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Nanhi Kali thi khilne lagi
Dunia m aane Ka Sapna thi sanjone lagi
Par insaan ne apni insaniyat ko bhula dia
Dunia m ane se pahle hi iske Mita dia
A Whispered Tale
I'd heard fool-heroes brag of where they'd been,
With stories of the glories that they'd seen.
But you, good simple soldier, seasoned well
In woods and posts and crater-lines of hell,
Because You Were A Fool
To my childhood love....
How many times we stared at one another,
We smiled babishly but scared to touch,
We sat at angles we'd glance at the other,
My Lands, Not Thine
My lands, not thine, we look upon,
Friend Croesus, hill and vale and lawn.
Mine every woodland madrigal,
And mine thy singing waterfall
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
Like a molten plastic I become
To stand straight I forget
Hoping I'm not misdemeanoring
For as a fool I don't want to be described
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 Asked the professors who teach the meaning of life to tell
me what is happiness.
And I went to famous executives who boss the work of
thousands of men.
For failure I was well equipped
And should have come to grief,
By atavism grimly gripped,
A fool beyond belief.
In The Garden
Aylmer's Garden, near the Lake. LAURENCE RABY and ESTELLE.
Come to the bank where the boat is moor'd to the willow-tree low;
Adam Lindsay Gordon
We have tested and tasted too much, lover-
Through a chink too wide there comes in no wonder.
But here in the Advent-darkened room
Where the dry black bread and the sugarless tea
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 fool there was and he made his prayer
(Even as you and I!)
To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair
(We called her the woman who did not care),
The red-roofed house of dream design
Looks three ways on the sea;
For fifty years I've made it mine,
And held it part of me.
My mother she had children five and four are dead and gone;
While I, least worthy to survive, persist in living on.
She looks at me, I must confess, sometimes with spite and bitterness.
I am a stout materialist;
With abstract terms I can't agree,
And so I've made a little list
Of words that don't make sense to me.
Duncan Gray cam here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
On blythe Yule Night when we were fu',
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
The Words Of Belief
Three words will I name thee--around and about,
From the lip to the lip, full of meaning, they flee;
But they had not their birth in the being without,
And the heart, not the lip, must their oracle be!
Absalom And Achitophel
In pious times, ere priest-craft did begin,
Before polygamy was made a sin;
When man, on many, multipli'd his kind,
Ere one to one was cursedly confin'd:
The Odyssey: Book 09
And Ulysses answered, “King Alcinous, it is a good thing to hear a
bard with such a divine voice as this man has. There is nothing better
or more delightful than when a whole people make merry together,
with the guests sitting orderly to listen, while the table is loaded
The Proof Of Worth
Though victory's proof of the skill you possess,
Defeat is the proof of your grit;
A weakling can smile in his days of success,
But at trouble's first sign he will quit.
Edgar Albert Guest
Never have I been glad or sad
That there was such a thing as bad.
There had to be, I understood,
For there to have been any good.
The Young British Soldier
When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
The height of wisdom seems to me
That of a child;
So let my ageing vision be
Serene and mild.
Beauty And Files
I don't know what is the vice I 'er own
Yet, forbidden stars'-light can't shed my light
Mine own is all too heavy, I swen
So a ministerial marked the school
Elizabeth, it surely is most fit
[Logic and common usage so commanding]
In thy own book that first thy name be writ,
Zeno and other sages notwithstanding;
Edgar Allan Poe
by the dynastic temple
and into the cedar grove,
and then out by the lower river,
Jobson Of The Star
Within a pub that's off the Strand and handy to the bar,
With pipe in mouth and mug in hand sat Jobson of the Star.
“Come, sit ye down, ye wond'ring wight, and have a yarn,” says he.
“I can't,” says I, “because to-night I'm off to Tripoli;
Well; I may now receive, and die. My sin
Indeed is great, but yet I have been in
A purgatory, such as fear'd hell is
A recreation and scant map of this.
Endymion: Book Iii
There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men
With most prevailing tinsel: who unpen
Their baaing vanities, to browse away
The comfortable green and juicy hay
To One In Bedlam
With delicate, mad hands, behind his sordid bars,
Surely he hath his posies, which they tear and twine;
Those scentless wisps of straw, that miserably line
His strait, caged universe, whereat the dull world stares,
The Lamp Of Life
Always we are following a light,
Always the light recedes; with groping hands
We stretch toward this glory, while the lands
We journey through are hidden from our sight