And when we come to it
To the day of peacemaking
When we release our fingers
From fists of hostility
And allow the pure air to cool our palms

When we come to it
When the curtain falls on the minstrel show of hate
And faces sooted with scorn are scrubbed clean
When battlefields and coliseum
No longer rake our unique and particular sons and daughters
Up with the bruised and bloody grass
To lie in identical plots in foreign soil

When the rapacious storming of the churches
The screaming racket in the temples have ceased
When the pennants are waving gaily
When the banners of the world tremble
Stoutly in the good, clean breeze

When we come to it
When we let the rifles fall from our shoulders
And children dress their dolls in flags of truce
When land mines of death have been removed
And the aged can walk into evenings of peace
When religious ritual is not perfumed
By the incense of burning flesh
And childhood dreams are not kicked awake
By nightmares of abuse

When we come to it
Then we will confess that not the Pyramids
With their stones set in mysterious perfection
Nor the Gardens of Babylon
Hanging as eternal beauty
In our collective memory
Not the Grand Canyon
Kindled into delicious color
By Western sunsets

Nor the Danube, flowing its blue soul into Europe
Not the sacred peak of Mount Fuji
Stretching to the Rising Sun
Neither Father Amazon nor Mother Mississippi who, without favor,
Nurture all creatures in the depths and on the shores
These are not the only wonders of the world

When we come to it
We, this people, on this minuscule and kithless globe
Who reach daily for the bomb, the blade and the dagger
Yet who petition in the dark for tokens of peace
We, this people on this mote of matter
In whose mouths abide cankerous words
Which challenge our very existence
Yet out of those same mouths
Come songs of such exquisite sweetness
That the heart falters in its labor
And the body is quieted into awe

We, this people, on this small and drifting planet
Whose hands can strike with such abandon
That in a twinkling, life is sapped from the living
Yet those same hands can touch with such healing, irresistible tenderness
That the haughty neck is happy to bow
And the proud back is glad to bend
Out of such chaos, of such contradiction
We learn that we are neither devils nor divines

When we come to it
We, this people, on this wayward, floating body
Created on this earth, of this earth
Have the power to fashion for this earth
A climate where every man and every woman
Can live freely without sanctimonious piety
Without crippling fear

When we come to it
We must confess that we are the possible
We are the miraculous, the true wonder of this world
That is when, and only when
We come to it.

You said you would not go away again,
You did not want to go away—and yet,
It is as if you stood out on the dock
Watching a little boat drift out
Beyond the sawgrass shallows, the dead fish …
And you were in it, skimming past old snags,
Beyond, beyond, under a brazen sky
As soundless as a gong before it’s struck—
Suspended how?—and now they strike it, now
The ether dream of five-years-old repeats, repeats,
And you must wake again to your own blood
And empty spaces in the throat.

https://www.poetryoutloud.org/poem/the-evening-of-the-mind/#random_poem
I like this poem because of the intense imagery in it and it's very calm tone. This makes this poem a good stress reliever or something to meditate too.

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44272/the-road-not-taken

I like this poem Because the Poet has two roads and he takes the one thats less traveld and I feel like it has a deeper meaning.

Every man is a piece of the continent,

A part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less.

As well as if a promontory were.

As well as if a manor of thy friend’s

Or of thine own were:

Any man’s death diminishes me,

Because I am involved in mankind,

And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;

It tolls for thee.

And it isn’t always nice,

But my child you have a gift,

So let me give you some advice,

You hold the world in your hands,

I know it can seem like a lot,

But my god you move mountains, 

And you do it without a thought,

The stars bow down before you,

The sea rises and falls as you breathe,

If you tried you could bring kingdoms,

Crashing to their knees,

But my child you have this light,

I can see it in your eyes,

Don’t ever doubt your power,

I know that you will rise

This is my advice,

You are pure and true,

Show the world what you’re made of,

Because it doesn’t deserve you.
https://poetryurbans.wordpress.com/author/nadia1hope/
This poem is very inspiring it speaks the truth. It speaks of the power we hold in this world and we can do create anything. Nadia Mchee has many different poems that can be very touching and speak the truth
Leslie

And when they all were seated
A service like a drum
Kept beating, beating, till I thought
My mind was going numb

And then I heard them lift a box
And creak across my soul
With those same boots of lead, again
Then space began to toll

As all the heavens were a bell
And Being but an ear
And I and silence some strange race
Wrecked, solitary, here

And then a plank in Reason broke
And I fell down and down
And hit a world with every plunge
And finished knowing, then

I enjoy this poem because it is pretty much creepy and I love dark and edgy stuff. The tone of this poem is somber and unsettling but also has this vibe of peacefulness and ease. 

and have to choose between the starving month’s

nineteenth, twenty-first, and twenty-third evenings.

The liturgy begins to echo itself and why does it matter?

If the ground-water is too scarce one can stretch nets

into the air and harvest the fog.

Hunger opens you to illiteracy,

thirst makes clear the starving pattern,

the thick night is so quiet, the spinning spider pauses,

the angel stops whispering for a moment—

The secret night could already be over,

you will have to listen very carefully—

You are never going to know which night’s mouth is sacredly reciting

and which night’s recitation is secretly mere wind—

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/53856/ramadan

¹ The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing.

²     He makes me lie down in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,

³     he refreshes my soul.
He guides me along the right paths
    for his name’s sake.

⁴ Even though I walk
    through the darkest valley,^[a]
I will fear no evil,
    for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
    they comfort me.

⁵ You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil;
    my cup overflows.

⁶ Surely your goodness and love will follow me
    all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord
    forever.

Success in Circuit lies

Too bright for our infirm Delight

The Truth's superb surprise

As Lightning to the Children eased

With explanation kind

The Truth must dazzle gradually

Or every man be blind —

I found this poem interesting because it made a very strong point about society and truth. It is relatively short and goes straight to the point. The poem is abstract and shows Dickinson's imaginative writing style. In the poem, Dickinson talks about how people cannot always handle how magnificent and dazzling the truth is and that it should be revealed to people little by little to avoid overwhelming them.
The tone of the poem is one of awe and wonder.   

eighty men to a room, in huge warehouses

like the ones where big wooden crates

of dynamite are stored.

My hands feel like scorpion claws,

clamped on to a hard hard shovel all day,

then curled into fists at night.

At dawn, the steaming labor trains

deliver us by the thousands, down into

that snake pit where we dig

until my muscles feel

as weak as water

and my backbone

is like shattered glass.

But only half the day

is over.

At lunchtime, we see sunburned

American engineers and foremen

eating at tables, in shady tents

with the flaps left open,

so that we have to watch

how they sit on nice chairs,

looking restful.

We also watch the medium-dark

Spanish men, relaxing as they sit

on their train tracks, grinning

as if they know secrets.

We have no place to sit. Not even

a stool. So we stand, plates in hand,

uncomfortable

and undignified.

Back home, I used to dream of saving

enough Panama money

to buy a bit of good farmland

for Momma and my little brothers

and sisters, so that we would all

have plenty to eat.

Now all I want is a chair.

And food with some spice.

And fair treatment.

Justice.

This poem shows how the world is not perfect and even in other places on earth, there are people that are mistreated horribly and forced into things...

Upon a shifting plate

Whose table once a

Guest but not

The second time is set

Whose crumbs the crows inspect

And with ironic caw

Flap past it to the

Farmer’s corn

Men eat of it and die

I like this poem because it portrays how fame isn't forever and that you will fall off eventually. Because even the greatest to ever do it will not be around forever.