Post your favorite poem

All year the flax-dam festered in the heart
Of the townland; green and heavy headed
Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.
Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.
Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles
Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.
There were dragonflies, spotted butterflies,
But best of all was the warm thick slobber
Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water
In the shade of the banks. Here, every spring
I would fill jampotfuls of the jellied
Specks to range on window sills at home,
On shelves at school, and wait and watch until
The fattening dots burst, into nimble
Swimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us how
The daddy frog was called a bullfrog
And how he croaked and how the mammy frog
Laid hundreds of little eggs and this was
Frogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs too
For they were yellow in the sun and brown
In rain.

Then one hot day when fields were rank
With cowdung in the grass the angry frogs
Invaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hedges
To a coarse croaking that I had not heard
Before. The air was thick with a bass chorus.
Right down the dam gross bellied frogs were cocked
On sods; their loose necks pulsed like sails. Some hopped:
The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat
Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.
I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings
Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew
That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it.

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call the police

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this reminds me of something
youtu.be/b-b9Y_h6X7I?t=2796

you have to go back, brainlet normie

but why?

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Solid. I like.

Ah! Who's the author!?

Cummings is a respected author (though I loathe him), and that second poem is great. Judge the words, not the aesthetic.

In my beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
Which is already flesh, fur, and faeces,
Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.

In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls
Across the open field, leaving the deep lane
Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon,
Where you lean against a bank while a van passes,
And the deep lane insists on the direction
Into the village, in the electric heat
Hypnotized. In a warm haze the sultry light
Is absorbed, not reflected, by grey stone.
The dahlias sleep in the empty silence.
Wait for the early owl.
In that open field
If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
On a summer midnight, you can hear the music
Of the weak pipe and the little drum
And see them dancing around the bonfire
The association of man and woman
In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie—
A dignified and commodiois sacrament.
Two and two, necessarye coniunction,
Holding eche other by the hand or the arm
Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire
Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,
Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn. Keeping time,
Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
As in their living in the living seasons
The time of the seasons and the constellations
The time of milking and the time of harvest
The time of the coupling of man and woman
And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling.
Eating and drinking. Dung and death.
Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.

Stephen Crane

last one

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best so far

For Wang Lun,
by Li Bai

Li Bai is already on the boat, preparing to depart,
I suddenly hear the sound of stamping and singing on the shore.
The water of Taohua pond reaches a thousand feet in depth,
But still it's not as deep as Wang Lun's feelings seeing me off.

For The Childrenr

The rising hills, the slopes,
of statistics
lie before us,
the steep climb
of everything, going up,
up, as we all
go down.

In the next century
or the one beyond that,
they say,
are valleys, pastures,
we can meet there in peace
if we make it.

To climb these coming crests
one word to you, to
you and your children:

stay together
learn the flowers
go light

- Gary Snyder

...

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Are there any non-native english speakers on here that can read english fluently enough to enjoy poetry? I am struggling

non parlo l'inglese, mi dispiace amico mio

I had all those tendies
my tummy feels bad.
When I ate I was happy
but now I'm just sad.

I need to use the potty,
but what do I do
when I don't even know
if I should pee pee or poo poo?

I thought about it long
in front of my TV,
but I eventually just sat
In my poo poo and pee pee.

Then I suddenly realized
where I'd gone so wrong.
I didn't need to think hard
or even think long.

Poo poo or pee pee
I am glad I am me.

The Darkling Thrush

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

By Thomas Hardy

Pesëqind vjet kishin kalue
Çëse të buk'rën ketë Shqypni
Turku e mbate në robnì,
Krejt tu' e là t' mjerën në gjak,
Frymën tue ia xanun njak,
E as tu' e lanë, jo, dritë me pà:
Kurr të keqen pa ia dà:
Rrihe e mos e lèn me kjà:
Me iu dhimbtë, po, minit n' murë,
Me iu dhimbtë gjarpnit nën gurë!
Veç si 'i dèm, vu n' lavër spari,
Qi, ka' e vret zgjedha e kulari
Kah nuk bàn m'e thekë strumb'llari,

