Share Your Favorite Poem Here!

[Sherlock]

Welcome to the Poetry thread! Old, new, funny, sad, deep, shallow, post your favorite poem here! It can be something you've written, or something someone else has written (copyright permitting!) Also, if you have some background information or historical tidbits regarding your poem or who wrote it, please share so that our fellow ToOers can likewise appreciate the greatness of said poem.

I'll kick it off. My poem is taken from a work called "Gitanjali" by Rabindranath Tagore.
The word gitanjali is composed from "git", song, and "anjali", offering, and thus means – "An offering of songs"; but the word for offering, anjali, has a strong devotional connotation, so the title may also be interpreted as "prayer offering of song". [source: Wikipedia]

Because this collection consists of 103 parts (yes! ) I have only selected a few to share here. If you would like to read Gitanjali its entirety, you can find it at this link.

GITANJALI

Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.
This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.
At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.
Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

When thou commandest me to sing it seems that my heart would break with pride; and I look to thy face, and tears come to my eyes.
All that is harsh and dissonant in my life melts into one sweet harmony - and my adoration spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight across the sea.
I know thou takest pleasure in my singing. I know that only as a singer I come before thy presence.
I touch by the edge of the far-spreading wing of my song thy feet which I could never aspire to reach.
Drunk with the joy of singing I forget myself and call thee friend who art my lord.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I boasted among men that I had known you. They see your pictures in all works of mine. They come and ask me, 'Who is he?' I know not how to answer them.
I say, 'Indeed, I cannot tell.' They blame me and they go away in scorn. And you sit there smiling.
I put my tales of you into lasting songs. The secret gushes out from my heart. They come and ask me, 'Tell me all your meanings.' I know not how to answer them.
I say, 'Ah, who knows what they mean!' They smile and go away in utter scorn. And you sit there smiling.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

In one salutation to thee, my God, let all my senses spread out and touch this world at thy feet.
Like a rain-cloud of July hung low with its burden of unshed showers let all my mind bend down at thy door in one salutation to thee.
Let all my songs gather together their diverse strains into a single current and flow to a sea of silence in one salutation to thee.
Like a flock of homesick cranes flying night and day back to their mountain nests let all my life take its voyage to its eternal home in one salutation to thee.

[Sapphire]

Sherlock, thank you for creating this thread; you're awesome!

I cannot choose just one poem. So, I have chosen two, and I will probably post more favorites in the future.

The first is "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost. I love this poem, and I can really relate to it. I often feel like hiding from the world and being by myself for eternity, but I cannot. As the poem states, I have promises to keep and duties to fulfill.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

The second poem is "Tears, Idle Tears" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. This is such a beautiful poem, and I can really relate to this one as well.

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more!

[Sherlock]

Lovely poems, Sapphire - thanks for sharing!

I remember Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening very well, as that was one of the poems on the ABeka curriculum that I had to memorize in High School.
Another was "Ozymandias", but I am choosing another poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley instead.

(Random tidbit: For those who follow the Inspector Lewis Series on BBC, this poem was heavily featured in the episode "And the Moonbeams Kiss the Sea")

Love’s Philosophy

The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one spirit meet and mingle.
Why not I with thine?—

See the mountains kiss high heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth
And the moonbeams kiss the sea:
What is all this sweet work worth
If thou kiss not me?

[Kait]

Yay poetry! I do love poetry and am a fair hand at writing it, although nobody wants to read that drivel so I'll share some of my favourites.

This poem is by Julie Copus and the form is called a mirror poem, as becomes obvious when you read it. I think it's pretty ingenious. I am a huge sucker for poetry that utilizes either conventional or unconventional form very well. Probably because I can't write form poetry worth beans.

THE BACK SEAT OF MY MOTHER'S CAR
We left before I had time
to comfort you, to tell you that we nearly touched
hands in that vacuous half-dark. I wanted
to stem the burning waters running over me like tiny
rivers down my face and legs, but at the same time I was reaching out
for the slit in the window where the sky streamed in,
cold as ether, and I could see your fat mole-fingers grasping
the dusty August air. I pressed my face to the glass;
I was calling to you – Daddy! – as we screeched away into
the distance, my own hand tingling like an amputation.
You were mouthing something I still remember, the noiseless words
piercing me like that catgut shriek that flew up, furious as a sunset
pouring itself out against the sky. The ensuing silence
was the one clear thing I could decipher –
the roar of the engine drowning your voice,
with the cool slick glass between us.

