Young Writers Society

Out of the night that covers me,
At that cave's mouth twice sixteen porters stand,
In sober mornings do thou not rehearse
I have had enough.
Strike from that laborer's limbs his chain!
Loue still a boy, and oft a wanton is,
I will give you all my keys,
By night when others soundly slept

'Too late for love, too late for joy,
Loue by sure proofe I may call thee vnkind,
Drummed their boots on the camion floor,
This institution,
My mind was once the true survey
Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train,
Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there
The wisest scholler of the weight most wise,

in the dead of night remember before there's time to forget
what sound the hollowness of your heart makes
when your lungs expand and the day floats away

On the seashore of endless worlds children meet.
Whatever 'tis, whose beauty here below
The curious wit seeing dull pensiuenesse
The massive gates of Circumstance
Men say they know many things,
Seamen three! What men be ye?
I went to the dances at Chandlerville,
It came upon the midnight clear,

I feel like even posting this is a crime.

Grumble of nature
Loudest words beyond this world
Pleading in a pond

Should the wide world roll away
I walk in a garden of roses,
The Curfew tolls the hour of closing gates,
Amber husk
' Yes !' I answered you last night ,
O Rose, thou art sick!
Sweet swelling lip, well maist thou swell in pride,
Pacience is a poynt, ?a3 hit displese ofte.

Oh why is heaven built so far,
But in the Wine-presses the human grapes sing not nor dance:
I thought once how Theocritus had sung
Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten,
Bards of the Future! you that come
THOU, who dost all my worldly thoughts employ,
Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awa?y?
Vertue alas, now let me take some rest,

- From the random poem generator

Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee,
Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,
From art, from nature, from the schools,
It is an ancyent Marinere,
From Tuscan came my lady's worthy race,
I AM the people -- the mob--the crowd--the mass.
My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend!
I lived with visions for my company,

Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
He tasted love with half his mind,
The time draws near the birth of Christ:
Belgian, with cumbrous tread and iron boots,
High diddle, diddle,
More discontents I never had
A roundel is wrought as a ring or a starbright sphere,
Lord of unnumbered hopes, unnumbered prayers,

MEanwhile the hainous and despightfull act
I, with whose colours Myra dress'd her head,
We are the music makers,
The glory of evening was spread through the west,
When first, descending from the moorlands,
Under the day-long sun there is life and mirth
I am H--L-Y, blond and merry,
'Not by the justice that my father spurn'd,

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 't is early morn:
Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere,
Man's rich with little, were his judgment true,
When I heard the learn'd astronomer,
Real or unreal.
Yours is the sullen sorrow,
Because he was a butcher and thereby
The bustle in a house