S'ndigjon me tërhjekun m'pluer:
E tue dhanë kryq e terthuer,
Tu' i dhanë bulkut shum mërzì,
Me u vu s' ryset për hullì
E as me shoq ai pendë me shkue:
Kështu Shqiptarët, të cilt mësue
S'i'n me ndejë rob nën zgjedhë t'huej,
Pagë e t'dheta me i là kujë:
Por të lirë me shkue ata motin,
Veç mbi vedi tue njohtë Zotin,
E as kurrkujë n' këto troje t' veta
Mos me i bà kurr tungjatjeta,
N'braz me Turk kurr nuk kanë rà
E as kurr pushkën s' ia kanë dà;
Por t'janë grì me tè e t'janë vrà,
Si me kenë tu' u vrà me Shkjà
E prandej si pat fillue
Turkut Ora m' iu ligështue,
E nisë pat m' iu thy' atij hovi,
M' qafë përditë tu' i mbetë Moskovi:

E ato fiset e Ballkanit,
Zunë me i dalë dore Sulltanit,
Nisë Shqiptarët kanë me u mendue,
Si Shqipninë me e skapullue
Zgjedhet t' Turkut : qi si motit
N' ato kohët e Gjergj Kastriotit,
Krejtë e lirë kjo t'ishte, e askujë
N'daç t'jetë Krajl a Mbret i huej,
Me i bà kurr mà tungjatjeta,
Kurr me i là mà pagë e t'dheta:
Edhe Flamuri i Shqipnisë,
Si fletë Engj'lli t'Perendisë,
Si ajo flaka e rr'fesë zhgjetare,
Me u suvalë prap n'tokë shqiptare.
Kur qe ai Knjazi i Malit t'Zi,
Knjaz Nikolla, 'i gërxhelì:
Gërxhelì, por belaçì:
Na dyndë top, na dyndë ushtrì
Edhe del e bjen n'Shqipnì,
Për me shtrue këto bjeshkë e vërrì,
Shka merr Drinin për s'të gjatit

Der' n' Kalà të Rozafatit,
Ku ai me ngulë do' «trobojnicën»,
Do' m' ia vu Shkodrës «kapicën»:
Me bà Shkodrën Karadak,
Mbasi 'i herë ta kisht' là n'gjak!
Kà ndejë Turku e këqyrë haru,
Pika-pika lotët tu'i shkue,
Kah s'ka Shkjaut si me i qindrue;
Se Moskovi e ka rrethue:
Ka Stambollën muhasere!
Bàjnë shtatë Krajlat muzhavere
Shoq me shoq, tue shartue zì
-Si ata e zeza m'i pastë mb'lue!-
Për të buk'rën këtë Shqipnì,
Si m'ia lëshue n'dorë Malit t'Zì.
M'kambë Shqiptarët atëherë t'janë çue.
Sa mirë n'armë na janë shtërngue!
T'fortë kanë lidhë nji besë të Zotit,
Si të Parët ua lidhshin motit
N'ato kohë t'Gjergj Kastriotit:

Me 'i kambë mbathë e tjetrën zdathë,
Gjanë e gjallë pa grazhd mbyllë n'vathë,
Diku ngranë, diku pa ngranë,
Harrue grue, motër e nanë,
sy'n agzot, zemrën barot,
E si ai plajmi me furì,
T'kanë rrà ndesh Malit të Zì,
Për t'gjatë t'Cemit n'atë kufì,
Ku edhe trimat t'janë përlà:
T'janë përlà Shqiptarë e Shkjà,
Ballë për ballë ata tu'u vrà,
Fyt-a-fyt, ofshè! tu' u prè:
Tue mbetë shakull përmbi dhè,
Mish për shpez e kaçubeta,
Gjithku kje ajo pika e djalit,
Gjithku kjenë sokola malit,
Pa kjà m'ta as nanat e shkreta.
Veç se, po, me parzme t'veta
Aty Shkjaut sulmin kanë thye.

tutsak, tutsak, tutsak, tutsak...
her şey tutsak ve de ölüm;
ve de ölüm, her şey tutsak.

günler tutsak gecelere,
ben de sana ey bir ömrüm,
ben de sana ve boş yere.

Poetry threads are the best.

