Favorite Poems thread!

[AMERICONORMAN]

And then there is this poem by Keats. It is lovely in rythm and meter and ryhme certainly. However, a modern poet can take the line, "Hither, hither, love, ... etc." keep the same structure and make the poem more Objective. So I think. But it is lovely to read out loud. (It's a shame that Keats died so young). (I hope that Rand did not get Keatings name from Keats ... If so I would have to wonder how.)

HITHER, HITHER, LOVE--BY JOHN KEATS

Hither hither, love---

'Tis a shady mead---

Hither, hither, love!

Let us feed and feed!

Hither, hither, sweet---

'Tis a cowslip bed---

Hither, hither, sweet!

'Tis with dew bespread!

Hither, hither, dear

By the breath of life,

Hither, hither, dear!---

Be the summer's wife!

Though one moment's pleasure

In one moment flies---

Though the passion's treasure

In one moment dies;---

Yet it has not passed---

Think how near, how near!---

And while it doth last,

Think how dear, how dear!

Hither, hither, hither

Love its boon has sent---

If I die and wither

I shall die content!

[xOraclex]

"NEIN"- a song by Otep

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

MY PAIN, MY PRIDE

THESE SCARS ARE MINE

MY PAIN, MY PRIDE

THESE SCARS ARE MINE

i will tell you a story,

that's never been told

i will tell you a secret,

5 lifetimes old ...

my life has been a prison,

a labyrinth built beneath the mountain of Tragedy.

i'm a stain on the cloth.

i'm just an after-thought.

but i

would die

for this ....

but through the veins of decay

i'll remain to betray

to live like Caesar.

to die like Jesus.

to build my own religion,

no gods, no laws

to celebrate pain

forsaken & ashamed

to watch them all,

crawl beneath us ...

on this bed of nails & regret

dying of fevers, betrayal, & sweat

I CRY ...

[chorus]

my organs are rotting,

my enemies are plotting ...

I AM MADE OF PAGES

PARAGRAPHS & INSPIRATIONS

PAPER GIRL, BURN THE WORLD,

I PASS THE FLAME TO YOU!!

MURDER

MAYHEM

HURT HER

HATE HIM

MURDER

MAYHEM

HURT HER

HATE HIM

MURDER MAYHEM

HURT HER HATE HIM

MURDER

MAYHEM

FUCK HER

SLAY THEM!!

[verse]

my pain, my pride

these scars are mine

my pain .....

MY MISERY HAS BEEN FORMULATED

INTO AN EQUATION OF NIEN

MY SANITY WROTE

A SUICIDE NOTE

BUT ONE OF US IS ILLITERATE

AND THE OTHER ... IS BLIND

MY 1st ACT OF TREASON

WAS PICKING UP A PEN

MY 1st ACT OF LOVE

WAS FINDING MYSELF AGAIN

THE HARDEST THING TO DO

WAS STANDING UP TO YOU

NOW I'M OFF MY KNEES

NOW YOU'RE BEGGING ME "PLEASE"

I'M THE WOUND & THE WEAPON

THE FRACTURE & THE FIST

[chorus]

my organs are rotting,

my enemies are plotting ...

I AM MADE OF PAGES

PARAGRAPHS & INSPIRATIONS

PAPER GIRL, BURN THE WORLD,

I PASS THE FLAME TO YOU!!

MURDER

MAYHEM

HURT HER

HATE HIM

MURDER

MAYHEM

HURT HER

HATE HIM

MURDER MAYHEM

HURT HER HATE HIM

MURDER

MAYHEM

FUCK HER

SLAY THEM!!

[outro]

THAT STABBING IN YOUR HEART,

THAT BLACK HOLE IN YOUR SOUL,

SLOWLY RIPPING YOU APART .... THAT'S ME!!!

THAT'S ME!!!

SO LET IT BE WRITTEN,

SO LET IT BE DONE!

THE BRIGHTER THEY SHINE,

THE DARKER WE BECOME!!

