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Thread: Favourite Poems & Poems that moved you

  1. #151
    Senior Member Array Works's Avatar
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    May 2008


    Not Bad, Dad, Not Bad

    I think you are most yourself when you are swimming;
    slicing the water with each stroke,
    the funny way you breathe, your mouth cocked
    as though you're yawning.

    You're neither fantastic nor miserable
    at getting from here to there.
    You wouldn't win any medals, Dad,
    but you wouldn't drown.

    I think how different everything might have been
    had I judged your loving

    like I judge your sidestroke, your butterfly,
    your Australian crawl.

    But I always thought I was drowning
    in that icy ocean between us,
    I always thought you were moving too slowly to save me,
    When you were moving as fast as you can.

    Jan Heller Levi

  2. #152
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    Those Winter Sundays

    Sundays too my father got up early
    And put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
    then with cracked hands that ached
    from labor in the weekday weather made
    banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

    I'd wake to hear the cold splintering, breaking.
    When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
    and slowly I would rise and dress
    fearing the chronic angers of that house

    Speaking indifferently to him,
    who had driven out the cold
    and polished my good shoes as well.
    What did I know, what did I know
    of love's austere and lonely offices?

    Robert Haydon

    This poem always reminds me of my father.
    Last edited by lowtech redneck; 11-29-2009 at 04:30 PM. Reason: more to add

  3. #153
    No Array Thalassa's Avatar
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    May 2009
    6w7 sx
    SEE Fi


    The Sleeper

    At midnight, in the month of June,
    I stand beneath the mystic moon.
    An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
    Exhales from out her golden rim,
    And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
    Upon the quiet mountain top,
    Steals drowsily and musically
    Into the universal valley.
    The rosemary nods upon the grave;
    The lily lolls upon the wave;
    Wrapping the fog about its breast,
    The ruin molders into rest;
    Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
    A conscious slumber seems to take,
    And would not, for the world, awake.
    All Beauty sleeps!- and lo! where lies
    Irene, with her Destinies!

    O, lady bright! can it be right-
    This window open to the night?
    The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
    Laughingly through the lattice drop-
    The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
    Flit through thy chamber in and out,
    And wave the curtain canopy
    So fitfully- so fearfully-
    Above the closed and fringed lid
    'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
    That, o'er the floor and down the wall,
    Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
    Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
    Why and what art thou dreaming here?
    Sure thou art come O'er far-off seas,
    A wonder to these garden trees!
    Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress,
    Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
    And this all solemn silentness!

    The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
    Which is enduring, so be deep!
    Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
    This chamber changed for one more holy,
    This bed for one more melancholy,
    I pray to God that she may lie
    For ever with unopened eye,
    While the pale sheeted ghosts go by!

    My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
    As it is lasting, so be deep!
    Soft may the worms about her creep!
    Far in the forest, dim and old,
    For her may some tall vault unfold-
    Some vault that oft has flung its black
    And winged panels fluttering back,
    Triumphant, o'er the crested palls,
    Of her grand family funerals-
    Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
    Against whose portal she hath thrown,
    In childhood, many an idle stone-
    Some tomb from out whose sounding door
    She ne'er shall force an echo more,
    Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
    It was the dead who groaned within.

    Edgar Allan Poe


    You do not do, you do not do
    Any more, black shoe
    In which I have lived like a foot
    For thirty years, poor and white,
    Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

    Daddy, I have had to kill you.
    You died before I had time--
    Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
    Ghastly statue with one gray toe
    Big as a Frisco seal

    And a head in the freakish Atlantic
    Where it pours bean green over blue
    In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
    I used to pray to recover you.
    Ach, du.

    In the German tongue, in the Polish town
    Scraped flat by the roller
    Of wars, wars, wars.
    But the name of the town is common.
    My Polack friend

    Says there are a dozen or two.
    So I never could tell where you
    Put your foot, your root,
    I never could talk to you.
    The tongue stuck in my jaw.

    It stuck in a barb wire snare.
    Ich, ich, ich, ich,
    I could hardly speak.
    I thought every German was you.
    And the language obscene

    An engine, an engine
    Chuffing me off like a Jew.
    A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
    I began to talk like a Jew.
    I think I may well be a Jew.

    The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
    Are not very pure or true.
    With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
    And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
    I may be a bit of a Jew.

    I have always been scared of you,
    With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
    And your neat mustache
    And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
    Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--

    Not God but a swastika
    So black no sky could squeak through.
    Every woman adores a Fascist,
    The boot in the face, the brute
    Brute heart of a brute like you.