With the cool slick glass between us,
the roar of the engine drowning, your voice
was the one clear thing I could decipher –
pouring itself out against the sky, the ensuing silence
piercing me like that catgut shriek that flew up, furious as a sunset.
You were mouthing something: I still remember the noiseless words,
the distance, my own hand tingling like an amputation.
I was calling to you, Daddy, as we screeched away into
the dusty August air. I pressed my face to the glass,
cold as ether, and I could see your fat mole-fingers grasping
for the slit in the window where the sky streamed in
rivers down my face and legs, but at the same time I was reaching out
to stem the burning waters running over me like tiny
hands in that vacuous half-dark. I wanted
to comfort you, to tell you that we nearly touched.
We left before I had time.

[Joy]

This is one of my favourite poems by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

The Eagle
BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

[bookworm]

As I've mentioned before, I detest poetry. However, there are actually a small handful of poems I can tolerate, and a few I actually like.

My favorite poem is 'The Hour Is Go' by Francis J. Turner. I don't know much about the author other than he was a paratrooper in the D-Day invasion, which makes this really personal. That's probably part of why I like it. I discovered it when it was read between campaigns in a Medal of Honor game I was playing and I was really taken with it. I like the rhythm and the sound, and just everything really.

One's eyes close tight and families fade,
When going to war which other men made.
Though anxious and frightened, we don't let it show.
For the day is approaching, when the Airborne must go.

Each day now rolls past, we wait just the same.
But D-Day is near, and for this we all came.
The hour grows near, each man feels it inside,
And soon we'll be falling, with nowhere to hide.

Our eyes are now down and the chatter the same.
Each weapon now loaded, no longer a game.
Eagles gather round and bow yours heads low.
Europe awaits, and the hour is go.

Planes rumble past as we wait our turn,
To fly over waters we have yet to earn.
Checked buckles and straps, left nothing to chance.
The jumpmaster stands, calls "Welcome to France!"

Flak turns to fire in the blackest of night.
Too low, too fast, can't jump from this height.
There's no turning back, the risk has been taken.
Freefall to heck... paratroopers forsaken.

Eagles hold tight, scattered prayers to survive,
We'll hit the ground soon, whether dead or alive.
As feet touch the ground, each soldier moves on.
Confusion and fear are beaten and gone.

The enemy is close and sad they don't know,
The Airborne is here... it's time they must go.
The hour is now, Hitler's had his last chance.
On St. Michael's wings, we're taking back France.

Here is the reading (see 5:30):

[E II]

Does this thread mean I can post the entirety of "the raven" ?

[Termite]

Does this thread mean I can post the entirety of "the raven" ?

If you don't, I will. That's tied for first in my book.

Aaaand since my sister told me to post mine:

PART ONE

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though heck should bar the way."

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.

PART TWO

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And heck at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though heck should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

[Aeva]

I usually prefer poetry that follows a set rhyme scheme, but every now and again I come across a free-form poem that I enjoy. I also tend to prefer classic poetry over modern poems, and I really love French and Spanish poetry.

"I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud" by William Wordsworth: This poem speaks to my constant wanderlust.

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

"I've Got an Arrow Here" by Emily Dickinson: I actually don't know why this poem is so fascinating to me. There's just something intriguing about it.

I've got an arrow here;
Loving the hand that sent it,
I the dart revere.

Fell, they will say, in "skirmish"!
Vanquished, my soul will know,
By but a simple arrow
Sped by an archer's bow.

And now I want to share some foreign poetry with you all. I'll post the English translations, of course. This first poem is "Romance de la luna, luna," ("Ballad of the Moon") a gypsy ballad by Federico García Lorca. Two interesting facts: (1) García Lorca was assassinated during the Spanish Civil War for two reasons: he fought for the Republican side against the Nationalists, and he was gay. (2) The gypsies did not view the moon in a positive light like we do. For them, the moon was malevolent and threatening.

The moon came to the farrier's shop
Wearing her bustle sprigged with nard.
The little boy is staring at her,
The little boy is staring hard.
The moon is waving her white arms
Into the palpitating air,
And shows, lascivious yet pure,
Her breasts of tin so hard and bare.
"Escape from here, O moon, the moon,
For if the gypsies come in sight
They'll take your heart and make of it
Necklets of beads and trinkets white."
"Child, let me be, leave me to dance,
For when the gypsies come at last
They'll find you sleeping on the anvil
With your little eyes shut fast."
"Escape from here, O moon, the moon,
I hear their horses in the night."
"Leave me, child, and do not trample
My whiteness with its starch of light."
Approaching fast a horseman beat
His drum, the plain, with rolling tread.
The child was lying on the anvil
With eyes shut fast as she had said.

Along the olive orchard came,
All bronze and dream, the gypsy set,
With heads uplifted proudly high,
And eyes half-closed, like slots of jet.

