I was flicking through the book they gave us in TW and here's some nice poems from it:
She Walks in Beauty(George Gordon Byron, 1788~1824) (page 42) 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 mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er 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!
Ode on a Grecian Urn (I & II)(John Keats, 1795~1821) (page 54) I Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? II Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal - yet, do not greive; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
If I Should Go Before the Rest of You(Joyce Grenfall, 1910~1979) (page 62) If I should go before the rest of you, Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone, Nor when I'm gone speak in a Sunday voice, But be the usual selves that I have known, Weep if you must, Parting is hell, But life goes on, So sing as well.
Untitled (page 182) Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Tonight I Can Write(Pablo Neruda, 1904~1973) (page 190-192) Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, "The night is starry and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance."
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms. I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too. How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines. To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her. And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her. The night is starry and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance. My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer. My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees. We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer lover her, that's certain, but how much I loved her. My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses. Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms my sould is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her.
Aren't these all so beautiful in their own way, whatever they were trying to express. I sometimes feel I can lose myself in their metaphors, twisting round and round, but never losing track. Confusing but concise. How they manage to express themselves so elegantly I will never match. How beautiful, and how sad.