Say goodbye to the year with your favorite poem

[Anonymous No.19665536]

[Anonymous No.19665539]

me > you

[Anonymous No.19665544]

>>19665536
The last two stanzas of Larkin's 'Church-Going,' where he describes visiting a dying old church as a metaphor for the death of western tradition in general:

>Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
>Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
>Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
>So long and equably what since is found
>Only in separation – marriage, and birth,
>And death, and thoughts of these – for whom was built
>This special shell? For, though I've no idea
>What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
>It pleases me to stand in silence here;
.
>A serious house on serious earth it is,
>In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
>Are recognised, and robed as destinies.
>And that much never can be obsolete,
>Since someone will forever be surprising
>A hunger in himself to be more serious,
>And gravitating with it to this ground,
>Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
>If only that so many dead lie round.

[Anonymous No.19665545]

>>19665539

[Anonymous No.19665580]

Busie old foole, unruly Sunne,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windowes, and through curtaines call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?
Sawcy pedantique wretch, goe chide
Late school boyes, and sowre prentices,
Goe tell Court-huntsmen, that the King will ride,
Call countrey ants to harvest offices;
Love, all alike, no season knowes, nor clyme,
Nor houres, dayes, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beames, so reverend, and strong
Why shouldst thou thinke?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a winke,
But that I would not lose her sight so long:
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Looke, and to morrow late, tell mee,
Whether both the India’s of spice and Myne
Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with mee.
Aske for those Kings whom thou saw’st yesterday,
And thou shalt heare, All here in one bed lay.

She is all States, and all Princes, I,
Nothing else is.
Princes doe but play us; compar’d to this,
All honor’s mimique; All wealth alchimie.
Thou sunne art halfe as happy’as wee,
In that the worlds’s contracted thus;
Thine age askes ease, and since thy duties bee
To warme the world, that’s done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy center is, these walls, thy spheare.

[Anonymous No.19665592]

Peepee
on me
Poopoo
on you

[Anonymous No.19665593]

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

[Anonymous No.19665623]

>>19665592
>t. famous poet R Kelly

[Anonymous No.19665693]

>>19665545
>tiger pretends to sleep
>will say that the cage crumbled accidentally
>he likes the cage anyway
why does this unironically make me feel

[Anonymous No.19665715]

När medelsvensson är blaskig
då är han karlakarl,
och inte så jäkla tråkig
som annars i sina dar.

Då njuter han gärna en visa
och läser, kanhända, en strof.
Och ofta i nattens hemgång
han varder en filosof -

Då stannar han plötsligt och bredbent
och lyfter sin våta läpp,
och lyfter mot gubben i månen
tillika sin silverkäpp:

Se stjärnorna, bror, hur de dansa
som flugor i rymdens tak ...
...en stjärna, du - och ett öga
är ändå en märklig sak ...

... Ja, herre gud, om man tänker!
- men längre kommer han ej.
Och längre kom inte Salomon,
så inte angår det mej.

[Anonymous No.19665722]

The tiger
He destroyed his cage
Yes
YES
The tiger is out

[Anonymous No.19666084]

single strike cadence slip
once ill make you my bitch
we dont want we take shit
hella zeros life elixir drenched
all i need is my fix
fuck your idols suck my dick
im on my way out
pressin down the pillow till i cant hear you breathin
for no reason
five rings on my hand
faces gag
where the fucks my true ones at
wavin high burnin freak fuck flags

takes one to no one knows how fucked i am
if i showedem theyd just run like hoes
fuck these pussies on hella zeros
two heavens is all i know

[Anonymous No.19666145]

>>19665715
What language is this

[Anonymous No.19666191]

WHEN I was King and a Mason—a Master proven and skilled—
I cleared me ground for a Palace such as a King should build.
I decreed and dug down to my levels. Presently, under the silt,
I came on the wreck of a Palace such as a King had built.
There was no worth in the fashion—there was no wit in the plan—
Hither and thither, aimless, the ruined footings ran—
Masonry, brute, mishandled, but careen on every stone:
“After me cometh a Builder. Tell him, I too have known.”

Swift to my use in my trenches, where my well-planned ground-works grew,
I tumbled his quoins and his ashlars, and cut and reset them anew.
Lime I milled of his marbles; burned it, slacked it, and spread;
Taking and leaving at pleasure the gifts of the humble dead.

Yet I despised not nor gloried; yet, as we wrenched them apart,
I read in the razed foundations the heart of that builder’s heart.
As he had risen and pleaded, so did I understand
The form of the dream he had followed in the face of the thing he had planned.

When I was a King and a Mason—in the open noon of my pride,
They sent me a Word from the Darkness—They whispered and called me aside.
They said—“The end is forbidden.” They said—“Thy use is fulfilled.
“Thy Palace shall stand as that other’s—the spoil of a King who shall build.”
I called my men from my trenches, my quarries, my wharves, and my sheers.
All I had wrought I abandoned to the faith of the faithless years.
Only I cut on the timber—only I carved on the stone:
“After me cometh a Builder. Tell him, I too have known !”