    You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
    In the picture I have of you,
    A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
    But no less a devil for that, no not
    Any less the black man who

    Bit my pretty red heart in two.
    I was ten when they buried you.
    At twenty I tried to die
    And get back, back, back to you.
    I thought even the bones would do.

    But they pulled me out of the sack,
    And they stuck me together with glue.
    And then I knew what to do.
    I made a model of you,
    A man in black with a Meinkampf look

    And a love of the rack and the screw.
    And I said I do, I do.
    So daddy, I'm finally through.
    The black telephone's off at the root,
    The voices just can't worm through.

    If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
    The vampire who said he was you
    And drank my blood for a year,
    Seven years, if you want to know.
    Daddy, you can lie back now.

    There's a stake in your fat black heart
    And the villagers never liked you.
    They are dancing and stamping on you.
    They always knew it was you.
    Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

    Sylvia Plath

    Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey

    FIVE years have past; five summers, with the length
    Of five long winters! and again I hear
    These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
    With a soft inland murmur.--Once again
    Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
    That on a wild secluded scene impress
    Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
    The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
    The day is come when I again repose
    Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 10
    These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
    Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
    Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
    'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
    These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
    Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,
    Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
    Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!
    With some uncertain notice, as might seem
    Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 20
    Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire
    The Hermit sits alone.
    These beauteous forms,
    Through a long absence, have not been to me
    As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
    But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
    Of towns and cities, I have owed to them
    In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
    Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
    And passing even into my purer mind,
    With tranquil restoration:--feelings too 30
    Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
    As have no slight or trivial influence
    On that best portion of a good man's life,
    His little, nameless, unremembered, acts
    Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
    To them I may have owed another gift,
    Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
    In which the burthen of the mystery,
    In which the heavy and the weary weight
    Of all this unintelligible world, 40
    Is lightened:--that serene and blessed mood,
    In which the affections gently lead us on,--
    Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
    And even the motion of our human blood
    Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
    In body, and become a living soul:
    While with an eye made quiet by the power
    Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
    We see into the life of things.
    If this
    Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft-- 50
    In darkness and amid the many shapes
    Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
    Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
    Have hung upon the beatings of my heart--
    How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
    O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods,
    How often has my spirit turned to thee!
    And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,
    With many recognitions dim and faint,
    And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 60
    The picture of the mind revives again:
    While here I stand, not only with the sense
    Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
    That in this moment there is life and food
    For future years. And so I dare to hope,
    Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
    I came among these hills; when like a roe
    I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
    Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
    Wherever nature led: more like a man 70
    Flying from something that he dreads, than one
    Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
    (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
    And their glad animal movements all gone by)
    To me was all in all.--I cannot paint
    What then I was. The sounding cataract
    Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
    The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
    Their colours and their forms, were then to me
    An appetite; a feeling and a love, 80
    That had no need of a remoter charm,
    By thought supplied, nor any interest
    Unborrowed from the eye.--That time is past,
    And all its aching joys are now no more,
    And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
    Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur, other gifts
    Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,
    Abundant recompence. For I have learned
    To look on nature, not as in the hour
    Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes 90
    The still, sad music of humanity,
    Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
    To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
    A presence that disturbs me with the joy
    Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
    Of something far more deeply interfused,
    Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
    And the round ocean and the living air,
    And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
    A motion and a spirit, that impels 100
    All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
    And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
    A lover of the meadows and the woods,
    And mountains; and of all that we behold
    From this green earth; of all the mighty world
    Of eye, and ear,--both what they half create,
    And what perceive; well pleased to recognise
    In nature and the language of the sense,
    The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
    The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 110
    Of all my moral being.
    Nor perchance,
    If I were not thus taught, should I the more
    Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
    For thou art with me here upon the banks
    Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,
    My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch
    The language of my former heart, and read
    My former pleasures in the shooting lights
    Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
    May I behold in thee what I was once, 120
    My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,
    Knowing that Nature never did betray
    The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
    Through all the years of this our life, to lead
    From joy to joy: for she can so inform
    The mind that is within us, so impress
    With quietness and beauty, and so feed
    With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
    Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
    Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 130
    The dreary intercourse of daily life,
    Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
    Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
    Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
    Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
    And let the misty mountain-winds be free
    To blow against thee: and, in after years,
    When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
    Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
    Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 140
    Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
    For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
    If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
    Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
    Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
    And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance--
    If I should be where I no more can hear
    Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
    Of past existence--wilt thou then forget
    That on the banks of this delightful stream 150
    We stood together; and that I, so long
    A worshipper of Nature, hither came
    Unwearied in that service: rather say
    With warmer love--oh! with far deeper zeal
    Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
    That after many wanderings, many years
    Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
    And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
    More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!

