Posted: 1/21/2003 1:22:31 PM EDT
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Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage,[red] rage[/red] against the dying of the light. [i]Dylan Thomas 1952 [/i] Just a poem I always liked. Sgtar15 |
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It has always been one of my favs, too. I also like: The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner by Randall Jarrell From my mother's sleep I fell into the State, And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze. Six miles from earth, loosed from the dream of life, I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters. When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose. I know it is pretty morbid, but it always evoked such imagery. MarianLibrarian |
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Now hollow fires burn out to black, And lights are guttering low. Square your shoulders, lift your pack, And leave your friends, and go. Oh never fear, man, nought's to dread, Look not left nor right: In all the endless road you tread There's nothing but the night. A.E. Houseman, "A Shropshire Lad" |
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Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Rodney Dangerfield in Back to School, or something like that, was always my favorite. (I'm very shallow.) |
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So we'll go no more a'roving, So late into the night, Thought the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself must 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.---"So We'll Go No More A'Roving," Lord Byron |
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[size=4]Mr. Flood's Party[/size=4] Old Eben Flood, climbing alone one night Over the hill between the town below And the forsaken upland hermitage That held as much as he should ever know On earth again of home, paused warily. The road was his with not a native near; And Eben, having leisure, said aloud, For no man else in Tilbury Town to hear: "Well, Mr. Flood, we have the harvest moon Again, and we may not have many more; The bird is on the wing, the poet says, And you and I have said it here before. Drink to the bird." He raised up to the light The jug that he had gone so far to fill, And answered huskily: "Well, Mr. Flood, Since you propose it, I believe I will." Alone, as if enduring to the end A valiant armor of scarred hopes outworn, He stood there in the middle of the road Like Roland's ghost winding a silent horn. Below him, in the town among the trees, Where friends of other days had honored him, A phantom salutation of the dead Rang thinly till old Eben's eyes were dim. Then, as a mother lays her sleeping child Down tenderly, fearing it may awake, He set the jug down slowly at his feet With trembling care, knowing that most things break; And only when assured that on firm earth It stood, as the uncertain lives of men Assuredly did not, he paced away, And with his hand extended paused again: "Well, Mr. Flood, we have not met like this In a long time; and many a change has come To both of us, I fear, since last it was We had a drop together. Welcome home!" Convivially returning with himself, Again he raised the jug up to the light; And with an acquiescent quaver said: "Well, Mr. Flood, if you insist, I might. "Only a very little, Mr. Flood -- For auld lang syne. No more, sir; that will do." So, for the time, apparently it did, And Eben evidently thought so too; For soon amid the silver loneliness Of night he lifted up his voice and sang, Secure, with only two moons listening, Until the whole harmonious landscape rang -- "For auld lang syne." The weary throat gave out, The last word wavered; and the song being done, He raised again the jug regretfully And shook his head, and was again alone. There was not much that was ahead of him, And there was nothing in the town below -- Where strangers would have shut the many doors That many friends had opened long ago. by Edwin Arlington Robinson [img]http://www.americanpoems.com/images/robinson.gif[/img] One of my favorite poets and favorite poems! Eric The(Literate)Hun[>]:)] |
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In Flanders Fields In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields John McCrae |
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The number of Canada's war dead exceeds 115,000. This is a staggering toll exacted on a country with, traditionally, a very small population. Subsequent betrayals and loss of freedoms might never have happened had these young men (or their sons) come home. As we're invaded (without protest), it's hard to imagine a time when Canadians would willingly sign away their very lives for an IDEA. Their sacrifices should not be judged by the state of the nation today. Their courage and gallantry is as unfamiliar to us as their conviction; they fought For Freedom's Cause. Spare them two minutes of remembrance at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day. (Quote from a website) |
