats scratching, not to be touched
Down to the railway line, never to go there
Nor up the road where the traffic rushed
Stay closed in the yard with the sun in your eyes
Come and be still for your photograph

I can hear now the drone of those bikes
And the loud dark voices of the men
And the howl of the tomcats on the prowl
I can hear the scream and shush on the train
And the whooshing of traffic on the road

But the summer buzz in that tiny yard
And the child who laughed with her best dress on
And the voice that told her to stand in the sun
And the click that pressed the shutter down
Have gone
As if they had never been.

I hope someone can help me out here..
My much loved Scottish granny used to recite this to me and I now recite it to my beautiful son
I wonder, I wonder
If anyone knows
Who lives at the heart of the velvety rise?
Is it a goblin?
Or is it an elf?
Or us it the queen of the fairies herself?

It means so much to me, I know it's rather silly, but I'd love to know where it's from

blapbird Wed 18-Apr-12 00:19:45

Allen Ginsberg

Ego Confession

I want to be known as the most brilliant man in America
Introduced to Gyalwa Karmapa heir of the Whispered Transmission
Crazy Wisdom Practice Lineage
as the secret young wise man who visited him and winked anonymously
decade ago in Gangtok
Prepared the way for Dharma in America without mentioning Dharma--
scribbled laughter
Who saw Blake and abandoned God
To whom the Messianic Fink sent messages darkest hour sleeping on
steel sheets "somewhere in the Federal Prison system" weathermen
got no Moscow Gold
who went backstage to Cecil Taylor serious chat chord structure & Time
in a nightclub
who fucked a rose-lipped rock star in a tiny bedroom slum watched by a
statue of Vajrasattva--
and overthrew the CIA with a silent thought
Old Bohemians many years hence in Viennese beergardens'll recall
his many young lovers with astonishing faces and iron breasts
gnostic apparatus and magical observation of rainbow-lit spiderwebs
extraordinary cooking, lung stew & Spaghetti a la Vongole and recipe
for salad dressing 3 parts oil one part vinegar much garlic and
honey a spoonful
his extraordinary ego, at service of Dharma and completely empty
unafraid of its own self's spectre
parroting gossip of gurus and geniuses famous for their reticence
Who sang a blues made rock stars weep and moved an old black
guitarist to laughter in Memphis
I want to be the spectacle of Poesy triumphant over trickery of the world
Omniscient breathing its own breath thru tear gas spy hallucination
whose common sense astonished gaga Gurus and rich Artistes
who called the justice department & threaten'd to Blow the Whistle
Stopt Wars, turned back petrochemical Industries' Captains to grieve &
groan in bed
Chopped wood, built forest houses & established farms
distributed monies to poor poets & nourished imaginative genius of the
land
Sat silent in jazz roar writing poetry with an ink pen
wasn't afraid of God or Death after his 48th year
let his brain turn to water under Laughing Gas his gold molar pulled by
futuristic dentists
Seamen knew ocean's surface a year
carpenter later learned bevel and mattock
son, conversed with elder Pound & treated his father gently
--All empty all for show, all for the sake of Poesy
to set surpassing example of sanity as measure for late generations
Exemplify Muse Power to the young avert future suicide
accepting his own lie & the gaps between lies with equal good humor
Solitary in worlds full of insects & singing birds all solitary
--who had no subject but himself in many disguises
some outside his own body including empty air-filled space forests &
cities--
Even climbed mountains to create his mountain, with ice ax & crampons
& ropes, over Glaciers--

Hopefullyrecovering Sun 15-Apr-12 03:05:20

I am delighted to see the Robert Frost afficionados on this thread. It is too hard to chose a favourite poem. How can one have a single favourite poem? But I wanted to contribute this one to the thread and a boy I knew many years ago set this to music. He got the minor key. He got the lullaby effect. I didn't love him though, and I am sorry that I didn't.

(Poem #307) Lay your sleeping head, my love
Lay your sleeping head, my love,
Human on my faithless arm;
Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
Thoughtful children, and the grave
Proves the child ephemeral:
But in my arms till break of day
Let the living creature lie,
Mortal, guilty, but to me
The entirely beautiful.