    William Wordsworth
    "Sentiment without action is the ruin of the soul." - Edward Abbey

    SEE-Fi /Gamma

  4. #154
    Senior Member Array Gerbah's Avatar
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    Oct 2009


    somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
    any experience, your eyes have their silence:
    in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
    or which i cannot touch because they are too near

    your slightest look easily will unclose me
    though i have closed myself as fingers,
    you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
    (touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

    or if your wish be to close me, i and
    my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
    as when the heart of this flower imagines
    the snow carefully everywhere descending;

    nothing we are to perceive in this world equals
    the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
    compels me with the colour of its countries,
    rendering death and forever with each breathing

    (i do not know what it 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

  5. #155
    Senior Member Array tinkerbell's Avatar
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    Aug 2008


    Linda Goodman, Venus Trine Midnight

    Three Galaxies two
    The odd shaped things I save,
    the smell and feel of us

    A crumpled book of matches from the pizza place
    Some wilted flowers picked outside the door you couldn't enter

    A bleached and crooked twig,
    washed ashore at the spot on the sand
    where you first said you were lonely
    ................and surpised me into tears

    A hotel room key, stuffed inside airline ticket envelope

    A button your lost from your coat (who sewed a new one on, I wonder)

    I guess you saved the birds verse
    and the memory of my last smile
    ...........they take up so little room in your scrapebook

  6. #156
    Senior Member Array
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    Aug 2007


    Lucinda Matlock

    by Edgar Lee Masters

    I went to the dances at Chandlerville,
    And played snap-out at Winchester.
    One time we changed partners,
    Driving home in the moonlight of middle June,
    And then I found Davis.
    We were married and lived together for seventy years,
    Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children,
    Eight of whom we lost
    Ere I had reached the age of sixty.
    I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick,
    I made the garden, and for holiday
    Rambled over the fields where sang the larks,
    And by Spoon River gathering many a shell,
    And many a flower and medicinal weed--
    Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys.
    At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all,
    And passed to a sweet repose.
    What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness,
    Anger, discontent and drooping hopes?
    Degenerate sons and daughters,
    Life is too strong for you--
    It takes life to love Life.

    This one reminds me of my grandmother.

  7. #157
    Fail 2.0 Array BlueScreen's Avatar
    Join Date
    Nov 2008

    Default I'm a bit boring and unspecial


    And death shall have no dominion.
    Dead mean naked they shall be one
    With the man in the wind and the west moon;
    When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
    They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
    Though they go mad they shall be sane,
    Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
    Though lovers be lost love shall not;
    And death shall have no dominion.

    And death shall have no dominion.
    Under the windings of the sea
    They lying long shall not die windily;
    Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
    Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
    Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
    And the unicorn evils run them through;
    Split all ends up they shan't crack;
    And death shall have no dominion.

    And death shall have no dominion.
    No more may gulls cry at their ears
    Or waves break loud on the seashores;
    Where blew a flower may a flower no more
    Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
    Though they be mad and dead as nails,
    Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
    Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
    And death shall have no dominion.

    (I really love the first part of this)

    SONNET XVIII by William Shakespeare

    Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
    Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
    Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
    And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
    Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
    And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
    And every fair from fair sometime declines,
    By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
    But thy eternal summer shall not fade
    Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
    Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
    When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
    So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
    So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

    (Anyone who can write a timeless poem about the timeless gets thumbs up from me. I'm sure he had a laugh when he did it.)
    Freude, schöner Götterfunken Tochter aus Elysium, Wir betreten feuertrunken, Himmlische, dein Heiligtum! Deine Zauber binden wieder Was die Mode streng geteilt; Alle Menschen werden Brüder, Wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt.

  8. #158
    Junior Member Array tigerlily113's Avatar
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    Nov 2009


    This is by george carlin

    Quote Originally Posted by kiddykat View Post
    Paradox of Our Time

    We have taller buildings, but shorter tempers;
    Wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints;
    We spend more, but have little;
    We buy more and enjoy it less.

    We have bigger houses and smaller families;
    More conveniences, but less time;
    We have more degrees, but less common sense;
    More knowledge, but less judgement;
    More experts, but more problems;
    More medicine, but less wellness.

    We spend too recklessly, laugh too little,
    Drive too fast, get too angry too quickly,
    Stay up too late, get up too tired, Read too seldom,
    Watch TV too much, and dont pray often enough.

