The poem I like the most is IF by Rudyard Kipling.....cant point out exact things I like cause neither my Vocabulary is that strong nor my knowledge of different aspects of poetry.
[IF]
If you can keep your head when
all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming
it on you,
If you can trust yourself when
all men doubt you
But make allowance for their
doubting too,
If you can wait and not be
tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal
in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way
to hating,
And yet don't look too good,
nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your
master,
If you can think--and not make
thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph
and Disaster
And treat those two impostors
just the same;
If you can bear to hear the
truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a
trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave
your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with
worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all
your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of
pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at
your beginnings
And never breath a word about
your loss;
If you can force your heart and
nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after
they are gone,
And so hold on when there is
nothing in you
Except the Will which says to
them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds
and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose
the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving
friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but
none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving
minute
With sixty seconds' worth of
distance run,
Yours is the Earth and
everything that's in it,
And--which is
more--you'll be a Man, my son!
--Rudyard
Kipling
The next poem I like is about the poor who has been so cursed by the ruling class that he does not resemble humans anymore. The poem was written by Edwin Markhim who wrote it after getting inspired by a french painting
The Man with a Hoe
Bowed by the weight of centuries he
leansUpon his hoe and gazes on the
ground,The emptiness of ages in his
face,And on his back, the burden of the
world.Who made him dead to rapture and
despair,A thing that grieves not and that never
hopes,Stolid and stunned, a brother to the
ox?Who loosened and let down this brutal
jaw?Whose was the hand that slanted back
this brow?Whose breath blew out the light within
this brain?
Is this the Thing the Lord God made
and gaveTo have dominion over sea and
land;To trace the stars and search the
heavens for power;To feel the passion of
Eternity?Is this the dream He dreamed who shaped
the sunsAnd marked their ways upon the ancient
deep?Down all the caverns of Hell to their
last gulfThere is no shape more terrible than
this--More tongued with cries against the
world's blind greed--More filled with signs and portents for
the soul--More packed with danger to the
universe.
What gulfs between him and the
seraphim!Slave of the wheel of labor, what to
himAre Plato and the swing of the
Pleiades?What the long reaches of the peaks of
song,The rift of dawn, the reddening of the
rose?Through this dread shape the suffering
ages look;Time's tragedy is in that aching
stoop;Through this dread shape humanity
betrayed,Plundered, profaned and
disinherited,Cries protest to the Powers that made
the world,A protest that is also
prophecy.
O masters, lords and rulers in all
lands,Is this the handiwork you give to
God,This monstrous thing distorted and
soul-quenched?How will you ever straighten up this
shape;Touch it again with
immortality;Give back the upward looking and the
light;Rebuild in it the music and the
dream;Make right the immemorial
infamies,Perfidious wrongs, immedicable
woes?
O masters, lords and rulers in all
lands,How will the future reckon with this
Man?How answer his brute question in that
hourWhen whirlwinds of rebellion shake all
shores?How will it be with kingdoms and with
kings--With those who shaped him to the thing
he is--When this dumb Terror shall rise to
judge the world,After the silence of the centuries?
The next is the famous poem by Robert Frost
"Stopping by the Woods on a snowy Evening"
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep, A
nd miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
The next poem is Strange Meeting dont remember by who....But what I do remember it was a difficult poem when it was in my syllabus and at that time I left it even for the exams. Though liked it a lot later.
Strange Meeting
It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,-
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
With a thousand pains that vision's face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
'Strange friend,' I said, 'here is no cause to mourn.'
'None,' said that other, 'save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery,
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
'I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now....'
There are some more but I was not able to find them so will post them when I do find out.
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