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Night Riders Lament

One night while I was out a ridin
The grave yard shift, midnight til dawn
The moon was bright as a readin light
For a letter from an old friend back home.
And he asked me
Why do you ride for your money
Tell me why do you rope for short pay
You aint agettin nowhere
And youre loosin your share
Boy, you must have gone crazy out there.
He said last night I ran on to jenny
Shes married and has a good life
And boy you sure missed the track
When you never come back
Shes the perfect professionals wife.
And she asked me
Why does he ride for his money
And tell me why does he rope for short pay
He aint agettin nowhere
And hes loosin his share
Boy he mustve gone crazy out there.
Ah but theyve never seen the northern lights
Theyve never seen a hawk on the wing
Theyve never spent spring on the great divide
And theyve never heard ole camp cookie sing.
Well I read up the last of my letter
And I tore off the stamp for black jim
And when billy rode up to relieve me
He just looked at my letter and grinned.
He said now
Why do they ride for their money
Tell me why do they ride for short pay
They aint agettin nowhere
And theyre loosin their share
Boy, they mustve gone crazy out there
Son, they all must be crazy out there

song performed by Garth Brooks
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Loves of the Angels

'Twas when the world was in its prime,
When the fresh stars had just begun
Their race of glory and young Time
Told his first birth-days by the sun;
When in the light of Nature's dawn
Rejoicing, men and angels met
On the high hill and sunny lawn,-
Ere sorrow came or Sin had drawn
'Twixt man and heaven her curtain yet!
When earth lay nearer to the skies
Than in these days of crime and woe,
And mortals saw without surprise
In the mid-air angelic eyes
Gazing upon this world below.

Alas! that Passion should profane
Even then the morning of the earth!
That, sadder still, the fatal stain
Should fall on hearts of heavenly birth-
And that from Woman's love should fall
So dark a stain, most sad of all!

One evening, in that primal hour,
On a hill's side where hung the ray
Of sunset brightening rill and bower,
Three noble youths conversing lay;
And, as they lookt from time to time
To the far sky where Daylight furled
His radiant wing, their brows sublime
Bespoke them of that distant world-
Spirits who once in brotherhood
Of faith and bliss near ALLA stood,
And o'er whose cheeks full oft had blown
The wind that breathes from ALLA'S throne,
Creatures of light such as still play,
Like motes in sunshine, round the Lord,
And thro' their infinite array
Transmit each moment, night and day,
The echo of His luminous word!

Of Heaven they spoke and, still more oft,
Of the bright eyes that charmed them thence;
Till yielding gradual to the soft
And balmy evening's influence-
The silent breathing of the flowers-
The melting light that beamed above,
As on their first, fond, erring hours,-
Each told the story of his love,
The history of that hour unblest,
When like a bird from its high nest

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Moore
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Working The Midnight Shift

Im just a working girl, just earning a living
When the citys waking up, Im going home
Working the midnight shift
While my friends are all out
Theyve all gone out dancing
Theyre out having fun
Working that midnight shift
For that extra little something
The things that are out of my reach
I need so bad
So bad, so bad
Seems like Im always leaving
When all the others arrive
My body still carries on
But Im dying inside
Working the midnight shift
While my friends are all out
Theyve all gone out dancing
Theyre out having fun
Working that midnight shift
For that extra little something
The things that are out of my reach
I need so bad
I need so bad, need so bad
Midnight shift, midnight shift
Midnight shift, midnight shift
Midnight shift, midnight shift
Im just a working girl
Just earning a living
When the citys waking up
Im going home
Working the midnight shift
While my friends are all out
Theyve all gone out dancing
Midnight shift, midnight shift
Midnight shift, midnight shift
Midnight shift, midnight shift
Midnight shift, midnight shift
Midnight shift, midnight shift
Midnight shift, midnight shift

song performed by Donna Summer
Added by Lucian Velea
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[9] O, Moon, My Sweet-heart!

O, Moon, My Sweet-heart!
[LOVE POEMS]

POET: MAHENDRA BHATNAGAR

POEMS

1 Passion And Compassion / 1
2 Affection
3 Willing To Live
4 Passion And Compassion / 2
5 Boon
6 Remembrance
7 Pretext
8 To A Distant Person
9 Perception
10 Conclusion
10 You (1)
11 Symbol
12 You (2)
13 In Vain
14 One Night
15 Suddenly
16 Meeting
17 Touch
18 Face To Face
19 Co-Traveller
20 Once And Once only
21 Touchstone
22 In Chorus
23 Good Omens
24 Even Then
25 An Evening At ‘Tighiraa’ (1)
26 An Evening At ‘Tighiraa’ (2)
27 Life Aspirant
28 To The Condemned Woman
29 A Submission
30 At Midday
31 I Accept
32 Who Are You?
33 Solicitation
34 Accept Me
35 Again After Ages …
36 Day-Dreaming
37 Who Are You?
38 You Embellished In Song

[...] Read more

poem by Mahendra Bhatnagar
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III. The Other Half-Rome

Another day that finds her living yet,
Little Pompilia, with the patient brow
And lamentable smile on those poor lips,
And, under the white hospital-array,
A flower-like body, to frighten at a bruise
You'd think, yet now, stabbed through and through again,
Alive i' the ruins. 'T is a miracle.
It seems that, when her husband struck her first,
She prayed Madonna just that she might live
So long as to confess and be absolved;
And whether it was that, all her sad life long
Never before successful in a prayer,
This prayer rose with authority too dread,—
Or whether, because earth was hell to her,
By compensation, when the blackness broke
She got one glimpse of quiet and the cool blue,
To show her for a moment such things were,—
Or else,—as the Augustinian Brother thinks,
The friar who took confession from her lip,—
When a probationary soul that moved
From nobleness to nobleness, as she,
Over the rough way of the world, succumbs,
Bloodies its last thorn with unflinching foot,
The angels love to do their work betimes,
Staunch some wounds here nor leave so much for God.
Who knows? However it be, confessed, absolved,
She lies, with overplus of life beside
To speak and right herself from first to last,
Right the friend also, lamb-pure, lion-brave,
Care for the boy's concerns, to save the son
From the sire, her two-weeks' infant orphaned thus,
And—with best smile of all reserved for him—
Pardon that sire and husband from the heart.
A miracle, so tell your Molinists!

There she lies in the long white lazar-house.
Rome has besieged, these two days, never doubt,
Saint Anna's where she waits her death, to hear
Though but the chink o' the bell, turn o' the hinge
When the reluctant wicket opes at last,
Lets in, on now this and now that pretence,
Too many by half,—complain the men of art,—
For a patient in such plight. The lawyers first
Paid the due visit—justice must be done;
They took her witness, why the murder was.
Then the priests followed properly,—a soul
To shrive; 't was Brother Celestine's own right,
The same who noises thus her gifts abroad.
But many more, who found they were old friends,
Pushed in to have their stare and take their talk