VAE VICTUS!

ABOMINATION!

[softwareNerd]

One poet I didn't find mentioned is Omar Khayyam, as translated by Fitzgerald. There are various versions of his long "Rubaiyat" collection, I like the first edition.

As an Objectivist, one cannot read Khayyam for theme and content -- his philosophy is typical eastern mystical fatalism. However, I do admire his (or Fitzgerald's) technique as a poet.

Here is a stanza where Khayyam's theme is: humans are just pawns in the game of fate.

'Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days 

Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays: 

Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays, 

And one by one back in the Closet lays[/code]
The theme is obviously flawed, still I love that stanza (among others). I think it is extremely well-executed: clear, picturesque and complete. Consider the first line: where the black and white of the chess board is like night and day of life. 


With poetry, my personal preference is for metre and rhyme, as long as they are not unnatural. I think Fitzgerald does a great job.

[AMERICONORMAN]

One poet I didn't find mentioned is Omar Khayyam, as translated by Fitzgerald. There are various versions of his long "Rubaiyat" collection, I like the first edition.

As an Objectivist, one cannot read Khayyam for theme and content -- his philosophy is typical eastern mystical fatalism. However, I do admire his (or Fitzgerald's) technique as a poet.

Here is a stanza where Khayyam's theme is: humans are just pawns in the game of fate.

'Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days 

Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays: 

Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays, 

And one by one back in the Closet lays[/code]
The theme is obviously flawed, still I love that stanza (among others). I think it is extremely well-executed: clear, picturesque and complete. Consider the first line: where the black and white of the chess board is like night and day of life. 


With poetry, my personal preference is for metre and rhyme, as long as they are not unnatural. I think Fitzgerald does a great job.

[right][post=91064][/post][/right]



When I first read this poem (it often comes in little mini-book forms), I was drinking a lot of wine.  Back then, I really enjoyed it.  I remember there were a lot of cute and amusing stanzas.  I comment, just to say that O. Henry wrote a short story with the poem in the title, about a married couple whose love was inspired by this poem.  If you love this poem, you should definately read it.


Americo.

[softwareNerd]

Yes, Khayyam would appeal more to anyone in a phase where they believe in fatalism or in the impracticality of idealism. Some poetry is genuinely tragic. Other poetry is only tragic if you agree with the poet's sense of futility. These days, when I come across the latter type, I find it evokes what humor ought to, rather than tragedy.

BTW: the O.Henry story is online. Thanks for the reference.

Here is another verse I like. In it, Khayyam uses a potter as a symbol of God, and humans are the pots. The poet says that humans are imperfect, just like pots. However, who is to blame. Read on:

... but after Silence spake 

A Vessel of a more ungainly Make: 

They sneer at me for leaning all awry; 

What? did the Hand then of the Potter shake?[/code]

[Three Day Drunk]

I have always been rather fond of this one:

Philip Larkin, The Old Fools

What do they think has happened, the old fools,

To make them like this? Do they somehow suppose

It's more grown-up when your mouth hangs open and drools,

And you keep on pissing yourself, and can't remember

Who called this morning? Or that, if they only chose,

They could alter things back to when they danced all night,

Or went to their wedding, or sloped arms some September?

Or do they fancy there's really been no change,

And they've always behaved as if they were crippled or tight,

Or sat through days of thin continuous dreaming

Watching the light move? If they don't (and they can't), it's strange;

Why aren't they screaming?

At death you break up: the bits that were you

Start speeding away from each other for ever

With no one to see. It's only oblivion, true:

We had it before, but then it was going to end,

And was all the time merging with a unique endeavour

To bring to bloom the million-petalled flower

Of being here. Next time you can't pretend

There'll be anything else. And these are the first signs:

Not knowing how, not hearing who, the power

Of choosing gone. Their looks show that they're for it:

Ash hair, toad hands, prune face dried into lines -

How can they ignore it?

