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Wherever the Turkish hoof trods, no grass grows.

quote by Victor Hugo
Added by Lucian Velea
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With Rose In Hand

Prayer is worth more than a rose
in my hand where love grows
for God and all he knows
The rose has a thorn
which Jesus felt on the crown he had worn.
the rose is red as the blood from his head
when he was crucifed before we were born.

[...] Read more

poem by Meg Harrison
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Uncle Jim's Baptist Revival Hymn

By Sidney and Clifford Lanier.

[Not long ago a certain Georgia cotton-planter, driven to desperation
by awaking each morning to find that the grass had
quite outgrown the cotton overnight, and was likely to choke it,
in defiance of his lazy freedmen's hoes and ploughs,
set the whole State in a laugh by exclaiming to a group of fellow-sufferers:
"It's all stuff about Cincinnatus leaving the plough to go into politics
FOR PATRIOTISM; he was just a-runnin' from grass!"

This state of things -- when the delicate young rootlets of the cotton
are struggling against the hardier multitudes of the grass-suckers --
is universally described in plantation parlance by the phrase "in the grass";
and Uncle Jim appears to have found in it so much similarity
to the condition of his own ("Baptis'") church, overrun, as it was,
by the cares of this world, that he has embodied it in the refrain
of a revival hymn such as the colored improvisator of the South
not infrequently constructs from his daily surroundings.
He has drawn all the ideas of his stanzas from the early morning phenomena of
those critical weeks when the loud plantation-horn is blown before daylight,
in order to rouse all hands for a long day's fight against the common enemy
of cotton-planting mankind.

In addition to these exegetical commentaries, the Northern reader
probably needs to be informed that the phrase "peerten up" means substantially
`to spur up', and is an active form of the adjective "peert"
(probably a corruption of `pert'), which is so common in the South,
and which has much the signification of "smart" in New England, as e.g.,
a "peert" horse, in antithesis to a "sorry" -- i.e., poor, mean, lazy one.]

Solo. -- Sin's rooster's crowed, Ole Mahster's riz,
De sleepin'-time is pas';
Wake up dem lazy Baptissis,
Chorus. -- Dey's mightily in de grass, grass,
Dey's mightily in de grass.

Ole Mahster's blowed de mornin' horn,
He's blowed a powerful blas';
O Baptis' come, come hoe de corn,
You's mightily in de grass, grass,
You's mightily in de grass.

De Meth'dis team's done hitched; O fool,
De day's a-breakin' fas';
Gear up dat lean ole Baptis' mule,
Dey's mightily in de grass, grass,
Dey's mightily in de grass.

[...] Read more

poem by Sidney Lanier
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The Bride of Abydos

"Had we never loved so kindly,
Had we never loved so blindly,
Never met or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted." — Burns

TO
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD HOLLAND,
THIS TALE IS INSCRIBED,
WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF REGARD AND RESPECT,
BY HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGED AND SINCERE FRIEND,

BYRON.

THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS

CANTO THE FIRST.

I.

Know ye the land where cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime,
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime?
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine,
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine;
Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume,
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gúl in her bloom; [1]
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit,
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute;
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky,
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie,
And the purple of Ocean is deepest in dye;
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine?
'Tis the clime of the East; 'tis the land of the Sun —
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? [2]
Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.

II.

Begirt with many a gallant slave,
Apparell'd as becomes the brave,
Awaiting each his lord's behest
To guide his steps, or guard his rest,

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poem by Byron
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Mummers play script, for the new year

-Enter father Beelzebub and Jack Vinney.

-Jack Vinney:
Old father Beelzebub my friend,
Will you aid one new to this land?
-Father Beelzebub:
On me you can always depend,
Show the man to my helping hand,

-Enter the Turkish Knight.

-Turkish Knight:
I've travelled far to reach this isle,
Seeking brave St. George to empale,
I have searched now for quite a while,
And it has been to no avail,
-Father Beelzebub:
It is my pleasure to reveal,
St. George shall be coming for tea,
His valour told in tales is real,
Wait a moment and that you'll see,

-Enter St. George.

-St. George:
Just now I met some Turkish men,
In what became a bloody scene,
They shall not bother me again,
I killed them for the king and queen,
-Turkish Knight:
I must know those spoken about,
It offends me St. George should gloat,
He and I shall now have it out,
In vengeance I will slit his throat,
-St. George:
You underestimate me sir,
Few if any to me compare.
You've committed a fatal err,
And for it badly you shall fare,
-Jack Vinney:
The poor Turkish knight met his match,
And has suffered for it as such,

-Enter Molly.

