What's your favorite poem ??? write them down please :)?

Question

I like poem with meanings...idk. I like all poems :) :) :)

Answer 1

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening (Robert Frost)

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it q***r

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

This is simple, tranquil and always fills me with awe when I read it....especially the last four lines.  Can you see the picture it creates?  I do hope so.

Answer 2

i like The Flea because it's so funny and far-fetched.. i mean, what kind of man can write his lover a romantic poem about being bitten by the same flea and make it sweet?! only John Donne:

MARK but this flea, and mark in this,

How little that which thou deniest me is ;

It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee,

And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.

Thou know'st that this cannot be said

A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead ;

    Yet this enjoys before it woo,

    And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two ;

    And this, alas ! is more than we would do.

O stay, three lives in one flea spare,

Where we almost, yea, more than married are.

This flea is you and I, and this

Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is.

Though parents grudge, and you, we're met,

And cloister'd in these living walls of jet.

    Though use make you apt to kill me,

    Let not to that self-murder added be,

    And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since

Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?

Wherein could this flea guilty be,

Except in that drop which it suck'd from thee?

Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou

Find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now.

'Tis true ; then learn how false fears be ;

Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,

Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

Answer 3

I haven't read enough poetry to actually find the time to memorize the title of any single poem, (other than WS's first five sonnets which really don't have titles) but I have read a many that that moved me. Regardless of my disregard for appellation, whether famous or not I take a part of a great poem, or the meaning itself, with me.

For Ex:

I once read a poem about looking in mirror, and seeing a self that could not be recognized because of an ever changing perspective. When I look in the mirror nowadays, I think just that.

When it comes to my memorization of William Shakespeare's sonnet (I hope to have them all stored in memory by the end of this year) I can't seem to favor any of his entire sonnets but take bits and pieces from them and call them my favorite lines. As you may or may now know the first 12 (I believe) sonnets are about procreation, but some dither on the lines of unrelated philosophy when they are apart.

Such as...

Sonnet 1 line 8

Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.

Sonnet 3 line 9

Thou art thy mother's glass, she in thee...

Sonnet 5 lines 1/2

Those hours, that with gentle work did frame,

the lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell...

Even though I can't compete with other people who have far greater pieces of poetry to favorite, I hope to one day.

I will certainly read more poetry in the future. It was just this year I really become obessed with writing in ryhyme, before that I was writing stories, (for long time) and rarely cared to read or write a poem.

Answer 4

Ode to the west wind, By Percy Bysshe Sheley:

I

O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being  

  Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead  

Are driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,  

  

  Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,  

Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou          

  Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed  

  

The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,  

  Each like a corpse within its grave, until  

Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow  

  

  Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill    

(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)  

  With living hues and odours plain and hill;  

  

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;  

Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!  

  

II

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,    

  Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,  

Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,  

  

  Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread  

On the blue surface of thine airy surge,  

  Like the bright hair uplifted from the head  

Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim verge  

  Of the horizon to the zenith's height,  

The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge  

  

  Of the dying year, to which this closing night  

Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,  

  Vaulted with all thy congregated might  

  

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere  

Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: O hear!  

  

III

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams  

  The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,  

Lull'd by the coil of his crystàlline streams,  

  

  Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ's bay,  

And saw in sleep old palaces and towers  

  Quivering within the wave's intenser day,  

  

All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers  

  So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou  

For whose path the Atlantic's level powers  

  

  Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below  

The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear  

  The sapless foliage of the ocean, know  

  

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,  

And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!  

  

IV

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;  

  If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;  

A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share    

  

  The impulse of thy strength, only less free  

Than thou, O uncontrollable! if even  

  I were as in my boyhood, and could be  

  

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,  

  As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed  

Scarce seem'd a vision—I would ne'er have striven  

  

  As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.  

O! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!  

  I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!  

  

A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd  

One too like thee—tameless, and swift, and proud.  

  

V

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:  

  What if my leaves are falling like its own?  

The tumult of thy mighty harmonies  

  

  Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,  

Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,  

  My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!  

  

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,  

  Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;  

And, by the incantation of this verse,  

  

  Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth  

Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!  

  Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth  

  

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,  

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

Answer 5

any thing by edgar allen poe

Answer 6

Baby Unborn

Blessings upon you, my baby unborn

Safely inside me, asleep and so warm,

Sleep must come easy to those who are unborn,

As the maker so silently fashions your form.

Sleep, while you can, so watery and warm,

For outside this world is a terrible storm,

Soon you'll discover the taste of your tears,

So sleep now my loved one, my Baby, my Dear

I am not alone



Running errands and talking on the phone,

I am pleasantly reminded that I am not alone.

Little tiny hands a precious rounded knee

pushing and twisting that no one can see.

Oh sweet child kicking up your heels,

it is our little secret that only I can feel.

I look forward to your birth,

when I can kiss your skin,

but for now I will just smile,

As I feel you play within.