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Way To Go
She was born in the hills
dotted with villages quiet and small.
Her village was breathtakingly beautiful
With a scenic landscape,
C K Rawat
Years I had been from home,
And now, before the door
I dared not open, lest a face
I never saw before
The Old Survey
Our money's all spent, to the deuce went it!
The landlord, he looks glum,
On the tap-room wall, in a very bad scrawl,
He has chalked to us a sum.
I hope to dust off sleep from my mind,
and think of you instead.
"If I raised my glass of liver toxins ,
We Are But Different
As the time ticks,
A tale, fantasy or real unfolds.
As we share these sips,
Like our cups, these words pour.
Among the dwellers in the silent fields
The natural heart is touched, and public way
And crowded street resound with ballad strains,
Inspired by one whose very name bespeaks
The wounds will heal,
With hours that pass.
What you feel,
Spills from your glass.
Love - The Symbolic Soul
Love is a journey, only few dispatch it,
Not all can, the dream in life who loves,
Although millions of promises created.
It's fragile like a narrow glass, easily smart,
Is it not strange? A year ago to-day,
With scarce a thought beyond the hum-drum round,
I did my decent job and earned my pay;
Was averagely happy, I'll be bound.
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.
Teach me, my God and King,
In all things Thee to see,
And what I do in anything
To do it as for Thee.
Dim, as the borrow'd beams of moon and stars
To lonely, weary, wand'ring travellers,
Is reason to the soul; and as on high,
Those rolling fires discover but the sky
There were three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high,
An' they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.
For Osip Mandelstam
And the town is frozen solid in a vice,
Trees, walls, snow, beneath a glass.
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
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
AMONG deep woods is the dismantled scite
Of an old Abbey, where the chaunted rite,
By twice ten brethren of the monkish cowl,
Was duly sung; and requiems for the soul
Letter To Maria Gisborne
The spider spreads her webs, whether she be
In poet's tower, cellar, or barn, or tree;
The silk-worm in the dark green mulberry leaves
His winding sheet and cradle ever weaves;
Percy Bysshe Shelley
I weep for Adonais-he is dead!
O, weep for Adonais! though our tears
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!
And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years
Percy Bysshe Shelley
A goldwing moth is between the scissors and the ink bottle
on the desk.
Last night it flew hundreds of circles around a glass bulb
Here at the Super Duper, in a glass tank
Supplied by a rill of cold fresh water
Running down a glass washboard at one end
And siphoned off at the other, and so
Nature's lay idiot, I taught thee to love,
And in that sophistry, Oh, thou dost prove
Too subtle: Foole, thou didst not understand
The mystic language of the eye nor hand:
Where were you last night? I watched at the gate;
I went down early, I stayed down late.
Were you snug at home, I should like to know,
Or were you in the coppice wheedling Kate?
Look! the round-cheeked moon floats high,
In the glowing August sky,
Quenching all her neighbor stars,
Save the steady flame of Mars.
The Filipino Politician
When he finds his wife in bed with another man--
The conservative politician feels an ache in his stomach,
remembers the longanisa and the tapa he had for breakfast.
By the gate with star and moon
Worked into the peeled orange wood
The bronze snake lay in the sun
Words of a poem should be glass
But glass so simple-subtle its shape
Is nothing but the shape of what it holds.
of ice. Deceptively reserved and flat,
it lies “in grandeur and in mass”
beneath a sea of shifting snow-dunes;
dots of cyclamen-red and maroon on its clearly defined