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    i think this poem is beautiful. I thought i would share with everyone.

    SONNET 116 Shakespeare

    Let me not to the marriage of true minds
    Admit impediments. Love is not love
    Which alters when it alteration finds,
    Or bends with the remover to remove:
    O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
    That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
    It is the star to every wandering bark,
    Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
    Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
    Within his bending sickle's compass come:
    Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
    But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
    If this be error and upon me proved,
    I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
    babybird

    There is only one happiness in life—to love and be loved.

    George Sand

  • #2
    Jenny, thanks.

    That's my favourite sonnet, as it happens!

    Yep, great minds think alike, alright!

    I'll see if I can find one to put up

    Love

    Jane x

    Comment


    • #3
      By AH ;

      O wondrous moon with silvery sheen
      Who throws his light upon East Cheam
      From lofty height and through the mist
      Two o'clock Friday chiropodist

      Comment


      • #4
        Superb...

        Cats

        Cats no less liquid than their shadows
        Offer no angles to the wind
        They slip, diminished, neat through loopholes
        Less than themselves; will not be pinned

        To rules or routes for journeys; counter
        Attack with non-resistance; twist
        Enticing through the curving fingers
        And leave an angered empty fist.

        They wait obsequious as darkness
        Quick to retire, quick to return;
        Admit no aim or ethics; flatter
        With reservations; will not learn

        To answer to their names; are seldom
        Truly owned till shot or skinned.
        Cats no less liquid than their shadows
        Offer no angles to the wind.

        A.S.J.Tessimond



        Jane x

        Comment


        • #5
          And now for something completely different...

          I Saw a Jolly Hunter

          I saw a jolly hunter
          with a jolly gun
          Walking in the country
          In the jolly sun

          In the jolly meadow
          sat a jolly hare
          saw the jolly hunter
          took jolly care


          Hunter jolly eager
          sight of jolly prey
          forgot gun pointing
          wrong jolly way


          Jolly hunter jolly head
          over heels gone
          jolly old safety catch
          not jolly on!


          Bang! went the jolly gun
          Hunter jolly dead
          Jolly hare got clean away
          Jolly good I said!

          Charles Causley

          Eclectically,

          Jane x

          Comment


          • #6
            My absolute favourite:

            Seven Pillars of Wisdom

            T.E. Lawrence (1888-1935)

            To S.A.
            I loved you, so I drew these tides of men into my hands
            and wrote my will across the sky in stars
            To earn you Freedom, the seven-pillared worthy house,
            that your eyes might be shining for me
            When we came.
            Death seemed my servant on the road, till we were near
            and saw you waiting:
            When you smiled, and in sorrowful envy he outran me
            and took you apart:
            Into his quietness.
            Love, the way-weary, groped to your body, our brief wage
            ours for the moment
            Before earth's soft hand explored your shape, and the blind
            worms grew fat upon
            Your substance.
            Men prayed me that I set our work, the inviolate house,
            as a menory of you.
            But for fit monument I shattered it, unfinished: and now
            The little things creep out to patch themselves hovels
            in the marred shadow
            Of your gift.

            Comment


            • #7
              Night covers up the rigid land
              And ocean's quaking moor,
              And shadows, with a gentle hand
              The ugly and the poor.
              The wounded pride for which I weep
              You cannot staunch - nor I
              Control the movements of your sleep,
              Nor hear whose name you cry;
              Whose life is lucky in your eyes,
              And precious is the bed
              Where, to its utter fancy lies
              The dark, caressive head.
              For each love to its aim is true,
              And each must seek its own;
              You love your life, and I love you,
              But I must lie alone.
              Oh hurry back, then, to the spot
              Of your deliberate fall -
              For now my dream of you cannot
              Refer to you at all.


              W.H. Auden
              Kind regards, Sam Flynn

              "Suche Nullen" (Nietzsche, Götzendämmerung, 1888)

              Comment


              • #8
                Maybe one of the best pieces ever written:
                Attached Files
                We are suffering from a plethora of surmise, conjecture and hypothesis. - Sherlock Holmes, The Adventure Of Silver Blaze

                Comment


                • #9
                  I love this...

                  Mervyn Peake

                  An Old And Crumbling Parapet

                  An old and crumbling parapet
                  Arose out of the dancing sea -
                  And on its top there sat a flea
                  For reasons which I quite forget,
                  But as the sun descended, and
                  The moon uprose across the sky,
                  We were alone, the flea and I,
                  And so I took it by the hand

                  And whispered, 'On your parapet
                  D'you think that there'd be room for me?'
                  'I cannot say,' replied the flea,
                  'I'm studying the Alphabet.'

                  But that was long ago, and saints
                  Have died since then - and Ogres bled.
                  And purple tigers flopped down dead
                  Among the pictures and the paints.


                  It speaks to me...

                  I agree, I am quite odd...

                  Jane x

                  Comment


                  • #10
                    somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
                    any experience, your eyes have their silence:
                    in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
                    or which i cannot touch because they are too near

                    your slightest look easily will unclose me
                    though i have closed myself as fingers,
                    you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
                    (touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

                    or if your wish be close to me, i and
                    my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
                    as when the heart of this flower imagines
                    the snow carefully everywhere descending;

                    nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
                    the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
                    compels me with the color of its countries,
                    rendering death and forever with each breathing

                    (i do not know what it is about you that closes
                    and opens; only something in me understands
                    the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
                    nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

                    E.E.Cummings

                    Comment


                    • #11
                      Originally posted by Robert View Post
                      By AH ;

                      O wondrous moon with silvery sheen
                      Who throws his light upon East Cheam
                      From lofty height and through the mist
                      Two o'clock Friday chiropodist
                      That last line was written by Grizelda Pugh.

                      Comment


                      • #12
                        Yes indeed.

                        "Where's the last line of my poem?"

                        "I rubbed it out to make room for your chiropodist appointment. You know you can't get your boots on if you leave your corns for more than a week."

                        "Boots! Corns! Symptoms of civilisation. Bare feet in future, striding through the forest."

                        (The Wild Man Of The Woods)

                        Comment


                        • #13
                          i am glad i started this thread...

                          some absolutely beautiful poems i had never read before...and some funny ones too.

                          Sam, i love Auden...this is my favourite ever poem...i know the first verse off by heart, i really should learn the rest, but i'd like it read at my funeral.

                          Lullaby

                          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, guility, 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 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 your 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
                          babybird

                          There is only one happiness in life—to love and be loved.

                          George Sand

                          Comment


                          • #14
                            In The Night

                            In The Night

                            I longed for companionship, rather
                            But my companions I always wished farther,
                            And now in the desolate Night,
                            I think only of the people I should like to bite.

                            Stevie Smith

                            Jane x

                            Comment


                            • #15
                              Arthur

                              Arthur should have never married,
                              He did not like his wife
                              But when the coppers found her buried
                              They sent him down for life.

                              Now Arthur likes his little cell,
                              And likes the solitude as well
                              “Sans arme, sans violence et sans haine”

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