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Lubie

I said I, I left my wife and child (Lubie come back home),
I said i, i left my wife and child (lubie come back home),
And lord my conscience is about to drive me wild (Lubie come back home),
And lord my conscience is about to drive me wild (lubie come back home),
A little voice inside my head goes on and on (Lubie come back home),
A little voice inside my head goes on and on (lubie come back home),
Said Lubie Lubie you better go back home.
Said lubie lubie you better go back home.
I said I, I thought I'd make it by myself (Lubie come back home),
I said i, i thought i'd make it by myself (lubie come back home),
And now my baby she got my heart dropped on a shelf (Lubie come back home),
And now my baby she got my heart dropped on a shelf (lubie come back home),
I said I, I still you're my baby now (Lubie come back home),
I said i, i still you're my baby now (lubie come back home),
Said Lubie Lubie you better go back home.
Said lubie lubie you better go back home.
You better go on home (Lubie come back home),
You better go on home (lubie come back home),
I said yeah Lubie go on home (Lubie come back home),
I said yeah lubie go on home (lubie come back home),
I said you better go home girl,
I said you better go home girl,
Ah yeah you go home.
Ah yeah you go home.
Go on home home home home home home,
Go on home home home home home home,
Yeah Lubie go on home home home home home home,
Yeah lubie go on home home home home home home,
Yeah Lubie go on home home home home home home,
Yeah lubie go on home home home home home home,
Little bit soft, everybody go soft,
Little bit soft, everybody go soft,
Go on home to see my baby,
Go on home to see my baby,
Yeah you know that she loves you daddy like crazy.
Yeah you know that she loves you daddy like crazy.
I say my misses I'm gonna stay what I'm gonna do,
I say my misses i'm gonna stay what i'm gonna do,
Gonna buy you a monkey and a new dog too yeah,
Gonna buy you a monkey and a new dog too yeah,
The guys have got yeah to get 'em to see my baby,
The guys have got yeah to get 'em to see my baby,
A little bit louder, everybody go on go louder, yeah yeah yeah yeah.
A little bit louder, everybody go on go louder, yeah yeah yeah yeah.
Now Lubie where you been,
Now lubie where you been,
I said I, I left my wife and child (Lubie come back home),
I said i, i left my wife and child (lubie come back home),
And lord my conscience is about to drive me wild (Lubie come back home),
And lord my conscience is about to drive me wild (lubie come back home),

[...] Read more

song performed by Who
Added by Lucian Velea
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Short Rap

Short rap (echo)
Repeat x2
Short rap, is everything
Its what I think, its what I sing
Cause Im a rapper, who lets you know
When it comes to music, I will grow
Rap more raps than any mc
Your rap aint rap cause your rap aint me
Short rap, is what you find
The mastermind, short rap that rhyme
Too short baby, thats the name
When I rap my rap I rap that game
I tell it to you like you always knew
Short raps not fake, its always true
Its me, its you, short rap is life
Its everyday and every night
And I dont just say its this and that
Its everything, its what short raps
Short rap (echo)
Itz what?
Short rap(echo)
Fresh
Short rap(echo)
Short rap(echo)
Short rap(echo)
S-h-o-r-t-r-a-p
Short rap is what I call this beat
Rap that rap like no one else
Im sir too short all by myself
I make fresh raps without your help
And all I want is fame and wealth
Smooth in the game, just like that
And all you hear me say is rap
Short (echo)
Short rap, is way to hard
Every I stop, its time to start
Cause what you find, when I say rhymes
Is a non-stop rap, right on time
Im the kind of person you always thought
Couldnt make a record that would be bought
Sir too short, it couldnt be
Short rap, whats that, short rap is me
Short rap(echo)
Short rap(echo)
So so fresh
I like tenders, young and hot
You never hear short say baby why not?
Im sir too short, Im so down
Mc rapper from the oakland town
You better get up, short raps a song

[...] Read more

song performed by Too Short
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VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi

Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then … nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
"Well, he can say no other than what he says.
"We have been young, too,—come, there's greater guilt!
"Let him but decently disembroil himself,
"Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—
"We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast
As if I were a phantom: now 't is—"Friend,
"Collect yourself!"—no laughing matter more—
"Counsel the Court in this extremity,
"Tell us again!"—tell that, for telling which,
I got the jocular piece of punishment,
Was sent to lounge a little in the place
Whence now of a sudden here you summon me
To take the intelligence from just—your lips!
You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—
That she I helped eight months since to escape
Her husband, was retaken by the same,
Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,—
(I being disallowed to interfere,
Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,
For you and law were guardians quite enough
O' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)—
And that he has butchered her accordingly,
As she foretold and as myself believed,—
And, so foretelling and believing so,
We were punished, both of us, the merry way:
Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?
Pompilia is only dying while I speak!
Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?
My masters, there's an old book, you should con
For strange adventures, applicable yet,

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Poetry Readers

Note-Rewrite of the hit song, Single Ladies.

