What's your favorite poem in your mother tongue? Anything and everything

I like a poem on early summer by 苏轼 (1037-1101 a.d.). who lived in Song Dynasty.
阮郎归·初夏
绿槐高柳咽新蝉，薰风初入弦。碧纱窗下水沉烟，棋声惊昼眠。
微雨过，小荷翻，榴花开欲然。玉盆纤手弄清泉，琼珠碎却圆。
I tried to find a translation but no result, if anyone is interested I try my best to translate it (I don't think I can…). It incorporates scenes of trees, cicada, summer breeze, artistic window, chess gaming, slight rain, lotus leaf, pomegranate flower, and crystal spring water into one well rhymed exquisite poem. Back in Song Dynasty this form of poem was also lyric but we don't know how to sing now.
What is yours?

W malinowym chruśniaku, przed ciekawych wzrokiem
Zapodziani po głowy, przez długie godziny
Zrywaliśmy przybyłe tej nocy maliny.
Palce miałaś na oślep skrwawione ich sokiem.

Down in raspberry bushes, hidden from the world
We got lost together. Long
Were we picking fruits freshly born
And your fingers were blindly blood-coloured

Bąk złośnik huczał basem, jakby straszył kwiaty,
Rdzawe guzy na słońcu wygrzewał liść chory,
Złachmaniałych pajęczyn skrzyły się wisiory
I szedł tyłem na grzbiecie jakiś żuk kosmaty.

A breeze buzzed mischievously as if to scare the flowers
A leave sickly turned his rusty scars to sun
Spider webs sparkled wet and torn
And a hairy beetle walked the path for hours

Duszno było od malin, któreś, szapcząc, rwała,
A szept nasz tylko wówczas nacichał w ich woni,
Gdym wargami wygarniał z podanej mi dłoni
Owoce, przepojone wonią twego ciała.

You were whispering in this raspberry-stifling air
And the whisper turned into silence,
Only when my lips were taking the fruits
Bathed in your fragrant hands.

I stały się maliny narzędziem pieszczoty
Tej pierwszej, tej zdziwionej, która w całym niebie
Nie zna innych upojeń, oprócz samej siebie,
I chce się wciąż powtarzać dla własnej dziwoty.

Raspberries became the tool of ecstasy
The first one, the surprised, which even in heaven
Does not know other pleasure but its own
And wants to repeat itself infinitely.

I nie wiem, jak się stało, w którym okamgnieniu,
Żeś dotknęła mi wargą spoconego czoła,
Porwałem twoje dłonie - oddałaś w skupieniu,
A chruśniak malinowy trwał wciąż dookoła.

I don’t know how it happened, in which moment
You touched my forehead with your yearning kiss
I grabbed your hands – you gave it all to me
And raspberry bushes surrounded us still.

********
That's my favourite I think. Romantic. Of course it's not as good in other language, but well...

@Oxiu
Thank for your sharing!
Currently I can't think of any counterpart in Chinese as impassioned as the one you shared, what popped up in my mind are some poems depict admiring or missing someone from distance, perhaps a result that I appreciate poems mainly from school courses but generally I have the feeling that love poem of China especially ancient ones prone to express indirectly via pain of being separated temporarily or perpetually.

Свои стихи

Свои стихи

沁园春·长沙
毛泽东

独立寒秋，湘江北去，橘子洲头。

看万山红遍，层林尽染；漫江碧透，百舸争流。

鹰击长空，鱼翔浅底，万类霜天竞自由。

怅寥廓，问苍茫大地，谁主沉浮？

携来百侣曾游，忆往昔峥嵘岁月稠。

恰同学少年，风华正茂；书生意气，挥斥方遒。

指点江山，激扬文字，粪土当年万户侯。

曾记否，到中流击水，浪遏飞舟？

教员的诗词，大气磅礴，哲理深刻，尤其是这首我最喜欢

沁园春·长沙
毛泽东

独立寒秋，湘江北去，橘子洲头。

看万山红遍，层林尽染；漫江碧透，百舸争流。

鹰击长空，鱼翔浅底，万类霜天竞自由。

怅寥廓，问苍茫大地，谁主沉浮？

携来百侣曾游，忆往昔峥嵘岁月稠。

恰同学少年，风华正茂；书生意气，挥斥方遒。

指点江山，激扬文字，粪土当年万户侯。

曾记否，到中流击水，浪遏飞舟？

教员的诗词，大气磅礴，哲理深刻，尤其是这首我最喜欢

My favourite poem in my mother lingue is "La Divina Commedia" From Dante Alighieri, who is "The father" Of italian language.

I like a poem on early summer by 苏轼 (1037-1101 a.d.). who lived in Song Dynasty.
阮郎归·初夏
绿槐高柳咽新蝉，薰风初入弦。碧纱窗下水沉烟，棋声惊昼眠。
微雨过，小荷翻，榴花开欲然。玉盆纤手弄清泉，琼珠碎却圆。
I tried to find a translation but no result, if anyone is interested I try my best to translate it (I don't think I can…). It incorporates scenes of trees, cicada, summer breeze, artistic window, chess gaming, slight rain, lotus leaf, pomegranate flower, and crystal spring water into one well rhymed exquisite poem. Back in Song Dynasty this form of poem was also lyric but we don't know how to sing now.
What is yours?

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

@CountDanku
Is it a thriller in the form of poem? 😨 Or a satire on gold diggers?

i really love "l'infinito" by giacomo leopardi, it's one of the most famous and greatest poems (it's actually an idyll) written in italian language:

«Sempre caro mi fu quest'ermo colle,
e questa siepe, che da tanta parte
dell'ultimo orizzonte il guardo esclude.
Ma sedendo e mirando, interminati
spazi di là da quella, e sovrumani
silenzi, e profondissima quiete
io nel pensier mi fingo, ove per poco
il cor non si spaura. E come il vento
odo stormir tra queste piante, io quello
infinito silenzio a questa voce
vo comparando: e mi sovvien l'eterno,
e le morte stagioni, e la presente
e viva, e il suon di lei. Così tra questa
immensità s'annega il pensier mio:
e il naufragar m'è dolce in questo mare.»
-
«This solitary hill has always been dear to me
And this hedge, which prevents me from seeing most of
The endless horizon.
But when I sit and gaze, I imagine, in my thoughts,
Endless spaces beyond the hedge,
An all encompassing silence and a deeply profound quiet,
To the point that my heart is quite overwhelmed.
And when I hear the wind rustling through the trees
I compare its voice to the infinite silence.
And eternity occurs to me, and all the ages past,
And the present time, and its sound.
Amidst this immensity my thought drowns:
And to flounder in this sea is sweet to me.»

定风波·莫听穿林打叶声
苏轼

莫听穿林打叶声，何妨吟啸且徐行。竹杖芒鞋轻胜马，谁怕？一蓑烟雨任平生。
料峭春风吹酒醒，微冷，山头斜照却相迎。回首向来萧瑟处，归去，也无风雨也无晴。

李白 蜀道难
真的很喜欢这句
“青泥何盘盘，百步九折萦岩峦”