We must have at least one Shakespeare sonnet, so here is my particular favourite. Probably a predictable choice but it's just about perfect in every respect.



That time of year thou may'st in me behold,
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd quires, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day,
As after sunset fadeth in the West,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death bed, whereon it must expire,
Consum'd with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.   

Typo indeed.  Thanks to the crack editing team of r3ok for catching it. 

t_i_n, talking of prairies, I'm fond of this little Emily Dickinson gem:

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,— 
One clover, and a bee, 
And revery. 
The revery alone will do 
If bees are few.

Any idea who has set that? 

Search under every veil
for the pale eyes, pale
lips of a sick child,
in each doorway glimpse
her reluctant limbs
for whom no kindness is,
to whom caress and kiss
come nightly more amiss,
whose hand no gentle hand
touches, whose eyes withstand
compassion. Say: Done, past
help, preordained waste.
Say: We know by the dead
they mourn, their bloodshed,
the maimed who are the free.
We willed it, we
Say: Who am I to doubt?
But every vein cries out.

(Basil Bunting - from First Book of Odes)

"Better'n watching paint dry" - Phyllis Tyne

Don't know if it's ok to include foreign-language poems, but here's a particular favourite:

Ernst ist der Frühling, seine Träume
Sind traurig, jede Blume schaut
Von Schmerz bewegt, es bebt geheime
Wehmut im Nachtigallenlaut.

O lächle nicht, geliebte Schöne,
So freundlich heiter, lächle nicht!
O, weine lieber, eine Träne
Küß ich so gern dir vom Gesicht.

(Heinrich Heine - from Neue Gedichte, also set by Hugo Wolf)

This thought does stimulate ideas for a parodistic work, which at some point I may attempt and share with members here

Here's one, t-p, from Rilke's Sonette an Orpheus:

Sei allem Abschied voran, als wäre er hinter
dir, wie der Winter, der eben geht.
Denn unter Wintern ist einer so endlos Winter,
dass, überwinternd, dein Herz überhaupt übersteht.

Sei immer tot in Eurydike -, singender steige,
preisender steige zurück in den reinen Bezug.
Hier, unter Schwindenden, sei, im Reiche der Neige,
sei ein klingendes Glas, das sich im Klang schon zerschlug.

Sei - und wisse zugleich des Nicht-Seins Bedingung,
den unendlichen Grund deiner innigen Schwingung,
dass du sie völlig vollziehst dieses einzige Mal.

Zu dem gebrauchten sowohl, wie zum dumpfen und stummen
Vorrat der vollen Natur, den unsäglichen Summen,
zähle dich jubelnd hinzu und vernichte die Zahl.