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Quite A Habit....
Here comes the morning;
Blue sky, lush grass, dew drops
Yet thee not beholding my eyes;
Here comes the noon;
Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass
And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind
Blow over me-I am so tired, so tired
Of passing pleasant places! All my life,
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Seasons Of Life
Gazing at the breezy night
Empty or lack of immense sunlight
And the onset of Winters shined
Though reflecting warmth of mankind
While it flawlessly divines itself during the shine and the rain,
All the while it stands boldly upright;
Keeping the thought of being colossal away,
While people are trying to bring it down;
Machineel In A Cassock
The guiltless shepherd
is a collared machineel in a cassock
He bears pretty tasty apples
That accord him innocent and benovelent looks
The Sea Wind
I am a pool in a peaceful place,
I greet the great sky face to face,
I know the stars and the stately moon
And the wind that runs with rippling shoon-
I am: yet what I am none cares or knows
My friends forsake me like a memory lost,
I am the self-consumer of my woes-
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Late October Woods
Clumped in the shadow of the beech,
In whose brown top the crows are loud,
Where, every side, great briers reach
And cling like hands, the beechdrops crowd
Madison Julius Cawein
I am an alien
I live in a world where aggression and brutality are the codes
The people of this world find fun in watching people slowly lose their breath
Piol Tiek John
Joy, what could be more eperetising than the Joy of life. what is life without joy. Love it can be given and it can never be taken. What is life like without being loved.
There is a million of things that I would rather do than love another. I would count stars day to day admiring each and everyone of them. I am greedy in nature. I do nothing which is temporary. my main reason why I would spend a lifetime counting stars. No matter how many I count each day the end is never near .
Summer pleasures they are gone like to visions every one
And the cloudy days of autumn and of winter cometh on
I tried to call them back but unbidden they are gone
Far away from heart and eye and for ever far away
Advent Of Spring
The city has fallen: only the hills and rivers remain.
In Spring the streets were green with grass and trees.
Sorrowing over the times, the flowers are weeping.
The birds startled my heart in fear of departing.
So, the bank has bust it's boiler! And in six or seven year
It will pay me all my money back -- of course!
But the horse will perish waiting while the grass is germinating,
And I reckon I'll be something like the horse.
Thine emulous fond flowers are dead, too,
And the daft sun-assaulter, he
That frightened thee so oft, is fled or dead:
Save only me
The forest ended. Glad I was
To feel the light, and hear the hum
Of bees, and smell the drying grass
And the sweet mint, because I had come
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.
And sometimes I am sorry when the grass
Is growing over the stones in quiet hollows
And the cocksfoot leans across the rutted cart-pass
That I am not the voice of country fellows
Small, shapeless drifts of cloud
Sail slowly northward in the soft-hued sky,
With blur half-tints and rolling summits bright,
By the late sun caressed; slight hazes shroud
To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,
The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall,
As if he grew there, house and all
Oh holy Sabbath bells,
Ye have a pleasant voice!
Through all the land your music swells,
And man with one commandment tells
The Old Grey Mare
There's a line of rails on an upland green
With a good take-off and a landing sound,
Six fences grim as were ever seen,
And it's there I would be with fox and hound.
R. C. Lehmann
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.
Requiring something lovely on his arm
Took me to Stamford, Connecticut, a quasi-farm,
His family's; later picking up the mammoth
Girlfriend of Charlie, meanwhile trying to pawn me off
The mountain held the town as in a shadow
I saw so much before I slept there once:
I noticed that I missed stars in the west,
Where its black body cut into the sky.
The City Of Choan
The phoenix are at play on their terrace.
The phoenix are gone, the river Hows on alone.
Flowers and grass
Cover over the dark path
I remember the night I discovered,
lying in bed in the dark,
that a few imagined holes of golf
worked much better than a thousand sheep,
Ring Of Grass
Rings of grass crowns of flowers they're gone gone gone gone
Furs that I woven of whispering hours gone gone gone gone
She's gone away where the rings are real
And the furs have warmth that a woman can feel
I shall tread, another year,
Ways I walked with Grief,
Past the dry, ungarnered ear
And the brittle leaf.
After an address to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar, Ossian proceeds to relate his own expedition to FuÃ¤rfed, an island of Scandinavia. Mal-orchol, king of FuÃ¤rfed, being hard pressed in war by Ton-thormod, chief of Sar-dronto (who had demanded in vain the daughter of Mal-orchol in marriage,) Fingal sent Ossian to his aid. Ossian, on the day after his arrival, came to battle with Ton-thormod, and took him prisoner. Mal-orchol offers his daughter, Oina-morul, to Ossian; but he, discovering her passion for Ton-thormod, generously surrenders her to her lover, and brings about a reconciliation between the two kings.
A delicate fabric of bird song
Floats in the air,
The smell of wet wild earth
My night sweats grease his breakfast plate.
The same placard of blue fog is wheeled into position
With the same trees and headstones.
Is that all he can come up with,
When the summer fields are mown,
When the birds are fledged and flown,
And the dry leaves strew the path;
With the falling of the snow,
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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,
The skies are blue above my head,
The prairie green below,
And flickering o'er the tufted grass
The shifting shadows go,
To-day within a grog-shop near
I saw a newly captured linnet,
Who beat against his cage in fear,
And fell exhausted every minute;
Robert William Service
The wind flapped loose, the wind was still,
Shaken out dead from tree and hill;
I had walked on at the wind's will-
I sat now, for the wind was still.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Sweet solitude, what joy to be alone--
In wild, wood-shady dell to stay for hours.
Twould soften hearts if they were hard as stone
To see glad butterflies and smiling flowers.
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