-Molly:
He's the man I'm trying to catch,
He swindled what to me was much,
-St. George:
I doubt you'll see what it is he does owe,

[...] Read more

poem by Christian Lacdael
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The Ballad of the White Horse

DEDICATION

Of great limbs gone to chaos,
A great face turned to night--
Why bend above a shapeless shroud
Seeking in such archaic cloud
Sight of strong lords and light?

Where seven sunken Englands
Lie buried one by one,
Why should one idle spade, I wonder,
Shake up the dust of thanes like thunder
To smoke and choke the sun?

In cloud of clay so cast to heaven
What shape shall man discern?
These lords may light the mystery
Of mastery or victory,
And these ride high in history,
But these shall not return.

Gored on the Norman gonfalon
The Golden Dragon died:
We shall not wake with ballad strings
The good time of the smaller things,
We shall not see the holy kings
Ride down by Severn side.

Stiff, strange, and quaintly coloured
As the broidery of Bayeux
The England of that dawn remains,
And this of Alfred and the Danes
Seems like the tales a whole tribe feigns
Too English to be true.

Of a good king on an island
That ruled once on a time;
And as he walked by an apple tree
There came green devils out of the sea
With sea-plants trailing heavily
And tracks of opal slime.

Yet Alfred is no fairy tale;
His days as our days ran,
He also looked forth for an hour
On peopled plains and skies that lower,
From those few windows in the tower
That is the head of a man.

But who shall look from Alfred's hood

[...] Read more

poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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Georgic 3

Thee too, great Pales, will I hymn, and thee,
Amphrysian shepherd, worthy to be sung,
You, woods and waves Lycaean. All themes beside,
Which else had charmed the vacant mind with song,
Are now waxed common. Of harsh Eurystheus who
The story knows not, or that praiseless king
Busiris, and his altars? or by whom
Hath not the tale been told of Hylas young,
Latonian Delos and Hippodame,
And Pelops for his ivory shoulder famed,
Keen charioteer? Needs must a path be tried,
By which I too may lift me from the dust,
And float triumphant through the mouths of men.
Yea, I shall be the first, so life endure,
To lead the Muses with me, as I pass
To mine own country from the Aonian height;
I, Mantua, first will bring thee back the palms
Of Idumaea, and raise a marble shrine
On thy green plain fast by the water-side,
Where Mincius winds more vast in lazy coils,
And rims his margent with the tender reed.
Amid my shrine shall Caesar's godhead dwell.
To him will I, as victor, bravely dight
In Tyrian purple, drive along the bank
A hundred four-horse cars. All Greece for me,
Leaving Alpheus and Molorchus' grove,
On foot shall strive, or with the raw-hide glove;
Whilst I, my head with stripped green olive crowned,
Will offer gifts. Even 'tis present joy
To lead the high processions to the fane,
And view the victims felled; or how the scene
Sunders with shifted face, and Britain's sons
Inwoven thereon with those proud curtains rise.
Of gold and massive ivory on the doors
I'll trace the battle of the Gangarides,
And our Quirinus' conquering arms, and there
Surging with war, and hugely flowing, the Nile,
And columns heaped on high with naval brass.
And Asia's vanquished cities I will add,
And quelled Niphates, and the Parthian foe,
Who trusts in flight and backward-volleying darts,
And trophies torn with twice triumphant hand
From empires twain on ocean's either shore.
And breathing forms of Parian marble there
Shall stand, the offspring of Assaracus,
And great names of the Jove-descended folk,
And father Tros, and Troy's first founder, lord
Of Cynthus. And accursed Envy there
Shall dread the Furies, and thy ruthless flood,
Cocytus, and Ixion's twisted snakes,

[...] Read more

poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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Mazeppa

'Twas after dread Pultowa's day,
When fortune left the royal Swede--
Around a slaughtered army lay,
No more to combat and to bleed.
The power and glory of the war,
Faithless as their vain votaries, men,
Had passed to the triumphant Czar,
And Moscow’s walls were safe again--
Until a day more dark and drear,
And a more memorable year,
Should give to slaughter and to shame
A mightier host and haughtier name;
A greater wreck, a deeper fall,
A shock to one--a thunderbolt to all.

