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It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes! - that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
==============================
While this poem talks about love a sweet one at that, this poem also talks about death and how love can exist long after the lover death, beside this were written by Edgar Allen Poe.

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In any quest for love, just like many others
A winner is proclaimed from all the contenders
The shining crown of gold, just one but who would wear
Decided by a judge, the heart or mind, either

and the winner is...

In this ever-changing world, it's not easy to say
Who the real winner is till come the time and day
Was it the winner who lost or the loser who won
Or did the crown of gold became a crown of thorn

In this uncertain world, no one can ever say
Who'll really win or lose, only the time and day
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I like this poem for the messages it brings, winning or losing is hard to tell in some matters and depends on perspective, take a war for example someone might see concurring a land but losing a thousand souls as winning while others might see sacrificing the land for the people lives as winning.

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This is the world we wanted.
All who would have seen us dead
are dead. I hear the witch's cry
break in the moonlight through a sheet
of sugar: God rewards.
Her tongue shrivels into gas . . .
Now, far from women's arms
and memory of women, in our father's hut
we sleep, are never hungry.
Why do I not forget?
My father bars the door, bars harm
from this house, and it is years.
No one remembers. Even you, my brother,

summer afternoons you look at me as though
you meant to leave,
as though it never happened.
But I killed for you. I see armed firs,
the spires of that gleaming kiln--
Nights I turn to you to hold me
but you are not there.
Am I alone? Spies
hiss in the stillness, Hansel,
we are there still and it is real, real,
that black forest and the fire in earnest.
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This poem strike a spark in me as it gave me insight on what happened after Gretel has killed the witch, and that's trauma and lost of innocence. Moreover, it also show the struggle of woman psyche who live among ignorance from their man, for what they do for their man that goes unnoticed.

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Work out. Ten laps.
Chin ups. Look good.

Steam room. Dress warm.
Call home. Fresh air.

Eat right. Rest well.
Sweetheart. Safe sex.

Sore throat. Long flu.
Hard nodes. Beware.

Test blood. Count cells.
Reds thin. Whites low.

Dress warm. Eat well.
Short breath. Fatigue.

Night sweats. Dry cough.
Loose stools. Weight loss.

Get mad. Fight back.
Call home. Rest well.

Don't cry. Take charge.
No sex. Eat right.

Call home. Talk slow.
Chin up. No air.

Arms wide. Nodes hard.
Cough dry. Hold on.

Mouth wide. Drink this.
Breathe in. Breathe out.

No air. Breathe in.
Breathe in. No air.

Black out. White rooms.
Head hot. Feet cold.

No work. Eat right.
CAT scan. Chin up.

Breathe in. Breathe out.
No air. No air.

Thin blood. Sore lungs.
Mouth dry. Mind gone.

Six months? Three weeks?
Can't eat. No air.

Today? Tonight?
It waits. For me.

Sweet heart. Don't stop.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
================================
The reason I like this poem is due to the fact that it reflect a fleeting life of a healthy man, who got struck by a fatal disease (presumably cancer). Kinda make you realize how precious and fragile a human life really is.

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I promise nothing: friends will part;

All things may end, for all began;

And truth and singleness of heart

Are mortal even as is man.

But this unlucky love should last

When answered passions thin to air;

Eternal fate so deep has cast

Its sure foundation of despair.
================================
This poem is a reminder: all things will come to an end, and love can be a foundation of despair. Moreover, you can learn to treat your lover right, preserve your love properly, and maybe your love won't harbour despair.

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There is a silence where hath been no sound,

There is a silence where no sound may be,

In the cold grave — under the deep, deep sea,

Or in wide desert where no life is found,

Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;

No voice is hush’d — no life treads silently,

But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,

That never spoke — over the idle ground

But in green ruins, in the desolate walls

Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,

Though the dun fox, or wild hyena, calls,

And owls, that flit continually between,

Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan,

There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.
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I love Poe's idea of silence. Silence not in death, nor the ruin of cities. Rather, In nature where wind hums low, where man has not been, where we will be alone with our conscious.

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Before I got my eye put out –

I liked as well to see

As other creatures, that have eyes –

And know no other way –

But were it told to me, Today,

That I might have the Sky

For mine, I tell you that my Heart

Would split, for size of me –

The Meadows – mine –

The Mountains – mine –

All Forests – Stintless stars –

As much of noon, as I could take –

Between my finite eyes –

The Motions of the Dipping Birds –

The Morning’s Amber Road –

For mine – to look at when I liked,

The news would strike me dead –

So safer – guess – with just my soul

Opon the window pane

Where other creatures put their eyes –

Incautious – of the Sun –

==================================
I like this poem for the irony in the persona who lost their eyesight but wouldn’t want it back. They would still like to see all the wonderful thing they can see, but the persona would rather be blind, because for them being blind and imagine the scenery is safer than having eyesight and risk losing it again.