Soul and body have no bounds:
To lovers as they lie upon
Her tolerant enchanted slope
In their ordinary swoon,
Grave the vision Venus sends
Of supernatural sympathy,
Universal love and hope;
While an abstract insight wakes
Among the glaciers and the rocks
The hermit's sensual ecstasy.

Certainty, fidelity
On the stroke of midnight pass
Like vibrations of a bell,
And fashionable madmen raise
Their pedantic boring cry:
Every farthing of the cost,
All the dreaded cards foretell,
Shall be paid, but from this night
Not a whisper, not a thought,
Not a kiss nor look be lost.

Beauty, midnight, vision dies:
Let the winds of dawn that blow
Softly round your dreaming head
Such a day of sweetness show
Eye and knocking heart may bless,
Find the mortal world enough;
Noons of dryness see you fed
By the involuntary powers,
Nights of insult let you pass
Watched by every human love.
-- W H Auden

bamps33 Tue 10-Apr-12 16:13:23

I had to bring this thread back to life after reading all these wonderful poems. The Purge gave me chills when I first read it and still does. (Funnily enough - saw the Hunger Games a few days ago and can relate the last line of the poem very much to that!)

Here's my favourite - so powerful - another Yeats

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Yani Tue 25-Oct-11 15:20:12

I remember learning this at school, and having very mixed feelings about it. It was a transition between childhood and adult understanding for me.

Seamus Heaney The Purge

I was six when I first saw kittens drown.
Dan Taggart pitched them, 'the scraggy wee shits',
Into a bucket; a frail metal sound,

Soft paws scraping like mad. But their tiny din
Was soon soused. They were slung on the snout
Of the pump and the water pumped in.

'Sure, isn't it better for them now?' Dan said.
Like wet gloves they bobbed and shone till he sluiced
Them out on the dunghill, glossy and dead.

Suddenly frightened, for days I sadly hung
Round the yard, watching the three sogged remains
Turn mealy and crisp as old summer dung

Until I forgot them. But the fear came back
When Dan trapped big rats, snared rabbits, shot crows
Or, with a sickening tug, pulled old hens' necks.

Still, living displaces false sentiments
And now, when shrill pups are prodded to drown
I just shrug, 'Bloody pups'. It makes sense:

'Prevention of cruelty' talk cuts ice in town
Where they consider death unnatural
But on well-run farms pests have to be kept down.

chipmonkey Tue 25-Oct-11 13:06:13

Also Love The Bells by Edgar Allen Poe

Hear the sledges with the bells -
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

II

Hear the mellow wedding bells -
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! -how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

III

Hear the loud alarum bells -
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now -now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells -
Of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

IV

Hear the tolling of the bells -
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people -ah, the people -
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone -
They are neither man nor woman -
They are neither brute nor human -
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells,
Of the bells -
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells -
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells -
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

TarquinGyrfalcon Sun 23-Oct-11 23:36:42

Lots of the poems i love have already been added to this thread.
Here are two more

I saw a man this morning
Who did not wish to die
I ask, and cannot answer,
If otherwise wish I.

Fair broke the day this morning
Against the Dardanelles ;
The breeze blew soft, the morn's cheeks
Were cold as cold sea-shells

But other shells are waiting
Across the Aegean sea,
Shrapnel and high explosive,
Shells and hells for me.

O hell of ships and cities,
Hell of men like me,
Fatal second Helen,
Why must I follow thee ?

Achilles came to Troyland
And I to Chersonese :
He turned from wrath to battle,
And I from three days' peace.

Was it so hard, Achilles,
So very hard to die ?
Thou knewest and I know not-
So much the happier I.

I will go back this morning
From Imbros over the sea ;
Stand in the trench, Achilles,
Flame-capped, and shout for me.

Patrick Houston Shaw-Stewart

How to Kill a Living Thing

Neglect it
Criticize it to its face
Say how it kills the light
Traps all the rubbish
Bores you with its green

Continually
Harden your heart
Then
Cut it down close
To the root as possible

Forget it
For a week or a month
Return with an axe
Split it with one blow
Insert a stone

To keep the wound wide open.

