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Red is the color of love
But; 4 me red
Is a color of stop
My red signal;my periods
XII. On the same.
I did but prompt the age to quit their cloggs
By the known rules of antient libertie,
Love is not a wine
It's a fountain of joy
If your love story gives you headaches
It's not a true love but attachment
Because of my cross, I find this life a misery
Like every cast in this dramatic adventure
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 .
Before Our Freedom
In the dungeons of untrue liberty, we were laid,
Chains of inhumanness clustered our treasured feet,
Good tidings they preached, to us, roes we weet,
“Static efforts that puzzled fettered minds”, I said,
The Secret People
Smile at us, pay us, pass us; but do not quite forget.
For we are the people of England, that never have spoken yet.
There is many a fat farmer that drinks less cheerfully,
There is many a free French peasant who is richer and sadder than we.
G. K. Chesterton
Who Am I?
I am no saint nor insane,
I am human only by name.
I weep, I laugh, I am humane,
I feel both pleasure and pain,
They told to Marie Antoinette:
“The beggers at your gate
Have eyes too sad for tears to wet,
And for your pity wait.”
The Two Ages
On a great cathedral window I have seen
A Summer sunset swoon and sink away,
Lost in the splendours of immortal art.
Angels and saints and all the heavenly hosts,
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
The bird ain't as free as she thinks
Freedom is not just in the air
The prisoner is not enslaved as he thinks
Slavery is not just in a cell
How Sleep The Brave
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
To A Fallen Elm
Old Elm that murmured in our chimney top
The sweetest anthem autumn ever made
And into mellow whispering calms would drop
When showers fell on thy many coloured shade
They are voicing out their freedom
Shamelessly shading crocodile tears in public.
I ask not that my bed of death
From bands of greedy heirs be free;
For these besiege the latest breath
Of fortune's favoured sons, not me.
Like A Vocation
Not as that dream Napoleon, rumour's dread and centre,
Before who's riding all the crowds divide,
Who dedicates a column and withdraws,
Nor as that general favourite and breezy visitor
W. H. Auden
Old People’s Home
All are limitory, but each has her own
nuance of damage. The elite can dress and decent themselves,
are ambulant with a single stick, adroit
to read a book all through, or play the slow movements of
W. H. Auden
The Italian In England
That second time they hunted me
From hill to plain, from shore to sea,
And Austria, hounding far and wide
Her blood-hounds through the countryside,
The Progress Of Poesy
Awake, Æolian lyre, awake,
And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.
From Helicon's harmonious springs
A thousand rills their mazy progress take:
Endymion: Book Ii
O Sovereign power of love! O grief! O balm!
All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm,
And shadowy, through the mist of passed years:
For others, good or bad, hatred and tears
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
When by my solitary hearth I sit,
And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom;
When no fair dreams before my “mind's eye” flit,
And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;
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.
Song Of Myself
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
It Is Not To Be Thought Of
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,”
Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Ode To Duty
Jam non consilio bonus, sed more eo perductus, ut non tantum
recte facere possim, sed nisi recte facere non possim
(Seneca, Letters 130.10)
Four Quartets 3: The Dry Salvages
(The Dry Salvages-presumably les trois sauvages
- is a small group of rocks, with a beacon, off the N.E.
coast of Cape Ann, Massachusetts. Salvages is pronounced
to rhyme with assuages. Groaner: a whistling buoy.)
T. S. Eliot
To The Unknown Goddess
Will you conquer my heart with your beauty; my sould going out from afar?
Shall I fall to your hand as a victim of crafty and cautions shikar?
Have I met you and passed you already, unknowing, unthinking and blind?
Parnell came down the road, he said to a cheering man:
‘Ireland shall get her freedom and you still break stone.'
William Butler Yeats
A Last Word
Let us go hence: the night is now at hand;
The day is overworn, the birds all flown;
And we have reaped the crops the gods have sown;
Despair and death; deep darkness o'er the land,