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I started Early – Took my Dog –

And visited the Sea –

The Mermaids in the Basement

Came out to look at me –

And Frigates – in the Upper Floor

Extended Hempen Hands –

Presuming Me to be a Mouse –

Aground – opon the Sands –

But no Man moved Me – till the Tide

Went past my simple Shoe –

And past my Apron – and my Belt

And past my Boddice – too –

And made as He would eat me up –

As wholly as a Dew

Opon a Dandelion's Sleeve –

And then – I started – too –

And He – He followed – close behind –

I felt His Silver Heel

Opon my Ancle – Then My Shoes

Would overflow with Pearl –

Until We met the Solid Town –

No One He seemed to know –

And bowing – with a Mighty look –

At me – The Sea withdrew –

===================================
While the story is very interesting,but I like this poem because it’s very fun to read for me. There are pattern in this poem which my mind take as soothing, and the slow rhythm of this poem is relaxing.

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We were made to understand it would be

Terrible. Every small want, every niggling urge,

Every hate swollen to a kind of epic wind.

Livid, the land, and ravaged, like a rageful

Dream. The worst in us having taken over

And broken the rest utterly down.

A long age

Passed. When at last we knew how little

Would survive us—how little we had mended

Or built that was not now lost—something

Large and old awoke. And then our singing

Brought on a different manner of weather.

Then animals long believed gone crept down

From trees. We took new stock of one another.

We wept to be reminded of such color.
================================
This poem takes a jab at the destructive nature of mankind which I find amusing. By referencing Noah's ark from the bible the poem is a reminder and a warning to not dwell on this path or history bound to happen again and that is a good reminder/warning to have.

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They paddle with staccato feet

In powder-pools of sunlight,

Small blue busybodies

Strutting like fat gentlemen

With hands clasped

Under their swallowtail coats;

And, as they stump about,

Their heads like tiny hammers

Tap at imaginary nails

In non-existent walls.

Elusive ghosts of sunshine

Slither down the green gloss

Of their necks in an instant, and are gone.

Summer hangs drugged from sky to earth

In limpid fathoms of silence:

Only warm dark dimples of sound

Slide like slow bubbles

From the contented throats.

Raise a casual hand -

With one quick gust

They fountain into air.
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As a bird enjoyed, I appreciate this poem. Because it painted the pigeon as this winged adorable little gentleman, and the poem also talks about how silly is the pigeon, comparing their head movement to a tiny hammer hitting an invisible nail. Very cute.

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On the limb of an oak sat a cunning old crow,
And chatted away with glee,
As he saw the old farmer go out to sow,
And he cried, "It's all for me!

"Look, look, how he scatters his seeds around;
How wonderfully kind to the poor!
If he'd empty it down in a pile on the ground,
I could find it much better, I'm sure!

"I've learned all the tricks of this wonderful man,
Who has such regard for the crow
That he lays out his grounds in a regular plan,
And covers his corn in a row.

"He must have a very great fancy for me;
He tries to entrap me enough,
But I measure his distance as well as he,
And when he comes near, I'm off."
========================
The crow is having a monologue mistaking the farmer as its admirer. The farmer, however, is trying to get rid of the crow, he tried to trap the crow before but he failed and the crow learn to keep its distance which creates this comedy interaction between the farmer and the smug crow in my head, and that is enough to make me love this poem.

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The stars are mansions built by Nature’s hand

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The stars are mansions built by Nature’s hand

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The stars are mansions built by Nature’s hand,
And, haply, there the spirits of the blest
Dwell, clothed in radiance, their immortal vest;
Huge Ocean shows, within his yellow strand,
A habitation marvellously planned,
For life to occupy in love and rest;
All that we see – is dome, or vault, or nest,
Or fortress, reared at Nature’s sage command.
Glad thought for every season! but the Spring
Gave it while cares were weighing on my heart,
’Mid song of birds, and insects murmuring;
And while the youthful year’s prolific art –
Of bud, leaf, blade, and flower – was fashioning
Abodes where self-disturbance hath no part.
========================
This poem paints a vivid picture of the star being heaven, a mansion standing proud in the middle of a garden in eternal spring always budding with life, and that is a beautiful image.

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there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?
===============================
This poem hit me right where it hurt, for the longest time I have to hide my interest, and my personality under a tough exterior just like the persona. Slowly, I let the bluebird out little by little, slowly I became more me and so should you.