II.
Such was the hazard Of the die;
The wounded Charles was taught to fly
By day and night through field and flood,
Stained with his own and subjects' blood;
For thousands fell that flight to aid:
And not a voice was heard to upbraid
Ambition in his humbled hour,
When truth had nought to dread from power,
His horse was slain, and Gieta gave
His own--and died the Russians’ slave.
This too sinks after many a league
Of well sustained, but vain fatigue;
And in the depth of forests darkling,
The watch-fires in the distance sparkling--
The beacons of surrounding foes--
A king must lay his limbs at length.
Are these the laurels and repose
For which the nations strain their strength?
They laid him by a savage tree,
In outworn nature’s agony;
His wounds were stiff, his limbs were stark,
The heavy hour was chill and dark;
The fever in his blood forbade
A transient slumber's fitful aid:
And thus it was; but yet through all,
Kinglike the monarch bore his fall,
And made, in this extreme of ill,
His pangs the vassals of his will:
All silent and subdued were they,
As owe the nations round him lay.

III.
A band of chiefs!--alas! how few,
Since but the fleeting of a day

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poem by Byron
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The Shepherds Calendar - July

Daughter of pastoral smells and sights
And sultry days and dewy nights
July resumes her yearly place
Wi her milking maiden face
Ruddy and tand yet sweet to view
When everywhere's a vale of dew
And raps it round her looks that smiles
A lovly rest to daily toils
Wi last months closing scenes and dins
Her sultry beaming birth begins

Hay makers still in grounds appear
And some are thinning nearly clear
Save oddly lingering shocks about
Which the tithman counteth out
Sticking their green boughs where they go
The parsons yearly claims to know
Which farmers view wi grudging eye
And grumbling drive their waggons bye
In hedge bound close and meadow plains
Stript groups of busy bustling swains
From all her hants wi noises rude
Drives to the wood lands solitude
That seeks a spot unmarkd wi paths
Far from the close and meadow swaths
Wi smutty song and story gay
They cart the witherd smelling hay
Boys loading on the waggon stand
And men below wi sturdy hand
Heave up the shocks on lathy prong
While horse boys lead the team along
And maidens drag the rake behind
Wi light dress shaping to the wind
And trembling locks of curly hair
And snow white bosoms nearly bare
That charms ones sight amid the hay
Like lingering blossoms of the may
From clowns rude jokes they often turn
And oft their cheeks wi blushes burn
From talk which to escape a sneer
They oft affect as not to hear
Some in the nooks about the ground
Pile up the stacks swelld bellying round
The milking cattles winter fare
That in the snow are fodderd there
Warm spots wi black thorn thickets lind
And trees to brake the northern wind
While masters oft the sultry hours
Will urge their speed and talk of showers
When boy from home trotts to the stack

[...] Read more

poem by John Clare
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A cartoon's speech

YEllow Grass but conceptual light
YEllow Grass but conceptual light
YEllow Grass but conceptual light
YEllow Grass but conceptual light
YEllow Grass but conceptual light
YEllow Grass but conceptual light
YEllow Grass but conceptual light
YEllow Grass but conceptual light
YEllow Grass but conceptual light
YEllow Grass but conceptual light
YEllow Grass but conceptual light
YEllow Grass but conceptual light
YEllow Grass but conceptual light
YEllow Grass but conceptual light
YEllow Grass but conceptual light
popet nyein way

poem by Nyein Way
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Grass (inspired by Whitman's A child asks what is grass)

grass gently waves,
sways, twists and swirls
with the gentle breeze
in a thousand steps and styles
god's merciful and caring hands

a bewildered young soul
asked ' what is grass? '
wrote lucky Whitman
who was so inspired by
the boy that he wrote
a long poem about life and death

well what is grass?

a genius mind would gather
it is god clothing his earth, men
his way of crocheting to cover up
nudity of his every land

and he so loves the task
he twists and dances in pleasure
as his breathe sweeps over the grass

there is music of joy
everywhere that his hand touches
- as he expends stitch by stitch
inch by inch to spread his cheer

to think of a man without clothes?
how a child would run
for cover on mere sight

grass is god's grace for the child
the mountains, the plains, us

how crude, barren, run down,
they would look without
the gentle and refreshing
green green grass

the grass that would
sweep us off
our feet for a dance
anytime of the day

well then let's answer the child
question: what is grass?

