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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
The room is full of you!-As I came in
And closed the door behind me, all at once
A something in the air, intangible,
Yet stiff with meaning, struck my senses sick!-
Edna St. Vincent Millay
A Red, Red Rose
O my Luve's like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June;
O my Luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly played in tune.
A friend I lost, a friend so close,
A friend I cared about the most.
A friend I loved, cherished like a rose,
A friend I admired, beyond words.
Love, I wish I could hold you close, be yours.
Be the one you wake up to, with or without those clothes,
Caressing you from your head to your toes,
At times greet you with a simple rose
Innocent Killings In Kashmir
My dear friend, I see everyday bloodshed in Kashmir.
My dear friend, I see every day in Kashmir innocent Rose's lost their lives.
My dear friend, I see everyday mother's lost their innocent Rose's in Kashmir.
My dear friend, I see everyday blood flowing in the rivers.
A Song Of Daphne To The Lute
My Daphne's Haire is twisted Gold,
Bright starres a-piece her Eyes doe hold,
My Daphne's Brow inthrones the Graces,
My Daphne's Beauty staines all Faces,
Hear now a curious dream I dreamed last night,
Each word whereof is weighed and sifted truth.
I stood beside Euphrates while it swelled
A Little Prayer
Let us be thankful, Lord, for little things-
The song of birds, the rapture of the rose;
Cloud-dappled skies, the laugh of limpid springs,
Drowned sunbeams and the perfume April blows;
Clown In The Moon
My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.
"Oh, show me how a rose can shut and be a bud again!"
Nay, watch my Lords of the Admiralty, for they have the work in train.
They have taken the men that were careless lads at Dartmouth in 'Fourteen
And entered them at the landward schools as though no war had been.
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
Red means love
Red means destruction
Red is the rose
Red is the blood
People of my kind black Africans,
Black and attractive Africans
See how bright you shine
Your bright blackness shines even in the dark.
Mimi J Milson
From The Bridge
Held and thrilled by the vision
I stood, as the twilight died,
Where the great bridge soars like a song
Over the crawling tide-
The roaring alongside he takes for granted,
and that every so often the world is bound to shake.
He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward,
in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake.
We stood among the boats and nets;
We saw the swift clouds fall,
We watched the schooners scamper in
Before the sudden squall;-
A Legend Of Truth
Once on a time, the ancient legends tell,
Truth, rising from the bottom of her well,
Looked on the world, but, hearing how it lied,
Returned to her seclusion horrified.
Thine emulous fond flowers are dead, too,
And the daft sun-assaulter, he
That frightened thee so oft, is fled or dead:
Save only me
Not Everyone Can Read Thy mind
Not Everyone Can Be Enough Kind
Not Everyone Empathizes The Unsaid
Not Everyone Can Plant Rose's Bed
Say, crimson Rose and dainty Daffodil,
With Violet blue;
Since you have seen the beauty of my saint,
And eke her view;
Song At Sunset
Splendor of ended day, floating and filling me!
Hour prophetic-hour resuming the past!
Inflating my throat-you, divine average!
You, Earth and Life, till the last ray gleams, I sing.
Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
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.
Love And Friendship
Love is like the wild rose-briar,
Friendship like the holly-tree-
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most constantly?
Where has Maid Quiet gone to,
Nodding her russet hood?
The winds that awakened the stars
Are blowing through my blood.
William Butler Yeats
When I am all alone
Envy me most,
Then my thoughts flutter round me
In a glimmering host;
In All Ways A Woman
In my young years I took pride in the fact that luck was called a lady. In fact, there were so few public acknowledgments of the female presence that I felt personally honored whenever nature and large ships were referred to as feminine. But as I matured, I began to resent being considered a sister to a changeling as fickle as luck, as aloof as an ocean, and as frivolous as nature. The phrase 'A woman always has the right to change her mind' played so aptly into the negative image of the female that I made myself a victim to an unwavering decision. Even if I made an inane and stupid choice, I stuck by it rather than 'be like a woman and change my mind.'
Being a woman is hard work. Not without joy and even ecstasy, but still relentless, unending work. Becoming an old female may require only being born with certain genitalia, inheriting long-living genes and the fortune not to be run over by an out-of-control truck, but to become and remain a woman command the existence and employment of genius.
Baiser! rose trémière au jardin des caresses!
Vif accompagnement sur le clavier des dents
Des doux refrains qu'Amour chante en les coeurs ardents,
Avec sa voix d'archange aux langueurs charmeresses!
My garden blazes brightly with the rose-bush and the peach,
And the koil sings above it, in the siris by the well,
From the creeper-covered trellis comes the squirrel's chattering speech,
And the blue jay screams and flutters where the cheery sat-bhai dwell.
Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come,
For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom,
And the crow is on the oak a-building of her nest,
And love is burning diamonds in my true lover's breast;
An Olive Fire
An olive fire's a lovely thing;
Somehow it makes me think of Spring
As in my grate it over-spills
With dancing flames like daffodils.