Favourite Poems

[gonewiththewind]

THE FOOL'S PRAYER
by: Edward Rowland Sill (1841-1887)

• • 
    
    
    HE royal feast was done; the King
    Sought some new sport to banish care,
    And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool,
    Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!"
    
    The jester doffed his cap and bells,
    And stood the mocking court before;
    They could not see the bitter smile
    Behind the painted grin he wore.
    
    He bowed his head, and bent his knee
    Upon the Monarch's silken stool;
    His pleading voice arose: "O Lord,
    Be merciful to me, a fool!
    
    "No pity, Lord, could change the heart
    From red with wrong to white as wool;
    The rod must heal the sin: but Lord,
    Be merciful to me, a fool!
    
    "'T is not by guilt the onward sweep
    Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
    'T is by our follies that so long
    We hold the earth from heaven away.
    
    "These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
    Go crushing blossoms without end;
    These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
    Among the heart-strings of a friend.
    
    "The ill-timed truth we might have kept--
    Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?
    The word we had not sense to say--
    Who knows how grandly it had rung!
    
    "Our faults no tenderness should ask.
    The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;
    But for our blunders -- oh, in shame
    Before the eyes of heaven we fall.
    
    "Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
    Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
    That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
    Be merciful to me, a fool!"
    
    The room was hushed; in silence rose
    The King, and sought his gardens cool,
    And walked apart, and murmured low,
    "Be merciful to me, a fool!"

"The Fool's Prayer" is reprinted from The Little Book of American Poets: 1787-1900. Ed. Jessie B. Rittenhouse. Cambridge: Riverside Press, 1915.

Read more at http://www.poetry-archive.com/s/the_fools_prayer.html#RWf56J1li6q7tgyx.99

 

[DATo]

gonewiththewind,

Would you believe that I memorized The Raven and The Fool's Prayer when I was 14 just for the hell of it? I know, I was one sick puppy. To my amazement I still remember it almost word perfect. Can't do that anymore with anything new. Have trouble remembering my phone number half the time these days. [:- (

What do you think of Poe's poem The Bells? It is universally considered the finest "sound" poem in the English language.

 

[ChaosTheory]

I like "The Bells", it's a fantastic exercise in sound and alliteration/assonance.

But, my favorite Poe poem would have to be "The Haunted Palace"

In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace-
Radiant palace- reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion-
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This- all this- was in the olden
Time long ago,)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute's well-tuned law,
Round about a throne where, sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well-befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!- for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh- but smile no more.

 

[Sad songs]

Very nice poems

 

[Daphne du Bois]

I've recently discovered Wendy Cope, and generally I adore everything she has written that I've had a chance to read so far. Her poetry is so witty and spot-on! But today I saw this one, and found it especially charming:

After the lunch

On Waterloo Bridge, where we said our goodbyes,
The weather conditions bring tears to my eyes.
I wipe them away with a black woolly glove
And try not to notice I’ve fallen in love.

On Waterloo Bridge I am trying to think:
This is nothing. You’re high on the charm and the drink.
But the juke-box inside me is playing a song
That says something different. And when was it wrong?

On Waterloo Bridge with the wind in my hair
I am tempted to skip. You’re a fool. I don’t care.
The head does its best but the heart is the boss —
I admit it before I am halfway across.

 

[Annie__]

Tell me no more of thy love, papeeha,
Wouldst thou recall to my heart, papeeha,
Dreams of delight that are gone,
When swift to my side came the feet of my lover
With stars of the dusk and the dawn?
I see the soft wings of the clouds on the river,
And jewelled with raindrops the mango-leaves quiver,
And tender boughs flower on the plain.....
But what is their beauty to me, papeeha,
Beauty of blossom and shower, papeeha,
That brings not my lover again?
Tell me no more of thy love, papeeha,
Wouldst thou revive in my heart, papeeha
Grief for the joy that is gone?
I hear the bright peacock in glimmering woodlands
Cry to its mate in the dawn;
I hear the black koel's slow, tremulous wooing,
And sweet in the gardens the calling and cooing
Of passionate bulbul and dove....
But what is their music to me, papeeha
Songs of their laughter and love, papeeha,
To me, forsaken of love?

- Sarojini Naidu
Poems by Sarojini Naidu

 

[Ayushi]

Has anyone got a favourite poem they'd like to share? I'd love to read them.
I've seen similar threads on other messageboards, where members post poems they love, and I always like to have a read through, as I would not usually read any poetry.

I'll start with a favourite from William Wordsworth (not my favourite poet but I love this particular one; about the innocence of childhood and the unwitting corruption of the mind by adult values and beliefs).

We are Seven

A simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said
And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven!--I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be."

Then did the little Maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."

"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little Maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.

"And often after sunset, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

"So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
Quick was the little Maid's reply,
"O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

Well I like the confessional tradition of poetry, which is mostly visible in Sylvia Plath, an American poet, who has contributed in one of the best content of literature! I am into her poem of 'death'!

 

[Axuli]

Think "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Frost, its crisp imagery painting a serene solitude, or Dickinson's "Hope" with its feathered metaphor, defying despair with resilience. Shakespeare's sonnets whisper timeless love, Plath's "Daddy" confronts trauma with raw honesty, Whitman's "Song of Myself" celebrates the vastness of human experience.