<p>Anyone have some profound poems to share?</p>
<p>Here are some of my favorites:</p>
<p>“Do not go gentle into that good night” by Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.</p>
<pre><code> Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
</code></pre>
<p>“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T. S. Eliot
It’s too long: [1</a>. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. T.S. Eliot. 1920. Prufrock and Other Observations](<a href=“Authors - Collection at Bartleby.com”>1. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock - Collection at Bartleby.com)
Here’s the beginning:</p>
<p>Let us go then, you and I,<br>
When the evening is spread out against the sky<br>
Like a patient etherized upon a table;<br>
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,<br>
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels<br>
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question….
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”<br>
Let us go and make our visit.</p>
<p>**“Dürer: Innsbruck, 1495” by Ern Malley <a href=“This%20was%20originally%20meant%20to%20be%20a%20modernist%20hoax,%20but%20it’s%20still%20awesome”>/b</a></p>
<p>I had often, cowled in the slumberous heavy air,
Closed my inanimate lids to find it real,
As I knew it would be, the colourful spires
And painted roofs, the high snows glimpsed at the back,
All reversed in the quiet reflecting waters —
Not knowing then that Dürer perceived it too.
Now I find that once more I have shrunk
To an interloper, robber of dead men’s dream,
I had read in books that art is not easy
But no one warned that the mind repeats
In its ignorance the vision of others. I am still
the black swan of trespass on alien waters.</p>
<p>“Dream Deferred” by Langston Hughes</p>
<p>What happens to a dream deferred?</p>
<p>Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?</p>
<p>Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.</p>
<p>Or does it explode?</p>