My own twisted sense of humor hopefully comes through this piece

All you poetry readers (7X)

Now if my naughty poetry ways got you fed up
Throw your pens up
Up in this writer's club, gettin' 'em all choked up
Jealous
Cos I'm not afraid to be doin' my own thing
Makes ya wanna trip
Cos some big name publisher noticed me
I'm gettin' big notice from him, he gettin' big notice from me
Won't pay your childness any attention
Cuz I've paid my dues for 20 long years
Ya got no right to be mad at me

Chorus

Cuz if you don't like it then you shoud't be readin' it
If you don't like it then you should't be readin' it
Don't be mad once you see someone big wants it
If you don't like it then you don't have to be readin' it

Wo oh ooh oh oh ooh oh oh ooh oh oh oh (2X)

Cuz if you don't like it then you shoud't be readin' it
If you don't like it then you should't be readin' it
Don't be mad once you see someone big wants it
If you don't like it then you don't have to be readin' it

They got my name on their lips, payin' me the big tips
For my prose tighter then my Dereon jeans
Acting up, bet ya would love to spit in my coffee cup
I could care less what you think
I need no permission, did I mention
Not gonna pay your childness any attention
Cos you have't yet earned your turn
So now sit back, relax and learn
What a real writer is supposed to be

Cuz if you don't like it then you should't be readin' it
If you don't like it then you should't be readin' it
Don't be mad once you see someone big wants it
If you don't like it then you don't have to be readin' it

Cuz if you don't like it then you shoud't be readin' it
If you don't like it then you should't be readin' it
Don't be mad once you see someone big wants it

[...] Read more

poem by Ramona Thompson
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Rosalind and Helen: a Modern Eclogue

ROSALIND, HELEN, and her Child.

SCENE. The Shore of the Lake of Como.

HELEN
Come hither, my sweet Rosalind.
'T is long since thou and I have met;
And yet methinks it were unkind
Those moments to forget.
Come, sit by me. I see thee stand
By this lone lake, in this far land,
Thy loose hair in the light wind flying,
Thy sweet voice to each tone of even
United, and thine eyes replying
To the hues of yon fair heaven.
Come, gentle friend! wilt sit by me?
And be as thou wert wont to be
Ere we were disunited?
None doth behold us now; the power
That led us forth at this lone hour
Will be but ill requited
If thou depart in scorn. Oh, come,
And talk of our abandoned home!
Remember, this is Italy,
And we are exiles. Talk with me
Of that our land, whose wilds and floods,
Barren and dark although they be,
Were dearer than these chestnut woods;
Those heathy paths, that inland stream,
And the blue mountains, shapes which seem
Like wrecks of childhood's sunny dream;
Which that we have abandoned now,
Weighs on the heart like that remorse
Which altered friendship leaves. I seek
No more our youthful intercourse.
That cannot be! Rosalind, speak,
Speak to me! Leave me not! When morn did come,
When evening fell upon our common home,
When for one hour we parted,--do not frown;
I would not chide thee, though thy faith is broken;
But turn to me. Oh! by this cherished token
Of woven hair, which thou wilt not disown,
Turn, as 't were but the memory of me,
And not my scornèd self who prayed to thee!

ROSALIND
Is it a dream, or do I see
And hear frail Helen? I would flee
Thy tainting touch; but former years
Arise, and bring forbidden tears;

[...] Read more

poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Nun in FRiar Small-Bro's Grave... Yard

The midnight clings to dwarfish kings
While robot drones, adorning thrones,
Kneel, bowing to the Old...Guard.
Arrhythmic clocks and wooden box
Grace FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.

The diplohacks, in melting wax,
Are swept along, a thriving throng,
Just dying for a life...guard.
And Nun, alone, has beached their bones
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.

Beyond the streams, a raven screams
At loser fish that swarm and swish;
Nun gently drips her dreams...jarred.
There are no thanks along the banks
Of FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.

While FRiar smiles and prowls the aisles
The hierarch obeys his bark;
His maw is oozing pure...lard.
He tells you who and what to do
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.

