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Many years ago I was living with depression
And all I wanted was just to be alone
But now I found myself smiling with no reason
Funny that sometimes you're in my imagination
Ma. Cristina Colima
The more opportunities you give someone,
To be disrespectful towards you,
The more chances are there to lose respect for your own self.
The more you depend on others for getting respect;
Walking through the rain,
I try to forget the pain.
I try to ignore the sting in my eyes,
because I know a strong girl never cries.
They are the last romantics, these candles:
Upside-down hearts of light tipping wax fingers,
And the fingers, taken in by their own haloes,
Grown milky, almost clear, like the bodies of saints.
Enlaced with gardened jewelry
My basking villas nest
Where sifted sunshine soothes the eye
And cosy hillocks rest.
Ami, Chez Nos Francois
Ami, chez nos FranÃ§ais ma muse voudrait plaire;
Mais j'ai fui la satire Ã leurs regards si chÃ¨re.
Le superbe lecteur, toujours content de lui,
Et toujours plus content s'il peut rire d'autrui,
Andre Marie De Chenier
I have been wondering
What you are thinking about, and by now suppose
It is certainly not me.
But the crocus is up, and the lark, and the blundering
Anthony Evan Hecht
Oft have I brooded on defeat and pain,
The pathos of the stupid, stumbling throng.
These I ignore to-day and only long
To pour my soul forth in one trumpet strain,
Children aren't happy with nothing to ignore,
And that's what parents were created for.
Lone Wild Goose
Alone, the wild goose refuses food and drink,
his calls searching for the flock.
Who feels compassion for that single shadow
By the impulse of my will,
By the red flame in my blood,
By me nerves' electric thrill,
By the passion of my mood,
Ce Siècle Avait Deux Ans
Ce siÃ¨cle avait deux ans ! Rome remplaÃ§ait Sparte,
DÃ©jÃ NapolÃ©on perÃ§ait sous Bonaparte,
Et du premier consul, dÃ©jÃ , par maint endroit,
Le front de l'empereur brisait le masque Ã©troit.
Victor Marie Hugo
The Rush To London
Youâ??re off away to London now,
Where no one dare ignore you,
With Southern laurels on your brow,
And all the world before you.
Watchman, what of the night?
See you a streak of light?
Whither, O Captain of the quest,
I met Jack Ellis in town to-day --
Jack Ellis -- my old mate, Jack --
Ten years ago, from the Castlereagh,
We carried our swags together away
I saw myself in a wide green garden, more beautiful than I could begin to understand. In this garden was a young girl. I said to her, "How wonderful this place is!"
"Would you like to see a place even more wonderful than this?" she asked.
Rabia Al Basri
Now you hear what the house has to say.
Pipes clanking, water running in the dark,
the mortgaged walls shifting in discomfort,
and voices mounting in an endless drone
Crucifix In A Deathhand
yes, they begin out in a willow, I think
the starch mountains begin out in the willow
and keep right on going without regard for
pumas and nectarines
The Poet Viii
He is a link between this and the coming world.
A pure spring from which all thirsty souls may drink.
-Qui aimes-tu le mieux, homme énigmatique, dis? ton père,
ta mère, ta s«ur ou ton frère?
-Je n'ai ni père, ni mère, ni s«ur, ni frère.
Night On The Prairies
NIGHT on the prairies;
The supper is over--the fire on the ground burns low;
The wearied emigrants sleep, wrapt in their blankets:
I walk by myself--I stand and look at the stars, which I think now I
I give God thanks that I, a lean old man,
Wrinkled, infirm, and crippled with keen pains
By austere penance and continuous toil,
Now rest in spirit, and possess “the peace
The rich and fortunate do well to keep silent,
for no one cares to know who and what they are.
But those in need must reveal themselves,
must say: I am blind,
Rainer Maria Rilke
Gold Mouths Cry
Gold mouths cry with the green young
certainty of the bronze boy
remembering a thousand autumns
and how a hundred thousand leaves
Like all children, you were a de facto
Member of the Flat Earth Society,
Believing nothing but what you could see
Or touch or whatever sense led act to
-Qui aimes-tu le mieux, homme Ã©nigmatique, dis? ton pÃ¨re,
ta mÃ¨re, ta sÂ«ur ou ton frÃ¨re?
â??Je nâ??ai ni pÃ¨re, ni mÃ¨re, ni sÂ«ur, ni frÃ¨re.
Oh, I was born a lyric babe
(That last word is a bore-
It's only rhyme is astrolabe,”
Whose meaning I ignore.)
We walk on starry fields of white
And do not see the daisies;
For blessings common in our sight
We rarely offer praises.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox