Have a read through these poems; see if they get those creative, ahem, juices flowing. ;-) These listings are (roughly) in alphabetical order by poet. If you've come across a poem that screams Buffy / Spike, or even just Buffy *or* Spike, then by all means please email me and tell me so!

| BEAUTY, by Edward Thomas |

What does it mean? Tired, angry, and ill at ease,
No man, woman, or child alive could please
Me now. And yet I almost dare to laugh
Because I sit and phrase an epitaph --
'Here lies all that no one loved of him
And that loved no one.' Then in a trice that whim
Has wearied. But, though I am like a river
At fall of evening while it seems that never
Has the sun lighted or warmed it, while
Cross breezes cut the surface to a file,
This heart, some fraction of me, happily
Floats through the window even now to a tree
Down in the misting, dim-lit, quiet vale,
Not like a pewit that returns to wail
For something it has lost, but like a dove
That slants unswervingly to its home and love.
There I find my rest, and through the dusk air
Flies what yet lives in me. Beauty is there.

| LIBERTY, by Edward Thomas |

The last light has gone out of the world, except
This moonlight lying on the grass like frost
Beyond the rbink of the tall elm's shadow.
It is as if everything else had slept
Many an age, unforgotten and lost -
The men that were, the things done, long ago,
All I have thought; and but the moon and I
Live yet and here stand idle over a grave
Where all is buried. Both have liberty
To dream what we could do if we were free
To do some thing we had desired long,
The moon and I. There's none less free than who
Does nothing and has nothing else to do,
Being free only for what is not to his mind,
And nothing is to his mind. If every hour
Like this one passing that I have spent among
The wiser others when I have forgot
To wonder whether I was free or not,
Were piled before me, and not lost behind,
And I could take and carry them away
I should be rich; or if I had the power
To wipe out every one and not again
Regret, I shoul be rich to be so poor.
And yet I still am half in love with pain,
With what is imprfect, with both tears and mirth,
With things that have an end, with life and earth,
And this moon that leaves me dark within the door.

| NO SECOND TROY, by WB Yeats |

Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?