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What Do I Care?
What do I care, in the dreams and the languor of spring,
That my songs do not show me at all?
For they are a fragrance, and I am a flint and a fire,
I am an answer, they are only a call.
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
She sought to breathe one word, but vainly;
Too many listeners were nigh;
And yet my timid glance read plainly
The language of her speaking eye.
Oh dear !
Can our hearts the agonies smear ?
Let's be candid,
Let's be clear.
C K Rawat
It's hard that you keep being underestimated,
People see you as an outsider, or far from their level.
Racism under their state of mind,
They judged at you for being poor,
It keeps me busy in my bookish cage
Gliding and sliding on the open page
It rest so quiet but not dumb
In the room we stood
Silent: The room was confined in a grave
Faced each other
We made no moves
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
A Song In The Desert
Friend, thou beholdest the lightning? Who has the charge of it,
To decree which rock-ridge shall receive, shall be chosen for targe of it?
Which crown among palms shall go down, by the thunderbolt broken;
While the floods drown the sere wadis where no bud is token?
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
Among the dwellers in the silent fields
The natural heart is touched, and public way
And crowded street resound with ballad strains,
Inspired by one whose very name bespeaks
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
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,
The Silent Lover (i)
Passions are liken'd best to floods and streams:
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb;
So, when affection yields discourse, it seems
The bottom is but shallow whence they come.
Sir Walter Raleigh
All the striving, all the failing,
To the silent Nothing sailing.
Swiftly, swiftly passing by!
For the land of shadows leaving,
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
Give me the support of living in your breath,
I am obsessed in the deep ocean of your eyes,
I got you that i believed is the God's support,
I have got the permission in my life,
Two Old Houses
Away from mismatched buildings which seems to go on above the 7th heaven with perfect shape and structure yet with poorest enlightenment, there is a pretty yet petty little small town at the edge of the waters.
Away from cold hearts handling warm coffee sitting in crisp winter air, there is a town with warm hearts handling cold coffee in peaceful summer air.
A bit too far away from here in that pretty little town, there is a street with perfect enlightenment and finally in that street, there stands two houses proudly facing each other since 1987.
One house Is bold white and the other one is dull black with same structure, same kind of tulips in their garden which sway slightly in the same air as they nod each other greetings in the morning.
A raven, while with glossy breast
Her new-laid eggs she fondly press'd,
And, on her wicker-work high mounted,
Her chickens prematurely counted
Very Many People
On the Downs, in the Weald, on the Marshes,
I heard the Old Gods say:
"Here come Very Many People:
"We must go away.
Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
The Tripodal Firestones
Women! You are like our tripodal Firestones
Blackened by service; confined within
The ashen heat of your masters,
Burning with broken promises and matrimonial taboos
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.
The Holy Fair
A note of seeming truth and trust
Hid crafty observation;
And secret hung, with poison'd crust,
The dirk of defamation:
I remember the night I discovered,
lying in bed in the dark,
that a few imagined holes of golf
worked much better than a thousand sheep,
We were entwined in red rings
Of blood and loneliness before
I see you, on the zigzag rails,
You cheery little fellow!
While purple leaves are whirling down,
And scarlet, brown, and yellow.
Visit Of The Dead
Thy soul shall find itself alone
Alone of all on earth, unknown
The cause, but none are near to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.
Edgar Allan Poe
It was deep night, and over Jerusalem's low roofs
The moon floated, drifting through high vaporous woofs.
The moonlight crept and glistened silent, solemn, sweet,
Over dome and column, up empty, endless street;
Sweet are thy strains, celestial Bard;
And oft, in childhood's years,
I've read them o'er and o'er again,
With floods of silent tears.
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.
From what portion of my mind do my thoughts come from?
If only I knew,
there would be many I'm sure.
â??Those who speak know nothing;
Those who know are silent.â?
These words, as I am told,
Were spoken by Lao Tzu.
The Old Pond
Following are several translations
of the 'Old Pond' poem, which may be
the most famous of all haiku:
When my devotions could not pierce
Thy silent ears;
Then was my heart broken, as was my verse:
My breast was full of fears