two of mine are:
The story it tells is not the only reason i liked this one but because how harding makes the date in which it was written part of the poem itself. he, like our generation, was one of the few generations that witness the sun set on one century, and dawn on another.
The Darkling Thrush
Thomas Harding
I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
My other favorite poem is by edger guest, who is one of my favorite poets; seconded only to robert frost.
The Things That Make A Soldier Great
Edgar Guest
The things that make a soldier great
and send him out to die,
To face the flaming cannon's mouth
nor ever question why,
Are lilacs by a little porch,
the row of tulips red,
The peonies and pansies, too,
the old petunia bed,
The grass plot where his children play,
the roses on the wall:
'Tis these that make a soldier great.
He's fighting for them all.
'Tis not the pomp and pride of kings
that make a soldier brave;
'Tis not allegiance to the flag
that over him may wave;
For soldiers never fight so well
on land or on the foam
As when behind the cause they see
the little place called home.
Endanger but that humble street
whereon his children run,
You make a soldier of the man
who never bore a gun.
What is it through the battle smoke
the valiant solider sees?
The little garden far away,
the budding apple trees,
The little patch of ground back there,
the children at their play,
Perhaps a tiny mound behind
the simple church of gray.
The golden thread of courage
isn't linked to castle dome
But to the spot, where'er it be --
the humblest spot called home.
And now the lilacs bud again
and all is lovely there
And homesick soldiers far away
know spring is in the air;
The tulips come to bloom again,
the grass once more is green,
And every man can see the spot
where all his joys have been.
He sees his children smile at him,
he hears the bugle call,
And only death can stop him now --
he's fighting for them all.
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