Posted below are two of my favorite poems in the English language. I am sure many feel the same way. What I love the most about them is how they combine beautiful music of language with soft, tender sentiments. I will never get tired of reading these over and over again. Some moderns may think of them as sentimental; I like to think of them as eternal. John Derbyshire once called poetry one of the traditional male pursuits, along with love and war. Most of my hyper-machismo, game loving, alpha fantasizing, baseball cap wearing, video game addicted, porn saturated, overcompensating male colleagues would probably laugh at this notion. Do they know that General George Patton loved and wrote traditional poetry? I once read a post somewhere by someone who theorized that the true “alpha” has no interest in art or literature, that is the province of sissies or something like that. For all you boys sitting at your little cubicles fantasizing about how alpha you want to be while at the same time taking orders from your female boss, you don’t get any more alpha than Patton. Today however the love of poetry is something that has been lost in the West, in our overly prosaic, technical, materialistic, bureaucratic society, but I still believe in it. In societies like India and Persia poetry is still revered as almost something sacred. I will be posting my favorite poems on here on a regular basis. If you have any please let me know what they are.
There be none of Beauty’s daughters
With a magic like thee;
And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charmed ocean’s pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lulled winds seem dreaming:
And the midnight moon is weaving,
Her bright chain o’er the deep,
Whose breast is gently heaving
As an infant’s asleep.
So the spirit bows before thee
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of summer’s ocean.
– Lord Byron
Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory–
Odors, when sweet violets sicken
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved’s bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.