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Discussion Starter · #1 ·
I'm not a fan of e.e. cummings but this is mine:

since feeling is first
e. e. cummings

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis
 

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The Song of the Wandering Angus
by William Butler Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I turned to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
 

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I like this one by Shakespeare (the last two lines confused me at first but the word "rare" is used in the sense of "precious" and "she" is just used as "woman")


My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red, than her lips red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,
As any she belied with false compare.
 

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for when you're feeling cynical.


never may the fruit be plucked - e. millay

never, never may the fruit be plucked from the bough
and gathered into barrels.
he that would eat of love must eat it where it hangs.
though the branches bend like reeds,
though the ripe fruit splash in the grass or wrinkle on the tree,
he that would eat of love may bear away with him
only what his belly can hold,
nothing in the apron,
nothing in the pockets.

never, never may the fruit be gathered from the bough
and harvested in barrels.
the winter of love is a cellar of empty bins,
in an orchard
soft with rot.
 
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