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Next to The Charge of the Light Brigade, Horatius is the finest epic poem ever. This is excerpted from that poem. Here is a link: [url]www.geocities.com/~spanoudi/poems/horatius.html a link.[/url] XXIV Fast by the royal standard, O'erlooking all the war, Lars Porsena of Clusium Sat in his ivory car. By the right wheel rode Mamilius, Prince of the Latian name; And by the left false Sextus, That wrought the deed of shame. XXV But when the face of Sextus Was seen among the foes, A yell that rent the firmament From all the town arose. On the house-tops was no woman But spat towards him and hissed, No child but screamed out curses, And shook its little fist. XXVI But the Consul's brow was sad, And the Consul's speech was low, And darkly looked he at the wall, And darkly at the foe. ``Their van will be upon us Before the bridge goes down; And if they once may win the bridge, What hope to save the town?'' XXVII Then out spake brave Horatius, The Captain of the Gate: ``To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers, And the temples of his gods, XXVIII ``And for the tender mother Who dandled him to rest, And for the wife who nurses His baby at her breast, And for the holy maidens Who feed the eternal flame, To save them from false Sextus That wrought the deed of shame? XXIX ``Haul down the bridge, Sir Consul, With all the speed ye may; I, with two more to help me, Will hold the foe in play. In yon strait path a thousand May well be stopped by three. Now who will stand on either hand, And keep the bridge with me?'' XXX Then out spake Spurius Lartius; A Ramnian proud was he: ``Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And keep the bridge with thee.'' And out spake strong Herminius; Of Titian blood was he: ``I will abide on thy left side, And keep the bridge with thee.'' XXXI ``Horatius,'' quoth the Consul, ``As thou sayest, so let it be.'' And straight against that great array Forth went the dauntless Three. For Romans in Rome's quarrel Spared neither land nor gold, Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, In the brave days of old. XXXII Then none was for a party; Then all were for the state; Then the great man helped the poor, And the poor man loved the great: Then lands were fairly portioned; Then spoils were fairly sold: The Romans were like brothers In the brave days of old. XXXIII Now Roman is to Roman More hateful than a foe, And the Tribunes beard the high, And the Fathers grind the low. As we wax hot in faction, In battle we wax cold: Wherefore men fight not as they fought In the brave days of old. XXXIV Now while the Three were tightening Their harness on their backs, The Consul was the foremost man To take in hand an axe: And Fathers mixed with Commons Seized hatchet, bar, and crow, And smote upon the planks above, And loosed the props below. XXXV Meanwhile the Tuscan army, Right glorious to behold, Come flashing back the noonday light, Rank behind rank, like surges bright Of a broad sea of gold. Four hundred trumpets sounded A peal of warlike glee, As that great host, with measured tread, And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head, Where stood the dauntless Three. XXXVI The Three stood calm and silent, And looked upon the foes, And a great shout of laughter From all the vanguard rose: And forth three chiefs came spurring Before that deep array; To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, And lifted high their shields, and flew To win the narrrow way; XXXVII Aunus from green Tifernum, Lord of the Hill of Vines; And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves Sicken in Ilva's mines; And Picus, long to Clusium Vassal in peace and war, Who led to fight his Umbrian powers From that gray crag where, girt with towers, The fortress of Nequinum lowers O'er the pale waves of Nar. XXXVIII Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus Into the stream beneath; Herminius struck at Seius, And clove him to the teeth; At Picus brave Horatius Darted one fiery thrust; And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms Clashed in the bloody dust. XXXIX Then Ocnus of Falerii Rushed on the Roman Three; And Lausulus of Urgo, The rover of the sea; And Aruns of Volsinium, Who slew the great wild boar, The great wild boar that had his den Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen, And wasted fields, and slaughtered men, Along Albinia's shore. XL Herminius smote down Aruns: Lartius laid Ocnus low: Right to the heart of Lausulus Horatius sent a blow. ``Lie there,'' he cried, ``fell pirate! No more, aghast and pale, From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark The track of thy destroying bark. No more Campania's hinds shall fly To woods and caverns when they spy Thy thrice accursed sail.'' XLI But now no sound of laughter Was heard among the foes. A wild and wrathful clamor From all the vanguard rose. Six spears' lengths from the entrance Halted that deep array, And for a space no man came forth To win the narrow way. XLII But hark! the cry is Astur: And lo! the ranks divide; And the great Lord of Luna Comes with his stately stride. Upon his ample shoulders Clangs loud the four-fold shield, And in his hand he shakes the brand Which none but he can wield. XLIII He smiled on those bold Romans A smile serene and high; He eyed the flinching Tuscans, And scorn was in his eye. Quoth he, ``The she-wolf's litter Stand savagely at bay: But will ye dare to follow, If Astur clears the way?'' XLIV Then, whirling up his broadsword With both hands to the height, He rushed against Horatius, And smote with all his might. With shield and blade