Favourite Poet and/or Poem


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Who is your favourite poet and which is your favourite poem? My favourite poet is Lord Byron. My favourite poem is Darkness. I like the alliteration and half-rhyme, the lack of rhythm and the atmosphere that really conveys the idea of 'darkness'.

It is a long poem so I have put a link above rather than post the lot, but I like the way it starts
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air
and ends
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon their mistress had expir'd before;
The winds were withered in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them--She was the Universe
I love the word 'darkling', and the last line - "She was the Universe". Great stuff, ne? :cool:
That sounded really nice there Tsuyoiko chan !! I like that 'darkling' thing too. I have written in the past--mostly for music--and really enjoy good poetry. It is sad, actually, that I don't really have time for it these days, with all this house work, and the kids, and all--and my studies.

I have always liked, oh no, what's her name...the somewhat weak, American poet..female...wow...? Now you know one weakness of mine--who did what and what's it called. (even with music, I cannot say who did some song, or the name of it, but I can play it and sing it) Maybe you can help me there.

I'd love to get all of that poem, somehow. :)
My favorite poem? It would have to be Annabel Lee, by Edgar Allan Poe.

Annabel Lee
by Edgar Allan Poe, 1849

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.​

Maybe there are more elaborate poems, poems that are more complex, but Edgar Allan Poe has a special value to me. I started reading him when I was very young, so it made an impression on me at an early stage.
My Favorite poet is T.S. Eliot, and favorite poem is

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S?fio credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s?fi?fodo il vero,
Senza tema d?finfamia ti rispondo.

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats 5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ?c 10
Oh, do not ask, ?gWhat is it??h
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, 15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; 25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go 35
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, ?gDo I dare??h and, ?gDo I dare??h
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— 40
[They will say: ?gHow his hair is growing thin!?h]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: ?gBut how his arms and legs are thin!?h]
Do I dare 45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, 50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all— 55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? 60
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress 65
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets 70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows??c

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! 75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ?c tired ?c or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? 80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here?fs no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, 85
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while, 90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: ?gI am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all?h— 95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: ?gThat is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.?h

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while, 100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: 105
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
?gThat is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.?h
. . . . . 110
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use, 115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ?c I grow old ?c 120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me. 125

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
Those two are great !! Especially Annabel Lee, now you recalled that memory, brings back some good memories !! Thanks!! :bravo:
Glad to see Poe poetry lovers ! :wave:
The Raven is the ultimate masterpiece of English verse that never was or will be.
The Hose of Usher Net
wiki: The Raven
E.A.Poe said:
The Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe
First Published in 1845

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore,.
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,
Nameless here forevermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me---filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door.
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door;---
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,
Lenore?, This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word,
"Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before,
"Surely," said I, "surely, that is something at my window lattice.
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore.
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.
" 'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door.
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore.
Tell me what the lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore."
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered;
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before;
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,---
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never---nevermore."

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath
Sent thee respite---respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore:
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me I implore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore---
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming.
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted---nevermore!

There was another, older one of quotes and poems; The Beauty of Words by member Rachel
I like Storm, by Wilfred Owen - one of his earlier poems, but... I dunno, i just like it...

His face was charged with beauty as a cloud
With glimmering lightning. When it shadowed me
I shook, and was uneasy as a tree
That draws the brilliant danger, tremulous, bowed.
So must I tempt that face to loose its lightning.
Great gods, whose beauty is death, will laugh above,
Who made his beauty lovelier than love.
I shall be bright with their unearthly brightening.
And happier were it if my sap consume;
Glorious will shine the opening of my heart;
The land shall freshen that was under gloom;
What matter if all men cry aloud and start,
And women hide bleak faces in their shawl,
At those hilarious thunders of my fall?
Mars Man said:
I have always liked, oh no, what's her name...the somewhat weak, American poet..female...wow...? Now you know one weakness of mine--who did what and what's it called. (even with music, I cannot say who did some song, or the name of it, but I can play it and sing it) Maybe you can help me there.
I have the same thing, and it drives me crazy. Thank goodness for Google! Do you mean Emily Dickinson?

Just for you Lexico, here is Simon's parody of The Raven:
The Raven
By Grubbymitts

It was a night
both dark and dreary.
I sat alone,
tired and weary.
Alone but with thoughts of Uncle Tom
who is a bore.
As I sat in my trappings
there came a sudden tapping.
As if someone gently rapping.
Rapping at my chamber door.

Have my thoughts betrayed me?
I whispered, dipping up my gravy.
Could that be Uncle Tom,
who is a bore,
rapping upon my chamber door.
No, ?ftis the wind nothing more.
But outside the wind blew no more
and yet still there was a rapping,
a rapping upon my chamber door.

Standing up, I left my luncheon.
Took hold of my faithful truncheon
and creeping,
I stalked up to my chamber door.

?eOh Uncle Tom, I implore,
if that is you without my chamber door,
you should know I wish to see you no more.
For quite frankly you are such a bore
and I grow tired of your tales of days of yore.?f
But still came the tapping,
the sullen rapping upon my chamber door.