Eibhlin Nic Eochaidh

PercyFilth Sun 23-Oct-11 23:28:20

Sixteen years after the Great War, in 1934, Bernard Newman and Harold Arpthorp, two British veterans, together wrote

The Road to La Bassée

I went across to France again, and walked about the line,
The trenches have been all filled in - the country's looking fine.
The folks gave me a welcome, and lots to eat and drink,
Saying, 'Allo, Tommee, back again? 'Ow do you do? In ze pink?'
And then I walked about again, and mooched about the line;
You'd never think there'd been a war, the country's looking fine.
But the one thing that amazed me, most shocked me, I should say
- There's buses running now from Bethune to La Bassée!

I sat at Shrapnel Corner and I tried to take it in,
It all seemed much too quiet, I missed the war-time din.
I felt inclined to bob down quick - Jerry sniper in that trench!
A minnie coming over! God, what a hellish stench!
Then I pulled myself together, and walked on to La Folette -
And the cows were calmly grazing on the front line parapet.
And the kids were playing marbles by the old Estaminet -
Fancy kiddies playing marbles on the road to La Bassée!

You'd never think there'd been a war, the country's looking fine -
I had a job in places picking out the old front line.
You'd never think there'd been a war - ah, yet you would, I know,
You can't forget those rows of headstones every mile or so.
But down by Tunnel Trench I saw a sight that made me start,
For there, at Tourbieres crossroads - a gaudy ice-cream cart!
It was hot, and I was dusty, but somehow I couldn't stay -
Ices didn't seem quite decent on the road to La Bassée.

Some of the sights seemed more than strange as I kept marching on.
The Somme's a blooming garden, and there are roses in Peronne.
The sight of dear old Arras almost made me give three cheers;
And there's kiddies now in Plugstreet, and mamselles in Armentiers.
But nothing that I saw out there so seemed to beat the band
As those buses running smoothly over what was No Man's Land.
You'd just as soon expect them from the Bank to Mandalay
As to see those buses running from Bethune to La Bassée.

Then I got into a bus myself, and rode for all the way,
Yes, I rode inside a bus from Bethune to La Bassée.
Through Beuvry and through Annequin, and then by Cambrin Tower -
The journey used to take four years, but now it's half an hour.
Four years to half an hour - the best speedup I've met.
Four years? Aye, longer still for some - they haven't got there yet.
Then up came the conductor chap, 'Vos billets s'il vous plait.'
Fancy asking for your tickets on the road to La Bassée.

And I wondered what they'd think of it - those mates of mine who died -
They never got to La Bassée, though God knows how they tried.
I thought back to the moments when their number came around,
And now those buses rattling over sacred, holy ground,
Yes, I wondered what they'd think of it, those mates of mine who died.
Of those buses rattling over the old pave close beside.
'Carry on! That's why we died!' I could almost hear them say,
To keep those buses always running from Bethune to La Bassée!'

GalaxyWeaver Sun 23-Oct-11 22:51:16

a couple of anon ones i found.

Wanting, needing, is never enough
The Goddess does not hear my voice
My wishes go unheard
My dreams lie in tatters
I am shattered
Into a thousand pieces

Scatter me to the four winds
Let them take me far from here
From this pain I cannot vocalise

Let me fly free from my shield-skin
That I may not suffer
I am broken
And nothing can bring me peace again.

I cannot move, Nor think, Nor see
I cannot cry, Nor scream, Nor shout
I have died
And my soul has fled

There is just pain, And hurt, And anger
There is just grief, And loss, And sorrow
I have died

Give me healing
Give me feeling
Give me love
And time

Give me hope
Give me comfort
Give me strength
Set me free

Unleash my tears
Lift my soul
Shelter me
I have lost myself.

__

The sanguine shadows drift slowly by
Taking my darkened thoughts winging
on long forgotton breezes
that wend their way through ancient paths.
Away they fly, gone from me for all time,
leaving me to myself, to peace, to solace
Leaving me to smile and say
I have done my time, my grieving.

