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  #31  
Old 04-25-2009, 08:33 PM
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Stiv Stiv is offline
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I can't post all 800 or so pages of The Faerie Queene, sorry guys. You can read it on your own instead, just be sure to get a Penguin edition with all the annotations. But I can post my favorite part, from Book I, Canto IX 42-43:

Quote:
Originally Posted by Edmund Spenser
Is not his deed, what euer thing is donne,
In heauen and earth? did he not create
To die againe? all ends that was begonne.
Their times in his eternall booke of fate
Are written sure, and haue their certaine date.
Who then can striue with strong necessitie,
That holds the world in his still chanunging state,
Or shunne the death ordaynd by destinie?
When houre of death is come, let none aske whence, nor why.

The lenger life, I wrote the greater sin,
The greater sin, the greater punishment:
All those great battels, which thou boasts to win,
Through strife, and bloud-shed, and auengement,
Now praysd, hereafter deare thou shalt repent:
For life must life, and bloud must bloud repay.
Is not enough thy euill life forespent?
For he, that once hat missed the right way
The further he doth goe, the further he doth stray.
Actually, all of I:IX is my favorite part of the book, but this is what stands out to me.

Last edited by Stiv; 04-25-2009 at 08:44 PM.
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  #32  
Old 04-25-2009, 10:03 PM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Stiv View Post
I can't post all 800 or so pages of The Faerie Queene, sorry guys. You can read it on your own instead, just be sure to get a Penguin edition with all the annotations. But I can post my favorite part, from Book I, Canto IX 42-43:
I didn't know people who posted on game message boards liked Spenser. You learn something new every day. Says the guy who likes Milton
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  #33  
Old 04-25-2009, 10:05 PM
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What's up with these long poems? Am I going to see, like, The Cantos posted too?

*Not actual griping. Actually, it is.
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  #34  
Old 04-25-2009, 10:50 PM
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Absolutely this:

Quote:
You may talk o' gin an' beer
When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
But if it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.
Now in Injia's sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them black-faced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.

It was "Din! Din! Din!
You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! slippy hitherao!
Water, get it! Panee lao!
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!"

The uniform 'e wore
Was nothin' much before,
An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,
For a twisty piece o' rag
An' a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
When the sweatin' troop-train lay
In a sidin' through the day,
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
We shouted "Harry By!"
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.

It was "Din! Din! Din!
You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
You put some juldee in it,
Or I'll marrow you this minute,
If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"

'E would dot an' carry one
Till the longest day was done,
An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin' nut,
'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.
With 'is mussick on 'is back,
'E would skip with our attack,
An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire."
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide,
'E was white, clear white, inside
When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!

It was "Din! Din! Din!"
With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,
You could 'ear the front-files shout:
"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"

I sha'n't forgit the night
When I dropped be'ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
I was chokin' mad with thirst,
An' the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.

'E lifted up my 'ead,
An' 'e plugged me where I bled,
An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water—green;
It was crawlin' an' it stunk,
But of all the drinks I've drunk,
I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.

It was "Din! Din! Din!
'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;
'E's chawin' up the ground an' 'e's kickin' all around:
For Gawd's sake, git the water, Gunga Din!"

'E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.
'E put me safe inside,
An' just before 'e died:
"I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din.
So I'll meet 'im later on
In the place where 'e is gone—
Where it's always double drill and no canteen;
'E'll be squattin' on the coals
Givin' drink to pore damned souls,
An' I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din!

Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you,
By the livin' Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!
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  #35  
Old 04-25-2009, 11:26 PM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Wisława Szymborska

I owe so much
to those I don't love.

The relief as I agree
that someone else needs them more.

The happiness that I'm not
the wolf to their sheep.

The peace I feel with them,
the freedom—
love can neither give
nor take that.

I don't wait for them,
as in window–to–door–and–back.
Almost as patient
as a sundial,
I understand
what love can't,
and forgive
as love never would.

From a rendezvous to a letter
is just a few days or weeks,
not an eternity.

Trips with them always go smoothly,
concerts are heard,
cathedrals visited,
scenery is seen.

And when seven hills and rivers
come between us,
the hills and rivers
can be found on any map.

