Pablo Neruda is one of my favorite poets, here is the spanish and an english translation of Poem 7.
Poema 7
Inclinado en las tardes tiro mis tristes redes
a tus ojos oceánicos.

Allí se estira y arde en la más alta hoguera
mi soledad que da vueltas los brazos como un náufrago.

Hago rojas señales sobre tus ojos ausentes
que olean como el mar a la orilla de un faro.

Sólo guardas tinieblas, hembra distante y mía,
de tu mirada emerge a veces la costa del espanto.

Inclinado en las tardes echo mis tristes redes
a ese mar que sacude tus ojos oceánicos.

Los pájaros nocturnos picotean las primeras estrellas
que centellean como mi alma cuando te amo.

Galopa la noche en su yegua sombría
desparramando espigas azules sobre el campo.

Poem 7
Leaning into the afternoons, I cast my sad nets
towards your oceanic eyes

There in the highest blaze my solitude lengthens and flames,
its arms turning like a drowning man's.

I send out red signals across your absent eyes
that move like the sea near a lighthouse.

You keep only darkness, my distant female,
from your regard sometimes the coast of dread emerges.

Leaning into the afternoons I fling my sad nets
to that sea that beats on your marine eyes.

The birds of night peck at the first stars
that flash like my soul when I love you.

The night gallops on its shadowy mare
shedding blue tassels over the land.

Alfred Lord Tennyson, Idylls of the King, The passing of Arthur.

The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?

Farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seëst — if indeed I go
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) —
To the island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns
And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.

I always liked that part.

____

Young British Sodier, Stanzas 9 and 12, Rudyard Kipling.

When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier...
-
If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier...

La vaca cega de Joan Maragall

Topant de cap en una i altra soca,
avançant d’esma pel camí de l’aigua,
se’n ve la vaca tota sola. És cega.
D’un cop de roc llançat amb massa traça,
el vailet va buidar-li un ull, i en l’altre
se li ha posat un tel. La vaca és cega.
Ve a abeurar-se a la font com ans solia;
mes no amb el ferm posat d’altres vegades
ni amb ses companyes, no: ve tota sola.
Ses companyes, pels cingles, per les comes,
pel silenci dels prats i en la ribera,
fan dringar l’esquellot mentres pasturen
l’herba fresca a l’atzar... Ella cauria.
Topa de morro en l’esmolada pica
i recula afrontada... Però torna
i abaixa el cap a l’aigua i beu calmosa.
Beu poc, sens gaire set... Després aixeca
al cel, enorme, l’embanyada testa
amb un gran gesto tràgic; parpelleja
damunt les mortes nines, i se’n torna
orfe de llum, sota del sol que crema,
vacil·lant pels camins inoblidables,
brandant llànguidament la llarga cua.


The blind cow by Joan Maragall

Bumping her head from stump to stump,
advancing aimlessly along the watering lane,
the cow goes all alone. She is blind.
With a stone thrown much too hard,
a shepherd-boy put out one eye, while a scale
has formed over the other: the cow is blind.
She wends her way as always to the fount,
but not with the steady gait of former times,
nor with her erstwhile companions: she is quite alone.
Her companions, scattered among vales and hollows,
in the meadow’s silence near the river,
tinkle their cowbells as they browse at random
among the fresh grass… She would fall.
She strikes her mouth against the pointed rail
and recoils, offended… But then returns,
lowers her head to the water and calmly drinks.
She drinks but little, having little thirst.
Then, lifting toward heaven her enormous,
horn-crowned head, in one great tragic gesture,
she blinks her lids above dead pupils, and returns,
orphaned of light, beneath a burning sun
and staggers back along unforgettable paths,
languidly twitching her long tail as she goes.

Can't help myself.


Darkness
By Lord Byron

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour
They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twin'd themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought—and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails—men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer'd not with a caress—he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they rak'd up,
And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspects—saw, and shriek'd, and died—
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless—
A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge—
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them—She was the Universe.

The Coming of Light
by Mark Strand

Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow’s dust flares into breath.

So sad, but I enjoyed it. Thank you for sharing.

Still re-reading the Canterbury Tales, here is part of The Wife of Bath's Tale:

In the old days of King Arthur, today
Still praised by Britons in a special way,
This land was filled with fairies all about.
The elf-queen with her jolly little rout 860
In many a green field often danced. Indeed
This was the old belief of which I read;
I speak of many hundred years ago.
But now such elves no one is seeing. No,
For now the prayers and charitable desires 865
Of limiters and other holy friars
Who wander all the land, by every stream,
As thick as specks of dust in a sunbeam,
To bless our halls, chambers, kitchens, bowers,
Boroughs, cities, castles, lofty towers, 870
Villages, granaries, stables, dairies,
Have made sure that no longer are there fairies.
For where there once was wont to walk an elf
There's walking now the limiter himself,
Early and late, to give his auspices, 875
Say matins and his other offices,
Go all about the limit where he's found.
Now women may go safely all around;
In every bush and under every tree
He is the only incubus, and he 880
Won't do a thing except dishonor them.
It happened that King Arthur had with him
A bachelor in his house; this lusty liver,
While riding from his hawking by the river,
Once chanced upon, alone as she was born, 885
A maiden who was walking--soon forlorn,
For he, despite all that she did or said,
By force deprived her of her maidenhead.
Because of this, there was such clamoring
And such demand for justice to the king, 890
This knight was all but numbered with the dead
By course of law, and should have lost his head
(Which may have been the law in that milieu).
But then the queen and other ladies too
Prayed so long that the king might grant him grace, 895
King Arthur spared him for at least a space;
He left him to the queen to do her will,
To choose to save or order them to kill.
The queen then thanked the king with all her might,
And after this the queen spoke with the knight 900
When she saw opportunity one day.
"For you," she said, "things stand in such a way
You can't be sure if you're to live or not.
I'll grant you life if you can tell me what
It is that women most desire. Beware 905
The iron ax, your neckbone now to spare!
And if you cannot tell me right away,
I'll give you leave, a twelvemonth and a day,
That you may go to seek, that you might find
An answer that is of sufficient kind. 910
I want your word before you take a pace:
You'll bring yourself back to this very place."
This knight with sorrow sighed, was full of woe.
What could he do? Not as he pleased, and so
To go away was what he finally chose, 915
To come back when his year was at its close
With such an answer as God might provide.
He took his leave and forth he went to ride.
He sought in every house and every place
In hopes he could secure the promised grace 920
By learning that which women love the most.
But he did not arrive at any coast
Where he could find two people on the matter
Who might agree, if judging by their chatter.
Some said that women all love riches best, 925
While some said honor, others jolly zest,
Some rich array; some said delights in bed,
And many said to be a widow wed;
Some others said that our hearts are most eased
When we are flattered and when we are pleased-- 930
And he was nigh the truth, if you ask me.
A man shall win us best with flattery;
With much attendance, charm, and application
Can we be caught, whatever be our station.
Some said our love to which we all aspire 935
Is to be free to do as we desire,
With no reproof of vice but with the rule
That men should say we're wise, not one a fool.
For truly there is none among us all
Who, if a man should claw us on the gall, 940
Won't kick for being told the truth; he who
Does an assay will find out that it's true.
But though we may have vices kept within,
We like to be called wise and clean of sin.
And some say that we take the most delight 945
In keeping secrets, keeping our lips tight,
To just one purpose striving to adhere:
Not to betray one thing that we may hear.
That tale's not worth the handle of a rake.
We women can't keep secrets, heaven's sake! 950
Just look at Midas--would you hear the tale?

The rest is here.

Drunken Morning by Arthur Rimbaud:

Oh, my Beautiful! Oh, my Good!
Hideous fanfare where yet I do not stumble!
Oh, rack of enchantments!
For the first time, hurrah for the unheard-of work,
For the marvelous body! For the first time!
It began with the laughter of children, and there it will end.
This poison will stay in our veins even when, as the fanfares depart,
We return to our former disharmony.
Oh, now, we who are so worthy of these tortures!
Let us re-create ourselves after that superhuman promise
Made to our souls and our bodies at their creation:
That promise, that madness!
Elegance, silence, violence!
They promised to bury in shadows the tree of good and evil,
To banish tyrannical honesty,
So that we might flourish in our very pure love.
It began with a certain disgust, and it ended -
Since we could not immediately seize upon eternity -
It ended in a scattering of perfumes.
Laughter of children, discretion of slaves, austerity of virgins,
Horror of faces and objects here below,
Be sacred in the memory of the evening past.
It began in utter boorishness, and now it ends
In angels of fire and ice.
Little drunken vigil, blessed!
If only for the mask you have left us!
Method, we believe in you! We never forgot that yesterday
You glorified all of our ages.
We have faith in poison.
We will give our lives completely, every day.
FOR THIS IS THE ASSASSIN'S HOUR.

Good choice, but for me it is Sonnet 116:

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Some <span class="bold">Paul Laurence Dunbar</span>; one dialectal, one standard. First one's pure music. I like to shout-sing it in the style of Tom Waits because it's fun.


A Preference

Mastah drink his ol' Made'a,
Missy drink huh sherry wine,
Ovahseah lak his whiskey,
But dat othah drink is mine,
Des' 'lasses an' watah, 'lasses an' watah.

Wen you git a steamin' ho-cake
On de table, go way, man!
'D ain but one t'ing to go wid it,
'Sides de gravy in de pan,
Dat 's 'lasses an' watah, 'lasses an' watah.

W'en hit 's 'possum dat you eatin',
'Simmon beer is moughty sweet;
But fu' evahday consumin'
'D ain't no mo'tal way to beat
Des' 'lasses an' watah, 'lasses an' watah.

