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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
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.
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
Cinderella in the street
In a ragged gown,
Sloven slippers on her feet,
Shames our tidy town;
Although you sit in a room that is gray,
Except for the silver
Of the straw-paper,
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
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
If on isle of the sea
I have to tarry,
With one book, let it be
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
In the evening the sky was overcast.
And through the grove full of silence and grief
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!
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.
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In some sky sanctuary withdrawn;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
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
Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
Some men were born for great things,
Some were born for small;
Some--it is not recorded
Why they were born at all;
When I am all alone
Envy me most,
Then my thoughts flutter round me
In a glimmering host;
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 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;
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,
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