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I Love You
I love you
like dipping bread into salt and eating
Like waking up at night with high fever
and drinking water, with the tap in my mouth
The Next Plane
Why do I see a different person in you?
Once you were the light of my heart
You were the light of my thoughts
Does the world changed you?
The Beaks Of Eagles
An eagle's nest on the head of an old redwood on one of the
Above Ventana Creek, that jagged country which nothing but a
falling meteor will ever plow; no horseman
I'm in a plane that will not be flown into a building.
It's a SAAB 340, seats 40, has two engines with propellers
is why I think of beanies, those hats that would spin
a young head into the clouds. The plane is red and loud
The Christmas Beetle
When Christmas comes the Christmas heat'll
bring once more the Christmas Beetle
The first inflammatory breeze'll
set him buzzing like a diesel.
Days that cannot bring you near
or will not,
Distance trying to appear
something more obstinate,
Thump of a horse's hoof behind the hedge;
Long stripes of shadow, and green flame in the grass
Between them; discrowned, glaucous poppy--pods
On their tall stalks; a rose
Robert Laurence Binyon
Tea On The Lawn
It was foretold by sybils three
that in an air crash he would die.
“I'll fool their prophesy,” said he;
“You won't get me to go on high.
Nay, why reproach each other, be unkind,
For there's no plane on which we two may meet?
Let's both forgive, forget, for both were blind,
And life is of a day, and time is fleet.
Aroused and angry,
I thought to beat the alarum, and urge relentless war;
But soon my fingers fail'd me, my face droop'd, and I resign'd myself,
To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the dead.
'Twas on an iron, icy day
I saw a pirate gull down-plane,
And hover in a wistful way
Nigh where my chickens picked their grain.
EACH small gleam was a voice
-A lantern voice-
In little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.
A chorus of colors came over the water;
after information received in The St. Louis Post-Dispatch, 4 v 86
The population center of the USA
Has shifted to Potosi, in Missouri.
The little white clouds are racing over the sky,
And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March,
The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled larch
Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.
When I am buried, all my thoughts and acts
Will be reduced to lists of dates and facts,
And long before this wandering flesh is rotten
The dates which made me will be all forgotten;
Fountain, that springest on this grassy slope,
Thy quick cool murmur mingles pleasantly,
With the cool sound of breezes in the beach,
Above me in the noontide. Thou dost wear
William Cullen Bryant
Death And Birth
'Tis the midnight hour; I heard
The Abbey-bell give out the word.
Seldom is the lamp-ray shed
On some dwarfed foot-farer's head
To A Child
The fairies have been busy while you slept;
They have been laughing where the sad rain wept,
To Bayard Taylor
To range, deep-wrapt, along a heavenly height,
O'erseeing all that man but undersees;
To loiter down lone alleys of delight,
And hear the beating of the hearts of trees,
The Raspberries In My Driveway
Nature will bear the closest inspection . She invites us to lay our eyes level with her smallest leaf, and take an insect view of its plain.
At the Poem Society a black-haired man stands up to say
-You make me sick with all your talk about restraint and mature talent!
REMOTE from scenes, where the o'erwearied mind
Shrinks from the crimes and follies of mankind,
From hostile menace, and offensive boast,
Peace, and her train of home-born pleasures lost;
Un soir plein de pourpres et de fleuves vermeils
Pourrit, par au-delÃ des plaines diminuÃ©es,
Et fortement, avec les poings de ses nuÃ©es,
Sur l'horizon verdÃ¢tre, Ã©crase des soleils.
The Woful Tale Of Mr. Peters
I should like, good friends, to mention the disaster which befell
Mr. William Perry Peters, of the town of Muscatel,
Whose fate is full of meaning, if correctly understood
Admonition to the haughty, consolation to the good.
rld to sleep,
Late in the evening the strange horses came.
By then we had made our covenant with silence,
But in the first few days it was so still
The Old Swimmin' Hole
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deep
Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,
And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below
Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know
James Whitcomb Riley
Toute la mer va vers la ville !
Son port est surmontÃ© d'un million de croix :
Vergues transversales barrant de grands mÃ¢ts droits.
Last Will And Testament
Comrades, if I don't live to see the day
-- I mean,if I die before freedom comes --
take me away
and bury me in a village cemetery in Anatolia.
Some sings of the lily, and daisy, and rose,
And the pansies and pinks that the Summertime
In the green grassy lap of the medder that lays
James Whitcomb Riley
Mother And The Baby
Mother and the baby! Oh, I know no lovelier pair,
For all the dreams of all the world are hovering 'round them there;
And be the baby in his cot or nestling in her arms,
The picture they present is one with never-fading charms.
Edgar Albert Guest
Ah Ling, The Leper
UP a dark and fetid alley, where the offal and the slime
Of a brave and blusterous city met its misery and crime,
In a hovel reeking pestilence, and noisome as the grave,
Dwelt Ah Ling, the Chinese joiner, and the sweaterâ??s willing slave.
Edward George Dyson
At last you're tired of this elderly world
Shepherdess O Eiffel Tower this morning the bridges are bleating
The Trees Are Down
and he cried with a loud voice: Hurt not the earth, neither the sea, nor the trees - Revelation
They are cutting down the great plane-trees at the end of
Charlotte Mary Mew
A London Plane-tree
Green is the plane-tree in the square,
The other trees are brown;
They droop and pine for country air;
The plane-tree loves the town.
O Lord, at Joseph's humble bench
Thy hands did handle saw and plane;
Thy hammer nails did drive and clench,
Avoiding knot and humouring grain.
The Iliad: Book 02
Now the other gods and the armed warriors on the plain slept
soundly, but Jove was wakeful, for he was thinking how to do honour to
Achilles, and destroyed much people at the ships of the Achaeans. In
the end he deemed it would be best to send a lying dream to King