Perhaps being old is having lighted rooms

Inside your head, and people in them, acting

People you know, yet can't quite name; each looms

Like a deep loss restored, from known doors turning,

Setting down a lamp, smiling from a stair, extracting

A known book from the shelves; or sometimes only

The rooms themselves, chairs and a fire burning,

The blown bush at the window, or the sun's

Faint friendliness on the wall some lonely

Rain-ceased midsummer evening. That is where they live:

Not here and now, but where all happened once.

This is why they give

An air of baffled absence, trying to be there

Yet being here. For the rooms grow farther, leaving

Incompetent cold, the constant wear and tear

Of taken breath, and them crouching below

Extinction's alp, the old fools, never perceiving

How near it is. This must be what keeps them quiet:

The peak that stays in view wherever we go

For them is rising ground. Can they never tell

What is dragging them back, and how it will end? Not at night?

Not when the strangers come? Never, throughout

The whole hideous inverted childhood? Well,

We shall find out.

Edited August 23, 2005 by Three Day Drunk

[softwareNerd]

For some reason I was never taught Edgar Guest's poetry when I was in school. Not sure why; he stands up well to his contemporaries. Here is one example. (I like the phrase "bobs up serenely" :

Defeat

No one is beat till he quits,

No one is through till he stops,

No matter how hard Failure hits,

No matter how often he drops,

A fellow's not down till he lies

In the dust and refuses to rise.

Fate can slam him and bang him around,

And batter his frame till he's sore,

But she never can say that he's downed

While he bobs up serenely for more.

A fellow's not dead till he dies,

Nor beat till no longer he tries.

- Edgar Guest (link to his other poems)

Edited September 2, 2005 by softwareNerd

[AMERICONORMAN]

I first found Edgar A. Guest in a large anthology called "The best loved poems of the American People" (Doubleday). "It Couldn't Be Done" is the most noteable at the moment from that collection. I was impressed by him.

But, coincidentally, I found "A Heap O' Livin" the other day at a used bookstore and bought it immediately because I was confident I would like his poems. Then when I read the first two poems I was very happy. Both are quite beautiful in their own way. By the time I got to "Home" I was crying.

So I recommend that you look through that link provided.

http://jollyroger.com/library/AHeapOLivinbyEdgarA.ebook.html

Enjoy,

Americo.

[softwareNerd]

How Old Are You

(Stanza 1)

Age is a quality of mind.

If you have left your dreams behind,

If hope is cold,

If you no longer look ahead,

If your ambitions' fires are dead --

Then you are old.

- H.S.Fritsch

[Schefflera Arboricola]

For those who speak German. (Nobody said this had to be in English.)

Friedrich Rueckert--"Kehr' ein bei mir!"

Du bist die Ruh',

Der Friede mild,

Die Sehnsucht du,

Und was sie stillt.

Ich weihe dir

Voll Lust und Schmerz

Zur Wohnung hier

Mein Aug' und Herz.

Kehr' ein bei mir,

Und schliesse du

Still hinter dir

Die Pforten zu.

Treib' andern Schmerz

Aus dieser Brust!

Voll sei dies Herz

Von deiner Lust.

Dies Augenzelt

Von deinem Glanz

Allein erhellt,

O fuell' es ganz.

Translation, copyright 2005 by "Schefflera Arboricola." I am choosing to translate as literally as I can, rather than giving a more poetic translation.

You are repose,

And sweet peace,

You are longing,

And what stills it.

I dedicate to you,

Full of joy and pain,

As a dwelling,

My eyes and heart.

Alight with me,

And close

Quietly behind you

The portals.

Drive other pain

From this breast,

Fill this heart

With your joy.

The temple of my eyes

By your glance

Alone is filled.

Oh, fill it wholly.

[Schefflera Arboricola]

For some reason I was never taught Edgar Guest's poetry when I was in school. Not sure why; he stands up well to his contemporaries. Here is one example.

(snippage)

From Dorothy Parker:

I'd rather fail my Wassermann test

Than read a poem by Edgar Guest.

