>>7882388
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."


'nuff said.

>>7882388
4chanlit.wiki.com/poetry

>>7883891
4chanlit.wikia.com/poetry

>>7882388
>DESIGNATED
seriously, try Cesar Vallejo, Robert Browning, Paul Verlaine and Baudelaire

plebs like haiku. true pats like tanka or renga

Walt Whitman. Song Of Myself is a good place to start (very long poem in Leaves Of Grass).

Pär Lagerkvist, Evening Land. Lagerkvist got the Nobel Prize for his prose, but I think this, his last collection of poems, must be his best book. Not that I have read all his prose, but what I have read was nowhere near this one. I read it in Swedish so I can't guarantee the translation, but I think the style in this book should make it easy to translate.

Tomas Tranströmer. Nobel Prize winning Swedish poet. Whatever you can find in translation.

These are all about as good as you can get.

>>7882388
Sappho, Hart Crane, Baudelaire, Emily Dickinson, The Manyoshu