Little Fly,
Thy summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has Brush'd away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance,
And drink, & sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

I unironically like this

>Shqypni
I want dirty islamoslavs to go

>not slavic
>not even muslim
>there longer than you
>don't lose every single war they've fought

how can serbcucks even compare? At least Albanians don't have a ridiculous savior complex. If you were to ask serbs the nature of their wars they'd talk about their heroic struggle against the islamic hordes instead of the actual history of them getting steam-rolled and getting saved later by Austrians and Polish (only to betray the austrians and polacks time and time again). There's this weird pathology you people have that fascinates me. The Dutch & Germans have probably done more to benefit mankind than the rest of mankind with their advancements in art, literature, engineering, mathematics and philosophy. Yet none of them are obsessed with being seen as the saviors of civilization. However you guys think massacring a bunch of villagers and burning down a kebab stand makes you the saviors of Orthodox Christendom. It doesn't and it doesn't make up for the ways your people have always fucked up

i.e
Assasinating Archduke Ferdinand despite Austria's countless attempts to liberate the Balkans from the turks
Siding with the Russians over the Poles time and time again despite the fact the Poles constant struggle against the turks
By extension starting world war 2 and dooming the world to American Supremacy
Losing every single Yugoslav war
Failing in the Kingdom of Yugoslavia to bring people together but instead decide to chimp out and enforce your backwards ways
Getting steamrolled by the Ottomans when even the Greeks, Croats, Spaniards, Albanians, Bosnians and ever other power in Europe put up a bigger fight

to give you a final analogy

Nords will see a river and build a watermill to improve productivity
Albanians will see a river and drink from it to quench their thirst
Serbs will see a river and fling their shit and garbage in it because it looks vaguely Turkish

Why haven't you people collectively killed yourselves yet?

...

>getting this butt flustered
dont try to deny your disgusting origins, Behar
and i aint no serb, nigga

The first two lines are insanely musical - you can hear the rhythm when you speak them out loud

In noon’s heat, in a dale of Dagestan,
With lead inside my breast, stirless I lay;
The deep wound still smoked on; my blood
Kept trickling drop by drop away.

On the dale’s sand alone I lay. The cliffs
Crowded around in ledges steep,
And the sun scorched their tawny tops
And scorched me – but I slept death’s sleep.

And in a dream I saw an evening feast
That in my native land with bright lights shone;
Among young women crowned with flowers,
A merry talk concerning me went on.

But in the merry talk not joining,
One of them sat there lost in thought,
And in a melancholy dream
Her young soul was immersed – God knows by what.

And of a dale in Dagestan she dreamt;
In that dale lay the corpse of one she knew;
Within his breast a smoking wound showed black,
And blood ran in a stream that colder grew.

...

The Man Watching, by Rainer Maria Rilke
---
I can tell by the way the trees beat, after
so many dull days, on my worried windowpanes
that a storm is coming,
and I hear the far-off fields say things
I can't bear without a friend,
I can't love without a sister.

The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives on
across the woods and across time,
and the world looks as if it had no age:
the landscape, like a line in the psalm book,
is seriousness and weight and eternity.

What we choose to fight is so tiny!
What fights with us is so great.
If only we would let ourselves be dominated
as things do by some immense storm,
we would become strong too, and not need names.

When we win it's with small things,
and the triumph itself makes us small.
What is extraordinary and eternal
does not want to be bent by us.
I mean the Angel who appeared
to the wrestlers of the Old Testament:
when the wrestlers' sinews
grew long like metal strings,
he felt them under his fingers
like chords of deep music.

Whoever was beaten by this Angel
(who often simply declined the fight)
went away proud and strengthened
and great from that harsh hand,
that kneaded him as if to change his shape.
Winning does not tempt that man.
This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively,
by constantly greater beings.

Hector was buried near the sea he had loved once.
Not too far from the shallows where he fought Achille
for a tin and Helen. He did not hear the sea-almond’s

moan over the bay when Philoctete blew the shell,
nor the one drumbeat of a wave-thud, nor a sail
rattling to rest as its day’s work was over,

and its mate, gauging depth, bent over the gunwale,
then wearily sounding the fathoms with an oar,
the same rite his shipmates would repeat soon enough

when it was their turn to lie quiet as Hector,
lowering a pitch-pine canoe in the earth’s trough,
to sleep under the piled conchs, through every weather

on the violet-wreathed mound. Crouching for his friend to hear,
Achille whispered about their ancestral river,
and those things he would recognize when he got there,

his true home, forever and ever and ever,
forever, compère. Then Philoctete limped over
and rested his hand firmly on a shaking shoulder

to anchor his sorrow. Seven Seas and Helen
did not come nearer. Achille had carried an oar
to the church and propped it outside with the red tin.