[Three Day Drunk]

At my suggestion, this was included in the programme for a production of Richard III that I was involved with. It seemed just right.

Ted Hughes - King of Carrion

His Palace is of skulls.

His crown is the last splinters

Of the vessel of life.

His throne is the scaffold of bones, the hanged thing's

Rack and final stretcher.

His robe is the black of the last blood.

His kingdom is empty -

The empty world, from which the last cry

Flapped hugely, hopelessly away

Into the blindness and dumbness and deafness of the gulf

Returning, shrunk, silent

To reign over silence.

[B. Royce]

Here are two poems from Pagan Pictures (1927), which is composed of translations of, and additions to, Ancient Greek lyrics. The translator/writer is Wallace Rice, who was a Chicago engineer.

Love's Coming, by Wallace Rice

The sky is sad----the silly sky,

To frown when my Love's coming by!

The sun is hid-----the simple sun,

To hide when she abroad doth run!

Yet there is sunlight in my room-----

The thought of her hath made it bloom;

And there is heaven in my heart-----

The hope of her hath made it start.

Go hide, O sun! Be sad, O sky!

Smile we on you, my Love and I.

_____________________________________

Adventure

Wanderers, adventurers,

Storm along the wine-dark seas,

Seek the deed that lives and stirs

Past the Gate of Heracles

On to the Hesperides,

Meeting death as conquerors.

Round the corner, down the street,

Stands the house of Bacchylis.

Not to know her spells defeat;

Never wings of Nemisis

Thrill the spirit like her kiss

As un-sure as honey-sweet.

Down the world a world away

Scarlet sails through purple waves,

Whirling winds and hurling spray,

Quest for gems the spirit craves

Where Poseidon's thunder laves

Golden shores in azure day.

Here at home is high emprise

In the market-place and fair:

Amethysts in Timo's eyes,

Garnets that her lips despair,

Gold in gay Chrysilla's hair;

Love that every fate defies.

O'er how many a surging sea

Old Odysseus voyaged far

With a courage high and free!

Yet above the bending spar

Hearth and woman still his star:

Ithaca-----Penelope.

Far or near man plays his part

Fast or loose to meet his fate,

Soul asleep or soul astart,

Miserable or fortunate,

Learning early, learning late,

True adventure's in the heart.

_________________________________

Conflagration, by Meleager

Thy kiss is like the clinging snare,

Thy melting eyes like wasting fire,

Thy glances conflagration bear,

Thy very touch burns with desire.

So, Heliodora, bid me go,

But make no least last kiss thine aim;

How can I, when thou kissest so,

Depart, with all my strength aflame?

____________________________________

Olympus(anonymous)

A long , soft kiss, and murmurous

The silence with deep sighs

As joys divine distil; and thus

With consecration in our eyes,

Soaring beyond in azure skies

Above Olympian heights we rise.

[Christina_Aline]

P.S. If anyone knows, what does the "B" looking german letter sound like?

It's called sz or sharp s and pronounced like, well, a sharp s. After the spelling reform, it was written as "ss" in some cases.

To add to the German poems being mentioned (well, two so far if I counted right), I'd like to mention "Mondnacht" by Joseph von Eichendorff.

Es war, als hätt der Himmel

Die Erde still geküßt,

Daß sie im Blütenschimmer

Von ihm nun träumen müßt.

Die Luft ging durch die Felder,

Die Ähren wogten sacht,

Es rauschten leis die Wälder,

So sternklar war die Nacht.

Und meine Seele spannte

Weit ihre Flügel aus,

Flog durch die stillen Lande,

Als flöge sie nach Haus.

My own translation:

It was as if the sky

Had silently kissed the Earth,

So that, in flower shimmer,

She now must dream of him.

The air went through the fields,

The corn stirred softly,

The forests rustled silently,

So clear and full of stars was the night.

And my soul unfolded

Widely her wings

Flew through the silent lands

As if she were flying home.