Horatius Right deftly turned the blow. The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh; It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh: The Tuscans raised a joyful cry To see the red blood flow. XLV He reeled, and on Herminius He leaned one breathing-space; Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds, Sprang right at Astur's face. Through teeth, and skull, and helmet So fierce a thrust he sped, The good sword stood a hand-breadth out Behind the Tuscan's head. XLVI And the great Lord of Luna Fell at that deadly stroke, As falls on Mount Alvernus A thunder smitten oak: Far o'er the crashing forest The giant arms lie spread; And the pale augurs, muttering low, Gaze on the blasted head. XLVII On Astur's throat Horatius Right firmly pressed his heel, And thrice and four times tugged amain, Ere he wrenched out the steel. ``And see,'' he cried, ``the welcome, Fair guests, that waits you here! What noble Lucomo comes next To taste our Roman cheer?'' |
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One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washed it away; Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide and made my pains his prey. "Vain man," said she "thou dost in vain assay A mortal thing so to immortalize, For I myself shall like to this decay, And eke my name be wiped out likewise." "Not so," quoth I "let baser things devise To die in dust, but you shall live by fame: My verse your virtues rare shall eternize, And in the heavens write your glorious name; Where, whenas death shall all the world subdue, Our love shall live, and later life renew." Edmund Spenser (1552?–1599), British poet. Amoretti; LXXV |
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Here's a perfect painting for your poem, [b]soylent_green[/b], Jacques-Louis David's [b][i]The Oath of the Horatii[/i][/b] (1784) [url]http://www.bc.edu/bc_org/avp/cas/his/CoreArt/art/resourcesb/dav_oath.jpg[/url] Now that's a painting! I edited it to make it a link - it's too big for this thread! Eric The(Artistically-Minded)Hun[>]:)] |
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Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victory! Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front o' battle lour, See approach proud Edward's power - Chains and slavery! Wha will be a traitor-knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee! Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand or freeman fa', Let him follow me! By oppression's woes and pains, By your sons in servile chains, We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free! Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in ev'ry foe! Liberty's in ev'ry blow! Let us do or die! Robert Burns (1759–1796) |
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The Law of the Jungle (From The Jungle Book) Now this is the Law of the Jungle -- as old and as true as the sky; And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die. As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back -- For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack. Wash daily from nose-tip to tail-tip; drink deeply, but never too deep; And remember the night is for hunting, and forget not the day is for sleep. The Jackal may follow the Tiger, but, Cub, when thy whiskers are grown, Remember the Wolf is a Hunter -- go forth and get food of thine own. Keep peace withe Lords of the Jungle -- the Tiger, the Panther, and Bear. And trouble not Hathi the Silent, and mock not the Boar in his lair. When Pack meets with Pack in the Jungle, and neither will go from the trail, Lie down till the leaders have spoken -- it may be fair words shall prevail. When ye fight with a Wolf of the Pack, ye must fight him alone and afar, Lest others take part in the quarrel, and the Pack be diminished by war. The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, and where he has made him his home, Not even the Head Wolf may enter, not even the Council may come. The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, but where he has digged it too plain, The Council shall send him a message, and so he shall change it again. If ye kill before midnight, be silent, and wake not the woods with your bay, Lest ye frighten the deer from the crop, and your brothers go empty away. Ye may kill for yourselves, and your mates, and your cubs as they need, and ye can; But kill not for pleasure of killing, and seven times never kill Man! If ye plunder his Kill from a weaker, devour not all in thy pride; Pack-Right is the right of the meanest; so leave him the head and the hide. The Kill of the Pack is the meat of the Pack. Ye must eat where it lies; And no one may carry away of that meat to his lair, or he dies. The Kill of the Wolf is the meat of the Wolf. He may do what he will; But, till he has given permission, the Pack may not eat of that Kill. Cub-Right is the right of the Yearling. From all of his Pack he may claim Full-gorge when the killer has eaten; and none may refuse him the same. Lair-Right is the right of the Mother. From all of her year she may claim One haunch of each kill for her litter, and none may deny her the same. Cave-Right is the right of the Father -- to hunt by himself for his own: He is freed of all calls to the Pack; he is judged by the Council alone. Because of his age and his cunning, because of his gripe and his paw, In all that the Law leaveth open, the word of your Head Wolf is Law. Now these are the Laws of the Jungle, and many and mighty are they; But the head and the hoof of the Law and the haunch and the hump is -- Obey! [img]http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/kipling/gif/kipling.jpg[/img] RUDYARD KIPLING (Born December 30, 1865, Died January 18, 1936) |
