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Lady Cop Pioneer100© Member 
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by Cristina Rossetti.... Remember Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you plann'd: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad. 
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AussiePam Original500© Member  Wild Child
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Shancoduff Patrick Kavanagh My black hills have never seen the sun rising, Eternally they look north towards Armagh. Lot's wife would not be salt if she had been Incurious as my black hills that are happy When dawn whitens Glassdrummond chapel. My hills hoard the bright shillings of March While the sun searches in every pocket. They are my Alps and I have climbed the Matterhorn With a sheaf of hay for three perishing calves In the field under the Big Forth of Rocksavage. The sleety winds fondle the rushy beards of Shancoduff While the cattle-drovers sheltering in the Featherna Bush Look up and say: "Who owns them hungry hills That the water-hen and snipe must have forsaken? A poet? Then by heavens he must be poor." I hear, and is my heart not badly shaken? Last edited on 12:20 pm by AussiePam |
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librtyhead Original500© Member 
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Amidst the mist, and coldest frosts, with stoughtest wrist, and loudest boasts I thrust my fist against the post, insisting I still see the ghost!................ 
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virtueosity Original500© Member  reading this my cause blindnes
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from the cuckolds of my heart i share, that which i pray for the courage to be. What would you have me do? sing for the patronage of some "great man" and like a creeping vine on a tall tree crawl up on where I cannot stand alone? no thank you. Be a buffoon in the vile hope of teasing out a smile on some cold face? no thank you. make my knees callous? cultivate a supple spine? wear my belly out groveling in the dust! no thank you. With my left hand scratch the back of any swine that roots up gold for me, while my right, to proud to know his partners business, takes in the fee! no thank you. Shall I use the fire God gave me to burn incense all day long? no thank you. struggle to insinuate my name into the columns of the gazette? calculate.....scheme.....be afraid....love more to make a visit than a poem? seek introductions....favors....nfluences? no thank you, no I thank you!......... ............ but to sing, to laugh, to dream. to walk in my own way, free, with an eye to see things as they are. a voice that means manhood. to cock my hat where I choose and not a word, not a yes, not a no. to fight or write, but never to make a line I have not heard in my own heart. to travel any road under the sun, under the stars! and neither care if fame or fortune lie beyond the borne. Yet, with all modesty to say, my soul be satisfied with flowers. with weeds, with thorns even, but gather them in the one garden you call your own. In a word, I am to proud to be a parasite. and if my nature lacks the germ to grow towering into the heavens like the mountain pine, I stand not high it may be...but on my own.
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Lady Cop Pioneer100© Member
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William Ernest Henley. 1849–1903 Invictus OUT of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds, and shall find, me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.
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Lady Cop Pioneer100© Member
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 THE NEW ENGLAND BOY'S SONG ABOUT THANKSGIVING DAY Lydia Maria Child (1802-1880) Over the river, and through the wood, To grandfather's house we go; The horse knows the way, To carry the sleigh, Through the white and drifted snow . Over the river, and through the wood, To grandfather's house away ! We would not stop For doll or top, For 't is Thanksgiving day . Over the river, and through the wood, Oh, how the wind does blow ! It stings the toes, And bites the nose, As over the ground we go . Over the river, and through the wood, With a clear blue winter sky, The dogs do bark, And children hark, As we go jingling by . Over the river, and through the wood, To have a first-rate play— Hear the bells ring Ting a ling ding, Hurrah for Thanksgiving day ! Over the river, and through the wood— No matter for winds that blow; Or if we get The sleigh upset, Into a bank of snow . Over the river, and through the wood, To see little John and Ann; We will kiss them all, And play snow-ball And stay as long as we can . Over the river, and through the wood, Trot fast, my dapple gray ! Spring over the ground, Like a hunting hound, For 'tis Thanksgiving day ! Over the river, and through the wood, And straight through the barn-yard gate; We seem to go Extremely slow, It is so hard to wait . Over the river, and through the wood— Old Jowler hears our bells; He shakes his pow, With a loud bow wow, And thus the news he tells . Over the river, and through the wood— When grandmother sees us come, She will say, Oh dear, The children are here, Bring a pie for every one . Over the river, and through the wood— Now grandmother's cap I spy ! Hurrah for the fun ! Is the pudding done ? Hurrah for the pumpkin pie !