I know, it's not the best translation, but alas, poems are always at their most beautiful in their original language.

Goethe is certainly one of my all time favourite poets. I really like some of his hymns, such as Ganymed or Prometheus, but also more romantic work like Heidenröschen.

[LaszloWalrus]

Algernon Charles Swinburne's "Love and Sleep":

Lying asleep between the strokes of night

I saw my love lean over my sad bed,

Pale as the duskiest lily's leaf or head,

Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite,

Too wan for blushing and too warm for white,

But perfect-coloured without white or red.

And her lips opened amorously, and said--

I wist not what, saving one word--Delight.

And all her face was honey to my mouth,

And all her body pasture to mine eyes;

The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire,

The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south,

The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs

And glittering eyelids of my soul's desire.

[Alfa]

Robert Frost - 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.

[orangesiscool]

By e.e. cummings: (the title is the first line)

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

[Alfa]

Peace - A beginning (King Crimson lyric)

I am the ocean

Lit by the flame

I am the mountain

Peace is my name

I am the river

Touched by the wind

I am the story

I never end.

[Felix]

To be nobody but yourself

in a world which is doing its best,

night and day,

to make you just like everybody else -

means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight;

and never stop fighting.

e.e.cummings

[DavidV]

Botany

by Berton Braley

There should be no monotony

In studying your botany;

It helps to train

And spur the brain--

Unless you haven't gotany.

It teaches you, does Botany,

To know the plants and spotany,

And learn just why

They live or die--

In case you plant or potany.

You learn, from reading Botany,

Of wooly plants and cottony

That grow on earth,

And what they're worth,

And why some spots have notany.

You sketch the plants in Botany,

You learn to chart and plotany

Like corn or oats--

You jot down notes,

If you know how to jotany.

Your time, if you'll allotany,

Will teach you how and what any

Old plant or tree

Can do or be--

And that's the use of Botany!

[Mercury]

B. Royce- I liked the poem you posted by Angela Morgan and googled for more of her work. I found a lot of it was very pleasing; if only she didn't attribute man's goodness to God every time she extolled it.

Here's one of her's I liked;

In Spite of War

By Angela Morgan

1873-1957

In spite of war, in spite of death,

In spite of all man's sufferings,

Something within me laughs and sings

And I must praise with all my breath.

In spite of war, in spite of hate

Lilacs are blooming at my gate,

Tulips are tripping down the path

In spite of war, in spite of wrath.

"Courage!" the morning-glory saith;

"Rejoice!" the daisy murmureth,

And just to live is so divine

When pansies lift their eyes to mine.

The clouds are romping with the sea,

And flashing waves call back to me

That naught is real but what is fair,

That everywhere and everywhere

A glory liveth through despair.

Though guns may roar and cannon boom,

Roses are born and gardens bloom;

My spirit still may light its flame

At that same torch whence poppies came.

Where morning's altar whitely burns

Lilies may lift their silver urns

In spite of war, in spite of shame.

And in my ear a whispering breath,

"Wake from the nightmare! Look and see

That life is naught but ecstasy

In spite of war, in spite of death!"

This is a poem by Victor Hugo I read only recently (I have only started reading any Victor Hugo at all recently);

GENIUS.

Woe unto him! the child of this sad earth,

Who, in a troubled world, unjust and blind,

Bears Genius--treasure of celestial birth,

Within his solitary soul enshrined.

Woe unto him! for Envy's pangs impure,

Like the undying vultures', will be driven

Into his noble heart, that must endure

Pangs for each triumph; and, still unforgiven,

Suffer Prometheus' doom, who ravished fire from Heaven.

Still though his destiny on earth may be

Grief and injustice; who would not endure

With joyful calm, each proffered agony;

Could he the prize of Genius thus ensure?

What mortal feeling kindled in his soul

That clear celestial flame, so pure and high,

O'er which nor time nor death can have control,

Would in inglorious pleasures basely fly

From sufferings whose reward is Immortality?

