I am not really a fan of poetry, which may sound rather ironic, because I’m a English Lit minor.
(When I was 14, my favourite poem was probably John Keats’ La Belle Dame Sans Merci. The 路边的野花不要乱采 moral of the poem amused me greatly. But I digress.)
This is one of my favourite poems:
I Hear America Singing
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
Now read the poem a second time (or a third or even a fourth!), and you can probably begin to hear the music in the lines…… :)