This last is not the best, nor the worst, I've read. It's not the most triumphant and sorrowful, but it has perfection from its place on this list: the end, the finishing line, No. 52.
As always, I am as slavish to international copyright sensitivities as I can be with no clear directions on what constitutes 'fair use' - so here is part of my last poem, by Elizabeth Bishop.
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster...