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Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass
And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind
Blow over me-I am so tired, so tired
Of passing pleasant places! All my life,
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Ebony is what I call her name
She and beauty are equal and same
Whenever she's out of sight causes an ache
Because she taste sweet like cake
Although you sit in a room that is gray,
Except for the silver
Of the straw-paper,
Cinderella in the street
In a ragged gown,
Sloven slippers on her feet,
Shames our tidy town;
And he showed me a pure River of Water of Life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the Throne of God and of the Lamb." -- Rev. xxii. 1
Shall we gather at the river
Robert Wadsworth Lowry
If on isle of the sea
I have to tarry,
With one book, let it be
The shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device-
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
In the evening the sky was overcast.
And through the grove full of silence and grief
I love when you near me
I coulda do this for eternity, you and me
I'm a good boy but for you will drop out
No madness here just silver, gold and two hearts
Not Everyone Can Read Thy mind
Not Everyone Can Be Enough Kind
Not Everyone Empathizes The Unsaid
Not Everyone Can Plant Rose's Bed
The Trail Of Ninety-eight
Gold! We leapt from our benches. Gold! We sprang from our stools.
Gold! We wheeled in the furrow, fired with the faith of fools.
Fearless, unfound, unfitted, far from the night and the cold,
Heard we the clarion summons, followed the master-lure-Gold!
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In some sky sanctuary withdrawn;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
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.
Through the open French window the warm sun
Lights up the polished breakfast-table, laid
Round a bowl of crimson roses, for one -
A service of Worcester porcelain, arrayed
When I am all alone
Envy me most,
Then my thoughts flutter round me
In a glimmering host;
Some men were born for great things,
Some were born for small;
Some--it is not recorded
Why they were born at all;
In Spite Of War
In spite of war, in spite of death,
In spite of all man's sufferings,
Something within me laughs and sings
And I must praise with all my breath.
A Working Party
Three hours ago he blundered up the trench,
Sliding and poising, groping with his boots;
Sometimes he tripped and lurched against the walls
With hands that pawed the sodden bags of chalk.
Birds In Summer
How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Flitting about in each leafy tree;
In the leafy trees so broad and tall,
Like a green and beautiful palace hall,
A Poet Of One Mood
A poet of one mood in all my lays,
Ranging all life to sing one only love,
Like a west wind across the world I move,
Sweeping my harp of floods mine own wild ways.
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;
White founts falling in the courts of the sun,
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;
There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,
It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard,
G. K. Chesterton
The river sleeps beneath the sky,
And clasps the shadows to its breast;
The crescent moon shines dim on high;
And in the lately radiant west
Paul Laurence Dunbar
The Wings Of Love
I will row my boat on Muckross Lake when the grey of the dove
Comes down at the end of the day; and a quiet like prayer
Grows soft in your eyes, and among your fluttering hair
The red of the sun is mixed with the red of your cheek.
James H. Cousins
Of all the meals that glad my day
My morning one's the best;
Purveyed me on a silver tray,
HONEY, child, honey, child, whither are you going?
Would you cast your jewels all to the breezes blowing?
Would you leave the mother who on golden grain has fed you?
Would you grieve the lover who is riding forth to wed you?