Poetry
More than one person has posted poetry today, and I seem to be in a mood for it.
So, recommend poetry to me. Who's your favourite poet? What should I read that I haven't?
(My favourite, by the by, is Yeats.)
Alternatively, write me a poem! I'll save you from having to read any of mine, though.
So, recommend poetry to me. Who's your favourite poet? What should I read that I haven't?
(My favourite, by the by, is Yeats.)
Alternatively, write me a poem! I'll save you from having to read any of mine, though.
My favourite...
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul outwears the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.
-- George Gordon, Lord Byron
John Donne
TO HIS MISTRESS GOING TO BED.
by John Donne
COME, madam, come, all rest my powers defy ;
Until I labour, I in labour lie.
The foe ofttimes, having the foe in sight,
Is tired with standing, though he never fight.
Off with that girdle, like heaven's zone glittering,
But a far fairer world encompassing.
Unpin that spangled breast-plate, which you wear,
That th' eyes of busy fools may be stopp'd there.
Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime
Tells me from you that now it is bed-time.
Off with that happy busk, which I envy,
That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.
Your gown going off such beauteous state reveals,
As when from flowery meads th' hill's shadow steals.
Off with your wiry coronet, and show
The hairy diadems which on you do grow.
Off with your hose and shoes ; then softly tread
In this love's hallow'd temple, this soft bed. ....
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