They deserve the credit
if I live in three dimensions,
in nonlyrical and nonrhetorical space
with a genuine, shifting horizon.

They themselves don't realize
how much they hold in their empty hands.

"I don't owe them a thing,"
would be love's answer
to this open question.
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  #36  
Old 04-26-2009, 01:32 AM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by William Carlos Williams
This Is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
.....
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  #37  
Old 05-01-2009, 02:37 PM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Shawn View Post
Do I look like a fag?
Now that you mention it...
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  #38  
Old 05-01-2009, 02:38 PM
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My beard grows to my toes
I never wears no clothes
I wraps my hair
around my bare
and down the road I goes
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  #39  
Old 05-01-2009, 02:40 PM
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Amor, América by Neruda.
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  #40  
Old 05-01-2009, 02:41 PM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Brickroad View Post
My beard grows to my toes
I never wears no clothes
I wraps my hair
around my bare
and down the road I goes
Wherein Brickroad can't even remember what he has and hasn't posted anymore.
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  #41  
Old 05-01-2009, 02:42 PM
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Shrug, I saw the topic and assumed it was new.

At least I'm consistent! =)
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  #42  
Old 05-01-2009, 02:48 PM
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Another vote for Ozymandias over here.
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  #43  
Old 05-01-2009, 03:16 PM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Samuel Coleridge
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 blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh ! 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 reached 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 played,
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.
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  #44  
Old 05-01-2009, 03:17 PM
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Quote:
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."
I don't need the rest of it. This is enough.
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  #45  
Old 05-01-2009, 04:06 PM
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El Dorado by Poe is a favorite:

Quote:
Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old-
This knight so bold-
And o'er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow-
"Shadow," said he,
"Where can it be-
This land of Eldorado?"

"Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied-
"If you seek for Eldorado!"
There are many more, I think one is enough for now.
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  #46  
Old 05-01-2009, 04:16 PM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Tennyson
It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel; I will drink
Life to the lees. All times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea. I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known,-- cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honor'd of them all,--
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains; but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
to whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,--
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail;
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me,--
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads,-- you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.
Death closes all; but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,--
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
I also have a deep love of Gary Snyder.
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  #47  
Old 05-01-2009, 04:17 PM
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So quite a few of us like poetry, does anyone write poetry? (in the spirit of full disclosure: I write poetry.)
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  #48  
Old 05-01-2009, 04:18 PM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by falselogic View Post
So quite a few of us like poetry, does anyone write poetry? (in the spirit of full disclosure: I write poetry.)
I've yet to write a poem I felt like saving.
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  #49  
Old 05-01-2009, 09:47 PM
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Default *My* favorite poem

I think out of all the poems I've written I like this one the best...
Quote:
I think of a mountain I will never climb
shrouded in the gray mists of early morn
where hides a small stream
that has turned rocks to round smooth pebbles
rolling slowly
slowly into the sea
washed upon western shores: sand.

I think of a small boy
who spent his childhood indoors
with books and incorporeal things,
he called friends and confidants
of a boy who thought himself a hero
though his back reddened at once in the sun
of a youth misspent.

I think of a time before time
in a place before places
where we walked and danced in a dead garden
and though the grass was brown, the tree limbs bare
I felt joy
you were there, with me.

I think of seas I’ll never sail
of a vessel lying unfinished
on the shores of a land whose name
I forget
of a cold easterly wind that whispers
of things not here,
the biting chill of icy water
I’ll never feel upon my brow,
foreign lands, foreign people
far to the south
where the sun is a hammer and everything
Is red iron
unseen by eyes that never opened.

I think of the north where titans still clash
where fathers traveled to, and lost
where ancient bones lie upon endless fields of ice
that know neither thaw, nor warmth
of snow that never settles on the shoulders
of crystalline Towers

I think of an ending, but
don’t believe there is one
of a time after time in a place after places
when the land is empty and the Wind
moans alone through dying trees
and dreams of days past, when children’s breath rode
upon Her
and I had not yet gone north.
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  #50  
Old 05-01-2009, 09:51 PM
Dizzy Dizzy is offline
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Brer View Post
Another of my all-time favorites. Good choice.
I didn't realize it before, but that poem is featured in G.I Jane! Huh.

Here I am thinking I discovered it all on my own when I might have unconsciously learned it from that movie. The media is replacing my psyche.
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  #51  
Old 05-01-2009, 10:31 PM
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Quote:
Oh what to do to die today at a minute or two 'til two
A thing distinctly hard to say yet harder still to do
For they'll beat a tattoo at twenty to two
With a rattatta tattatta tattatta too
And the dragon will come when he hears the drum
At a minute or two 'til two today
At a minute or two 'til two.
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  #52  
Old 05-03-2009, 08:01 PM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Oliver Wendell Holmes
Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then, of a sudden, it -- ah, but stay,
I'll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits, --
Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.
Georgius Secundus was then alive, --
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always somewhere a weakest spot, --
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, -- lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will, --
Above or below, or within or without, --
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise breaks down, but does n't wear out.

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do,
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou")
He would build one shay to beat the taown
'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';
It should be so built that it could n' break daown:
"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t 's mighty plain
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,
Is only jest
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That could n't be split nor bent nor broke, --
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees,
The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum," --
Last of its timber, -- they could n't sell 'em,
Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
That was the way he "put her through."
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!"

Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
Children and grandchildren -- where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED; -- it came and found
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten; --
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came; --
Running as usual; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive,
And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.

Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundreth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it. -- You're welcome. -- No extra charge.)

FIRST OF NOVEMBER, -- the Earthquake-day, --
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There could n't be, -- for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part
That there was n't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whipple-tree neither less nor more,
And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring and axle and hub encore.
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out!

First of November, 'Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-horse shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup!" said the parson. -- Off went they.
The parson was working his Sunday's text, --
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the -- Moses -- was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.
First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill, --
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half past nine by the meet'n-house clock, --
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!
What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once, --
All at once, and nothing first, --
Just as bubbles do when they burst.

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic. That's all I say.
tl;dr

Quote:
Originally Posted by Oliver Wendell Holmes
LOL, Calvinism
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  #53  
Old 05-03-2009, 08:07 PM
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Wolfgang Wolfgang is offline
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Quote:
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree :
Oh, man, I forgot - I loved the sequel:

Quote:
A place where nobody dared to go,
the love that we came to know
They call it Xanadu

And now, open your eyes and see,
what we have made is real
We are in Xanadu

A million lights are dancing and there you are, a shooting star
An everlasting world and you're here with me, eternally

Chorus:
Xanadu, Xanadu, (now we are here) in Xanadu

Xanadu, your neon lights will shine for you, Xanadu

The love, the echoes of long ago,
you needed the world to know
They are in Xanadu

The dream that came through a million years
That lived on through all the tears, it came to Xanadu

A million lights are dancing and there you are, a shooting star
An everlasting world and you're here with me, eternally

Now that I'm here, now that you're near in Xanadu
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  #54  
Old 05-03-2009, 09:11 PM
Bergasa's Avatar
Bergasa Bergasa is offline
Terrible confusion
 
Join Date: Apr 2008
Location: Ontario
Posts: 3,890
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Quote:
No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manner of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.
John Donne
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  #55  
Old 05-03-2009, 09:26 PM
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Wolfgang Wolfgang is offline
borgn
 
Join Date: May 2008
Location: Fooboomagoo
Posts: 28,105
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Bergasa View Post
John Donne
Ah, yes. But:

Quote:
A winters day
In a deep and dark december;
I am alone,
Gazing from my window to the streets below
On a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow.
I am a rock,
I am an island.
I've built walls,
A fortress deep and mighty,
That none may penetrate.
I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain.
Its laughter and its loving I disdain.
I am a rock,
I am an island.
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  #56  
Old 05-03-2009, 09:31 PM
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ravinoff ravinoff is offline
out of how many points?
 
Join Date: Mar 2008
Location: a bit north of atlanta
Posts: 1,250
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Back in high school I would have likely answered either Browning's the Laboratory or Yeats' The Second Coming.

These days I don't have a single favorite but I am very fond of Alan Moore's poem/spoken word piece he did at the memorial for Robert Anton Wilson. It might not be as resonant for those not fans of Wilson.

Last edited by ravinoff; 05-03-2009 at 09:52 PM.
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