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Last night I fell asleep watching the moon from my bedroom window
I imagined that you were watching it too
And for that moment
War With Myself
"No, please, stop, I don't want to go over this again", but it said
"just one more, it wouldn't strain a muscle. It's not the first time remember?"
How sad i gave into desires, known to my soul as unclean
Raped by my urges. Lonliness, shame, disgust, worthlessness are what I know.
To The Brightest Star
It was only a while ago,
You opened the door to my world.
As time passed our hearts did grow,
Beautiful tales were told.
Act like them, you won’t make it
Appreciate their era, for who you are today
Griddles’ threaten your health, forgiveness heals
10 million budget function is nothing, for they are not alive
Joy, what could be more eperetising than the Joy of life. what is life without joy. Love it can be given and it can never be taken. What is life like without being loved.
There is a million of things that I would rather do than love another. I would count stars day to day admiring each and everyone of them. I am greedy in nature. I do nothing which is temporary. my main reason why I would spend a lifetime counting stars. No matter how many I count each day the end is never near .
Alone, alone! - no other face
Wears kindred smile, kindred line;
And yet they say my mother's eyes.
They say my father's brow, is mine;
Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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
Though we think alike
but our actions are nothing alike
Today, we march in unity
then the next day we are in disparity
The Praise Of Dust
‘What of vile dust?' the preacher said.
Methought the whole world woke,
The dead stone lived beneath my foot,
And my whole body spoke.
G. K. Chesterton
I know you are too dear to stay;
You are so exquisitely sweet:
My lonely house will thrill some day
To echoes of your eager feet.
Song On May Morning
Now the bright morning Star, Dayes harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The Flowry May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow Cowslip, and the pale Primrose.
Three of us afloat in the meadow by the swing,
Three of us aboard in the basket on the lea.
Winds are in the air, they are blowing in the spring,
And waves are on the meadow like the waves there are at sea.
Robert Louis Stevenson
The Fruit Garden Path
The path runs straight between the flowering rows,
A moonlit path, hemmed in by beds of bloom,
Where phlox and marigolds dispute for room
With tall, red dahlias and the briar rose.
What needs my Shakespear for his honour'd Bones,
The labour of an age in piled Stones,
Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid
Under a Star-ypointing Pyramid?
Two In The Campagna
I wonder how you feel to-day
As I have felt since, hand in hand,
We sat down on the grass, to stray
In spirit better through the land,
Bond And Free
Love has earth to which she clings
With hills and circling arms about-
Wall within wall to shut fear out.
But Thought has need of no such things,
Fireflies In The Garden
Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
And here on earth come emulating flies,
That though they never equal stars in size,
(And they were never really stars at heart)
I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
The Star Splitter
‘You know Orion always comes up sideways.
Throwing a leg up over our fence of mountains,
And rising on his hands, he looks in on me
Busy outdoors by lantern-light with something
Endymion: Book Ii
O Sovereign power of love! O grief! O balm!
All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm,
And shadowy, through the mist of passed years:
For others, good or bad, hatred and tears
Endymion: Book Iii
There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men
With most prevailing tinsel: who unpen
Their baaing vanities, to browse away
The comfortable green and juicy hay
Endymion: Book Iv
Muse of my native land! loftiest Muse!
O first-born on the mountains! by the hues
Of heaven on the spiritual air begot:
Long didst thou sit alone in northern grot,
Epistle To My Brother George
Full many a dreary hour have I past,
My brain bewildered, and my mind o'ercast
With heaviness; in seasons when I've thought
No spherey strains by me could e'er be caught
Hyperion: Book I
Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star,
Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone,
Hyperion: Book Iii
Thus in altemate uproar and sad peace,
Amazed were those Titans utterly.
O leave them, Muse! O leave them to their woes;
For thou art weak to sing such tumults dire:
Ode To Psyche
O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
Even into thine own soft-conched ear:
The Eve Of St. Agnes
St. Agnes' Eve-Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Haydon! forgive me that I cannot speak
Definitively of these mighty things;
Forgive me, that I have not eagle's wings,
That what I want I know not where to seek,
When by my solitary hearth I sit,
And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom;
When no fair dreams before my “mind's eye” flit,
And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;
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.
“If God is Art, then what do we make
of Jasper Johns?” One never knows
what sort of question a patient will pose,
C. Dale Young
I weep for Adonais-he is dead!
O, weep for Adonais! though our tears
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!
And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Best and brightest, come away,
Fairer far than this fair day,
Which, like thee, to those in sorrow
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
Percy Bysshe Shelley