Uhhhhhhhh
It has to be english ^^
Lila - the dream one was good.
any others?
cudley

THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!! Why does it gotta be the English? eh....how bout this one?
Stopping by the Woods on A Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost

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 is 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,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

YAY!!!!!!!!!!! THAT IS ONE OF MY FAVORITE POEMS!!!!!!!!

Of any good poems.. Or poem websites...
Or Wrote any poems??

Cuz i gottta make a poem book and i cant find any i like.
any suggestions?

I wrote a poem!!!!!!!!!!!! Here it is..........hope ya likes it!

When you lie down to sleep,
dream a little dream
Of the stars and the moon,
of the lake and the loon,
of the wind and the sea,
but mostly of you, and of me.

The stard are the bringers of life and of light,
the moon is a galleon in the darkness of night,
The wind is the force that cuts through the sea,
and you are the one who brings joy to me.

so when you lie down to sleep,
dream a little dream
Of the stars and the moon,
of the lake and the loon,
of the wind and the sea,
but mostly of you,
and of me.


Yaaaaaaaaaay...........I wrote it last year = muffles

...The only poems I like either involve something dying, or something painful, or terrible, so I won't share.

oO ooook.......you like dying? Why may I ask?

Can I hear a poem? Pwease?

Cait, how bout Fel Shara?


Fel Shara canet betet masha
la signorina aux beaux yeux noirs
como la luna etait la sua facia
qui eclairait le boulevard

Volevo parlar shata metni
because her father was a la gare
y con su umbrella darabetni
en reponse a mon bonsoir

Perche' my dear tedrabini
kuando yo te amo kitir
and if you want tehebini
il n'y a pas lieu de nous conquerir

Totta la notte alambiki
et meme jusqu'au lever du jour
and every morning ashtanaki
pour le voue de notre amour...

here's the tune! ^^

I don't like death, but I like poems that end sad, or something.

why?

No reason.

Never mind, then T_T

The Cremation of Sam McGee
by Robert W. Service



There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam ‘round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.”

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
“It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet ‘taint being dead--it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”

A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows—O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.”
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked;” . . . then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”



There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

It's certainly NOT one of my best, but it's the only one saved on the puter and I don't really feel like typing... I wrote this like a year ago, I think that I've gotten a lot better since then.

Everyone thinks they're original, but really,
Who are you?
You're the things people say, the poetry you're reading,
and the pistol held to your head.
What you sense is what you learn, and what you learn is who you are.
You're the man at price chopper whose picking up cans,
you're the girl in the institution who slit her wrists and hands,
your teacher, your student, that person you hate,
the man who's wife is crying - His medicine came too late.
You're the murderer you watched on a violent video,
a special ed student picked on just because he's slow,
the hooker you look down on for the things she has to do,
your mother, your father, they're all a part of you.
You're a cannibal, a vegetarian, a satanist, and a priest,
the person you admire most, and the one you admire least,
You're ignoring my presence,
your hatred is all I see,
and as hard as you try not to,
you're slowly becoming......
.....me.