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So many times I thought about yesterday
A day that I was innocent in every way
When I was just a little girl who was playing all day
And just cried when someone ruined my day.
Ma. Cristina Colima
Three times I had the lust to kill,
To clutch a throat so young and fair,
And squeeze with all my might until
No breath of being lingered there.
I Am Sorry
I'm sorry i could not protect you from the hands of evil that took you away from this world
And you could give so much to it
Michael: A Pastoral Poem
If from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
IT is not to be thought of that the Flood
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity
Hath flowed, 'with pomp of waters, unwithstood,'
I remember the story of that great person
who fought for our freedom and was great,
who was against the partition
but not against the Muslim .
All the striving, all the failing,
To the silent Nothing sailing.
Swiftly, swiftly passing by!
For the land of shadows leaving,
“While I sit at the door
Sick to gaze within
Mine eye weepeth sore
For sorrow and sin:
A Boy Named Sue
Well, my daddy left home when I was three,
and he didn't leave much to Ma and me,
just this old guitar and a bottle of booze.
Now I don't blame him because he run and hid,
D E A T H
Death is but a second stage
Sanctified by God for eternal bliss.
A stage in paradise with a dulcet slumber,
That everyone get ere the judgement.
Addressed to Francis Greenleaf Allison of Burlington, New Jersey.
You scarcely need my tardy thanks,
Who, self-rewarded, nurse and tend--
John Greenleaf Whittier
The Wind Of Love
The could rises from the vales,
Climbs & move high to kiss the mountains,
Never expecting to return again,
Unless the wind blows back.
‘God' is composed of letters three,
But if you put an ‘l'
Before the last it seems to me
A synonym for Hell.
Not Yet Uhuru
His heart can't be found,
Sombre, is the mood in hood,
Going from bad to worse bad,
White founts falling in the courts of the sun,
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;
There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,
It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard,
G. K. Chesterton
To A Mountain Daisy
ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;
The Mask Of Evil
On my wall hangs a Japanese carving,
The mask of an evil demon, decorated with gold lacquer.
Sympathetically I observe
The swollen veins of the forehead, indicating
(From _The Shepherd's Hunting_)
Seest thou not, in clearest days,
Oft thick fogs cloud Heaven's rays?
There are some qualities- some incorporate things,
That have a double life, which thus is made
A type of that twin entity which springs
From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.
Edgar Allan Poe
Circle Of Life
Ignorance is the center point of life circle,
Obscuring our mind from knowing virtues,
Walking rough path thus preventing from enlightenment,
Never letting to go beyond the circle of life.
The Iliad: Book 03
When the companies were thus arrayed, each under its own captain,
the Trojans advanced as a flight of wild fowl or cranes that scream
overhead when rain and winter drive them over the flowing waters of
Oceanus to bring death and destruction on the Pygmies, and they
The Last Toast
I drink to home, that is lost,
To evil life of mine,
To loneness in which weâ??re both,
And to your future, fine, --
Indelicate is he who loathes
The aspect of his fleshy clothes, --
The flying fabric stitched on bone,
The vesture of the skeleton,
It was mysterious the whole thing 'gain
So what can it be? 'Twas pretty before,
For, so a masted boat 'er sails the deep;
Never a villain wins, said "'Er be sure "
The dark of Modred's hour not yet availing,
Gawaine it was who gave the King no peace;
Gawaine it was who goaded him and drove him
To Joyous Gard, where now for long his army,
Edwin Arlington Robinson
What guts he had, the Dago lad
Who fought that Frenchman grim with guile;
For nigh an hour they milled like mad,
And mauled the mat in rare old style.
See! There he stands; not brave, but with an air
Of sullen stupor. Mark him well! Is he
Not more like brute than man? Look in his eye!
No light is there; none, save the glint that shines
James Weldon Johnson
The man above was a murderer, the man below was a thief;
And I lay there in the bunk between, ailing beyond belief;
A weary armful of skin and bone, wasted with pain and grief.
Do not despair of man, and do not scold him,
Who are you that you should so lightly hold him?
Are you not also a man, and in your heart
Are there not warlike thoughts and fear and smart?
Now swarthy Summer, by rude health embrowned,
Precedence takes of rosy fingered Spring;
And laughing Joy, with wild flowers prank'd, and crown'd,
A wild and giddy thing,