A Poem a Day

La Belle Dame Sans Merci

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

So haggard and so woe-begone?

The squirrel’s granary is full,

And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow,

With anguish moist and fever-dew,

And on thy cheeks a fading rose

Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful—a faery’s child,

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;

She looked at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long,

For sidelong would she bend, and sing

A faery’s song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,

And honey wild, and manna-dew,

And sure in language strange she said—

‘I love thee true’.

She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she wept and sighed full sore,

And there I shut her wild wild eyes

With kisses four.

And there she lullèd me asleep,

And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—

The latest dream I ever dreamt

On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci

Thee hath in thrall!’

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,

With horrid warning gapèd wide,

And I awoke and found me here,

On the cold hill’s side.

And this is why I sojourn here,

Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.

(John Keats)

Roch the wind in the clear days dawin'
Blaws the cloods heelster gowdy ow'r the bay
But there's mair nor a roch wind blawin'
Through the great glen o' the warld the day.
It's a thocht that will gar oor rottans
A' they rogues that gang gallus fresh and gay
Tak the road an' seek ither loanins
For their ill ploys tae sport an' play

Nae mair will the bonnie callants
Mairch tae war when oor braggarts crousely craw,
Nor wee weans frae pit-heid an' clachan
Mourn the ships sailing doon the Broomielaw.
Broken families in lands we've herriet
Will curse Scotland the Brave nae mair, nae mair.
Black and white, ane til ither mairriet
Mak' the vile barracks o' their masters bare.

So come all ye at hame wi' freedom
Never heed whit the hoodies croak for doom
In your hoose a' the bairns o' Adam
Can find breid, barley bree an' painted room.
When MacLean meets wi's freens in Springburn
A' the roses an' geans will turn tae bloom
And a black boy frae yont Nyanga
Dings the fell gallows o' the burghers doon.

Here is US President Abraham Lincoln's favorite poem, "Mortality" by William Knox.

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

 Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud

 A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave

 He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

 The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,

 Be scattered around, and together be laid;

 And the young and the old, and the low and the high,

 Shall moulder to dust, and together shall lie...

It is a long poem, so I"ll just post a link to the entire piece here:

http://showcase.netins.net/web/creative/lincoln/education/knox.htm

She was o’er us like a star o’er an ocean, 
Seeking the last, decuman wave with beams,
You gave her name of woe and commotion,
And ne’er – of gladness of our sacred dreams.

At day, she circled over us – a swallow;
A smile – she blossomed on our scarlet lips…
At night, she choked both us, the hollow,
With her cold hand – in different cities’ deeps.

Not touched by single of all glorifications,
Forgetful of the sins’ existing host,
Bend o’er our sleepless bed-heads, with dark passion,
She murmurs verses, desperate and cursed.