I walk down the garden paths,And all the daffodilsAre blowing, and the bright blue squills.I walk down the patterned garden pathsIn my stiff, brocaded gown.With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,I too am a rarePattern. As I wander downThe garden paths.My dress is richly figured,And the trainMakes a pink and silver stainOn the gravel, and the thriftOf the borders.Just a plate of current fashion,Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.Not a softness anywhere about me,Only whale-bone and brocade.And I sink on a seat in the shadeOf a lime tree. For my passionWars against the stiff brocade.The daffodils and squillsFlutter in the breezeAs they please.And I weep;For the lime tree is in blossomAnd one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.
the worldgives you so much painand here you aremaking gold out of itthere is nothing purer than that - rupi kaur
A Rock, A River, A TreeHosts to species long since departed, Marked the mastodon,The dinosaur, who left dried tokens Of their sojourn hereOn our planet floor,Any broad alarm of their hastening doom Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully, Come, you may stand upon myBack and face your distant destiny,But seek no haven in my shadow,I will give you no hiding place down here.You, created only a little lower thanThe angels, have crouched too long in The bruising darknessHave lain too longFacedown in ignorance,Your mouths spilling wordsArmed for slaughter.The Rock cries out to us today, You may stand upon me, But do not hide your face.
Have you ever heard the wind go "Yooooo"? 'T is a pitiful sound to hear! It seems to chill you through and through With a strange and speechless fear. 'T is the voice of the night that broods outside When folk should be asleep, And many and many's the time I've cried To the darkness brooding far and wide Over the land and the deep: Whom do you want, O lonely night, That you wail the long hours through?" And the night would say in its ghostly way: "Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo!" My mother told me long ago (When I was a little tad) That when the night went wailing so, Somebody had been bad; And then, when I was snug in bed, Whither I had been sent, With the blankets pulled up round my head, I'd think of what my mother'd said, And wonder what boy she meant! And "Who's been bad to-day?" I'd ask Of the wind that hoarsely blew, And the voice would say in its meaningful way: "Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo!" That this was true I must allow - You'll not believe it, though! Yes, though I'm quite a model now, I was not always so. And if you doubt what things I say, Suppose you make the test; Suppose, when you've been bad some day And up to bed are sent away From mother and the rest - Suppose you ask, "Who has been bad?" And then you'll hear what's true; For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone: "Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo!"
She rose among us where we lay.She wept, we put our work away.She chilled our laughter, stilled our play;And spread a silence there.And darkness shot across the sky,And once, and twice, we heard her cry;And saw her lift white hands on highAnd toss her troubled hair.What shape was this who came to us,With basilisk eyes so ominous,With mouth so sweet, so poisonous,And tortured hands so pale?We saw her wavering to and fro,Through dark and wind we saw her go;Yet what her name was did not know;And felt our spirits fail.We tried to turn away; but stillAbove we heard her sorrow thrill;And those that slept, they dreamed of illAnd dreadful things:Of skies grown red with rending flamesAnd shuddering hills that cracked their frames;Of twilights foul with wings;And skeletons dancing to a tune;And cries of children stifled soon;And over all a blood-red moonA dull and nightmare size.They woke, and sought to go their ways,Yet everywhere they met her gaze,Her fixed and burning eyes.Who are you now, —we cried to her—Spirit so strange, so sinister?We felt dead winds above us stir;And in the darkness heardA voice fall, singing, cloying sweet,Heavily dropping, though that heat,Heavy as honeyed pulses beat,Slow word by anguished word.And through the night strange music wentWith voice and cry so darkly blentWe could not fathom what they meant;Save only that they seemedTo thin the blood along our veins,Foretelling vile, delirious pains,And clouds divulging blood-red rainsUpon a hill undreamed.And this we heard: “Who dies for me,He shall possess me secretly,My terrible beauty he shall see,And slake my body’s flame.But who denies me cursed shall be,And slain, and buried loathsomely,And slimed upon with shame.”And darkness fell. And like a seaOf stumbling deaths we followed, weWho dared not stay behind.There all night long beneath a cloudWe rose and fell, we struck and bowed,We were the ploughman and the ploughed,Our eyes were red and blind.And some, they said, had touched her side,Before she fled us there;And some had taken her to bride;And some lain down for her and died;Who had not touched her hair,Ran to and fro and cursed and criedAnd sought her everywhere.“Her eyes have feasted on the dead,And small and shapely is her head,And dark and small her mouth," they said,“And beautiful to kiss;Her mouth is sinister and redAs blood in moonlight is.”Then poets forgot their jeweled wordsAnd cut the sky with glittering swords;And innocent souls turned carrion birdsTo perch upon the dead.Sweet daisy fields were drenched with death,The air became a charnel breath,Pale stones were splashed with red.Green leaves were dappled bright with bloodAnd fruit trees murdered in the bud;And when at length the dawnCame green as twilight from the east,And all that heaving horror ceased,Silent was every bird and beast,And that dark voice was gone.No word was there, no song, no bell,No furious tongue that dream to tell;Only the dead, who rose and fellAbove the wounded men;And whisperings and wails of painBlown slowly from the wounded grain,Blown slowly from the smoking plain;And silence fallen again.Until at dusk, from God knows where,Beneath dark birds that filled the air, Like one who did not hear or care,Under a blood-red cloud,An aged ploughman came alone And drove his share through flesh and bone,And turned them under to mould and stone;All night long he ploughed.
“Will you walk into my parlor?” said the spider to the fly;“’Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy.The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,And I have many pretty things to show when you are there.”“O no, no,” said the little fly, “to ask me is in vain,For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.”“I’m sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;Will you rest upon my little bed?” said the spider to the fly.“There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin,And if you like to rest awhile, I’ll snugly tuck you in.”“O no, no,” said the little fly, “for I’ve often heard it said,They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed.”Said the cunning spider to the fly, “Dear friend, what shall I do,To prove the warm affection I’ve always felt for you?I have within my pantry good store of all that’s nice;I’m sure you’re very welcome; will you please to take a slice?”“O no, no,” said the little fly, “kind sir, that cannot be;I’ve heard what’s in your pantry, and I do not wish to see.”“Sweet creature!” said the spider, “You’re witty and you’re wise!How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!I have a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf,If you’ll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself.”“I thank you, gentle sir,” she said, “for what you’re pleased to say,And bidding you good-morning now, I’ll call another day.”The spider turned him round about, and went into his den,For well he knew the silly fly would soon be back again:So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,And set his table ready to dine upon the fly.Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing“Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl and silver wing:Your robes are green and purple; there’s a crest upon your head;Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead.”Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little fly,Hearing his wily flattering words, came slowly flitting by.With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drewThinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue;Thinking only of her crested head — poor foolish thing! At last,Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast.He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,Within his little parlor; but she ne’er came out again!And now, dear little children, who may this story read,To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne’er give heed;Unto an evil counselor close heart, and ear, and eye,And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly.
A darting fear — a pomp — a tear —A waking on a mornTo find that what one waked for,Inhales the different dawn.
We are the music-makers,And we are the dreamers of dreams,Wandering by lone sea-breakersAnd sitting by desolate streams;World losers and world forsakers,On whom the pale moon gleams:Yet we are the movers and shakersOf the world for ever, it seems. With wonderful deathless dittiesWe build up the world’s great cities.And out of a fabulous storyWe fashion an empire’s glory:One man with a dream, at pleasure,Shall go forth and conquer a crown;And three with a new song’s measureCan trample an empire down. We, in the ages lyingIn the buried past of the earth,Built Nineveh with our sighing,And Babel itself with our mirth;And o’erthrew them with prophesyingTo the old of the new world’s worth;For each age is a dream that is dying,Or one that is coming to birth.
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105,090 Literary Works • 557,680 Reviews