/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.1184992]

Okay /lit/, classy thread for classy people time

ITT: Classy poems

http://www.heise.de/ix/raven/Literature/Lore/TheRaven.html

I'm going to start with my reigning champion favourite. I could literally masturbate to how good some of the prose is.
>My face when "and his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming."

Educate me good sirs.

[Anonymous No.1185002]

Really /lit/? There aren't any gentleman here willing to enlighten me about some of literature's most memorable poems?

[Anonymous No.1185004]

most of don paterson's version of orpheus exudes class like some kind of gland

[Anonymous No.1185007]

>>1185004
Alright thanks, I'll give it a look.

[Anonymous No.1185008]

Well dear sir,
I am completely baffled be non-presence of such a wünderbar poetry as William Blake's.
Please, find attached his most famous work, The Tyger.

also here: http://www.tuffydog.com/blake.html

[Lord Byron No.1185013]

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that 's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

[Anonymous No.1185017]

>>1185008
Oh yeah, I've heard of it before, just never seen the complete work. Thanks man.

Love trolling the general populace with "eye' and 'symmetry', made me reread it a couple of times.

[Percy Shelley No.1185020]

O world! O life! O time!
On whose last steps I climb,
Trembling at that where I had stood before;
When will return the glory of your prime?
No more -- Oh, never more!

Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight;
Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar,
Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight
No more -- Oh, never more!

[Anonymous No.1185022]

>>1185013
OP here. Nice.

Have some melancholy

Philip Larkin - Aubade (Mourning Song)

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

[Anonymous No.1185025]

>>1185022

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

[Anonymous No.1185024]

class? try finding the 2 hidden sonnets in romeo and juliet.
you'll cum buckets,

[Lord Byron No.1185023]

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow—
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me—
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met—
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.

[Anonymous No.1185028]

imo lord byron is overrated >_>

[Anonymous No.1185030]

>>1185020

Hey, whoever posted the Shelley poem....Just thought I'd point out that it's a perfect example of a typo that has never been corrected. Please note how the line that contains the seasons is missing one season and one syllable. That's because Shelley left a blank in the manuscript (which survives) and the poem was published after his death (so they just left the blank in there). I just always thought that was interesting.

[Anonymous No.1185033]

>>1185024
You have piqued my interest sir.

Please continue.

[Anonymous No.1185034]

>>1185024
They're hidden now?

[Anonymous No.1185040]

well, they aren't announced in the same way as, for example, "shakspere's sonnets" are.
just a bit of fun.

[Anonymous No.1185054]

Do any of you have any classy war poems?

[Anonymous No.1185056]

>>1185054
Well my personal favourite is Rudyard Kipling. The man could fucking write.

http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/kipling/young_british_soldier.html

This isn't really all classy, but its got a good cadence and you can check out his works for more.

[Anonymous No.1185059]

>>1185056
Also, Siegfried Sassoon was god tier.

[Anonymous No.1185084]

Ash Wednesday, by T.S. Elliot

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is
nothing again

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessèd face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.

[Anonymous No.1185089]

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!


Rudyard Kipling

[Anonymous No.1185099]

>>1185084
My God, that is beautiful.

[Anonymous No.1185105]

To A Mouse, by Robert Burns

Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie,
O, what panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry Man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle,
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request:
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast,
An' weary Winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald.
To thole the Winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

But Mousie, thou are no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men,
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

[Stephen Crane No.1185113]

Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.


Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
The unexplained glory flies above them,
Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom --
A field where a thousand corpses lie.

Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.


Swift blazing flag of the regiment,
Eagle with crest of red and gold,
These men were born to drill and die.
Point for them the virtue of slaughter,
Make plain to them the excellence of killing
And a field where a thousand corpses lie.

Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

[Anonymous No.1185134]

Ask yourself my love whether you are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me, so destroyed my freedom. Will you confess this in the Letter you must write immediately, and do all you can to console me in it—make it rich as a draught of poppies to intoxicate me—write the softest words and kiss them that I may at least touch my lips where yours have been. For myself I know not how to express my devotion to so fair a form: I want a brighter word than bright, a fairer word than fair. I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days—three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain

[Anonymous No.1185138]

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 the 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)

[Anonymous No.1185172]

And here's another fact of this life you must learn:
If you've got a hot pussy, I've got cock meat to burn
Because you make my balls horny babe, you know I can't lie
I wanna shoot a scoop or two of schlong sherbert on your pie
I want to take a bite of bush and get a trap full of hair
Or you can shit down my schlong crack, I don't even care
You can fart in my face or wipe your ass on my prick
Blow your boogie on my balls or just rent us a flick
Comedy, Drama, I don't give a fuck
As long as my old senior sausage gets sucked
Action, Sci-fi, who gives a shit?
As long you let me blow a load on your clit
As long as you let me shoot a wad on your jugs
Pour some coffee in your little cunt mug
I'll pour some schlong soda in your little snatch glass
While I cornhole your hiney and potato your ass
I'll count every crevice on your cutey pie cunt
While attempting an evil knievel bike stunt
Then I'll toast breakfast tarts that I'll top of with grits
Then I'll break out the sewing machine and make knits
Then I'll kick of my shoes and put both of my feet
Inside your twat, while I wack off my meat
Then you'll kneel down and beg me to beat off my balls
While we shop for sheepskin seat covers inside the mall
'Cause there ain't nothing finer in this picture perfect life
Then to hand bang your bone in the food court of strife

[Anonymous No.1185185]

By Stéphane Mallarmé.

[Anonymous No.1185187]

>>1184992
>Poetry
>how good some of the prose is

[Anonymous No.1185224]

Passetyme with gude companye,
I love, and shall until I dye.
Gruch who wyll, but none deny,
So God be pleeyd, thus lyfe wyll I.
For my pastaunce:
Hunt, syng, and daunce,
My hert ys sett!
All gudely sport,
Fore my comfort,
Who shall me lett?

Youth wyll have nedes dalyaunce,
Of gude or yll some pastaunce,
Companye me thynketh them best,
All thouts and fansyes to dygest.
For ydleness,
Ys chef mastres
Of vyces all:
Than who can say,
But myrth and play
Ys best of all?

Companye with honeste,
Ys vertu, vyce to flee.
Companye ys gude or yll,
But ev'ry man hath hys frewylle.
The best ensyue,
The worst eschew,
My mynd shall be:
Vertue to use,
Vyce to refuse,
Thus shall I use me!

[Anonymous No.1185255]

>>1185224
I wonder if native English speakers understand these stuff?

[Anonymous No.1185266]

READ AS GILLIGAN'S ISLE THEME SONG
SHIT DICKS


Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

[Anonymous No.1185275]

>>1185255
Of course. It's a bit awkward occasionaly, but any literate english speaker should understand it fine.

[Anonymous No.1185289]

Dirty haiku:
Sure i'll Fuck your ass
Twist you like a paper clip
I might not pull out

[Anonymous No.1185304]

>>1185255
The orthography is strange, but the words are recognisable. Gude is "good", yll is "ill", gruch is "grudge," vertu is "virtue," dalyaunce is "dalliance," etc. The only word I don't recognise is pastaunce, and the verb lett, "let," is being used in a way I don't understand.

[Anonymous No.1185308]

>>1185304
related to "pastime".
I thought there was some more concrete association to modern english, but when I actually thought about it, I couldn't find one. Probably just getting confused due to polygloty.