whitman's child would learn that

[...] Read more

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Great Hunger

I
Clay is the word and clay is the flesh
Where the potato-gatherers like mechanised scarecrows move
Along the side-fall of the hill - Maguire and his men.
If we watch them an hour is there anything we can prove
Of life as it is broken-backed over the Book
Of Death? Here crows gabble over worms and frogs
And the gulls like old newspapers are blown clear of the hedges, luckily.
Is there some light of imagination in these wet clods?
Or why do we stand here shivering?
Which of these men
Loved the light and the queen
Too long virgin? Yesterday was summer. Who was it promised marriage to himself
Before apples were hung from the ceilings for Hallowe'en?
We will wait and watch the tragedy to the last curtain,
Till the last soul passively like a bag of wet clay
Rolls down the side of the hill, diverted by the angles
Where the plough missed or a spade stands, straitening the way.
A dog lying on a torn jacket under a heeled-up cart,
A horse nosing along the posied headland, trailing
A rusty plough. Three heads hanging between wide-apart legs.
October playing a symphony on a slack wire paling.
Maguire watches the drills flattened out
And the flints that lit a candle for him on a June altar
Flameless. The drills slipped by and the days slipped by
And he trembled his head away and ran free from the world's halter,
And thought himself wiser than any man in the townland
When he laughed over pints of porter
Of how he came free from every net spread
In the gaps of experience. He shook a knowing head
And pretended to his soul
That children are tedious in hurrying fields of April
Where men are spanning across wide furrows.
Lost in the passion that never needs a wife
The pricks that pricked were the pointed pins of harrows.
Children scream so loud that the crows could bring
The seed of an acre away with crow-rude jeers.
Patrick Maguire, he called his dog and he flung a stone in the air
And hallooed the birds away that were the birds of the years.
Turn over the weedy clods and tease out the tangled skeins.
What is he looking for there?
He thinks it is a potato, but we know better
Than his mud-gloved fingers probe in this insensitive hair.
'Move forward the basket and balance it steady
In this hollow. Pull down the shafts of that cart, Joe,
And straddle the horse,' Maguire calls.
'The wind's over Brannagan's, now that means rain.
Graip up some withered stalks and see that no potato falls
Over the tail-board going down the ruckety pass -
And that's a job we'll have to do in December,

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick Kavanagh
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Nationalistic Catastrophe Inequitable? No!

In New Zealand – (developing)
potential equals people
proven source sowing
shared future prosperity?

In Turkey rapidly
expanding masses
within relatively
limited land mass.

Is financially
exploited force separatist formalization;
shorn sociologically
suppressed resource regional degeneration?

Environmental economic republic ruination
potentially nationalistic splintered annihilation?

Nationalism to ensure
continued engendered capitalistic sodality;
maintains status-quo elite
puppeting manipulated republic reality?

Atatürk was wise enough to know
that political economic and cultural reforms;
an Age of Enlightenment was required
to transform the Ottoman Empire...

into a modern secular nation-state. Kemalism!

Atatürk’s radical reforms inspirationally
guided a fledgling nation with educational;
and scientific progress fusing enlightenment
positivism rationalism realism pragmatism

and secularism into a constitution sacrosanct.

Without pause without transition, the progressive
unfolding, the implementation of Kemalism; the
active modification of Turkish society; adapting
Western institutions with Turkish traits patterns,

to make them, indelibly a part of Turkish culture!

Generations of cultural and social experience, the
collective vibrant memory, of the Turkish nation!

Atatürk’s blessed social and political vision are
sacrosanct; must remain irreversible; indelibly
etched; into the Republic’s nationalistic freedom!

[...] Read more

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Secular God

Secular, pertaining to the present world,
to things not spiritual or ecclesiastical,

earthly life, a particular time, temporal,

lasting, occurring in and accomplished
within a century, such a very short time!

Atatürk. Legendary Atatürk.
Source silhouette sustaining; noble wonder.
Atatürk legitimately stood stallion.
Among histories legendary; as a great leader.

Yet if Atatürk. In reality
was embodied God!
The Turkish Nation
Statue Worships States!

Why did he often drink alone?
Day through narcotic night!
Fallen to such a common fate?
Because a man for all that!

Feats required as resolute
Nation-Maker!
Are in themselves in truth
emphasis enough!

