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Way To Go
She was born in the hills
dotted with villages quiet and small.
Her village was breathtakingly beautiful
With a scenic landscape,
C K Rawat
Red is the color of love
But; 4 me red
Is a color of stop
My red signal;my periods
A Winter Night
When biting Boreas, fell and doure,
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r;
When Phœbus gies a short-liv'd glow'r,
Far south the lift,
Wouldst thou be taught, when sleep has taken flight,
By a sure voice that can most sweetly tell,
How far off yet a glimpse of morning light,
And if to lure the truant back be well,
I Guess It's Over
I guess they were right,
when they said the world isn't all black and white.
Nothing lasts forever,
but I thought we'd stay together
“While I sit at the door
Sick to gaze within
Mine eye weepeth sore
For sorrow and sin:
Ode To Walt Whitman
By the East River and the Bronx
boys were singing, exposing their waists
with the wheel, with oil, leather, and the hammer.
Ninety thousand miners taking silver from the rocks
Federico Garcàa Lorca
All For Me
All for me the bumble-bee
Drones his song in the perfect weather;
And, just on purpose to sing to me,
Thrush and blue-bird came North together.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
The roaring alongside he takes for granted,
and that every so often the world is bound to shake.
He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward,
in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake.
“Jessie, Jessie Cameron,
Hear me but this once,” quoth he.
“Good luck go with you, neighbor's son,
But I'm no mate for you,” quoth she.
Over the west side of the mountain,
that-s lyrebird country.
I could go down there, they say, in the early morning,
and I-d see them, I-d hear them.
Through an accidental crack in the curtain
I can see the eight o'clock light change from
charcoal to a faint gassy blue, inventing things
I fasted for some forty days on bread and buttermilk,
For passing round the bottle with girls in rags or silk,
In country shawl or Paris cloak, had put my wits astray,
And what's the good of women, for all that they can say
William Butler Yeats
We stood among the boats and nets;
We saw the swift clouds fall,
We watched the schooners scamper in
Before the sudden squall;-
Along the road the magpies walk
with hands in pockets, left and right.
They tilt their heads, and stroll and talk.
In their well-fitted black and white.
A Bronze Head
Here at right of the entrance this bronze head,
Human, superhuman, a bird's round eye,
Everything else withered and mummy-dead.
What great tomb-haunter sweeps the distant sky
William Butler Yeats
When I woke up and couldn't behold d light that the sun gives,
I couldn't help but think about you
Because the sun wasn't here to remind me of your smile,Smile this morning ,I want you to smile this morning because your smile brings hope to everything around you,Am missing your smile,missing your smile early this day.
Venus And Adonis
Even as the sun with purple-coloured face
Had ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheeked Adonis hied him to the chase;
Hunting he loved, but love he laughed to scorn.
A Rainy Day
Oh, what a blessed interval
A rainy day may be!
No lightning flash nor tempest roar,
But one incessant, steady pour
To A Bird At Dawn
O bird that somewhere yonder sings,
In the dim hour 'twixt dreams and dawn,
Lone in the hush of sleeping things,
In some sky sanctuary withdrawn;
Richard Le Gallienne
Addressed to Francis Greenleaf Allison of Burlington, New Jersey.
You scarcely need my tardy thanks,
Who, self-rewarded, nurse and tend--
John Greenleaf Whittier
Time: My Friend And For
Time is my early friend, the best friend too
This lovely world that has brought me into.
That has showed me the beauty of the sea
Lakes, rocks , sky , moon and also the tree.
Lorsque, par un dÃ©cret des puissances suprÃªmes,
Le PoÃ¨te apparaÃ®t en ce monde ennuyÃ©,
Sa mÃ¨re Ã©pouvantÃ©e et pleine de blasphÃ¨mes
Crispe ses poings vers Dieu, qui la prend en pitiÃ©:
Birds In Summer
How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Flitting about in each leafy tree;
In the leafy trees so broad and tall,
Like a green and beautiful palace hall,
'THOUGH logic-choppers rule the town,
And every man and maid and boy
Has marked a distant object down,
An aimless joy is a pure joy,'
William Butler Yeats
A delicate fabric of bird song
Floats in the air,
The smell of wet wild earth
When first we hear the shy-come nightingales,
They seem to mutter o'er their songs in fear,
And, climb we e'er so soft the spinney rails,
All stops as if no bird was anywhere.