There are so many poems I love, depending on my mood, but here are two that never fail me: This one I discovered in a Grade 13 literature course; it's from:

 
Don't let that horse
eat that violin
cried Chagall's mother

But he
kept right on
painting

And became famous

And kept on painting
The Horse With Violin In Mouth

And when he finally finished it
he jumped up upon the horse
and rode away
waving the violin

And then with a low bow gave it
to the first naked nude he ran across

And there were no strings
attached

The more it snows
Tiddely pom
The more it goes
Tiddely pom
The more it goes
Tiddely pom
On snowing

And nobody knows
Tiddely pom
How cold my toes
Tiddely pom
How cold my toes
Tiddely pom
Are growing

      "O thou, whose mighty palace roof doth hang
      From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth
      Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life and death
      Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness;
      Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dress
      Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken;
      And through whole solemn hours dost sit, and harken
      The dreary melody of bedded reeds -
      In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds
      The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth;
      Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth
      Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx - do thou now,
      By thy love's milky brow!
      By all the trembling mazes that she ran,
      Hear us, great Pan!

      "O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles
      Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles,
      What time thou wanderest at eventide
      Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side
      Of thine enmossed realms: O thou, to whom
      Broad leaved fig trees even now foredoom
      Their ripened fruitage; yellow girted bees
      Their golden honeycombs; our village leas
      Their fairest blossomed beans and poppied corn;
      The chuckling linnet its five young unborn,
      To sing for thee; low creeping strawberries
      Their summer coolness; pent up butterflies
      Their freckled wings; yea the fresh budding year
      All its completions - be quickly near,
      By every wind that nods the mountain pine,
      O forester divine!

Submitted by Lady Griddlebone

      From childhoods hour, I have not been
      as others were,
      I have not seen, as others see,
      I could not bring my passions
      from a common spring,
      From the same source
      I have not taken my sorrow,
      I could not awaken my heart joy
      at the same tone,
      All I'd loved
      I'd loved alone,
      Then in the my childhood,
      in the dawn of a most stormy life,
      was drawn from every depth of good and ill,
      the mystery which binds me still,
      From the torret of the fountain,
      From the red cliff of the mountain,
      From the sun that round me rolled
      in it's autumn tint of gold,
      From the thunder and the storm,
      and the clouds that took the form
      (when the rest of heaven was blue)
      of a demon in my view

Submitted by OctoberWolf

      We dance around in a ring
      and suppose,
      But the secret sits in the middle
      and knows.

Copyright © 1997 - 2006 A Witch's Cauldron. All rights reserved. NO information or graphics on this web site, may be copied and displayed on the internet. Unauthorized reproduction is a violation of copyright laws. Please report violations to Celeste.