When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain
Before High piled books in characy
Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour
That I may never look upon thee more
Never relish in the fairy power
Of unreflecting love; Then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone and think
Til love and fame, to nothingness, do sink.
On longer evenings
Light, chill and yellow,
Bathes the serene
Foreheads of houses.
A thrush sings,
Laurel-sounded
In the deep bare garden,
Its fresh-peeled voice
Astonishing the brickwork.
it will be spring soon,
It will be spring soon-
And I, whose childhood
Is a forgotten boredom,
Feel like a child
Who comes on a scene
Of adult reconciling,
And can understand nothing
But the unusual laughter,
And starts to be happy.
Once I saw a little worm
Wriggling on its belly
I asked it if it would like to come inside
And see what’s on the telly
Ok ok, it’s not Keats … it’s Spike Milligan. Cool poem though, for kids - direct and simple, with a simple moral of compassion, even for those who are lesser than us.
On a more serious note, my favourite poem is (and it’s a REALLY cliched one), “Remember” by Christina Rossetti (who, interestingly, wrote “In the Bleak Midwinter”) and it goes a little something like this:
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann’d:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
It’s the ultimate funeral poem.
one of my favourites right now is ‘peace’ by rupert brook (with the war unit tomorrow and all i think it’s rather apt). i don’t agree with his views, and i’m usually more of a fan of the owen/sassoon style of war poets, but i think it’s really beautiful.
Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour,
And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,
With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,
To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,
Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,
Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,
And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,
And all the little emptiness of love!
Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,
Where there’s no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing heart’s long peace there
But only agony, and that has ending;
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.
although i agree that peace, and most of brooke’s war sonnets, are (is?)beautifully written, i don’t think it was the time for romanticism. they are lovely poems, but were brought about by naivity and deception. just my opinion 
but if we’re going for lovely war poetry, you want ''i saw his round mouth’s crimson, by owen.
I saw his round mouth’s crimson deepen as it fell,
Like a Sun, in his last deep hour;
Watched the magnificent recession of farewell,
Clouding, half-gleam, half glower,
And a last splendour burn the heavens of his cheek.
And in his eyes
The cold stars lighting, very old and bleak,
In different skies.
its a little corny, but thats what we like.
i know what you mean about brooke, and much as i like the poetry, ‘true Poets must be truthful’, and there isn’t much of that in his sonnets.
if you’re going for one of owen’s lovely poems, i really love ‘to eros’
In that I loved you, Love, I worshipped you;
In that I worshipped well, I sacrificed.
All of most worth I bound and burnt and slew:
The innocent small things, fair friends and Christ.
I slew all falser loves, I slew all true,
For truth is the prime lie men tell a boy.
Glory I cast away, as bridegrooms do
Their splendid garments in their haste of joy.
But when I fell and held your sandalled feet,
You laughed; you loosed away my lips; you rose.
I heard the singing of your wings’ retreat;
And watched you, far-flown, flush the Olympian snows,
Beyond my hoping. Starkly i returned
To stare upon the ash of all i burned.
- the poetry is indeed in the pity…
I’ve got loads of favourites, this is probably my number 1.
Somewhere on the other side of this wide night
and the distance between us, I am thinking of you.
The room is turning slowly away from the moon.
This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say
it is sad? In one of the tenses I singing
an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.
La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine
the dark hills I would have to cross
to reach you. For I am in love with you and this
is what it is like, or what it is like in words.
–Carol Ann Duffy
Also this one
I like that poem Freddie.
Ok Mine.
When I first saw this poem, I started to laugh because I didn’t know what it was about. (I didn’t watch tele in the morning to see)… It was posted arounf 3:15 on Sept.11, 2002.
I consider this true poetry. Something that comes from the heart (although imaginative poems are tight also)
Sept. 11
[b]Dead Babies, Dead Babies
Dead Ladies, Dead Ladies
Where are our healthy young men?
DEAD DEAD DEAD DEAD
Open your eyes to the beauty of war
War produces rebirth and jobs
death=life
so kill all puppies and elderly
This is how you remind me,
of what I really am.
MEAN
God bless our fighting men-women[/b]
Notes
notice how Americans are quick to say God Bless America in times of Hardship… ?
that like THIS IS HOW U REMIND ME OF WHAT I REALLY AM…isn’t that from the group Nickelback??.. nice quote tho. 
‘‘the poetry is indeed in the pity’’ … would’ve been a great conclusion for that essay, lou, but i managed to quote it the wrong way round … oops.
this is my favourite poem. its a bit long. i love most of cummings’ stuff. he was great.
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did
Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain
children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more
when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone’s any was all to her
someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream
stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)
one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was
all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.
Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain
that last one was actually from me 
i didn’t realise ben was signed in. oops.
Women: know your limits.