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I Guess It's Over
I guess they were right,
when they said the world isn't all black and white.
Nothing lasts forever,
but I thought we'd stay together
The clutter and the clatter,
The morning dew drops drip,
The stormy weather,
The taste in each coffee sip.
Man must make run the 'errands'
To get rid off the noise that invades
Shocking nights and knocking brains
A gentle caress with feeble hands
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.
Along the wind-swept platform, pinched and white,
The travellers stand in pools of wintry light,
Offering themselves to morn's long, slanting arrows.
The train's due; porters trundle laden barrows.
All For Me
All for me the bumble-bee
Drones his song in the perfect weather;
And, just on purpose to sing to me,
Thrush and blue-bird came North together.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
The Old Huntsman
I've never ceased to curse the day I signed
A seven years' bargain for the Golden Fleece.
'Twas a bad deal all round; and dear enough
It cost me, what with my daft management,
Your mind and mine are such great lovers they
Have freed themselves from cautious human clay,
And on wild clouds of thought, naked together
They ride above us in extreme delight;
To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,
The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall,
As if he grew there, house and all
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
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.
The hulk of a man with a beer in his hand looked like a drunk old fool,
And I knew that if I hit him right, I could knock him off that stool.
But everybody said, 'Watch out, that's Tiger Man McCool.
He's had a whole lot of fights, and he always come out the winner.
Out of the wood my White Knight came:
His eyes were bright with a bitter flame,
As I clung to his stirrup leather;
For I was only a dreaming lad,
Shepherds go whistling on their way
In the spring season of the year;
One watches weather-signs of day;
One of his maid most dear
The Green Linnet
Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
With brightest sunshine round me spread
Of spring's unclouded weather,
I see you, on the zigzag rails,
You cheery little fellow!
While purple leaves are whirling down,
And scarlet, brown, and yellow.
The Old Playhouse
You planned to tame a swallow, to hold her
In the long summer of your love so that she would forget
Not the raw seasons alone, and the homes left behind, but
Also her nature, the urge to fly, and the endless
Away thou fondling motley humorist,
Leave mee, and in this standing woodden chest,
Consorted with these few bookes, let me lye
In prison, and here be coffin'd, when I dye;
Letter To Maria Gisborne
The spider spreads her webs, whether she be
In poet's tower, cellar, or barn, or tree;
The silk-worm in the dark green mulberry leaves
His winding sheet and cradle ever weaves;
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Side by side through the streets at midnight,
Through the tumultuous night of London,
In the miraculous April weather.
Like A Vocation
Not as that dream Napoleon, rumour's dread and centre,
Before who's riding all the crowds divide,
Who dedicates a column and withdraws,
Nor as that general favourite and breezy visitor
W. H. Auden
The Odyssey: Book 09
And Ulysses answered, “King Alcinous, it is a good thing to hear a
bard with such a divine voice as this man has. There is nothing better
or more delightful than when a whole people make merry together,
with the guests sitting orderly to listen, while the table is loaded
Back out of all this now too much for us,
Back in a time made simple by the loss
Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off
Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather,
A Song Of Life
In the rapture of life and of living,
I lift up my heart and rejoice,
And I thank the great Giver for giving
The soul of my gladness a voice.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Beauty And Files
I don't know what is the vice I 'er own
Yet, forbidden stars'-light can't shed my light
Mine own is all too heavy, I swen
So a ministerial marked the school
The Ant And The Cricket
A silly young cricket, accustomed to sing
Through the warm, sunny months of gay summer and spring,
Began to complain, when he found that at home
His cupboard was empty and winter was come.
To Think Of Time
To think of time, of all that retrospection!
To think of to-day, and the ages continued henceforward!
Have you guess'd you yourself would not continue?
'Twas in a wee bit but-an'-ben
She bade when first I kent her,
Doon the side roadie by the kirk
Whaur Andra was precentor.
Tree At My Window
Tree at my window, window tree,
My sash is lowered when night comes on;
But let there never be curtain drawn
Between you and me.
The sting of bees took away my father
who walked in a swarming shroud of wings
and scorned the tick of the falling weather.
I am stirred by the dream of an afternoon
Of a perfect day-though it was not June;
The lilt of winds, and the droning tune
That a busy city was humming.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Sometime now past in the Autumnal Tide,
When Phœbus wanted but one hour to bed,
The trees all richly clad, yet void of pride,
Were gilded o're by his rich golden head.
Rich cloth under my fingers
While yours touch poor fabric.
A quick embrace