Favorite Poetic Pieces

Just thought I'd share one of my favorite Dickinson poems.

ELYSIUM is as far as to
The very nearest room,
If in that room a friend await
Felicity or doom.

What fortitude the soul contains,
That it can so endure
The accent of a coming foot,
The opening of a door!

Ooh, I have not read that one before!

I have always loved searching through different interpretations of poetry, as well as song lyrics, so this might be a good place to do that as well.

The one below is one of, if not my favourite piece. It's just a snippet though because the poem itself is rather long.

To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.

 I thought this was a rather fitting smilie for your snippet. I love that and may have to borrow it, and hunt down the rest of the poem. I actually forgot to mention that lyrics are welcome here as well so post away! I find that when you ask someone their favorite poetry or lyrics you can really get a sense of who they are and I like that. Call me weird but it's always been something I've enjoyed doing.

"Auguries Of Innocence" is the name of that poem, just to make things a bit easier. It was written by William Blake and he is by far my favourite poet. And I feel that way too when it comes to finding out someone's favourite lyrics, books or poems. It really does allow you to fully understand the kind of person they are and that's beautiful.

Just thought I'd pop in and share two new poems with you all. :)Both are by a very interesting poet by the name of Michael Faudet. More of his work can be found on his Tumblr page.

Second Chance

We kissed beneath the twisted trees,
our lips between the stars,
tiny ripples in the lake,
this love, once lost,
is ours.

I Love You

The most beautiful sound in the world to me is not forest birdsong,
or babbling brooks or even the ringing of church bells.
It's hearing you whisper 'I love you', over and over again.

Okay I am a terrible person for not getting back here sooner. Those two, though brief, are absolutely beautiful. They remind me somewhat of the poetry I used to write and oh how I miss it. Writing stories is fun, of course, but there is always something appealing about writing rhymes; which is more often than not what I aimed for. I am inspired now — I should get back into it.

Oh, and Michael Faudet just received a new follower because of this post ^-^ thank you for sharing!

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message “He is Dead”.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

This piece is beautiful, albeit depressing and it reminded me some of Jackie.

I'm not crying, totally not crying. Oh who am I kidding? I'm teary eyed over here and you're right, it does remind me of Jackie. *hugs you*

Love and Friendship

Emily Bronte

Love is like the wild rose-briar,
Friendship like the holly-tree --
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most contantly?
The wild-rose briar is sweet in the spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again
And who wil call the wild-briar fair?
Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now
And deck thee with the holly's sheen,
That when December blights thy brow
He may still leave thy garland green.

Another favorite of mine, although I could never quite figure out why.

Self Pity

D.H. Lawrence

I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself.
A small bird will dropp frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself