Young Writers Society

When on my bed the moonlight falls,
My days among the Dead are past,
I loved her countenance whereon,
You that are dear, O you above the rest!
Oh, there are times
When thou must home to shades of underground,
Now burst above the city's cold twilight
The ladies men admire, I've heard.

When rosy plumelets tuft the larch,
Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-West died away,
The autumn-time has come,
Between the hands, between the brows,
O knights, O squires, O gentle bloods yborn,
On the top of the Crumpetty Tree
Not every man has gentians in his house
The sun is warm, the sky is clear,

The battle rent a cobweb diamond-strung
She lay, face downward, on her beaded arm,
For many, many days together
The world is too much with us, late and soon,
Whirl up, sea --
O wild kaleidoscopic panorama of jaculatory arms and legs.
One word is too often profaned
Trim the sails the weird stars under?



What even is this??

Give me, O indulgent Fate!
My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie,
It little profits that an idle king,
All the hills and vales along
Whene'er I try to read a book,
We cannot kindle when we will
Friendship, like love, is but a name,
O deare life, when shall it be

One must have a mind of winter
Yes, Mary Ann, I freely grant,
Sunset, the cheapest of all picture-shows,
Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
How many paltry, foolish, painted things,
England, with all thy faults, I love thee still--
Love that doth reign and live within my thought
Oh! that we two were Maying

To sing the charms of Rosabelle,
Tons upon tons the brown-green fragrant hay
Now it's over, and now it's done,
WHAT dream you in the night-time
The world in gloom and splendour passes by,
The wild winds weep
Snow:
Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,

I would never write this! It doesn't rhyme! Lol

Of old, when Scarron his companions invited,
I walk in a garden of roses,
XI Mon. January [1733] hath xxxi days.
Love in my bosom like a bee,
Shall earth no more inspire thee,
Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen,
Geo: Their drinks to my drinks feels different,
But now the second Morning, from her bow'r,

I knew about the "random poem" feature, but had no idea there was a thread to share it in! Here's to hopefully reviving this!

Your parents had reached a long slow time,
There are four men mowing down by the Isar,
Clannesse who so kyndly cow?e comende
Here take my picture, though I bid farewell
A learned and a happy ignorance
Suppose it is nothing but the hive:
Because I oft in darke abstracted guise,
Who now does follow the foule Blatant Beast,

"Whither away?"
The question was put to me,
As I walked along an old brick road.
I saw no speaker, then it struck me,
The voice came from above!
"Why, to spread some Christmas cheer
And give the needy a helping hand."
Was my reply.
The voice came no more,
but I felt a presence,
And a warmth.
I since have grown old,
My weary limbs rove no longer,
And yet, I still remember that
Strange moment,
On an old brick road.

Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,
Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word!
Republic of the West,
Myself am Hang the buccaneer,
Here is the House to hold me -- cradle of all the race,
Some Louers speake when they their Muses entertaine,
There is a drear and lonely tract of hell
I like relativity and quantum theories

Line five is very... dynamic.

Between the dark and the daylight,
Here where the swaying dancers float,
Brave infant of Saguntum, clear
His Grace! impossible! what, dead!
Let us begin and carry up this corpse,
Where dost thou careless lie,
This is her picture as she was:
The time is come I must departe

Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The lords of life, the lords of life,---
They sunk a graven stone into the ground
With favoring winds, o'er sunlit seas,
From D-wks and Ch-tty at my tail
All the complicated details
To-night I saw three maidens on the beach,
Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow,

The barnacle is asleep,
The barnacle is secretly a sheep,
The barnacle is stuck to a ship,
The barnacle is losing its grip.

We shall forget the time of mirth, as soup boils over,
lightning bolts consider striking the sky, only to be counter-intuitive
but they fear the sun may converge into an extraordinary end
and no one wants the world to end, so we tend to turn down the stove
and with a deliberation uncharacteristic of birds we tip toe to the edge
of our choices and dare for a moment to fall into the sky; lightning bolts
are cowards afterall, so we'll take their place, at least until supper time.