[Anonymous No.19666458]

Creeping Back to the Cross

When all advance is stopped and the defeat
Of companies that flank you bars retreat;
When your last cartridges have long been spent
And all have suffered heavy punishment;
When friends are lying either maimed or dead,
Or else got windy early on and fled;
When wounds gape menacingly and your thirst
Invades your lips and causes them to burst;
When all that keeps the enemy at bay
Is just the gath'ring dusk of dying day
And morning waits the sun of yonder hill
To come down from the eastern sky to kill.
Then, if you're not the weakling one whose way
In wretchedness and torture is to stray
Back to the God of weaklings in dismay —
In short, if you don't feel the need to pray —
Then, be you pagan, boor, or atheist,
The world is yours to do with as you list!

[Anonymous No.19666514]

>>19666191
Thanks for sharing this one. I really liked it. Don't read much poetry, but will have to read Kipling

[Anonymous No.19666520]

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

[Anonymous No.19666657]

https://youtu.be/FBca33v8oGM

[Anonymous No.19666741]

>>19666145
It seems to be Swedish

[Anonymous No.19666765]

Eighteen naked cowboys in the showers at Ram Ranch
Big hard throbbing cocks wanting to be sucked
Eighteen naked cowboys wanting to be fucked
Orgy in the showers at Ram Ranch

[Anonymous No.19667271]

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Everything is possible
Nothing is true

[Anonymous No.19667323]

>>19665536

HAST thou a charm to stay the morning-star
In his deep course? So long he seems to pause
On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc!
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form! 5
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,
How silently! Around thee and above
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,
As with a wedge! But when I look again, 10
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity!
O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer 15
I worshipped the Invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my Thought,
Yea, with my Life and Life’s own secret joy: 20
Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused,
Into the mighty vision passing—there
As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven.

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, 25
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake,
Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn.

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the Vale!
O struggling with the darkness all the night, 30
And visited all night by troops of stars,
Or when they climb the sky or when they sink:
Companion of the morning-star at dawn,
Thyself Earth’s rosy star, and of the dawn
Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise! 35
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth?
Who fill’d thy countenance with rosy light?
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

cont.

[Anonymous No.19667365]

When, long ago, the gods created Earth
In Jove's fair image Man was shap'd at birth.
The beasts for lesser parts were next design'd;
Yet were they too remote from humankind.
To fill the gap, and join the rest to man,
Th'Olympian host conceiv'd a clever plan.
A beast they wrought, in semi-human figure,
Fill'd it with vice, and call'd the thing a NIGGER

[Anonymous No.19667382]

>>19665536
>>19667323
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!
Who called you forth from night and utter death, 40
From dark and icy caverns called you forth,
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,
For ever shattered and the same for ever?
Who gave you your invulnerable life,
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 45
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?
And who commanded (and the silence came),
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?

Ye Ice-falls! ye that from the mountain’s brow
Adown enormous ravines slope amain— 50
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!
Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!
Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven
Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun 55
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?—
God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!
God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice! 60
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle’s nest! 65
Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm!
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!
Ye signs and wonders of the element!
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!

Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, 70
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene
Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast—
Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 75
In adoration, upward from thy base
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,
Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud,
To rise before me—Rise, O ever rise,
Rise like a cloud of incense from the Earth! 80
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,
Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,
Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 85

[Anonymous No.19668099]

Este, que ves, engaño colorido,
que del arte ostentando los primores,
con falsos silogismos de colores
es cauteloso engaño del sentido:

éste, en quien la lisonja ha pretendido
excusar de los años los horrores,
y venciendo del tiempo los rigores,
triunfar de la vejez y del olvido,

es un vano artificio del cuidado,
es una flor al viento delicada,
es un resguardo inútil para el hado:

es una necia diligencia errada,
es un afán caduco y, bien mirado,
es cadáver, es polvo, es sombra, es nada.

This coloured counterfeit that thou beholdest,
vainglorious with excellencies of art,
is, in fallacious syllogisms of colour,
nought but a cunning dupery of sense;

this in which flattery has undertaken
to extenuate the hideousness of years,
and, vanquishing the outrages of time,
to triumph o’er oblivion and old age,

is an empty artifice of care,
is a fragile flower in the wind,
is a paltry sanctuary from fate,

is a foolish sorry labour lost,
is conquest doomed to perish and, well taken,
is corpse and dust, shadow and nothingness.

[Anonymous No.19668116]

>>19665536

>"And the Days Are Not Full Enough" by Ezra Pound

And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass.

[Anonymous No.19668209]

Since it's about aging and degeneration, this poem feels more depressing each time I come back to it.

>Anglais Mort à Florence

A little less returned for him each spring.
Music began to fail him. Brahms, although
His dark familiar, often walked apart.

His spirit grew uncertain of delight,
Certain of its uncertainty, in which
That dark companion left him unconsoled

For a self returning mostly memory.
Only last year he said that the naked moon
Was not the moon he used to see, to feel

(In the pale coherences of moon and mood
When he was young), naked and alien,
More leanly shining from a lankier sky.

Its ruddy pallor had grown cadaverous.
He used his reason, exercised his will,
Turning in time to Brahms as alternate

In speech. He was that music and himself.
They were particles of order, a single majesty:
But he remembered the time when he stood alone.

He stood at last by God’s help and the police;
But he remembered the time when he stood alone.
He yielded himself to that single majesty;

But he remembered the time when he stood alone,
When to be and delight to be seemed to be one,
Before the colors deepened and grew small.

[Anonymous No.19668336]

>>19665715
Baserat

[Anonymous No.19668443]

>>19665536
http://cola.calpoly.edu/~pmarchba/TEXTS/POETRY/W_Wordsworth/TheIdiotBoy.pdf