Without serving up sermon
ritualistic Godhead halo!
Upon embellished silver
sanctification sanctimonious plate!

Hail Mustafa Kemal Atatürk
a General a Turkish army officer,
a revolutionary statesman a writer,

founder of modern Republic of Turkey
first president of fledgling eagle country
enduring defeating sea aggressive invasions!

Ottoman Empire assaulted on all frontiers
Atatürk led Turkish national movement
throughout Turkish War of Independence!

Established provisional government in Ankara,

[...] Read more

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Canto the Eighth

I
Oh blood and thunder! and oh blood and wounds!
These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem,
Too gentle reader! and most shocking sounds:
And so they are; yet thus is Glory's dream
Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds
At present such things, since they are her theme,
So be they her inspirers! Call them Mars,
Bellona, what you will -- they mean but wars.

II
All was prepared -- the fire, the sword, the men
To wield them in their terrible array.
The army, like a lion from his den,
March'd forth with nerve and sinews bent to slay, --
A human Hydra, issuing from its fen
To breathe destruction on its winding way,
Whose heads were heroes, which cut off in vain
Immediately in others grew again.

III
History can only take things in the gross;
But could we know them in detail, perchance
In balancing the profit and the loss,
War's merit it by no means might enhance,
To waste so much gold for a little dross,
As hath been done, mere conquest to advance.
The drying up a single tear has more
Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore.

IV
And why? -- because it brings self-approbation;
Whereas the other, after all its glare,
Shouts, bridges, arches, pensions from a nation,
Which (it may be) has not much left to spare,
A higher title, or a loftier station,
Though they may make Corruption gape or stare,
Yet, in the end, except in Freedom's battles,
Are nothing but a child of Murder's rattles.

V
And such they are -- and such they will be found:
Not so Leonidas and Washington,
Whose every battle-field is holy ground,
Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds undone.
How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound!
While the mere victor's may appal or stun
The servile and the vain, such names will be
A watchword till the future shall be free.

[...] Read more

poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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September Grass

Well, the suns not so hot in the sky today
And you know I can see summertime slipping on away
A few more geese are gone, a few more leaves turning red
But the grass is as soft as a feather in a featherbed
So Ill be king and youll be queen
Our kingdoms gonna be this little patch of green
Wont you lie down here right now
In this september grass
Wont you lie down with me now
September grass
Oh the memory is like the sweetest pain
Yeah, I kissed the girl at a football game
I can still smell the sweat and the grass stains
We walked home together. I was never the same.
But that was a long time ago
And where is she now? I dont know
Wont you lie down here right now
In this september grass
Wont you lie down with me now
September grass
Oh, september grass is the sweetest kind
It goes down easy like apple wine
Hope you dont mind if I pour you some
Made that much sweeter by the winter to come
Do you see those ants dancing on a blade of grass?
Do you know what I know? thats you and me, baby
Were so small and the worlds so vast
We found each other down in the grass
Wont you lie down with me right here
September grass
Wont you lie down with me now
In this september grass
Lie down
Lie down
Lie down
Lie down
(repeat)
Wont you lie down here right now
In this september grass
Wont you lie down here now
In this september grass

song performed by James Taylor
Added by Lucian Velea
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A Woman Who Grew Into A Rose

(A Poem For 21st Century Women # 2)

(Prov.31: 10–31 / Prov.18: 22 / Matt.13: 10–15)

A Woman Who Grew
Into A Rose
Remains In GOD’s Garden
… and Grows

Her Heartbeats Blossoms
Opens To Disclose
The Prettiest, Feminine
Petals-Pose

A Woman Who Grows
Into A Rose
Her Fresh–Faith Fragrance
Wafts and Flows …

… into A Knowledge
Of Heaven–Scent
She Offers Her Keen
Spiritual–Sense …
(Prov.31: 26)

… which Intoxicates
A Wise Man’s Nose
with Each Blissful Breeze
… Benevolence Blows
(Prov.31: 11,12,28)

& A Woman Who’s Grown
Into A Rose
Stems To Sister Roses
Leaves of Sacred Prose
(Prov.31: 15)

Yes, There Are Lilies, Orchids
& Magnolia–Blooms
and Such Unique Flora
Has Their Trace–Perfume

… Lavenders, Gardenias
& Honeysuckle Aromas
Are Also Potent Enough
To Revive Fainting Comas
(Prov.31: 29)

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poem by MoonBee Canady
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XI. Guido

You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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From Four Saints in Three Acts

Pigeons on the grass alas.
Pigeons on the grass alas.
Short longer grass short longer longer shorter yellow grass. Pigeons
large pigeons on the shorter longer yellow grass alas pigeons on the
grass.
If they were not pigeons what were they.
If they were not pigeons on the grass alas what were they. He had
heard of a third and he asked about if it was a magpie in the sky.
If a magpie in the sky on the sky can not cry if the pigeon on the
grass alas can alas and to pass the pigeon on the grass alas and the
magpie in the sky on the sky and to try and to try alas on the
grass alas the pigeon on the grass the pigeon on the grass and alas.
They might be very well they might be very well very well they might
be.
Let Lucy Lily Lily Lucy Lucy let Lucy Lucy Lily Lily Lily Lily
Lily let Lily Lucy Lucy let Lily. Let Lucy Lily.

poem by Gertrude Stein
Added by Poetry Lover
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My Love Grows Deeper

My love grows deeper every day and takes a little piece of me
My love grows deeper every day and takes a little piece of me
My love grows deeper every day, deep into the sea
But takes a little piece of me, a little piece of me
Oh it's so beautiful out and I can't see why we're not allowed to be
Up in the sky with the birds counting the flowers
Oh my powers have failed me again when I can't see beginning to end
And I try to test it again through the hours
I get so stuck on leaving but I guess I think I'll stay
I'll be hanging around here anyway
I get so stuck on leaving, hell I think I'll go
Cuz they don't want me around here, no, no
My love grows deeper every day and takes a little piece of me
My love grows deeper every day and takes a little piece of me
My love grows deeper every day, deep into the sea
But takes a little piece of me, a little piece of me
Oh why can't I be green as the grass beneath my feet
As fresh as the dew hits the ground in the morning
And not yellow like bumble bees, please take me off my knees
Cuz I don't wanna be red forever
I get so stuck on leaving but I guess I think I'll stay
I'll be hanging around here anyway
I get so stuck on leaving so hell I think I'll go
Cuz they don't want me around here, no no
Traveling far, all up in the blue, traveling far,
could not be born because of you
Traveling far, up in the blue, could not be born because of you,
because of you you you you you you you
I get so stuck on leaving, I guess I think I'll stay
I'll be hanging around here anyway
I get so stuck on leaving, hell I think I'll go
You don't want me around here no more
I get so stuck on leaving, I get so stuck on leaving
I get so stuck on leaving, stuck on leaving
Stuck on leaving, I gotta go
You cut my wings long time ago
You cut my wings long time ago
My love grows deeper every day and takes a little piece of me
My love grows deeper every day and takes a little piece of me
My love grows deeper every day, deep into the sea
But takes a little piece of me, a little piece of me

song performed by Nelly Furtado
Added by Lucian Velea
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Annus Mirabilis, The Year Of Wonders, 1666

1
In thriving arts long time had Holland grown,
Crouching at home and cruel when abroad:
Scarce leaving us the means to claim our own;
Our King they courted, and our merchants awed.

2
Trade, which, like blood, should circularly flow,
Stopp'd in their channels, found its freedom lost:
Thither the wealth of all the world did go,
And seem'd but shipwreck'd on so base a coast.

3
For them alone the heavens had kindly heat;
In eastern quarries ripening precious dew:
For them the Idumaean balm did sweat,
And in hot Ceylon spicy forests grew.

4
The sun but seem'd the labourer of the year;
Each waxing moon supplied her watery store,
To swell those tides, which from the line did bear
Their brimful vessels to the Belgian shore.

5
Thus mighty in her ships, stood Carthage long,
And swept the riches of the world from far;
Yet stoop'd to Rome, less wealthy, but more strong:
And this may prove our second Punic war.

6
What peace can be, where both to one pretend?
(But they more diligent, and we more strong)
Or if a peace, it soon must have an end;
For they would grow too powerful, were it long.

7
Behold two nations, then, engaged so far
That each seven years the fit must shake each land:
Where France will side to weaken us by war,
Who only can his vast designs withstand.

8
See how he feeds the Iberian with delays,
To render us his timely friendship vain:
And while his secret soul on Flanders preys,
He rocks the cradle of the babe of Spain.

9
Such deep designs of empire does he lay

[...] Read more

poem by John Dryden
Added by Poetry Lover
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