O, how the night-jar sang that evening
Up in the tree-tops loud and high,
While hand in hand the moon is leading
The little child across the sky.

And now a French poem, "Le Dormeur du Val," ("The Sleeper of the Valley") by Arthur Rimbaud.

A small green valley where a slow stream flows
And leaves long strands of silver on the bright
Grass; from the mountaintop stream the Sun's
Rays; they fill the hollow full of light.

A soldier, very young, lies open-mouthed,
A pillow made of fern beneath his head,
Asleep, stretched in the heavy undergrowth,
Pale in his warm, green, sun-soaked bed.

His feet among the flowers, he sleeps. His smile
Is like an infant's - gentle, without guile.
Ah, Nature, keep him warm; he may catch cold.

The humming insects don't disturb his rest;
He sleeps in sunlight, one hand on his breast,
At peace. In his side there are two red holes.

[Sherlock]

Awesome poems thus far! I recognized a few, but good to see some new things being posted as well.

Here's one I like, called Kurunthokai - the translation is more poetic, but it comes from Sanskrit base and is a back and forth exchange between two young people in love:

He Says

What could be my mother be to yours?
what kin is my father to yours anyway?
And how did you and I meet ever?
But in love our hearts are as red earth and pouring rain:
mingled beyond parting.

She Says

Don’t you think they have sparrows
wherever he has gone, with wings like faded water lilies,
bathing in the dung dust in the village streets
before pecking grain from the yards
and returning to their chicks in the eaves,
common as evening loneliness?

He Says

Fearlessly, my heart has departed
to embrace my beloved.
If its arms are too slack to hold her
what use is it?
The distances between us stretch long.
Must I think of the many forests
where deadly tigers rise up roaring
like the waves of the dark ocean
standing between us? I don’t dare.

[IrishTiger]

For a long time, I could not stand poetry, but after reading The Matched Trilogy by Condie and the Tiger's Saga by Houck, my tastes changed. I have found some wonderful poems I understand and relate with completely.

Two of my favorites

"The Ship of Death" by David Herbert Lawrence

I

Now it is autumn and the falling fruit
and the long journey towards oblivion.

The apples falling like great drops of dew
to bruise themselves an exit from themselves.

And it is time to go, to bid farewell
to one's own self, and find an exit
from the fallen self.

II

Have you built your ship of death, O have you?
O build your ship of death, for you will need it.

The grim frost is at hand, when the apples will fall
thick, almost thundrous, on the hardened earth.

And death is on the air like a smell of ashes!
Ah! can't you smell it?
And in the bruised body, the frightened soul
finds itself shrinking, wincing from the cold
that blows upon it through the orifices.

III

And can a man his own quietus make
with a bare bodkin?

With daggers, bodkins, bullets, man can make
a bruise or break of exit for his life;
but is that a quietus, O tell me, is it quietus?

Surely not so! for how could murder, even self-murder
ever a quietus make?

IV

O let us talk of quiet that we know,
that we can know, the deep and lovely quiet
of a strong heart at peace!

How can we this, our own quietus, make?

V

Build then the ship of death, for you must take
the longest journey, to oblivion.

And die the death, the long and painful death
that lies between the old self and the new.

Already our bodies are fallen, bruised, badly bruised,
already our souls are oozing through the exit
of the cruel bruise.

Already the dark and endless ocean of the end
is washing in through the breaches of our wounds,
Already the flood is upon us.

Oh build your ship of death, your little ark
and furnish it with food, with little cakes, and wine
for the dark flight down oblivion.

VI

Piecemeal the body dies, and the timid soul
has her footing washed away, as the dark flood rises.

We are dying, we are dying, we are all of us dying
and nothing will stay the death-flood rising within us
and soon it will rise on the world, on the outside world.

We are dying, we are dying, piecemeal our bodies are dying
and our strength leaves us,
and our soul cowers naked in the dark rain over the flood,
cowering in the last branches of the tree of our life.

VII

We are dying, we are dying, so all we can do
is now to be willing to die, and to build the ship
of death to carry the soul on the longest journey.

A little ship, with oars and food
and little dishes, and all accoutrements
fitting and ready for the departing soul.

Now launch the small ship, now as the body dies
and life departs, launch out, the fragile soul
in the fragile ship of courage, the ark of faith
with its store of food and little cooking pans
and change of clothes,
upon the flood's black waste
upon the waters of the end
upon the sea of death, where still we sail
darkly, for we cannot steer, and have no port.

There is no port, there is nowhere to go
only the deepening blackness darkening still
blacker upon the soundless, ungurgling flood
darkness at one with darkness, up and down
and sideways utterly dark, so there is no direction any more
and the little ship is there; yet she is gone.
She is not seen, for there is nothing to see her by.
She is gone! gone! and yet
somewhere she is there.
Nowhere!