No! though the clamors of the envious crowd

Pursue the son of Genius, he will rise

From the dull clod, borne by an effort proud

Beyond the reach of vulgar enmities.

'Tis thus the eagle, with his pinions spread,

Reposing o'er the tempest, from that height

Sees the clouds reel and roll above our head,

While he, rejoicing in his tranquil flight,

More upward soars sublime in heaven's eternal light.

Now, perhaps someone here can help me- I'm looking for a poem for someone; I want something that describes a sort of Jane Austen type heroine with a fierce yet femenine witt and decided independance of character (sometimes to the point of stubborness). Does anyone know of a poem that would fit?

[B. Royce]

Mercury, thank you for finding that cheery, optimistic poem by Angela Morgan. The poem by Hugo I have seen before, but it is good to read it again.

The following is a spirited poem by an anonymous woman writing in the 1730's in England. The magazine editor who published her eventually dubbed her "The Amorous Lady". Here she replies to her male critics.

On Being Charged With Writing Incorrectly

I'm incorrect: the learn-ed say

That I write well, but not their way.

For this to every star I bend:

From their dull method heaven defend,

Who labor up the hill of fame,

And pant and struggle for a name!

My free-born thoughts I'll not confine,

Though all Parnassus could be mine.

No, let my genius have its way,

My genius I will still obey:

Nor with their stupid rules control

The sacred pulse that beats within my soul.

I from my very heart despise

These mighty dull, these mighty wise,

Who were the slaves of Busby's nod,

And learned their methods from his rod.

Shall bright Apollo drudge at school,

And whimper till he grows a fool?

Apollo, to the learn-ed coy,

In nouns and verbs finds little joy.

The tuneful Sisters still he leads

To silver streams, and flowery meads.

He glories in an artless breast,

And loves the goddess Nature best.

Let Dennis haunt me with his spite;

Let me read Dennis every night,

Or any punishment sustain,

To 'scape the labour of the brain.

Let the dull think, or let 'em mend

The trifling errors they pretend;

Writing's my pleasure, which my Muse

Would not for all their glory lose:

With transport I the pen employ,

And every line reveals my joy.

No pangs of thought I undergo;

My words descend, my numbers flow;

Though disallowed, my friend, I swear

I would not think, I would not care,

If I a pleasure can impart,

Or to my own, or thy dear heart,

If I thy gentle passions move,

'Tis all I ask of fame or love.

This to the very learn-ed say,

If they are angry-----why, they may:

I from my very soul despise

These mighty dull, these mighty wise.

[Mimpy]

I like Walt Whitman's "To You" a lot.

Whoever you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams,

I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet and hands;

Even now, your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners, troubles, follies, costume,

crimes, dissipate away from you,

Your true Soul and Body appear before me,

They stand forth out of affairs—out of commerce, shops, law, science, work, forms,

clothes, the house, medicine, print, buying, selling, eating, drinking, suffering, dying.

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem;

I whisper with my lips close to your ear,

I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.

O I have been dilatory and dumb;

I should have made my way straight to you long ago;

I should have blabb’d nothing but you, I should have chanted nothing but you.

I will leave all, and come and make the hymns of you;

None have understood you, but I understand you;

None have done justice to you—you have not done justice to yourself;

None but have found you imperfect—I only find no imperfection in you;

None but would subordinate you—I only am he who will never consent to subordinate

you;

I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God, beyond what waits

intrinsically

in yourself.

Painters have painted their swarming groups, and the centre figure of all;

From the head of the centre figure spreading a nimbus of gold-color’d light;

But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its nimbus of gold-color’d

light;

From my hand, from the brain of every man and woman it streams, effulgently flowing

forever.

O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you!

You have not known what you are—you have slumber’d upon yourself all your life;

Your eye-lids have been the same as closed most of the time;

What you have done returns already in mockeries;

(Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in mockeries, what is their

return?)

