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Darling, Just For You...
Oh my love you are missed so much,
Within these walls a constant thought.
Sweet thoughts with you, gentle and soft,
The softness I keep thinking of.
A red-roofed house is shining to the skies;
A house red-roofed and brilliant in the wind:
A house of colour filled with wandering eyes;
And all the eyes are blind.
Love Is Beautiful
Love is beautiful,
When hearts become insatiable,
Touches warm and uncontrollable.
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
Are all but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Of late I have begun to feel a hunger
To take in with greed, like a forest fire that
Consumes and with each killing gains a wilder,
Brighter charm, all that comes my way. Bald child in
“While I sit at the door
Sick to gaze within
Mine eye weepeth sore
For sorrow and sin:
Although you sit in a room that is gray,
Except for the silver
Of the straw-paper,
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
When you close your eyes
I see the beauty of a real black woman
blazing like the bright light from heaven
The Desire To Paint
Unhappy perhaps is the man, but happy the artist, who is torn with this desire.
I burn to paint a certain woman who has appeared to me so rarely, and so swiftly fled away, like some beautiful, regrettable thing the traveller must leave behind him in the night. It is already long since I saw her.
She is beautiful, and more than beautiful: she is overpowering. The colour black preponderates in her; all that she inspires is nocturnal and profound.
Her eyes are two caverns where mystery vaguely stirs and gleams; her glance illuminates like a ray of light; it is an explosion in the darkness.
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.
A Short Poem or Else Not Say I
True pleasure breathes not city air,
Nor in Art's temples dwells,
Nothing But Stones
I think I never passed so sad an hour,
Dear friend, as that one at the church to-night.
The edifice from basement to the tower
Was one resplendent blaze of coloured light.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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.
Addressed to Francis Greenleaf Allison of Burlington, New Jersey.
You scarcely need my tardy thanks,
Who, self-rewarded, nurse and tend--
John Greenleaf Whittier
Alone, alone! - no other face
Wears kindred smile, kindred line;
And yet they say my mother's eyes.
They say my father's brow, is mine;
Letitia Elizabeth Landon
All winter through I bow my head
beneath the driving rain;
the North Wind powders me with snow
and blows me black again;
Walter De La Mare
A Lyric Day
I deem that there are lyric days
So ripe with radiance and cheer,
So rich with gratitude and praise
That they enrapture all the year.
As yon great Sun in his supreme condition
Absorbs small worlds and makes them all his own,
So does my love absorb each vain ambition
Each outside purpose which my life has known.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
I know not wherefore, but mine eyes
See bloom, where other eyes see blight.
They find a rainbow, a sunrise,
Where others but discern deep night.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
This might have been a place for sleep,
But, as from that small hollow there
Hosts of bright thistledown begin
Their dazzling journey through the air,
TEll me ye merchants daughters did ye see
So fayre a creature in your towne before,
So sweet, so louely, and so mild as she,
Adornd with beautyes grace and vertues store,
When once the sun sinks in the west,
And dewdrops pearl the evening's breast;
Almost as pale as moonbeams are,
Or its companionable star,
Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer,
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
Of all the meals that glad my day
My morning one's the best;
Purveyed me on a silver tray,
You see faces with no identity ,
You see bodies with no destiny.
Men slow down their cars on the road,
Where 'love' is sold,
A wanderer is man from his birth.
He was born in a ship
On the breast of the river of Time;
Brimming with wonder and joy
Look! the round-cheeked moon floats high,
In the glowing August sky,
Quenching all her neighbor stars,
Save the steady flame of Mars.
Some folks I know, when friends drop in
To visit for awhile and chin,
Just lead them round the rooms and halls
And show them pictures on their walls,
Edgar Albert Guest
You gaze through my eyes
And capture my thoughts
You took control of my mind
Now am a prisoner of your love
You see that sheaf of slender books
Upon the topmost shelf,
At which no browser ever looks,
Because they're by . . . myself;
Though we think alike
but our actions are nothing alike
Today, we march in unity
then the next day we are in disparity