I put down my truncheon,
for it was indeed quite hefty,
and prepared to give a right good lefty
if it was my Uncle Tom
who stood without,
rapping upon my chamber door.

I opened the door and, to my surprise,
a raven flew past my eyes
and perched upon a picture
of Britney Spears,
I just happen to keep above my chamber door.

?eHa!?f I laughed.
?fTwas a raven, nothing more,
that had been rapping,
a?f rapping upon my chamber door
and not my Uncle Tom
who is a bore.
It is seeking shelter
From this night both dark and dreary.
It is tired as I am weary,
Let the little fellow rest,
Upon the picture
of Britney Spears
that I happen to keep above my chamber door.

To be sweet
I offered it a treat
but quoth the raven:
?gUp yours Snotface!?h

I was shocked for sure
for I did not know that ravens swore.
I sunk back in my chair,
To thoughts of Uncle Tom once more,
But quoth the raven:
?gUp yours Snotface!?h

?eOoh you!?f I shouted as I munched pork crackling.
?eDid I not let you in when you were rapping,
a?f rapping upon my chamber door?
This night is dark and dreary,
we both are tired and weary.
A cessation of this swearing I implore
And let my thoughts be of Uncle Tom who is a bore!?f
Quoth the raven:
?gUp yours Snotface!?h

?eAaggh!?f I screamed at the little devil.
?eThis reminds me of cousin Ethel,?f
Who, I recall,
was driven quite mental
by practices both Satanic and Dental.
?eI?fll wring your neck with my bare hands.
I?fll kill you where you now stand
upon the picture of Britney Spears
that I keep above my chamber door.
Those words you will speak nevermore!?f

But as I ascended my chamber door
I lost my grip and I did fall
to land with a bump upon the floor.
As I blacked out, the last thing I saw
was the raven still sitting above my chamber door.
Quoth the raven:
?gUp yours Snotface!?h

Now on nights dark and dreary,
even if I?fm tired and weary,
my thoughts stray not to Uncle Tom,
who is still a bore,
but to the raven who still sits
upon the picture of Britney Spears
that I just happen to keep above my chamber door.
Frankly speaking, it`s hard to pick one. It depends ob a mood a lot. And there is also matter of age and knowledge. At early years i would not understand Emily Dickenson but now i can enjoy her sharp broken lines and surprising imagery. I couldn`t get the verse without rhyme and decent beat before, but recently i found a few poems by modern English authors and think now in some cases i can put up with it too and find a beauty in it

I like Poe, "Raven", certainly, a break through of the poetry of those ages, it was admitted by his contemporaries and nowdays. Rhythm, rhyme, images make clear and stunning picture. "And quoth Raven: nevermore." Many russian translators leave this nevermore as is, since we don`t have suitable by sound word.
A few poems of O.Wilde made me to like him, but i haven`t read much
R.Kipling makes nice stories, worth of mentioning. "But iron cold iron shall be master of men all"
Dante with his "La divina comedia", which i struggled to read and hadn`t
finished, draws enchanting description of "another world".
Goethe, Shakespear - narrators of human soul "Sleep no more! Macbeth hath
murdered the sleep!"
Every one of romantics has his own force of attraction.
Byron and Shelley are most known. Recently i`ve discovered Keats for myself.

I like russians poets of silver age of russian poetry, especially Gumilev and
Voloshin. First one has a perfect sense of verse: everything is well balanced -
rhyme, melody, design. Voloshin has a feeling of a sound making sands whisper with words and sea rustle from the book pages (by phonation and plot)

Many different authors of different countries have their own attractiveness
Rubai (sp?) by Omar Haiyam (sp?) remembered almost by everyone a bit intellectual when they open a bottle of vine (at least in Russia).
Quite a number of people i know are bewildered by laconic Japanese verse
and many more others i failed to mention

sorry, but i can`t pick the favourite one :D

Let it be Gumilev`s The Word quoted for example
In the days when the God eternal
Was declining face to the new world,
By the Word they stopped the sun?fs inferno,
And destroyed the towns by the Word.

And an eagle was falling at the ground,
Stars were backing to the moon in fright,
If, as made from orange flames a cloud,
Word was sailing in the heaven?fs height.

Figures were involved in low action,
As the tamed, domesticated herd,
Just because all set of comprehension
From the clever figure could be learned.

The white-bearded patriarch, wish found
Good and evil by his own hands,
Deciding not to use the sacred sound,
Drew a figure by a cane in sands.

Did we not forget in troubles own:
Only Word is blessing in the world?
In the Gospel, sent to us by John,
Is the saying, that the Word is God.