    We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values.
    We talk too much, love too seldom and lie too often.
    Weve learned how to make a living, but not a life;
    Weve added years to life, not life to years.

    Weve been all the way to the moon and back,
    But have trouble crossing the street to meet the new neighbor.

    Weve conquered outer space, but not inner space;
    Weve done larger things, but not better things;
    Weve cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul;
    Weve split the atom, but not our prejudice;
    We write more, but learn less.

    Weve learned to rush, but not to wait;
    We have higher incomes; but lower morals;
    More food but less appeasement;
    More acquaintances, but fewer friends;
    More effort but less success.

    We build better computers to hold more information,
    Produce more copies than ever, yet have less communication;
    Weve become long on quantity, but short on quality.
    These are the times of fast foods and upset stomachs;
    More kinds of food, but less nutrition.

    These are the times of world peace, but domestic warfare;
    More leisure and less fun;

    These are the days of two incomes, but more divorce;
    Of fancier houses, but broken homes;
    Tall men and short character;
    Steep profits, and shallow relationships.

    These are days of quick trips, throwaway morality,
    One-night stands, and pills that do everything from
    Cheer, to quiet, to kill.

    It is a time when there is much in the show window,
    And nothing in the stockroom.

    Think about it.

    -By Anonymous

    ... I don't know who wrote this, but I find this to be so true for the people who live in my part of town. So true.
    When life gives you lemons, make apple juice. Then sit back and watch the world wonder how you did it.

    "Of course it is happening inside your head, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?" -Dumbledore

    And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise.
    The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
    -Sylvia Plath


  9. #159
    Senior Member Array syndatha's Avatar
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    Aug 2009


    I'm a sucker for Shakespeares sonnets; here are a few of my favourites:

    Sonnet 71 No longer mourn for me when I am dead

    No longer mourn for me when I am dead
    Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell
    Give warning to the world that I am fled
    From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:
    Nay, if you read this line, remember not
    The hand that writ it; for I love you so
    That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
    If thinking on me then should make you woe.
    O, if, I say, you look upon this verse
    When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
    Do not so much as my poor name rehearse.
    But let your love even with my life decay,
    Lest the wise world should look into your moan
    And mock you with me after I am gone.

    Sonnet 27 Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed

    Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
    The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
    But then begins a journey in my head,
    To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
    For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
    Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
    And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
    Looking on darkness which the blind do see
    Save that my soul's imaginary sight
    Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
    Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
    Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
    Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
    For thee and for myself no quiet find.

    Sonnet 56 Sweet love renew thy force, be it not said

    Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said
    Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,
    Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd,
    To-morrow sharpen'd in his former might:
    So, love, be thou; although to-day thou fill
    Thy hungry eyes even till they wink with fullness,
    To-morrow see again, and do not kill
    The spirit of love with a perpetual dullness.
    Let this sad interim like the ocean be
    Which parts the shore, where two contracted new
    Come daily to the banks, that, when they see
    Return of love, more blest may be the view;
    Else call it winter, which being full of care
    Makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.

    Sonnet 87 Farewell, thou art too dear for my possessing

    Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
    And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
    The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
    My bonds in thee are all determinate.
    For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
    And for that riches where is my deserving?
    The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
    And so my patent back again is swerving.
    Thyself thou gavest, thy own worth then not knowing,
    Or me, to whom thou gavest it, else mistaking;
    So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
    Comes home again, on better judgment making.
    Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
    In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.

    Sonnet 102 My love is strengthened, though more weak in seeming

    My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming;
    I love not less, though less the show appear:
    That love is merchandized whose rich esteeming
    The owner's tongue doth publish every where.
    Our love was new and then but in the spring
    When I was wont to greet it with my lays,
    As Philomel in summer's front doth sing
    And stops her pipe in growth of riper days:
    Not that the summer is less pleasant now
    Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
    But that wild music burthens every bough
    And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
    Therefore like her I sometime hold my tongue,
    Because I would not dull you with my song.

    Sonnet 130 My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun

    My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
    Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
    If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
    If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
    I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
    But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
    And in some perfumes is there more delight
    Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
    I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
    That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
    I grant I never saw a goddess go;
    My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
    And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
    As any she belied with false compare.

    I could go on and on....

  10. #160
    Aspiring Troens Ridder Array KLessard's Avatar
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    Apr 2008


    I love Le Dormeur du val by Arthur Rimbaud. It's about a man resting on the grass and there is a glorious description of nature, a deep feeling of peace. At the end, you are told he is a soldier and he is lying there because he has been shot.

    I am a francophone, so I know little English poetry.

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