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shirohniichan Original500© Member  Obscurius per obscurum
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The Raven [First published in 1845]  Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. `'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more.' Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore - For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating `'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; - This it is, and nothing more,' Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, `Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; - Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!' This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!' Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. `Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore - Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; - 'Tis the wind and nothing more!' Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door - Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door - Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, `Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as `Nevermore.' But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only, That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered - Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before - On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before.' Then the bird said, `Nevermore.' Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, `Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore - Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of "Never-nevermore."' But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore - What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking `Nevermore.' This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. `Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! - Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted - On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore - Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore - Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting - `Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore!
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Saint Forum-Blogger© Pioneer100© Member  Polymath
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The Seven Ages of Man By William Shakespeare All the world's a stage and the men and women, merely players. They have their exits and entrances and a man in his time plays many parts. His acts being in seven stages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. Then, the whining schoolboy with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd, With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws, and modern instances, And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side, His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide, For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, Turning again towards childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. George Gray I have studied many times The marble which was chiseled for me -- A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor. In truth it pictures not my destination But my life. For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment; Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid; Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances. Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life. And now I know that we must lift the sail And catch the winds of destiny Wherever they drive the boat. To put meaning in one's life may end in madness, But life without meaning is the torture Of restlessness and vague desire -- It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid.
A^2 + B^2 = C^2 |
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Twitchin Kitten Pioneer100© Member  Don't Dream It ~ Be It
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shirohniichan you took my poem! lol I first read this when I was 12 and have been an Edgar Allen Poe fan ever since. I was always getting lectured by my teachers that I read stuff I can't understand. Duh.... if I don't understand it, why am I reading it? I used to frustrate them constantly! but my second favorite is one I wrote in Junior High School. It's a bit comedic, got me a failed grade for poetry that class but the teacher did giggle the whole time he was reading it!  The night was dark The sky was blue And through the air a spitball flew A scream was heard A cop was hit With a gushy, gushy ball of spit!
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Lady Cop Pioneer100© Member
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author unknown , but i love it.~~~~~~ Old Woman of the roads Old woman of the roads O, to have a little house! To own the hearth and stool and all! The heaped up sods against the fire, The pile of turf against the wall! To have a clock with weights and chains And pendulum swinging up and down! A dresser filled with shining delph, Speckled and white and blue and brown! I could be busy all of the day Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor, And fixing on their shelf again My white and blue and speckled store! I could be quiet there at night Beside the fire and by myself, Sure of a bed and loth to leave The ticking clock and the shining delph! Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark, And roads where there's never a house nor bush, And tired I am of bog and road, And the crying wind and the lonesome hush! And I'm praying to God on high, And I'm praying Him night and day, For a little house, a house of my own Out of the wind's and the rain's way.
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Britt Forum-Blogger© Original500© Member  Learning Contentment
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This is my favorite poem of all time. It was in an anthology I received when I was seven years old. The anthology is now in tatters but the poem lives in my heart. You may notice it is very Bahá'í. I guess it was a sign of things to come! Each in His Own Tongue A fire-mist and a planet, A crystal and a cell, A jelly-fish and a saurian, And caves where the cave-men dwell; Then a sense of law and beauty And a face turned from the clod, -- Some call it Evolution, And others call it God. A haze on the far horizon, The infinite, tender sky, The ripe, rich tint of the cornfields, And the wild geese sailing high; And all over upland and lowland The charm of the golden-rod, -- Some of us call it Autumn, And others call it God. Like tides on a crescent sea-beach, When the moon is new and thin, Into our hearts high yearnings Come welling and surging in: Come from the mystic ocean, Whose rim no foot has trod, -- Some of us call it Longing, And others call it God. A picket frozen on duty, A mother starved for her brood, Socrates drinking the hemlock, And Jesus on the rood; And millions who, humble and nameless, The straight, hard pathway plod, -- Some call it Consecration, And others call it God. -- William Herbert Carruth
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velvet Original500© Member  Perfectly Flawed
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This be the verse - Philip Larkin They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you. But they were fucked up in their turn By fools in old-style hats and coats, Who half the time were soppy-stern And half at one another's throats. Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can, And don't have any kids yourself.
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Greeneyes Original500© Member 
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ANNABELLE LEE Author: Edgar Allan Poe It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea; But we loved with a love that was more than love - I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsman came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulcher In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we Of many far wiser than we And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride, In the sepulcher there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea.
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Amy Original500© Member  ...going with the flow...
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