What are the best ever lines in poetry?
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Original post by MrFlash1994
Its from Garth Marenghi's darkplace, its a drama that is a parody of Stephen King books. Watch it on 40D youtube its amazing 
I will do
Thanks
Original post by EffDee
I love Auden....
Funeral Blues should probably get a mention here too- can't decide on a favourite line form it though...although maybe it's a bit cliche now?
Funeral Blues should probably get a mention here too- can't decide on a favourite line form it though...although maybe it's a bit cliche now?
yeah same he is my favorite poet by far, and funeral blues is amazing! I agree it's impossible to pick a favourite line, but I think the best bit has to be the third stanza;
'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 love would last forever: I was wrong.'
My personal favourite;
Still thou are blest, compared 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!
I'm not a great fan of poetry, it all seems a bit poncy to me, but Burns was undeniably brilliant.
Still thou are blest, compared 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!
I'm not a great fan of poetry, it all seems a bit poncy to me, but Burns was undeniably brilliant.
Original post by cema1
yeah same he is my favorite poet by far, and funeral blues is amazing! I agree it's impossible to pick a favourite line, but I think the best bit has to be the third stanza;
'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 love would last forever: I was wrong.'
'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 love would last forever: I was wrong.'
God it gets me every time!
I think it's the Cadence..it's like a funeral march or something. It just oozes misery and solemnity.
I know more than Apollo,
for oft while he lies sleeping
I see the stars at bloody wars
and the wounded welkin weeping.
The moon embrace her shepherd,
And the Queen of Love her warrior,
While the first doth horn the star of morn,
And the next, the heavenly farrier.
from memory so I might have got it a bit wrong.
Tom o' Bedlam, anonymous poem.
for oft while he lies sleeping
I see the stars at bloody wars
and the wounded welkin weeping.
The moon embrace her shepherd,
And the Queen of Love her warrior,
While the first doth horn the star of morn,
And the next, the heavenly farrier.
from memory so I might have got it a bit wrong.
Tom o' Bedlam, anonymous poem.
Poetry is my gold, my heart, my drive, my soul.
It’s the glitter in my eyes, and how I cope with goodbye’s
living deep within me, a beautiful monster awaiting escape
roaring to be fed a dictionary and Stephen King.
Writing is emotion poured into you, a rhyme to sing along with,
it’s my passion, my beat, my dance, my romance.
It’s my medicine, my healer, my word dealer,
my immortality through endless words.
Words are the rays dancing on the ocean shore
ready to move, be changed, and warm someone’s heart,
words are inquisitive and my driven force
and with them a new world I shall start.
Songs keep my heart in tune, and the world chasing a beat,
they force their way into my head and I cannot sleep
a chorus to be remembered, and the wind to always blow
nature’s water will always fall to a magnificent writers flow.
A world without writing is not a world worth knowing
a universe without poetry has missed a beat,
a house without words has missed dancing lessons, and
without nature’s songs birds don’t know where they belong.
It’s the glitter in my eyes, and how I cope with goodbye’s
living deep within me, a beautiful monster awaiting escape
roaring to be fed a dictionary and Stephen King.
Writing is emotion poured into you, a rhyme to sing along with,
it’s my passion, my beat, my dance, my romance.
It’s my medicine, my healer, my word dealer,
my immortality through endless words.
Words are the rays dancing on the ocean shore
ready to move, be changed, and warm someone’s heart,
words are inquisitive and my driven force
and with them a new world I shall start.
Songs keep my heart in tune, and the world chasing a beat,
they force their way into my head and I cannot sleep
a chorus to be remembered, and the wind to always blow
nature’s water will always fall to a magnificent writers flow.
A world without writing is not a world worth knowing
a universe without poetry has missed a beat,
a house without words has missed dancing lessons, and
without nature’s songs birds don’t know where they belong.
I think I would have to say that the most rousing stanza I’ve ever encountered is from Mask of Anarchy, by Shelley. However, I think that’s due to my personal politics and profound belief in human dignity rather than any raw, functional appreciation of its construction. Anyhoo:
'Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number,
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you -
Ye are many - they are few.
'Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number,
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you -
Ye are many - they are few.
The most beautiful poem I know was written by John Gillepsie Magee Jr., an American pilot who flew with the Canadian Royal Air Force during WW2. He died when he was 19 years old.
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air....
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace.
Where never lark or even eagle flew —
And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air....
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace.
Where never lark or even eagle flew —
And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!
There is something about this that I just love.
"And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before"
No prizes for guessing where it's from. Also, this is wonderful. It's from "Tithonus" by Alfred Lord Tennyson:
"I wither slowly in thine arms,
Here at the quiet limit of the world,
A white-hair’d shadow roaming like a dream
The ever-silent spaces of the East,
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn."
"And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before"
No prizes for guessing where it's from. Also, this is wonderful. It's from "Tithonus" by Alfred Lord Tennyson:
"I wither slowly in thine arms,
Here at the quiet limit of the world,
A white-hair’d shadow roaming like a dream
The ever-silent spaces of the East,
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn."
(edited 13 years ago)
Original post by midpikyrozziy
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more.
