What are good, touching poems from famous poets?

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good.

-W.H.Auden

Maybe it was already due, but a good one is by Robert Frost. I don’t remember the actual name, but one of the lines is “Nothing Gold can Stay.” That might be the title too.

May I write something? I’m better at that then looking for other peoples’ stuff.

she was the girl who could fly with her gone I thought I should cry the dove who lost her wings without a voice she no longer sings she is in the casket and the pain makes me sigh looking at her blank face Why did she die?

THE DANCE OF DEATH

    by: Charles Baudelaire

        Carrying bouquet, and handkerchief, and gloves,
        Proud of her height as when she lived, she moves
        With all the careless and high-stepping grace,
        And the extravagant courtesan's thin face.

        Was slimmer waist e'er in a ball-room wooed?
        Her floating robe, in royal amplitude,
        Falls in deep folds around a dry foot, shod
        With a bright flower-like shoe that gems the sod.

        The swarms that hum about her collar-bones
        As the lascivious streams caress the stones,
        Conceal from every scornful jest that flies,
        Her gloomy beauty; and her fathomless eyes

        Are made of shade and void; with flowery sprays
        Her skull is wreathed artistically, and sways,
        Feeble and weak, on her frail vertebrae.
        O charm of nothing decked in folly! they

        Who laugh and name you a Caricature,
        They see not, they whom flesh and blood allure,
        The nameless grace of every bleached, bare bone,
        That is most dear to me, tall skeleton!

        Come you to trouble with your potent sneer
        The feast of Life! or are you driven here,
        To Pleasure's Sabbath, by dead lusts that stir
        And goad your moving corpse on with a spur?

        Or do you hope, when sing the violins,
        And the pale candle-flame lights up our sins,
        To drive some mocking nightmare far apart,
        And cool the flame hell lighted in your heart?

        Fathomless well of fault and foolishness!
        Eternal alembic of antique distress!
        Still o'er the curved, white trellis of your sides
        The sateless, wandering serpent curls and glides.

        And truth to tell, I fear lest you should find,
        Among us here, no lover to your mind;
        Which of these hearts beat for the smile you gave?
        The charms of horror please none but the brave.

        Your eyes' black gulf, where awful broodings stir,
        Brings giddiness; the prudent reveller
        Sees, while a horror grips him from beneath,
        The eternal smile of thirty-two white teeth.

        For he who has not folded in his arms
        A skeleton, nor fed on graveyard charms,
        Recks not of furbelow, or paint, or scent,
        When Horror comes the way that Beauty went.

        O irresistible, with fleshless face,
        Say to these dancers in their dazzled race:
        "Proud lovers with the paint above your bones,
        Ye shall taste death, musk scented skeletons!

        Withered Antinoüs, dandies with plump faces,
        Ye varnished cadavers, and grey Lovelaces,
        Ye go to lands unknown and void of breath,
        Drawn by the rumour of the Dance of Death.

        From Seine's cold quays to Ganges' burning stream,
        The mortal troupes dance onward in a dream;
        They do not see, within the opened sky,
        The Angel's sinister trumpet raised on high.

        In every clime and under every sun,
        Death laughs at ye, mad mortals, as ye run;
        And oft perfumes herself with myrrh, like ye
        And mingles with your madness, irony!"