An Anthology From the Hated Poets

[Humble_Servant]

Yo, haters of poets from over by here: Poetry lovers -what well-regarded poets or poems do you just hate?{Long,opinionated} - Cafe Society - Straight Dope Message Board

Y’all gored my oxen too, but I just don’t feel like arguing about it. Instead, here’s an all optimistic and happy favorite poems by hated poets thread.

Milton:

Farewel happy Fields
Where Joy for ever dwells: Hail horrours, hail
Infernal world, and thou profoundest Hell
Receive thy new Possessor: One who brings
A mind not to be chang’d by Place or Time.
The mind is its own place, and in it self
Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n.
What matter where, if I be still the same,
And what I should be, all but less then hee
Whom Thunder hath made greater? Here at least
We shall be free

Spenser:

And as she lookt about, she did behold,
How over that same dore was likewise writ,
Be bold, be bold, and every where Be bold,
That much she muz’d, yet could not construe it
By any ridling skill, or commune wit.
At last she spyde at that same roomes upper end,
Another yron dore, on which was writ,
Be not too bold.

Pound:

When I carefully consider the curious habits of dogs
I am compelled to conclude
That man is the superior animal.

When I consider the curious habits of man
I confess, my friend, I am puzzled.

Malory:

This beast went to the well and drank, and the noise was in the beast’s belly like unto the questing of thirty couple hounds, but all the while the beast drank there was no noise in the beast’s belly.

Coleridge:

My lips were wet, my throat was cold,
My garments all were dank ;
Sure I had drunken in my dreams,
And still my body drank.

Cummings:

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

Wordsworth:

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.

Pope:

A little learning is a dangerous thing;
drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring:
there shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
and drinking largely sobers us again.

Whitman:

O past! O life! O songs of joy!
In the air–in the woods–over fields;
Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved!
But my love no more, no more with me!
We two together no more!

That’s all I had to say.