your favourate poem is..............................?

Question

poems are the best medium to express ur feelings ,ur love, ur ....................

Answer 1

What makes a friend?

A friend
What makes a friend?

A friend
Is someone that everyone needs

A friend
Is that special one

A friend
Is someone you tell EVERYTHING

A friend
Is someone you never lie to

A friend
Can be a boy or a girl

A friend
Is someone that is always their

A friend
Will always listen to you

A friend
Always has input to give

A friend
Will never leave you in the dust

A friend
Will help you through the thick and the thin

A friend
Will always stand by your side

A friend
Will never let you down

A friend
Is someone everyone needs

What would you do if you didnt have a friend?

Ashley Olson

Answer 2

The Fat Budgie

I have a little budgie
He is my very pal
I take him walks in Britain
I hope I always shall.

I call my budgie Jeffrey
My grandads name's the same
I call him after grandad
Who had a feathered brain.

Some people don't like budgies
The little yellow brats
They eat them up for breakfast
Or give them to their cats.

My uncle ate a budgie
It was so fat and fair.
I cried and called him Ronnie
He didn't seem to care

Although his name was Arthur
It didn't mean a thing.
He went into a petshop
And ate up everything.

The doctors looked inside him,
To see what they could do,
But he had been too greedy
And died just like a zoo.

My Jeffrey chirps and twitters
When I walk into the room,
I make him scrambled egg on toast
And feed him with a spoon.

He sings like other budgies
But only when in trim
But most of all on Sunday
Thats when i plug him in.

He flies about the room sometimes
And sits upon my bed
And if he's really happy
He does it on my head.

He's on a diet now you know
From eating ear too much
They say if he gets fatter
He'll have to wear a crutch.

It would be funny wouldn't it
A budgie on a stick
Imagine all the people
Laughing til they're sick.

So that's my budgie Jeffrey
Fat and yellow too
I love him more than daddie
And I'm only thirty-two.

BY JOHN LENNON

Answer 3

This poem really touches my heart. If you think carefully while reading it, you can't help but be moved.

Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

-- William Wordsworth (1804)

Answer 4

"Mushrooms" by Margaret Atwood

In this moist season,
mist on the lake and thunder
afternoons in the distance

they ooze up through the earth
during the night,
like bubbles, like tiny
bright red balloons
filling with water;
a sound below sound, the thumbs of rubber
gloves turned softly inside out.

In the mornings, there is the leaf mold
starred with nipples,
with cool white fishgills,
leathery purple brains,
fist-sized suns dulled to the colors of embers,
poisonous moons, pale yellow.

Where do they come from?

For each thunderstorm that travels
overhead there's another storm
that moves parallel in the ground.
Struck lightning is where they meet.

Underfoot there's a cloud of rootlets,
shed hairs or a bundle of loose threads
blown slowly through the midsoil.
These are their flowers, these fingers
reaching through darkness to the sky,
these eyeblinks
that burst and powder the air with spores.

They feed in shade, on halfleaves
as they return to water,
on slowly melting logs,
deadwood. They glow
in the dark sometimes. They taste
of rotten meat or cloves
or cooking steak or bruised
lips or new snow.

It isn't only
for food I hunt them
but for the hunt and because
they smell of death and the waxy
skins of the newborn,
flesh into earth into flesh.

Here is the handful
of shadow I have brought back to you:
this decay, this hope, this mouth-
ful of dirt, this poetry.

Answer 5

The Waste Land

Answer 6

that's popular, by ways, no longer favourate. My popular is 'Eifionydd', a Welsh poem by R Williams Parry (my popular poet). the first verse is going like this.. "O olwg hagrwch cynnydd, Ar wyneb trist y gwaith, Mae bro rhwng môr a mynydd, Heb arni staen na chraith, Ond lle bu'r aradr ar y ffridd, Yn rhwygo'r Gwanwyn pêr o'r pridd."

Answer 7

Edgar Allen Poe - The Raven

Answer 8

The tyger by William Blake.

Answer 9

I hate poems with a passion

Answer 10

"The Road Not Taken" by: Robert Frost.