Today i can watch the tripping, turning, rolling leaves
knowing that i am at one with myself
and calm in my dreams.
The journey has been long
And many tears have been shed
Many days spent wishing to be how i am now.

But think not that my journey is over
There are many paths to travel
Many forks to choose.
But today i am calm, at peace with myself
My life, and that which has been my lot.

Numerous faces have come and gone
some i remember, most i do not
Yet as i watch the sun sinking over england green fields
i know that all have made me who i am.

ceres Sun 23-Oct-11 22:46:43

'To a child dancing in the wind' by Yeats.

I

DANCE there upon the shore;
What need have you to care
For wind or water’s roar?
And tumble out your hair
That the salt drops have wet;
Being young you have not known
The fool’s triumph, nor yet
Love lost as soon as won,
Nor the best labourer dead
And all the sheaves to bind.
What need have you to dread
The monstrous crying of wind?

II

Has no one said those daring
Kind eyes should be more learn’d?
Or warned you how despairing
The moths are when they are burned,
I could have warned you, but you are young,
So we speak a different tongue.

O you will take whatever’s offered
And dream that all the world’s a friend,
Suffer as your mother suffered,
Be as broken in the end.
But I am old and you are young,
And I speak a barbarous tongue.

BestIsWest Sun 23-Oct-11 22:43:05

Pranma there is probabably and easier way but I just C&P the whole thread into a text document and printed that

GalaxyWeaver Sun 23-Oct-11 22:38:53

This one always made me smile.. i wish i could find my poetry books.. lots in those i'd share!

First Day at School
A millionbillionwillion miles from home
Waiting for the bell to go. (To go where?)
Why are they all so big, other children?
So noisy? So much at home they
Must have been born in uniform
Lived all their lives in playgrounds
Spent the years inventing games
That don't let me in. Games
That are rough, that swallow you up.

And the railings.
All around, the railings.
Are they to keep out wolves and monsters?
Things that carry off and eat children?
Things you don't take sweets from?
Perhaps they're to stop us getting out
Running away from the lessins. Lessin.
What does a lessin look like?
Sounds small and slimy.
They keep them in the glassrooms.
Whole rooms made out of glass. Imagine.

I wish I could remember my name
Mummy said it would come in useful.
Like wellies. When there's puddles.
Yellowwellies. I wish she was here.
I think my name is sewn on somewhere
Perhaps the teacher will read it for me.
Tea-cher. The one who makes the tea.

Roger McGough

thefirstMrsDeVeerie Sun 23-Oct-11 21:17:41

chipmonkey sad and (((((hugs)))))

That is beautiful.

This is another of my favourites, I particularly 'like' the last line.

We fall to the earth like leaves
Lives as brief as footprints in snow
No words express the grief we feel
I feel I cannot let her go.
For she is everywhere.
Walking on the windswept beach
Talking in the sunlit square.
Next to me in the car
I see her sitting there.
At night she dreams me
and in the morning the sun does not rise.
My life is as thin as the wind
And I am done with counting stars.
She is gone, she is gone.
I am her sad music, and I play on, and on, and on.
(Roger McGough)

............................................................................................

'She is gone, she is gone.
I am her sad musich, and I play on, and on, and on'.

chipmonkey Sun 23-Oct-11 20:32:41

The Stolen Child
WB Yeats

WHERE dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.

chipmonkey Sun 23-Oct-11 20:30:22

MrsD those have me tears for obvious reasons.sad
Another at the moment for me is WB Yeats, "The Stolen Child" beautifully put to music by the Waterboys here

firsttimer78 Sun 23-Oct-11 20:24:06

She Is Gone (He Is Gone)

You can shed tears that she is gone
Or you can smile because she has lived

You can close your eyes and pray that she will come back
Or you can open your eyes and see all that she has left

Your heart can be empty because you can't see her
Or you can be full of the love that you shared

You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday
Or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday

You can remember her and only that she is gone
Or you can cherish her memory and let it live on

You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back
Or you can do what she would want: smile, open your eyes, love and go on.

David Harkins

Always makes me think of special someones and smile! smile

pranma Sun 23-Oct-11 20:21:15

don't

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