Now his voice strengthened. He said: “Mate, this is your spear,”
and laid the oar slowly, the same way he had placed
the parallel oars in the hull of the gommier

the day the African swift and its shadow raced.
And this was the prayer that Achille could not utter:
“The spear that I give you, my friend, is only wood.

Vexation is past. I know how well you treat her.
You never know my admiration, when you stood
crossing the sun at the bow of the long canoe

with the plates of your chest like a shield; I would say
any enemy so was a compliment. ’Cause no
African ever hurled his wide seine at the bay

by which he was born with such beauty. You hear me? Men
did not know you like me. All right. Sleep good. Good night.”
Achille moved Philoctete’s hand, then he saw Helen

standing alone and veiled in the widowing light.
Then he reached down to the grave and lifted the tin
to her. Helen nodded. A wind blew out the sun.

Stephen Crane?

I love poetry

So fucking beautiful

Rat shit
Bat shit
Dirty old twat
Sixty-nine assholes tied in a knot
Hurray!
Lizard shit
Fuck

I'm from Nepal and I love English poetry

Kisses are lovely,
kisses are sweet,
kisses are tender and loving and neat.

I can kiss you gently,
I can kiss you quite nice,
I can't just kiss you once; I must do it twice!

Your lips are so soft,
your lips are so warm,
your lips are like calm in the eye of the storm.

With my lips on yours,
the thought hits like a scend:
when we kiss we're a tube with butthole on both ends.

William Wordsworth, 1888

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind

To her fair works did nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ‘tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played:
Their thoughts I cannot measure,
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

I feel like English is great for poetry because we have the most words. There's just so many different things you're able to write and express because of it. We don't have as many concise words as some other languages (like a "hiraeth" welsh concept, or "schaudenfreud" etc. etc.") so to express those concepts in poetry, you have to get more verbose, which lends itself to the art.

The Beach in August
BY WELDON KEES

The day the fat woman
In the bright blue bathing suit
Walked into the water and died,
I thought about the human
Condition. Pieces of old fruit
Came in and were left by the tide.

What I thought about the human
Condition was this: old fruit
Comes in and is left, and dries
In the sun. Another fat woman
In a dull green bathing suit
Dives into the water and dies.
The pulmotors glisten. It is noon.

We dry and die in the sun
While the seascape arranges old fruit,
Coming in and the tide, glistening
At noon. A woman, moderately stout,
In a nondescript bathing suit,
Swims to a pier. A tall woman
Steps toward the sea. One thinks about the human
Condition. The tide goes in and goes out.

Proem: To Brooklyn Bridge
Hart Crane
from "The Bridge"

How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest
The seagull’s wings shall dip and pivot him,
Shedding white rings of tumult, building high
Over the chained bay waters Liberty—

Then, with inviolate curve, forsake our eyes
As apparitional as sails that cross
Some page of figures to be filed away;
—Till elevators drop us from our day ...

I think of cinemas, panoramic sleights
With multitudes bent toward some flashing scene
Never disclosed, but hastened to again,
Foretold to other eyes on the same screen;

And Thee, across the harbor, silver paced
As though the sun took step of thee yet left
Some motion ever unspent in thy stride,—
Implicitly thy freedom staying thee!

Out of some subway scuttle, cell or loft
A bedlamite speeds to thy parapets,
Tilting there momently, shrill shirt ballooning,
A jest falls from the speechless caravan.

Down Wall, from girder into street noon leaks,
A rip-tooth of the sky’s acetylene;
All afternoon the cloud flown derricks turn ...
Thy cables breathe the North Atlantic still.

And obscure as that heaven of the Jews,
Thy guerdon ... Accolade thou dost bestow
Of anonymity time cannot raise:
Vibrant reprieve and pardon thou dost show.

O harp and altar, of the fury fused,
(How could mere toil align thy choiring strings!)
Terrific threshold of the prophet’s pledge,
Prayer of pariah, and the lover’s cry,

Again the traffic lights that skim thy swift
Unfractioned idiom, immaculate sigh of stars,
Beading thy path—condense eternity:
And we have seen night lifted in thine arms.

Under thy shadow by the piers I waited
Only in darkness is thy shadow clear.
The City’s fiery parcels all undone,
Already snow submerges an iron year ...

O Sleepless as the river under thee,
Vaulting the sea, the prairies’ dreaming sod,
Unto us lowliest sometime sweep, descend
And of the curveship lend a myth to God.

...