We designed for it the limits, gladly –
The scant limits of the life and thoughts,
And like bees in empty hives smell badly –
Badly smell the dead forever words.
Any list of great poems has to include Milton's Paradise Lost. Although it's way too long to quote here
xerxes99 said:
Any list of great poems has to include Milton's Paradise Lost. Although it's way too long to quote here

What are your favourite lines? I like this bit:

Their mighty Chief returned: loud was the acclaim:
Forth rushed in haste the great consulting peers,
Raised from their dark Divan, and with like joy
Congratulant approached him; who with hand
Silence, and with these words attention, won.
Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Virtues, Powers;
For in possession such, not only of right,
I call ye, and declare ye now; returned
Successful beyond hope, to lead ye forth
Triumphant out of this infernal pit
Abominable, accursed, the house of woe,
And dungeon of our tyrant: Now possess,
As Lords, a spacious world, to our native Heaven
Little inferiour, by my adventure hard
With peril great achieved. Long were to tell
What I have done; what suffered;with what pain
Voyaged th' unreal, vast, unbounded deep
Of horrible confusion; over which
By Sin and Death a broad way now is paved,
To expedite your glorious march; but I
Toiled out my uncouth passage, forced to ride
The untractable abyss, plunged in the womb
Of unoriginal Night and Chaos wild;

It carries on a bit after that...
Many thanks for sharing this rare and radiant beauty of a parody; to you and Simon the new-age poet of the XXIth c. This is my favourite part that showes even in poetry logic and common sense rule.
Simon said:
?eOh Uncle Tom, I implore,
if that is you without my chamber door,
you should know I wish to see you no more.
For quite frankly you are such a bore
and I grow tired of your tales of days of yore.?f
How many evenings ended in violent fist fights of feuding family members if not falling asleep or fainting from brutal boredome, o nevermore !
I'll Root For The Home Town Boy !

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, born in Portland , Maine; his home is still here for visitors. One of his I like is "A Psalm of Life".


Kinsao said:
rofl @ that poem! I like the bit about "practices both Satanic and Dental"...
lexico said:
Many thanks for sharing this rare and radiant beauty of a parody; to you and Simon the new-age poet
Thanks Kinsao & Lex! I will post some of Simon's 'good' poetry later.
Frank D. White said:
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, born in Portland , Maine
I like Longfellow too Frank. My favourite is Excelsior
I love the phrase 'the shades of night', because it is a description and a metaphor at the same time, and the ending is so tragic, but right and proper.
OK, Simon sent a couple of his 'good' (IMHO) poems. I like them, but I'm probably biased!

This one is for all the Tolkien/Feist/Donaldson etc fans out there:
By Grubbymitts

Swords clash,
A minstrel sings,
A time of change,
The death of kings.

Turned to stone
by golden eyes.
Dragons fly
in wartorn skies.

Boy meets girl
and worlds collide.
Kings are crowned,
Asassins hide.

A ring is forged,
Battles fought,
The ring is lost,
A quest is sought.

Wild magic,
A sacred tome,
A bygone age,
A journey home.

A single word
and stars explode.
One against many,
so legends are told.

Blue crystal flame,
A dragon's mane,
Science becomes
magic's bane.

Shining armour,
A flashing blade,
Nations freed,
Heroes made.

White gold,
A dying man,
A paradox,
A hopeless plan.
And this one is often miscontrued. What do you think it means?
Angels' Gate.
By Grubbymitts

We stand together at Angels' gate,
Our arms entwined in a lattice of hope,
From the North to the South,
The East to the West,
We stand united,
Two abreast.

We stand together at Angels' gate,
Our arms entwined in a lattice of hope,
Armies falter,
Cities fall,
Yet hope survives,
Hope conquers all.

We stand together at Angels' gate,
Our arms entwined in a lattice of hope,
Empty hearts,
Hear the cry,
Defeat the enemy,
Live not die.

We stand together at Angels' gate,
Our arms entwined in a lattice of hope,
The ones who heard,
The ones who came,
Amongst us wounded,
Sick and lame.

We stand together at Angels' gate,
Our arms entwined in a lattice of hope,
Our last battle,
Hear us sing,
We defy the Angels
For the end they bring.

We stand together at Angels' gate,
Our arms entwined in a lattice of hope.
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My eyes are sore now, almost from reading; but it was worth it. Yes !! That's the girl, good ole Emily D. Now I can't recite which poem it was that 'move' me the most, but I liked her style--now I'm talking about a way back you know.

Thanks for the help !! :cool:
I have started to learn French weeks ago, and the professor gave to us this Poem!
I just love it and i have learned it all.

[SIZE=+1]Déjeuner du matin[/SIZE]
Il a mis le café
Dans la tasse
Il a mis le lait
Dans la tasse de café
Il a mis le sucre
Dans le café au lait
Avec la petite cuiller
Il a tourné
Il a bu le café au lait
Et il a reposé la tasse
Sans me parler
Il a allumé
Une cigarette
Il a fait des ronds
Avec la fumée
Il a mis les cendres
Dans le cendrier
Sans me parler
Sans me regarder
Il s'est levé
Il a mis
Son chapeau sur sa tête
Il a mis son manteau de pluie
Parce qu'il pleuvait
Et il est parti
Sous la pluie
Sans une parole
Sans me regarder
Et moi j'ai pris
Ma tête dans ma main
Et j'ai pleuré

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