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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
When you close your eyes
I see the beauty of a real black woman
blazing like the bright light from heaven
Look! the round-cheeked moon floats high,
In the glowing August sky,
Quenching all her neighbor stars,
Save the steady flame of Mars.
THE SUN had clos'd the winter day,
The curless quat their roarin play,
And hunger'd maukin taen her way,
To kail-yards green,
Beautiful Loch Ness,
The truth to express,
Your landscapes are lovely and gay,
Along each side of your waters, to Fort Augustus all the way,
William Topaz Mcgonagall
(In memory of Joseph Mary Plunkett)
“Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.”
I like to be dependent, and so for ever
with warmth and care of my mother
my father , to love, kiss and embrace
wear life happily in all their grace.
Records Of Romantic Passion
THEREâ??S a rare Soul of Poesy which may be
But concentrated by the chastened dreams
Of constant hearts. Whereâ??er the ministry
Of beautiful Nature hath enhanced the themes
I am like a pelican of the wilderness: I am
like an owl of the desert. I watch, and am
as a sparrow alone upon the housetop.
What need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
William Butler Yeats
The World In The House
PILGRIMS who journey in the narrow way,
Should go as little cumbered as they may.
'Tis heavy sailing with a freighted ship ;
'Tis pleasant travelling with a staff and scrip.
Poetry And Reality
THE worldly minded, cast in common mould,
With all his might pursuing fame or gold,
And towards that goal too vehemently hurled
To waste a thought about another world,
Love will expire--the gay, the happy dream
Will turn to scorn, indiff'rence, or esteem:
Females there are of unsuspicious mind,
Easy and soft and credulous and kind;
THE WIDOW'S TALE.
To Farmer Moss, in Langar Vale, came down,
His only daughter, from her school in town;
Childhood, A Poem: Part I
Pictured in memory's mellowing glass, how sweet
Our infant days, our infant joys, to greet;
To roam in fancy in each cherish'd scene,
The village churchyard, and the village green,
Henry Kirk White
To Mrs. Goodchild
The night-wind's shriek is pitiless and hollow,
The boding bat flits by on sullen wing,
And I sit desolate, like that 'one swallow'
Who found (with horror) that he'd not brought spring:
Charles Stuart Calverley
Tired with the busy crowds, that all the day
Impatient throng where Folly's altars flame,
Spring's herald, hail! You've rent the forest's quiet?
Your hair is wet, and you are leaf-strewn, dustyâ?¦
With your powers lusty
Have you raised a riot?
Written between the ages of fourteen and fifteen,
with a few subsequent verbal alterations
Henry Kirk White
Late, when the Autumn evening fell
On MirkwoodÃ¢â?¬â??Mere's romantic dell,
The lake return'd, in chastenÃ¢â?¬â?¢d gleam,
The purple cloud, the golden beam:
Sir Walter Scott
Her My Body
about the left nipple
of the woman in the bathroom.
She is drying her hair, the woman
'THESE are the floating berries of the night,
They drop their harvest in dark alleys down,
Softly far down on groves of Venus, or on a little town
Forgotten at the world's edgeâ??and O, their light
Burning, he walks in the stream of flickering letters, clarinets,
machines throbbing quicker than the heart, lopped-off heads, silk
canvases, and he stops under the sky
Lines To Miss ---- ,
Upon Her Appearing At A Ball In An Elegant Plaid Dress,
And Having Repeatedly Before Expressed Her Preference Of The Scotish Nation.
John Carr (sir)
Shakespearean fish swam the sea, far away from land;
Romantic fish swam in nets coming to the hand;
What are all those fish that lie gasping on the strand?
William Butler Yeats
Poet exaggerate creative imagination,
Phrasing the words,
Narrating the stories,
Sing a sentimental song in rhyming rhythm,
Moonlight And Love
Moonlight is romantic and so gentle,
Reflects the love in waves of sea,
Seagulls are screaming cutting the air,
Sand holds the lovers footprints as they walk away.
Too cold, O my brother, too cold for my wife
Is the Beauty you showed me this morning:
Nor yet have I found the sweet dream of my life,
And good-bye to the sneering and scorning.
The Tweed Visited
O Tweed! a stranger, that with wandering feet
O'er hill and dale has journeyed many a mile,
(If so his weary thoughts he might beguile),
Delighted turns thy stranger-stream to greet.
William Lisle Bowles