Too many to list, but one favorite, from Tennyson's "Mariana":

With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"

Yo this is amazing

...

source?

this is some gay shit

Boot Theory by Richard Siken

>when we kiss we're a tube with butthole on both ends
clearly nothing good can come from that

double the pooping power

My lean cost more than your rent, ooh (it do)
Your momma still live in a tent, yuh (brr)
Still slangin' dope in the 'jects, huh? (yeah)
Me and my grandma take meds, ooh (huh?)
None of this shit be new to me (nope)
Fuckin' my teacher, call it 'tutory (yuh)
Bought some red bottoms, cost hella Gs (huh?)
Fuck your airline, fuck your company (fuck it!)
Bitch, your breath smell like some cigarettes (cigarettes)
I'd rather fuck a bitch from the projects (yuh)
They kicked me out the plane off a percocet (brr)
Now Lil Pump flyin' private jet (yuh)
Everybody scream, "Fuck WestJet" (fuck 'em)
Lil Pump still sell that meth (yuh)
Hunnid on my wrist, sippin' on Tech (brr)
Fuck a lil bitch, make her pussy wet (what?)

Pic related. A bit on the nose, but I still love it.

Invictus

This is so bad it isn't even funny.

The Tiger or the Kobe poem are better.

it definitely is some gay shit.

I recommend the book it's featured in, Crush by Richard Siken, for more of this gay shit.

it's good gay shit.

It is a poop-of-war that can only end with one side consuming and pooping the other one out, or the whole dying for lack of nourishment

Probably not my favourite but I love it anyway.

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.

Check the covers for spiders before you go crawling in bed
You long to lie down beside her and plant ideas in her head
You are children of angels and you're living in sin
Well they've got just the place for the kind of trouble you're in
And her hair smells like flowers and you're counting the hours between thunder showers
Unleash your new superpowers don't be a coward

Did you come to remember, or did you come to forget?
You went looking for Jesus and found the devil instead
So many convictions about life after death
But you just can't believe in any single one of them

And it's all on your shoulders feels like a boulder and you're just getting older
Universe seems to grow colder each time you behold her

Alpha-Man, father of everyone's children
The king of the kingdom of men
You father your sons and your daughters
All of them follow your every command
You sire them all on your own
Then you kick them all out of your home
Alpha-Man, tell all of your children to leave you alone
Alpha-Man, tell all of your children to leave you alone

Tuck the old folks into their new homes
Watch the skin slip off of their bones
Watch out for pigeons on the telephone poles
They will shit all over your clothes

Alpha-Man, father of everyone's children
The king of the kingdom of men
You father your sons and your daughters
All of them follow your every command
You sire them all on your own
Then you kick them all out of your home
Alpha-Man, tell all of your children to leave you alone

Gucci Gang Gucci Gang Gucci Gang Gucci Gang Gucci Gang

2 poems by Ezra Pound:

1. The Encounter

All the while they were talking the new morality
Her eyes explored me.
And when I rose to go
Her fingers were like the tissue
Of a Japanese paper napkin.

2. Epitaph

Leucis, who intended a Grand Passion,
Ends with a willingness-to-oblige.

...

Are the chirping bones a reference to Eliot's Ash Wednesday?

is that how cat-dog lives

...

Mine is too long. You dilettantes won't read it.

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

"Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he;
"Have naught but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again."

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He kissed their drooping leaves;
It was for the Lord of Paradise
He bound them in his sheaves.

"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"
The Reaper said, and smiled;
"Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where He was once a child.

"They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,
And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear."

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love;
She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.

Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day;
'T was an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away.

Love this one, all of Owen's poems have a special place in my heart

'You! What d'you mean by this?' I rapped.
'You dare come on parade like this?'
'Please, sir, it's-' ''Old yer mouth,' the sergeant snapped.
'I takes 'is name, sir?'-'Please, and then dismiss.'

Some days 'confined to camp' he got,
For being 'dirty on parade'.
He told me, afterwards, the damnèd spot
Was blood, his own. 'Well, blood is dirt,' I said.

'Blood's dirt,' he laughed, looking away,
Far off to where his wound had bled
And almost merged for ever into clay.
'The world is washing out its stains,' he said.
'It doesn't like our cheeks so red:
Young blood's its great objection.
But when we're duly white-washed, being dead,
The race will bear Field-Marshal God's inspection.'

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Love this poem by Eliot

I love The Encounter.

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