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Before I loved you, love, nothing was my own:
I wavered through the streets, among
Nothing mattered or had a name:
So I try to assemble my thoughts on a piece of paper
There are so many and so much
One can be discussed, and the rest maybe later .
Struggling in life to have job
How old I was ?
Only my mum has an answer
Farewell to poverty
Lost Ln My Loneliness
Loneliness, oh Loneliness,
There is one word I want to say
But who to listen is my problem.
People say I have nothing important to say
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
I welcome you my son on earth
More especially in this continent of Africa
In a village of which her people are only warm to foreigners
Feel free my son, I am here for you
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
HARK! Young Democracy from sleep
Our careless sentries raps:
A backwash from the Futureâ??s deep
Our Evilâ??s foreland laps.
To rest my fagged brain now and then,
When wearied of my proper labors,
I lay aside my lagging pen
And get to thinking on my neighbors;
I saw an old cottage of clay,
And only of mud was the floor;
It was all falling into decay,
And the snow drifted in at the door.
His old clay pipe stuck in his mouth,
His hat pushed from his brow,
His dress best fitted for the South --
I think I see him now;
The World Is Against Me
'The world is against me,' he said with a sigh.
'Somebody stops every scheme that I try.
The world has me down and it's keeping me there;
I don't get a chance. Oh, the world is unfair!
Edgar Albert Guest
Enlaced with gardened jewelry
My basking villas nest
Where sifted sunshine soothes the eye
And cosy hillocks rest.
Her ladyship's getten a babby, -
An they're makkin a famous to do, -
They say, - Providence treated her shabby -
Shoo wor fairly entitled to two.
I'm sitting alone by the fire,
Dressed just as I came from the dance,
In a robe even YOU would admire,-
It cost a cool thousand in France;
We traveled by a mountain's edge,
It was September calm and bright,
Nature had decked its rocky ledge
With flowers of varied hue and height.
Nannie R. Glass
The riches of the poet are equal to his poetry
His power is his left hand
It is idle weak and precious
His poverty is his wealth, a wealth which may destroy him
I hate this grinding povertyâ??
To toil, and pinch, and borrow,
And be for ever haunted by
The spectre of to-morrow.
An Englishman was Thomas Paine
Who bled for liberty;
But while his fight was far from vain
He died in poverty:
The lovely young Lavinia once had friends;
And fortune smiled deceitful on her birth:
For, in her helpless years deprived of all,
Of every stay, save innocence and Heaven,
In a costly palace Youth goes clad in gold;
In a wretched workhouse Age's limbs are cold:
There they sit, the old men by a shivering fire,
Still close and closer cowering, warmth is their desire.
Thrasymedes And Eunoe
Who will away to Athens with me? Who
Loves choral songs and maidens crown'd with flowers,
Unenvious? mount the pinnace; hoist the sail.
I promise ye, as many as are here,
Walter Savage Landor
The Deserted Village
Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visits paid,
And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed:
'Tell me, would you rather be
Changed by a fairy to the fine
Young orphan heiress Geraldine,
Or still be Emily?
He wants, he asks, he pleads his poverty,
They within doors do him an alms deny.
He doth repeat and aggravate his grief,
But they repulse him, give him no relief.
_P_. Farewell to Europe, and at once farewell
To all the follies which in Europe dwell;
To Eastern India now, a richer clime,
Richer, alas! in everything but rhyme,
A Night Of Storm
Oh city, whom grey stormy hands have sown,
With restless drift, scarce broken now of any,
Out of the dark thy windows dim and many
Gleam red across the storm. Sound is there none,
It is a light, that the wind has extinguished.
It is a pub on the heath, that a drunk departs in the afternoon.
It is a vineyard, charred and black with holes full of spiders.
It is a space, that they have white-limed with milk.
Aims At Happiness
HOW oft has sounded whip and wheel,
How oft is buckled spur to heel,
How many a steed in short relay
Stands harnessed on the king's highway,
It is full winter now: the trees are bare,
Save where the cattle huddle from the cold
Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear
The autumn's gaudy livery whose gold
Blind Old Milton
Place me once more, my daughter, where the sun
May shine upon my old and time-worn head,
For the last time, perchance. My race is run;
And soon amidst the ever-silent dead
William Edmondstoune Aytoun