quick i need good poems

[Feynman]

and not ones you guys, made but good poems by actual poets

i need two of them for tomorrow

[Daddy]

Beowulf

[Full Metal Ryder]

"Falling up" Shell Silverstein

[YPrrrr]

"First they came"

[Socks]

"Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady"
   
"What beck'ning ghost, along the moon-light shade
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
'Tis she!--but why that bleeding bosom gor'd,
Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?
Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,
To act a lover's or a Roman's part?
Is there no bright reversion in the sky,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?

Why bade ye else, ye pow'rs! her soul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low desire?
Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes;
The glorious fault of angels and of gods;
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows.
Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull sullen pris'ners in the body's cage:
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years
Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres;
Like eastern kings a lazy state they keep,
And close confin'd to their own palace, sleep.

From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die)
Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits flow,
And sep'rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the soul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.

But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,
Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood!
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
These cheeks now fading at the blast of death:
Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before,
And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball,
Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall;
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates.
There passengers shall stand, and pointing say,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way)
"Lo these were they, whose souls the furies steel'd,
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pass the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow
For others' good, or melt at others' woe."

What can atone (oh ever-injur'd shade!)
Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier.
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd!
What though no friends in sable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show?
What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face?
What though no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be drest,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made.

So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of dust alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung,
Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart,
Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,
The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!"

By Alexander Pope .

[The artist formally known]

The Odyssey is a good poem

[Daddy]

The Divine Comedy

[Socks]

"Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
  Let the bell toll!- a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;
  And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?- weep now or nevermore!
  See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
  Come! let the burial rite be read- the funeral song be sung!-
  An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young-
  A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.

  Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
  And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her- that she died!
  How shall the ritual, then, be read?- the requiem how be sung
  By you- by yours, the evil eye,- by yours, the slanderous tongue
  That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?

  Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
  Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong.
  The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside,
  Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride.

  For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,
  The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes
  The life still there, upon her hair- the death upon her eyes.

  Avaunt! avaunt! from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven-
  From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven-
  From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven!

  Let no bell toll, then,- lest her soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
  Should catch the note as it doth float up from the damned Earth!
  And I!- to-night my heart is light!- no dirge will I upraise,
  But waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old days!"

"Lenore" By Edgar Allen Poe.

[Feynman]

no poe and no stupid epics you retards

"First they came"

yes

more like this

[Claquesous]

45. Richard Corey

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,   
  We people on the pavement looked at him:   
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,   
  Clean favored, and imperially slim.   
 
And he was always quietly arrayed,          
  And he was always human when he talked;   
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,   
  "Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.   
 
And he was richââ,¬â€�yes, richer than a king,   
  And admirably schooled in every grace:    
In fine, we thought that he was everything   
  To make us wish that we were in his place.   
 
So on we worked, and waited for the light,   
  And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;   
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,    
  Went home and put a bullet through his head.

[Socks]

no poe and no stupid epics you retards

but good poems by actual poets

"What the shit!"

[Samus Aran]

45. Richard Corey

I always did like that one.

Also, I was going to post something by William Blake, but I didn't really feel like searching.

[Feynman]

YES RICHARD CORY

"First they came"

There are so many variations--which one should I use?

[YPrrrr]

YES RICHARD CORY
There are so many variations--which one should I use?

Stick to the original. Not that there's anything drastically different about the variations

[j o e i n c]

my dad gave me one dollar bill
cause im his smartest son
and i swapped it for two quarters
cause two is more than one

then i took the quarters
and treaded them to lou
for three dimes- i guess i dont know
that three is more than two...