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Your Laughter - Poem by Pablo Neruda


Take bread away from me, if you wish,
take air away, but
do not take from me your laughter.

Do not take away the rose,
the lance flower that you pluck,
the water that suddenly
bursts forth in joy,
the sudden wave
of silver born in you.

My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky seeking me
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.

My love, in the darkest
hour your laughter
opens, and if suddenly
you see my blood staining
the stones of the street,
laugh, because your laughter
will be for my hands
like a fresh sword.

Next to the sea in the autumn,
your laughter must raise
its foamy cascade,
and in the spring, love,
I want your laughter like
the flower I was waiting for,
the blue flower, the rose
of my echoing country.

Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
laugh at the twisted
streets of the island,
laugh at this clumsy
boy who loves you,
but when I open
my eyes and close them,
when my steps go,
when my steps return,
deny me bread, air,
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I would die.

Edited by paoladegliesposti

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Good day of middle Summer!

Bright Star - Poem by John Keats


Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art--
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.

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On Raglan Road




On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.

On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge,
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay -
O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away.

I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say.
With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May

On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay -
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.



Patrick Kavanah

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'hello' The voice is something greatly different from the other ones it has ever been heard. At least it seems in that moment in which thoughts are about the mistery of the universe and the cycle of seasons. Indeed, it can be a dream becoming real when there is silence in the room and nothing can be other than the light coming through the window and the twitter of birds amongst trees in the park down below.

The house is quiet and everyone is doing its best to lead the day. '  hello' again,once more someone wants to enter.

Is it possible to leave this calm and perfect atmosphere there is around?

' Who is in? ' the voice inside the room now  sounds clearly disturbed  The answer is not immediate.

There is no Tv, so it cannot be switched on.

' Hello' again the voice from the outside keeps on the same lenght of wave.

It is time to stand up and come near the door that it 's open. The voice from the inside of the room replies surely ' Are you kidding? You can come in, the door is open,

Oh ok, what are you doing?

' i am thinking.'

' That's what i was doing myself before coming in.'

' All right let's think together, then'

' About what?'

' About today.'

' And who talks?'

' Who wants.'

' It is reasonable'

' Of course it is'

' let's start, then'

' Yes, sit down and shut up.'


True daughter of old time thou art,

Who alters all things with thy peering eyes! 


Why prays thou upon the poets heart,

Vulture who's wing's are a dull reality?


How should we love thee

Or how deem thee wise

Who would not leave him in his wandering

To seek for treasure in the jeweled skies?


Albeit he soared with undaunting wing,


Has thou not dragged Diana from her car

And driven the hamadryad from the wood,

To seek a shelter in some happier star?


Has thou not torn the naiad from her flood,

The elfin from the green grass


And from me...

the summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?


Edgar Allen Poe: Ode to Science

Edited by littlejoe3

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