MY CHALLENGE to the discerning.

R

Raptor

Verified User
MY CHALLENGE to the discerning.

I challenge any one to quote a more beautiful poem than "KUBLA KHAN" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge:

Actually,his proper name is more popularly spelled KUBLAI KHAN.

Kubla Khan
BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round;
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery......
 
Legion Troll said:
I told you Raptor was a sensitive type with the soul of a poet. Just like me, in fact.
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Like a prickly pear, you mean? Who woulda thunk it.
surprised.jpg
 
I'll take you Samuel Taylor Coleridge and give you one Joyce Kilmer.

I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed
Against the sweet earths flowing breast.

A tree that looks at God all day
And lifts her leafy arms to pray.

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair.

Upon whose bossum snow has lain
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me
But only God can make a tree.
 
My two favorites, reflecting my love for the sea and the sky:

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air… .

Up, up the long, delirious burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or ever eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

— John Gillespie Magee, Jr


Sea Fever
By John Masefield
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
 
callinectes said:
My two favorites, reflecting my love for the sea and the sky:

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air… .

Up, up the long, delirious burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or ever eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

— John Gillespie Magee, Jr


Sea Fever
By John Masefield
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
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I especially like the first.
 
I love your choice, always a favorite to this old English major. But this one doesn't suck. (And don't get me started with Keats.)

Ozymandias
Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1792 - 1822

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
 
This was a favorite from when I took an Italian history course in college.

What dew or what weeping,
What tears were those
I saw scattered from night’s mantle
And from the pale face of the stars?
And why did the white moon sow
A pure cloud of crystalline stars
In the lap of the fresh grass?
Why in the dark air
Could one hear, almost lamenting, around and
around
The breezes roaming till daybreak?
Were they perhaps signs perhaps of your departure, life of my life?

Torquato Tasso
 
Mott the Hoople said:
I'll take you Samuel Taylor Coleridge and give you one Joyce Kilmer.

I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed
Against the sweet earths flowing breast.

A tree that looks at God all day
And lifts her leafy arms to pray.

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair.

Upon whose bossum snow has lain
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me
But only God can make a tree.
Click to expand...

Yeppers. That's right up there among my most favorites .... simply goddamn beautiful.
 
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