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I watched the flag pass by one day. It fluttered in the breeze. A young soldier saluted it, And then he stood at ease. I looked at him in uniform So young, so tall, so proud, With hair cut square and eyes alert He'd stand out in any crowd. I thought how many men like him Had fallen through the years. How many died on foreign soil? How many mothers' tears? How many pilots' planes shot down? How many died at sea? How many foxholes were soldiers' graves? No, freedom isn't free. I heard the sound of taps one night, When everything was still I listened to the bugler play And felt a sudden chill. I wondered just how many times That taps had meant "Amen," When a flag had draped a coffin Of a brother or a friend. I thought of all the children, Of the mothers and the wives, Of fathers, sons and husbands With interrupted lives. I thought about a graveyard At the bottom of the sea Of unmarked graves in Arlington. No, freedom isn't free. Gives me chills every time. I don't know the author. |
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In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills Where blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But O, that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced; Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she play'd, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me, Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise. My personal favorite piece of doggerel. |
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I wonder where that fish has gone. You did love it so. You looked after it like a son. And it went wherever I did go. Is it in the cupboard? Wouldn't you like to know? It was a lovely little fish. And it went wherever I did go. Where can that fish be? It is a most elusive fish! And it went wherever I did go. Ooooh, fishy, fishy, fishy fish! A-fish, a-fish, a-fish, a-fishy, ooooh. Ooooh, fishy, fishy, fishy fish! That went wherever I did go. |
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If any of you guys have been to SERE School then this is "familiar". Boots by Rudyard Kipling INFANTRY COLUMNS We're foot--slog--slog--slog--sloggin' over Africa -- Foot--foot--foot--foot--sloggin' over Africa -- (Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again!) There's no discharge in the war! Seven--six--eleven--five--nine-an'-twenty mile to-day -- Four--eleven--seventeen--thirty-two the day before -- (Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again!) There's no discharge in the war! Don't--don't--don't--don't--look at what's in front of you. (Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again); Men--men--men--men--men go mad with watchin' em, An' there's no discharge in the war! Try--try--try--try--to think o' something different -- Oh--my--God--keep--me from goin' lunatic! (Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again!) There's no discharge in the war! Count--count--count--count--the bullets in the bandoliers. If--your--eyes--drop--they will get atop o' you! (Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again) -- There's no discharge in the war! We--can--stick--out--'unger, thirst, an' weariness, But--not--not--not--not the chronic sight of 'em -- Boot--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again, An' there's no discharge in the war! 'Taint--so--bad--by--day because o' company, But night--brings--long--strings--o' forty thousand million Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again. There's no discharge in the war! I--'ave--marched--six--weeks in 'Ell an' certify It--is--not--fire--devils, dark, or anything, But boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again, An' there's no discharge in the war! |
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Take a man and put him alone, put him twelve thousand miles from home .... Empty his heart of all but blood, make him live in sweat and mud .... This is the life I have to live, this soul to the Devil I give .... You have your parties and drink your beer, while young men are dying over here .... Paint your signs on the White House lawn, " Let's all get out of Vietnam " .... Use your signs and have your fun, then you refuse to use a gun .... There is nothing else for you to do, then I'm supposed to die for you .... There is one thing that you should know, and that's where I think you should go .... I'm already here and it's too late, I've traded all my love for hate .... I'll hate you till the day I die, you made me hear my buddy cry .... I saw his leg and blood shed, then I heard them say "this ones dead" It was a large price for him to pay, to let YOU live another day .... He had the guts to fight and die, to keep the freedom YOU live by .... By his dying your life he buys, but who gives a damn if a Marine dies .... found in the pocket of a fallen Marine KILLED IN ACTION 7 June 1969 Quang Tri Province Republic of South Vietnam |