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You are the flame in my candle,
that lights the darkness of my room.
You are the scented flowers,
that makes my heart full bloom.
"Blessed be the English and all their ways and works.
Cursed be the Infidels, Hereticks, and Turks!"
"Amen," quo' Jobson, "but where I used to lie
Was neither Candle, Bell nor Book to curse my brethren by,
I Am Not Yours
I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.
The Old Huntsman
I've never ceased to curse the day I signed
A seven years' bargain for the Golden Fleece.
'Twas a bad deal all round; and dear enough
It cost me, what with my daft management,
I Miss You
Where are you my darling
I tried calling out your name but I met no reponse
I tried reaching out to you but you are no where to be seen, honey
Where are you, I need you to set me free from these nightmares.
Under the death of winter's leaves he lies
who cried to Nothing and the terrible night
to be his home and bread. 'O take from me
the weight and waterfall ceaseless Time
Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
Burning Like A Candle
My emotions are hard to handle
cause now i am burning like a candle.
I showed you light even in the darkest turn
but i never asked something in return.
As drear and barren as the glooms of Death,
It lies, a windless land of livid dawns,
Nude to a desolate firmament, with hills
That seem the gibbous bones of the mummied Earth,
Clark Ashton Smith
In the marketplace they are piling the dry sticks.
A thicket of shadows is a poor coat. I inhabit
The wax image of myself, a doll's body.
Sickness begins here: I am the dartboard for witches.
A Little Song
When you, my Dear, are away, away,
How wearily goes the creeping day.
A year drags after morning, and night
Starts another year of candle light.
The Rabbit Catcher
It was a place of forceâ??
The wind gagging my mouth with my own blown hair,
Tearing off my voice, and the sea
Blinding me with its lights, the lives of the dead
The Great Hunger
Clay is the word and clay is the flesh
Where the potato-gatherers like mechanised scarecrows move
Along the side-fall of the hill - Maguire and his men.
I'm so depressed
With dark thoughts I'm obsessed
Some feelings can't be expressed
Turned off the light of the last candle
My folks think I'm a serving maid
Each time I visit home;
They do not dream I ply a trade
As old as Greece or Rome;
So We Were Poor...!
Yes we were poor, what da hell?
My parents could not read or write
It was a struggle to finish Matric with candle light.
When others kids could have their rapports signed
The sun went down, and the dark after it
Starred Merlin's new abode with many a sconced
And many a moving candle, in whose light
The prisoned wizard, mirrored in amazement,
Edwin Arlington Robinson
The night was creeping on the ground;
She crept and did not make a sound
Until she reached the tree, and then
She covered it, and sole again
A Masque Presented At Ludlow Castle, 1634, Before
The Earl Of Bridgewater, Then President Of Wales.
Ode To Rae Wilson Esq.
A WANDERER, Wilson, from my native land,
Remote, O Rae, from godliness and thee,
Where rolls between us the eternal sea,
Besides some furlongs of a foreign sand,â??
On the hill they are crowding together,
In the stand they are crushing for room,
Like midge-flies they swarm on the heather,
They gather like bees on the broom;
Adam Lindsay Gordon
The Cremona Violin: Part 01
Frau Concert-Meister Altgelt shut the door.
A storm was rising, heavy gusts of wind
Swirled through the trees, and scattered leaves before
Her on the clean, flagged path. The sky behind
To Ezra Pound
With much friendship and admiration and some differences of opinion
Lost Mr. Blake
Mr. Blake was a regular out-and-out hardened sinner,
Who was quite out of the pale of Christianity, so to speak,
He was in the habit of smoking a long pipe and drinking a glass of
grog on a Sunday after dinner,
William Schwenck Gilbert
When along the pavement,
Palpitating flames of life,
People flicker round me,
I forget my bereavement,
D. H. Lawrence
â??Anticipation is sweeter than realisation.â??
It may be, yet I have not found it so.
In those first golden dreams of future fame
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
shared all this with my own people
There, where misfortune had abandoned us.
Easter was the old North
Goddess of the dawn.
She rises daily in the East
And yearly in spring for the great
A Violin At Dusk
Stumble to silence, all you uneasy things,
That pack the day with bluster and with fret.
For here is music at each window set;
Here is a cup which drips with all the springs
Lizette Woodworth Reese