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Eulalie - Poem by Edgar Allan Poe

 

I dwelt alone

In a world of moan,
And my soul was a stagnant tide,
Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride-
Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.

Ah, less- less bright
The stars of the night
Than the eyes of the radiant girl!
That the vapor can make
With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl-
Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless
curl.

Now Doubt- now Pain
Come never again,
For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
And all day long
Shines, bright and strong,
Astarte within the sky,
While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye-
While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.

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I see one-third of a nation ill-housed, ill-clad, ill-nourished. Franklin D. Roosevelt (1882-1945), U.S. Democratic politician, president. second inaugural addresss, Jan. 20, 1937. Public Papers

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A Lady Who Thinks She Is Thirty - Poem by Ogden Nash

 

 

Unwillingly Miranda wakes,
Feels the sun with terror,
One unwilling step she takes,
Shuddering to the mirror.

Miranda in Miranda's sight
Is old and gray and dirty;
Twenty-nine she was last night;
This morning she is thirty.

Shining like the morning star,
Like the twilight shining,
Haunted by a calendar,
Miranda is a-pining.

Silly girl, silver girl,
Draw the mirror toward you;
Time who makes the years to whirl
Adorned as he adored you.

Time is timelessness for you;
Calendars for the human;
What's a year, or thirty, to
Loveliness made woman?

Oh, Night will not see thirty again,
Yet soft her wing, Miranda;
Pick up your glass and tell me, then--
How old is Spring, Miranda?

:)
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may this song reach the sky/

may the will be portentous/

we are strong and faithful

of our best and strong efforts/

may this song reach your senses/

may these words enchant you

for the day long/

on this day/

floating on subjects/

sometimes it is better to ignore/

clicking on some pictures/

you may laugh

or screams about them/

we reach the hignest

love caress/together/

we reach the highest love

caress/

with no word/

or touch/

we are one

and complete/because

we are positive/

we are one

and complete/

oh oh oh/

 

:D

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Song Of Myself - Poem by Sir Walter Raleigh

 

I was a Poet!
But I did not know it,
Neither did my Mother,
Nor my Sister nor my Brother.
The Rich were not aware of it;
The Poor took no care of it.
The Reverend Mr. Drewitt
Never knew it.
The High did not suspect it;
The Low could not detect it.
Aunt Sue
Said it was obviously untrue.
Uncle Ned
Said I was off my head:
(This from a Colonial
Was really a good testimonial.)
Still everybody seemed to think
That genius owes a good deal to drink.
So that is how
I am not a poet now,
And why
My inspiration has run dry.
It is no sort of use
To cultivate the Muse
If vulgar people
Can't tell a village pump from a church steeple.
I am merely apologizing
For the lack of the surprising
In what I write
To-night.
I am quite well-meaning,
But a lot of things are always intervening
Between
What I mean
And what it is said
I had in my head.
It is all very puzzling.
Uncle Ned
Says Poets need muzzling.
He might
Be right.
Good-night!

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A little while, a little while...

 

A little while, a little while,
The weary task is put away,
And I can sing and I can smile,
Alike, while I have holiday.

Why wilt thou go, my harassed heart,
What thought, what scene invites thee now?
What spot, or near or far,
Has rest for thee, my weary brow?

There is a spot, mid barren hills,
Where winter howls, and driving rain;
But if the dreary tempest chills,
There is a light that warms again.

The house is old, the trees are bare,
Moonless above bends twilight's dome;
But what on earth is half so dear,
So longed for, as the hearth of home?

The mute bird sitting on the stone,
The dank moss dripping from the wall,
The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown,
I love them, how I love them all!

Still, as I mused, the naked room,
The alien firelight died away,
And from the midst of cheerless gloom
I passed to bright unclouded day.

A little and a lone green lane
That opened on a common wide;
A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain
Of mountains circling every side;

A heaven so clear, an earth so calm,
So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air;
And, deepening still the dream-like charm,
Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.

That was the scene, I knew it well;
I knew the turfy pathway's sweep
That, winding o'er each billowy swell,
Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep.

Could I have lingered but an hour,
It well had paid a week of toil;
But Truth has banished Fancy's power:
Restraint and heavy task recoil.

Even as I stood with raptured eye,
Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear,
My hour of rest had fleeted by,
And back came labour, bondage, care.

 

Emily Jane Brontè

 

 

:mellow:

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^_^

Past, Present, Future - Poem by Emily Jane Brontë

 

Tell me, tell me, smiling child,
What the past is like to thee ?
'An Autumn evening soft and mild
With a wind that sighs mournfully.'

Tell me, what is the present hour ?
'A green and flowery spray
Where a young bird sits gathering its power
To mount and fly away.'

And what is the future, happy one ?
'A sea beneath a cloudless sun ;
A mighty, glorious, dazzling sea
Stretching into infinity.'

,

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Song of Songs

 

Sing me at morn but only with your laugh;
Even as Spring that laugheth into leaf;
Even as Love that laugheth after Life.


Sing me but only with your speech all day,
As voluble leaflets do; let viols die;
The least word of your lips is melody!


Sing me at eve but only your sigh!
Like lifting seas it solaceth; breathe so,
Slowly and low, the sense that no songs say.


Sing me at midnight with your murmurous heart!
Let youth's immortal-moaning chord be heard
Throbbing through you, and sobbing, unsubdued.

 

Wilfred Owen

 

:(

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Twice Shy - Poem by Seamus Heaney

 

Her scarf a la Bardot,

In suede flats for the walk,

She came with me one evening

For air and friendly talk.

We crossed the quiet river,

Took the embankment walk.

 

Traffic holding its breath,

Sky a tense diaphragm:

Dusk hung like a backcloth

That shook where a swan swam,

Tremulous as a hawk

Hanging deadly, calm.

 

A vacuum of need

Collapsed each hunting heart

But tremulously we held

As hawk and prey apart,

Preserved classic decorum,

Deployed our talk with art.

 

Our Juvenilia

Had taught us both to wait,

Not to publish feeling

And regret it all too late -

Mushroom loves already

Had puffed and burst in hate.

 

So, chary and excited,

As a thrush linked on a hawk,

We thrilled to the March twilight

With nervous childish talk:

Still waters running deep

Along the embankment walk.

 

:mellow:

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