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It was beautiful when things
Were normal between you and me.
When there were meaning to greetings,
When you spoke without a worry.
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
Sleep, let me sleep, for I am sick of care;
Sleep, let me sleep, for my pain wearies me.
Shut out the light; thicken the heavy air
With drowsy incense; let a distant stream
Each day with so much ceremony
begins, with birds, with bells,
with whistles from a factory;
such white-gold skies our eyes
It keeps me busy in my bookish cage
Gliding and sliding on the open page
It rest so quiet but not dumb
My life is in a hub
My heart in a music confused convergence
I watched helplessly my thoughts swinging
The clutter and the clatter,
The morning dew drops drip,
The stormy weather,
The taste in each coffee sip.
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
Michael: A Pastoral Poem
If from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
My poem may be yours indeed
In melody and tone,
If in its rhythm you can read
A music of your own;
I've got to tell you
how I love you always
I think of it on grey
mornings with death
I know you are too dear to stay;
You are so exquisitely sweet:
My lonely house will thrill some day
To echoes of your eager feet.
Ah, had you seen the Coolun,
Walking down by the cuckoo's street,
With the dew of the meadow shining
On her milk-white twinkling feet.
Sir Samuel Ferguson
Chickens are for food,
Horses they give a ride,
With birds there's music,
Dogs host a scare campaign,
She is hot to the sea that crouches beside,
Human and hot to the cool stars peering down,
My passionate city, my quivering town,
And her dark blood, tide upon purple tide,
SWEET are the thoughts that savor of content;
The quiet mind is richer than a crown;
Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent;
The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry frown.
I never knew the joy of getting home,
I never knew how fast a heart could beat;
I never tasted joy,
Till the day my little boy
Edgar Albert Guest
Oh holy Sabbath bells,
Ye have a pleasant voice!
Through all the land your music swells,
And man with one commandment tells
The House is crammed: tier beyond tier they grin
And cackle at the Show, while prancing ranks
Of harlots shrill the chorus, drunk with din;
‘We're sure the Kaiser loves our dear old Tanks!'
life is just dandy
you get girls dancing to music within
everybody likes candy
mit worten of girls go good setting
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.
I dreamed a Voice, of one God-authorised,
Cried loudly throâ?? the world, â??Disarm! Disarm! â??
And there was consernation in the camps;
And men who strutted under braid and lace
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
The Old Pond
Following are several translations
of the 'Old Pond' poem, which may be
the most famous of all haiku:
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.
I know the song that the bluebird is singing,
Out in the apple-tree where he is swinging;
Brave little fellow, the skies may look dreary;
Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery.
Emily Huntington Miller
When first we hear the shy-come nightingales,
They seem to mutter o'er their songs in fear,
And, climb we e'er so soft the spinney rails,
All stops as if no bird was anywhere.
I don't get tired of you. Don't grow weary
of being compassionate toward me!
All this thirst equipment
must surely be tired of me,
Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
Once I knew a noble peasant
From a line of men large-hearted.
Light and strength were in his mind,
Lifted like a peak clear-lined
I heard them say, "Her hands are hard as stone,"
And I remembered how she laid for me
The road to heaven. They said, "Her hair is grey."
Then I remembered how she once had thrown