Pos rep to anyone who gets the poem without Google (or any other search engine for that matter)
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more.
Pos rep to anyone who gets the poem without Google (or any other search engine for that matter)
It's definitely Byron, I can't quite remember which poem though.
-
Well, I guess I can come up with a few decent lines
On me your voice falls as they say love should,
Like an enormous yes
(Philip Larkin, For Sidney Bechet)
Love again: ****ing at ten past three
(Philip Larkin, Love Again) - Possibly the best opening line, ever.
An' oft do come a saddened hour
When there must goo away
One well-beloved to our heart’s core,
Vor long, perhaps vor aye:
An' oh! it is a touchen thing
The loven heart must rue,
To hear behind his last farewell
The geate a-vallen to.
(William Barnes, The geate a-vallen to) - Last stanza, but I'd recommened the whole poem.
Thats basically what i'm reading now, ask again in a few months, and you'll get something else.
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
Inviticus - William Ernest Henley
This poem is made of win, I feel that everyone on TSR to some degree can relate to it.
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
Inviticus - William Ernest Henley
This poem is made of win, I feel that everyone on TSR to some degree can relate to it.
Original post by TheSilentG
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
Inviticus - William Ernest Henley
This poem is made of win, I feel that everyone on TSR to some degree can relate to it.
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
Inviticus - William Ernest Henley
This poem is made of win, I feel that everyone on TSR to some degree can relate to it.
I like it, it reminds me of "No coward soul is mine" by Bronte...which is another favourite poem of mine...I love that Northern coarseness of hers!
[INDENT]"A serious place 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."[/INDENT]
-Philip Larkin, 'Church Going'
[INDENT]"Day after day, day after day,
"We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
"As idle as a painted ship
"Upon a painted ocean.
"Water, water, everywhere,
"And all the boards did shrink;
"Water, water, everywhere,
"Nor any drop to drink."[/INDENT]
-Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner'
[INDENT]"'Tell them I came, that no-one answered,
"'That I kept my word,' he said."[/INDENT]
-Walter de la Mare, 'The Listeners'
[INDENT]"angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night"[/INDENT]
-Alan Ginsberg, 'Howl'
[INDENT]"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!'"[/INDENT]
-Jack Kerouac, On the Road [not strictly poetry, but close]
[INDENT]"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
"Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
"'Till the last syllable of recorded time.
"Life's but a passing shadow, a poor player
"That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
"And then is heard no more."[/INDENT]
-William Shakespeare, Macbeth
I could go on.
"In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
"Are recognised, and robed as destinies,
"And that much never can be obsolete."[/INDENT]
-Philip Larkin, 'Church Going'
[INDENT]"Day after day, day after day,
"We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
"As idle as a painted ship
"Upon a painted ocean.
"Water, water, everywhere,
"And all the boards did shrink;
"Water, water, everywhere,
"Nor any drop to drink."[/INDENT]
-Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner'
[INDENT]"'Tell them I came, that no-one answered,
"'That I kept my word,' he said."[/INDENT]
-Walter de la Mare, 'The Listeners'
[INDENT]"angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night"[/INDENT]
-Alan Ginsberg, 'Howl'
[INDENT]"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!'"[/INDENT]
-Jack Kerouac, On the Road [not strictly poetry, but close]
[INDENT]"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
"Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
"'Till the last syllable of recorded time.
"Life's but a passing shadow, a poor player
"That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
"And then is heard no more."[/INDENT]
-William Shakespeare, Macbeth
I could go on.
(edited 13 years ago)
Ah, i forgot Gerard Manley Hopkins, I'm going to quote Spelt from Sibyl's leaves, which is this kind of incredinble, apocalyptic sonnet. Seriously brilliant:
EARNEST, earthless, equal, attuneable, ' vaulty, voluminous, … stupendous
Evening strains to be tíme’s vást, ' womb-of-all, home-of-all, hearse-of-all night.
Her fond yellow hornlight wound to the west, ' her wild hollow hoarlight hung to the height
Waste; her earliest stars, earl-stars, ' stárs principal, overbend us,
Fíre-féaturing heaven. For earth ' her being has unbound, her dapple is at an end, as-
tray or aswarm, all throughther, in throngs; ' self ín self steedèd and páshed—qúite
Disremembering, dísmémbering ' áll now. Heart, you round me right
With: Óur évening is over us; óur night ' whélms, whélms, ánd will end us.
Only the beak-leaved boughs dragonish ' damask the tool-smooth bleak light; black,
Ever so black on it. Óur tale, O óur oracle! ' Lét life, wáned, ah lét life wind
Off hér once skéined stained véined variety ' upon, áll on twó spools; párt, pen, páck
Now her áll in twó flocks, twó folds—black, white; ' right, wrong; reckon but, reck but, mind
But thése two; wáre of a wórld where bút these ' twó tell, each off the óther; of a rack
Where, selfwrung, selfstrung, sheathe- and shelterless, ' thóughts agaínst thoughts ín groans grínd.
EARNEST, earthless, equal, attuneable, ' vaulty, voluminous, … stupendous
Evening strains to be tíme’s vást, ' womb-of-all, home-of-all, hearse-of-all night.
Her fond yellow hornlight wound to the west, ' her wild hollow hoarlight hung to the height
Waste; her earliest stars, earl-stars, ' stárs principal, overbend us,
Fíre-féaturing heaven. For earth ' her being has unbound, her dapple is at an end, as-
tray or aswarm, all throughther, in throngs; ' self ín self steedèd and páshed—qúite
Disremembering, dísmémbering ' áll now. Heart, you round me right
With: Óur évening is over us; óur night ' whélms, whélms, ánd will end us.
Only the beak-leaved boughs dragonish ' damask the tool-smooth bleak light; black,
Ever so black on it. Óur tale, O óur oracle! ' Lét life, wáned, ah lét life wind
Off hér once skéined stained véined variety ' upon, áll on twó spools; párt, pen, páck
Now her áll in twó flocks, twó folds—black, white; ' right, wrong; reckon but, reck but, mind
But thése two; wáre of a wórld where bút these ' twó tell, each off the óther; of a rack
Where, selfwrung, selfstrung, sheathe- and shelterless, ' thóughts agaínst thoughts ín groans grínd.
Original post by Orwell
It's definitely Byron, I can't quite remember which poem though.
Close enough
Original post by dbmag9
[INDENT]"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
"Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
"'Till the last syllable of recorded time.
"Life's but a passing shadow, a poor player
"That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
"And then is heard no more."[/INDENT]
-William Shakespeare, Macbeth
I could go on.
[INDENT]"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
"Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
"'Till the last syllable of recorded time.
"Life's but a passing shadow, a poor player
"That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
"And then is heard no more."[/INDENT]
-William Shakespeare, Macbeth
I could go on.
From Macbeth, I'd say "Screw your courage to the sticking place"
is pretty much my motto in life.
Original post by La Songeuse
*Sigh* I have a few favourites:
"(i do not know what is is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands"
e. e. cummings: W [Viva], XXIX
And Pablo Neruda, I love him! I can't pick a line or two I like from this poem, so I've copied it all out:
Tonight I can write the saddest lines
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example,'The night is shattered
and the blue stars 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, and 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 shattered 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 searches for her as though to go to her.
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 love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voide. Her bright body. Her inifinite 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.
"(i do not know what is is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands"
e. e. cummings: W [Viva], XXIX
And Pablo Neruda, I love him! I can't pick a line or two I like from this poem, so I've copied it all out:
Tonight I can write the saddest lines
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example,'The night is shattered
and the blue stars 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, and 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 shattered 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 searches for her as though to go to her.
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 love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voide. Her bright body. Her inifinite 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.
Wow, love both of those, never come across them before! Neruda actually gave me goosebumps!
Original post by Myth717
'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest's ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller's head
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
'Is there anybody there?' he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller's call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:-
'Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,' he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest's ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller's head
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
'Is there anybody there?' he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller's call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:-
'Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,' he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.
Its been years since I read this and have so many good memories associated with "The Listeners". Its dark, its got that aura of mystery and am sure we all can identify ourselves with the traveller, we +1 for you mate...
God there's so much amazing poetry out there! Off the top of my head though, I have to say I think this poem is the one that has stayed with me the most, it still gives me goosebumps, so painfully beautiful:
He thought he kept the universe alone;
For all the voice in answer he could wake
Was but the mocking echo of his own
From some tree–hidden cliff across the lake.
Some morning from the boulder–broken beach
He would cry out on life, that what it wants
Is not its own love back in copy speech,
But counter–love, original response.
And nothing ever came of what he cried
Unless it was the embodiment that crashed
In the cliff's talus on the other side,
And then in the far distant water splashed,
But after a time allowed for it to swim,
Instead of proving human when it neared
And someone else additional to him,
As a great buck it powerfully appeared,
Pushing the crumpled water up ahead,
And landed pouring like a waterfall,
And stumbled through the rocks with horny tread,
And forced the underbrush—and that was all.
Robert Frost - The Most Of It
Also, as someone else has already said, W.H. Auden's Funeral Blues... I remember reading that not long after a friend of mine died, and it suddenly meant even more to me than it had before.
He thought he kept the universe alone;
For all the voice in answer he could wake
Was but the mocking echo of his own
From some tree–hidden cliff across the lake.
Some morning from the boulder–broken beach
He would cry out on life, that what it wants
Is not its own love back in copy speech,
But counter–love, original response.
And nothing ever came of what he cried
Unless it was the embodiment that crashed
In the cliff's talus on the other side,
And then in the far distant water splashed,
But after a time allowed for it to swim,
Instead of proving human when it neared
And someone else additional to him,
As a great buck it powerfully appeared,
Pushing the crumpled water up ahead,
And landed pouring like a waterfall,
And stumbled through the rocks with horny tread,
And forced the underbrush—and that was all.
Robert Frost - The Most Of It
Also, as someone else has already said, W.H. Auden's Funeral Blues... I remember reading that not long after a friend of mine died, and it suddenly meant even more to me than it had before.
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