VIII

And everything is gone, the body is gone
completely under, gone, entirely gone.
The upper darkness is heavy as the lower,
between them the little ship
is gone

It is the end, it is oblivion.

IX

And yet out of eternity a thread
separates itself on the blackness,
a horizontal thread
that fumes a little with pallor upon the dark.

Is it illusion? or does the pallor fume
A little higher?
Ah wait, wait, for there's the dawn
the cruel dawn of coming back to life
out of oblivion

Wait, wait, the little ship
drifting, beneath the deathly ashy grey
of a flood-dawn.

Wait, wait! even so, a flush of yellow
and strangely, O chilled wan soul, a flush of rose.

A flush of rose, and the whole thing starts again.

X

The flood subsides, and the body, like a worn sea-shell
emerges strange and lovely.
And the little ship wings home, faltering and lapsing
on the pink flood,
and the frail soul steps out, into the house again
filling the heart with peace.

Swings the heart renewed with peace
even of oblivion.

Oh build your ship of death. Oh build it!
for you will need it.
For the voyage of oblivion awaits you.

"In The Beginning" by Dylan Thomas (my favorite poet)

In the beginning was the three-pointed star,
One smile of light across the empty face,
One bough of bone across the rooting air,
The substance forked that marrowed the first sun,
And, burning ciphers on the round of space,
Heaven and heck mixed as they spun.

In the beginning was the pale signature,
Three-syllabled and starry as the smile,
And after came the imprints on the water,
Stamp of the minted face upon the moon;
The blood that touched the crosstree and the grail
Touched the first cloud and left a sign.

In the beginning was the mounting fire
That set alight the weathers from a spark,
A three-eyed, red-eyed spark, blunt as a flower,
Life rose and spouted from the rolling seas,
Burst in the roots, pumped from the earth and rock
The secret oils that drive the grass.

In the beginning was the word, the word
That from the solid bases of the light
Abstracted all the letters of the void;
And from the cloudy bases of the breath
The word flowed up, translating to the heart
First characters of birth and death.

In the beginning was the secret brain.
The brain was celled and soldered in the thought
Before the pitch was forking to a sun;
Before the veins were shaking in their sieve,
Blood shot and scattered to the winds of light
The ribbed original of love.

Sherlock, thank you for sharing snippets of "Gitanjali" with us. I had never heard of it before but I love the pieces you posted.

[Woody]

This is my favorite poem, by our very own Samantha14:

"Roses are red, tomatoes are red, blood is red. I suck at poems. bai."

[Catspaw]

I recently found this poem on a poetry website and found it very interesting:

It's Too Quiet in Here
By Carolyn Guinzio

A sparrow mistook
a light for the light
of day. A contractor
penciled Transitional
Space on the plans.
A woman parked
next to the airport
and stood on top
of her truck.
In an empty office,
a fax inched out
of the printer.
The wind knocked
over a metal bucket.
Spirals at the end
of a vending
machine turned
to let down the chips.
Everyone in the sub-
way pitched right.
A blue crayon melted
on the welcome mat.
The timer for the timed
test went off. A pilot
light went out. Every-
one on the bus pitched
left. A shade slapped
open, untouched, and dust
flew up into the sun.

It's interesting how many different ways you could interpret what's going on in the poem, and it definitely kept me guessing as to what I thought was going on, where the poet might be going, and if my predictions were correct.

[TheDinosaurPlanet]

One of my Favorites!

How Can I Keep From Singing
by Robert Lowry

My life flows on in endless song;
Above earth's lamentation,
I hear the sweet, tho' far-off hymn
That hails a new creation;
Thro' all the tumult and the strife
I hear the music ringing!
It finds an echo in my soul—
How can I keep from singing?

What tho' my joys and comforts die?
The Lord my Savior liveth;
What tho' the darkness gather round?
Songs in the night he giveth.
No storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that refuge clinging!
Since Christ is Lord of heaven and earth,
How can I keep from singing?

I lift my eyes; the cloud grows thin;
I see the blue above it;
And day by day this pathway smooths,
Since first I learned to love it,
The peace of Christ makes fresh my heart,
A fountain ever springing!
All things are mine since I am his—
How can I keep from singing?

[Patterson]

"I loath, abhor, it makes me sick,
To hear the word, Arithmetic!" -Fanny Crosby

I never liked math much, so this poem was a favorite of mine growing up.

[Catspaw]

Haha, I hadn't heard that one before, Patterson! Very cute, and from quite a distinguished source.