W'y de bees is allus busy,
An' ain' got no time to was'?
Hit 's beca'se dey knows de honey
Dey's a makin', gwine to tas'
Lak 'lasses an' watah, 'lasses an' watah.

Oh, hit 's moughty mil' an' soothin',
An' hit don' go to yo' haid;
Dat 's de reason I 's a-backin'
Up de othah wo'ds I said,
"Des 'lasses an' watah, 'lasses an' watah."



The Discovery

These are the days of elfs and fays:
Who says that with the dreams of myth,
These imps and elves disport themselves?
Ah no, along the paths of song
Do all the tiny folk belong.
Round all our homes,
Kobolds and gnomes do daily cling,
Then nightly fling their lanterns out.
And shout on shout, they join the rout,
And sing, and sing, within the sweet enchanted ring.
Where gleamed the guile of moonlight's smile,
Once paused I, listening for a while,
And heard the lay, unknown by day, -
The fairies' dancing roundelay.
Queen Mab was there, her shimmering hair
Each fairy prince's heart's despair.
She smiled to see their sparkling glee,
And once I ween, she smiled at me.
Since when, you may by night or day,
Dispute the sway of elf-folk gay;
But, hear me, stay!
I've learned the way to find Queen Mab and elf and fay.
Where e'er by streams, the moonlight gleams,
Or on a meadow softly beams,
There, footing round on dew-lit ground,
The fairy folk may all be found.

How very interesting... A great thread. I myself like poetry. Especially the type tied to the religious and supernatural aspects of life. My favorite piece of work, is the Divine Comedy. But it is huge. And i have not a few lines to choose as favorite. So, i will choose a favorite psalm of mine. That of king david, the infamous, lecherous, murderous, superstitious, jewish man of an emperor, and ah, well, a poet. I do not like religion, authority figures even less, notorious persons especially those glorified and turned by people from devils to saints by far less, yet his little Psalm 109, also known as Septuargint, found its way many times onto my lips, even though, i am nothing near religious. Or jewish. Or cruel. Or perfect myself on my own accord. Here goes:

Psalm 109
For the director of music. Of David. A psalm.

1 My God, whom I praise,
do not remain silent,
2 for people who are wicked and deceitful
have opened their mouths against me;
they have spoken against me with lying tongues.
3 With words of hatred they surround me;
they attack me without cause.
4 In return for my friendship they accuse me,
but I am a man of prayer.
5 They repay me evil for good,
and hatred for my friendship.

6 Appoint someone evil to oppose my enemy;
let an accuser stand at his right hand.
7 When he is tried, let him be found guilty,
and may his prayers condemn him.
8 May his days be few;
may another take his place of leadership.
9 May his children be fatherless
and his wife a widow.
10 May his children be wandering beggars;
may they be driven[a] from their ruined homes.
11 May a creditor seize all he has;
may strangers plunder the fruits of his labor.
12 May no one extend kindness to him
or take pity on his fatherless children.
13 May his descendants be cut off,
their names blotted out from the next generation.
14 May the iniquity of his fathers be remembered before the Lord;
may the sin of his mother never be blotted out.
15 May their sins always remain before the Lord,
that he may blot out their name from the earth.

16 For he never thought of doing a kindness,
but hounded to death the poor
and the needy and the brokenhearted.
17 He loved to pronounce a curse—
may it come back on him.
He found no pleasure in blessing—
may it be far from him.
18 He wore cursing as his garment;
it entered into his body like water,
into his bones like oil.
19 May it be like a cloak wrapped about him,
like a belt tied forever around him.
20 May this be the Lord’s payment to my accusers,
to those who speak evil of me.

21 But you, Sovereign Lord,
help me for your name’s sake;
out of the goodness of your love, deliver me.
22 For I am poor and needy,
and my heart is wounded within me.
23 I fade away like an evening shadow;
I am shaken off like a locust.
24 My knees give way from fasting;
my body is thin and gaunt.
25 I am an object of scorn to my accusers;
when they see me, they shake their heads.

26 Help me, Lord my God;
save me according to your unfailing love.
27 Let them know that it is your hand,
that you, Lord, have done it.
28 While they curse, may you bless;
may those who attack me be put to shame,
but may your servant rejoice.
29 May my accusers be clothed with disgrace
and wrapped in shame as in a cloak.

30 With my mouth I will greatly extol the Lord;
in the great throng of worshipers I will praise him.
31 For he stands at the right hand of the needy,
to save their lives from those who would condemn them.

Like a good little GOGlodyte I searched the thread for this poem before posting and I wasn't disappointed :)

At times I have trouble understanding the "old" English, but I love the rhythm, which is much more noticeable when you read it aloud :D

Hm, a tough choice, but I'll try.

Edgar Allan Poe - Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea—
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

I have always liked the Raven, even when I was younger. I enjoy quite a lot of Edgar Allen Poe's works, but the Raven has always been my favourite. I love the flow of the words, the language he uses and the dark and bleak tale of sadness and regret.