The mockeries are not you;

Underneath them, and within them, I see you lurk;

I pursue you where none else has pursued you;

Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the accustom’d routine, if

these

conceal you from others, or from yourself, they do not conceal you from me;

The shaved face, the unsteady eye, the impure complexion, if these balk others, they do

not

balk me,

The pert apparel, the deform’d attitude, drunkenness, greed, premature death, all

these I

part aside.

There is no endowment in man or woman that is not tallied in you;

There is no virtue, no beauty, in man or woman, but as good is in you;

No pluck, no endurance in others, but as good is in you;

No pleasure waiting for others, but an equal pleasure waits for you.

As for me, I give nothing to any one, except I give the like carefully to you;

I sing the songs of the glory of none, not God, sooner than I sing the songs of the glory

of

you.

Whoever you are! claim your own at any hazard!

These shows of the east and west are tame, compared to you;

These immense meadows—these interminable rivers—you are immense and interminable

as

they;

These furies, elements, storms, motions of Nature, throes of apparent dissolution—you

are

he or she who is master or mistress over them,

Master or mistress in your own right over Nature, elements, pain, passion, dissolution.

The hopples fall from your ankles—you find an unfailing sufficiency;

Old or young, male or female, rude, low, rejected by the rest, whatever you are promulges

itself;

Through birth, life, death, burial, the means are provided, nothing is scanted;

Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, what you are picks its way.

[realitycheck44]

I could have sworn that Berton Braley was mentioned more, but I can't seem to find my two favorite poems:

The Thinker

Back of the beating hammer

By which the steel is wrought,

Back of the workshop's clamor

The seeker may find the Thought,

The Thought that is ever master

Of iron and steam and steel,

That rises above disaster

And tramples it under heel!

The drudge may fret and tinker

Or labor with lusty blows,

But back of him stands the Thinker,

The clear-eyed man who knows;

For into each plow or saber,

Each piece and part and whole,

Must go the Brains of Labor,

Which gives the work a soul!

Back of the motors humming

Back of the belts that sing,

Back of the hammers drumming.

Back of the cranes that swing,

There is the eye which scans them

Watching through stress and strain

There is the Mind which plans them-

Back of the brawn, the Brain!

Might of the roaring boiler,

Force of the engine's thrust,

Strength of the sweating toiler-

Greatly in these we trust.

But back of them stands the Schemer,

The Thinker who drives things through;

Back of the Job-the Dreamer

Who's making the dream come true!

And:

Just Anti-social

We've loaded him with a lot of taxes

And rules and codes but there's something funny;

In spite of the way his burden waxes

The son-of-a-gun is making money!

Whenever he's given a boost to trade

We've taken an extra tribute off it,

But still the villain is undismayed,

The son-of-a-gun has shown a Profit!

We grind out daily a brand new grist

Of regulations by Profs. And scholars,

But the Rugged Individualist

Is still producing some surplus dollars!

We've frowned on personal, private gains,

As most immoral, and due for censure,

But the son-of-a-gun with Business Brains

Continues risking some new adventure!

In spite of Planners and New Deal sages

With Communistical dreams and yearnings,

This Capitalistic guy pays wages,

And Some of his stocks and bonds show earnings!

We've moved the bases, and changed the lines,

And altered the rules for every inning,

With added penalties, doubled fines,

But the son-of-a-gun insists on winning!

It's anti-social to fail to fail,

It makes our wonderful schemes look funny;

Rush the Traitor at once to jail,

For the son-of-a-gun is making money!.

Haha! I love it!

[softwareNerd]

Here's a simple but cute one I found today.

Good-Night - P.B.Shelly

Good-Night? ah! no; the hour is ill

Which severs those it should unite

Let us remain together still,

Then it will be a good night.

How can I call the lone night good,

Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight?

Be it not said, thought, understood,

That it will be a good night.

To hearts which near each other move

From evening close to morning light,

The night is good; because, my love,

They never say good-night.