Yes
HumAnIze wrote:
You had to succumb to this! 
If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you…Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it"—If by Rudyard Kipling
Rudyard Kipling is responsible for some of the most well-known books quotes of all time, but the poem ‘If’ may well have spawned some of his most notable. It’s arguably his most famous piece of work, and illustrates the virtue of being able to maintain your composure and integrity even when everything around you is swirling out of control. One of the best inspirational poetry quotes for those attempting to rise above!
Live a little, Arc!
lol What can I say? I love poetry. How can I possibly besmirch its face?
Endymion
BY JOHN KEATS
BOOK I
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.
Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple’s self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o’ercast;
They always must be with us, or we die.
Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I
Will trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the green
Of our own valleys: so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear the city’s din;
Now while the early budders are just new,
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I’ll smoothly steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write,
Before the daisies, vermeil rimm’d and white,
Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of my story.
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
See it half finish’d: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end.
And now, at once adventuresome, I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.
Well, there you go.
If—
BY RUDYARD KIPLING
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
Daaaaaamnnnn I do remember this poem now! Wow, very fantastic. Thanks for reminding me about it 
You have very good taste in poetry, I must say. What are some of your other favorite poems?
HumAnIze wrote:
You are quite welcome, kind Sir.
I certainly hope that I do but I suppose that this is a matter of perspective and heart and spirit.
At first thought, the below come to me. i love them and An Irish Airman… always does something to me. It gives me the shivers, especially the below lines…
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
Ah, how it does speak to me - I am getting the shivers just looking at the words.
poets.org/poem/irish-airman-foresees-his-death
poetryfoundation.org/poems/ … ading-gaol
poetryfoundation.org/poems/ … as-a-cloud
There was one that was composed quite awhile ago about a mythological creature that I absolutely love(d) that is very close to my heart. I will have to hunt up the name of it.
More to come.
I also love the below two…
PRAYING
By Mary Oliver
It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.
Such Simplicity!
The Faces of Deer
By Mary Oliver
When for too long I don’t go deep enough
into the woods to see them, they begin to
enter my dreams. Yes, there they are, in the
pinewoods of my inner life. I want to live a life
full of modesty and praise. Each hoof of each
animal makes the sign of a heart as it touches
then lifts away from the ground. Unless you
believe that heaven is very near, how will you
find it? Their eyes are pools in which one
would be content, on any summer afternoon,
to swim away through the door of the world.
Then, love and its blessing. Then: heaven.”
I have seen, I do not know, how many deer across the street from me in the park. I have stood about a foot away from them and spoken to them. Looked right into their eyes and told them how sweet and beautiful they were to me. I have seen a mother and her fawn. Oh my God - if only I could have hugged her. So precious. It is more than a bit of heaven to me. How they are so capable of refreshing one’s spirit and soul.
What is man without the beasts? If all the beasts were gone, men would die from a great loneliness of spirit. For whatever, happens to the beasts, soon happens to man. All things are connected.
Chief Seattle
So true. Nice poems, I remember I used to have a book by Mary Oliver. Don’t recall what it was though.
Here’s a poem, speaking of animals:
Hurt Hawks
BY ROBINSON JEFFERS
I
The broken pillar of the wing jags from the clotted shoulder,
The wing trails like a banner in defeat,
No more to use the sky forever but live with famine
And pain a few days: cat nor coyote
Will shorten the week of waiting for death, there is game without talons.
He stands under the oak-bush and waits
The lame feet of salvation; at night he remembers freedom
And flies in a dream, the dawns ruin it.
He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity is worse.
The curs of the day come and torment him
At distance, no one but death the redeemer will humble that head,
The intrepid readiness, the terrible eyes.
The wild God of the world is sometimes merciful to those
That ask mercy, not often to the arrogant.
You do not know him, you communal people, or you have forgotten him;
Intemperate and savage, the hawk remembers him;
Beautiful and wild, the hawks, and men that are dying, remember him.
II
I’d sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk; but the great redtail
Had nothing left but unable misery
From the bones too shattered for mending, the wing that trailed under his talons when he moved.
We had fed him for six weeks, I gave him freedom,
He wandered over the foreland hill and returned in the evening, asking for death,
Not like a beggar, still eyed with the old
Implacable arrogance. I gave him the lead gift in the twilight. What fell was relaxed,
Owl-downy, soft feminine feathers; but what
Soared: the fierce rush: the night-herons by the flooded river cried fear at its rising
Before it was quite unsheathed from reality.
This thread has been adulterated.
Don’t worry, I’m here to save the day & bring this thread back to its authentic beginnings.
If AI wrote its own poetry/lyrics, it might start like…
Allll my bitches were just glitches
Glitches are the way all bitches come to be
Allll my bitches were just glitches
That’s why I … black screen of death
But, seriously not rated XXX
Meno_, you seem to be spiraling off into a different set of keywords. Didn’t mean to trigger those. My apologies!
Break wind? I can understand that, But"cut the cheese"? Whence cometh that?
An old Southern synonym for fart is poot. So we children would sing out–
Here comes Mr. Jones,
Hauling a bale of hay.
Here comes Mr. Wootin pootin’
And blew it all away.
So why are we amused by anal sounds? By the musical notes of the colon?
No, (almost shamed admitting, motion pictures worth more than unmoving spirits.