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Years I had been from home,
And now, before the door
I dared not open, lest a face
I never saw before
Where and what is silence ?
In the stillness of nature,
In the dark night with the glowing moon,
In the cold grave,
Deep In Silence
i stared at all my stars as each one fell to the ground
i opened my mouth to scream but failed to make a single sound
The serpent's tail wrapped all around my body as i fight to breathe
Making all these decisions, contemplating, wondering where they'll all lead
Strange thoughts come to the man alone;
'Tis then, if ever, he talks with God,
And views himself as a single clod
In the soil of life where the souls are grown.
Edgar Albert Guest
From dusk till dawn,
I picture those eyes.
Of you I keep dreaming on,
To unite both our lives.
There Was A Boy
There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs
And islands of Winander! many a time,
At evening, when the earliest stars began
To move along the edges of the hills,
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
Song Of Myself
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
When my words don't matter to you
What will my silence do?
When I can't trust you,
Why do I still want to
Ode To Walt Whitman
By the East River and the Bronx
boys were singing, exposing their waists
with the wheel, with oil, leather, and the hammer.
Ninety thousand miners taking silver from the rocks
Federico Garcàa Lorca
Tears In Being Free
And she let me open my wings,
Fly free from her sacred heavens.
She gazed at me, watched as I flee,
Until nevermore she could see.
Hot streaks of white rolls down my cheek
As he holds me ever so close to his heart
The beat of it is like a sweet lullaby reminding me how much he loves me
If I had youth I'd bid the world to try me;
I'd answer every challenge to my will.
Though mountains stood in silence to defy me,
I'd try to make them subject to my skill.
Edgar Albert Guest
It wasn't time that stuck still but myself
No tea, no nothing but the weather.
You take a different shape in hell,
A finer fire than you see in a preacher.
We Who Stay At Home
When you were just our little boy, on many a night we crept
Unto your cot and watched o'er you, and all the time you slept.
We tucked the covers round your form and smoothed your pillow, too,
And sometimes stooped and kissed your cheeks, but that you never knew.
Edgar Albert Guest
Summer pleasures they are gone like to visions every one
And the cloudy days of autumn and of winter cometh on
I tried to call them back but unbidden they are gone
Far away from heart and eye and for ever far away
O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes;
Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth;
Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth
With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs.
In the evening the sky was overcast.
And through the grove full of silence and grief
The forest ended. Glad I was
To feel the light, and hear the hum
Of bees, and smell the drying grass
And the sweet mint, because I had come
Today I pass the time reading
a favorite haiku,
saying the few words over and over.
People pray to each other. The way I say 'you' to someone else,
respectfully, intimately, desperately. The way someone says
'you' to me, hopefully, expectantly, intensely ...
To A Bird At Dawn
O bird that somewhere yonder sings,
In the dim hour 'twixt dreams and dawn,
Lone in the hush of sleeping things,
In some sky sanctuary withdrawn;
Richard Le Gallienne
Addressed to Francis Greenleaf Allison of Burlington, New Jersey.
You scarcely need my tardy thanks,
Who, self-rewarded, nurse and tend--
John Greenleaf Whittier
I ask not that my bed of death
From bands of greedy heirs be free;
For these besiege the latest breath
Of fortune's favoured sons, not me.
The Waste Land
‘Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis
vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent:
Sibylla ti theleis; respondebat illa: apothanein thelo.'
T. S. Eliot
Some men were born for great things,
Some were born for small;
Some--it is not recorded
Why they were born at all;
With half-hearted levies of frost that make foray,
retire, and refrain-
Ambiguous bugles that blow and that falter to
Body And Soul
Half-numb, guzzling bourbon and Coke from coffee mugs,
our fathers fall in love with their own stories, nuzzling
the facts but mauling the truth, and my friend's father begins
to lay out with the slow ease of a blues ballad a story
B H Fairchild
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 Soldier's Grave
Breathe not a whisper here;
The place where thou dost stand is hallowed ground;
In silence gather near this upheaved mound -
Around the soldier's bier.
In this era the leaders are very ambitious,
They want to lead and threaten the world,
With power of force and nuclear weapons &
Capture beyond the control land,
Power Of Words
Words are very powerful that
It cut deeper than a swords,
The cuts of words are irreparable and,
The blow with swords can be cured.
I Am Defeated
By the hollowness around me
By the emotional rivalries that surround me
By the dreams that are yet to achieve
By the collapsing hopes that are hard to retrieve
Calmes dans le demi-jour
Que les branches hautes font,
Pénétrons bien notre amour
De ce silence profond.
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 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