Well, FRiar's pets are in a sweat;
He calls the tunes near burning dunes
And taps his cloven feet...charred.
They roast in rooms within the tombs
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.

His myrmidons, they drool and fawn
While chanting verse near FRiar's hearse -
Extolling, wild, the van...guard.
Remote controls promote the trolls
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.

With faces straight, in bent debate,
They compromise their empty lies
With any passing re...tard.
Grey zombies groom white flies in bloom
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.

With ghouls, unlearned, no stone's unturned,
They burnish blame with Nun's proud name
And leave the midnight sky... scarred.
They raise their hats to copy cats
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.

The rumours spread amongst the dead -
Nun marks the place with saving grace,

[...] Read more

poem by Terry O'Leary
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The Dream

'TWAS summer eve; the changeful beams still play'd
On the fir-bark and through the beechen shade;
Still with soft crimson glow'd each floating cloud;
Still the stream glitter'd where the willow bow'd;
Still the pale moon sate silent and alone,
Nor yet the stars had rallied round her throne;
Those diamond courtiers, who, while yet the West
Wears the red shield above his dying breast,
Dare not assume the loss they all desire,
Nor pay their homage to the fainter fire,
But wait in trembling till the Sun's fair light
Fading, shall leave them free to welcome Night!

So when some Chief, whose name through realms afar
Was still the watchword of succesful war,
Met by the fatal hour which waits for all,
Is, on the field he rallied, forced to fall,
The conquerors pause to watch his parting breath,
Awed by the terrors of that mighty death;
Nor dare the meed of victory to claim,
Nor lift the standard to a meaner name,
Till every spark of soul hath ebb'd away,
And leaves what was a hero, common clay.

Oh! Twilight! Spirit that dost render birth
To dim enchantments; melting Heaven with Earth,
Leaving on craggy hills and rumning streams
A softness like the atmosphere of dreams;
Thy hour to all is welcome! Faint and sweet
Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet,
Who, slow returning from his task of toil,
Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil,
And, tho' such radliance round him brightly glows,
Marks the small spark his cottage window throws.
Still as his heart forestals his weary pace,
Fondly he dreams of each familiar face,
Recalls the treasures of his narrow life,
His rosy children, and his sunburnt wife,

To whom his coming is the chief event
Of simple days in cheerful labour spent.
The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past,
And those poor cottagers have only cast
One careless glance on all that show of pride,
Then to their tasks turn'd quietly aside;
But him they wait for, him they welcome home,
Fond sentinels look forth to see him come;
The fagot sent for when the fire grew dim,
The frugal meal prepared, are all for him;
For him the watching of that sturdy boy,

[...] Read more

poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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V. Count Guido Franceschini

Thanks, Sir, but, should it please the reverend Court,
I feel I can stand somehow, half sit down
Without help, make shift to even speak, you see,
Fortified by the sip of … why, 't is wine,
Velletri,—and not vinegar and gall,
So changed and good the times grow! Thanks, kind Sir!
Oh, but one sip's enough! I want my head
To save my neck, there's work awaits me still.
How cautious and considerate … aie, aie, aie,
Nor your fault, sweet Sir! Come, you take to heart
An ordinary matter. Law is law.
Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,
From racking; but, since law thinks otherwise,
I have been put to the rack: all's over now,
And neither wrist—what men style, out of joint:
If any harm be, 't is the shoulder-blade,
The left one, that seems wrong i' the socket,—Sirs,
Much could not happen, I was quick to faint,
Being past my prime of life, and out of health.
In short, I thank you,—yes, and mean the word.
Needs must the Court be slow to understand
How this quite novel form of taking pain,
This getting tortured merely in the flesh,
Amounts to almost an agreeable change
In my case, me fastidious, plied too much
With opposite treatment, used (forgive the joke)
To the rasp-tooth toying with this brain of mine,
And, in and out my heart, the play o' the probe.
Four years have I been operated on
I' the soul, do you see—its tense or tremulous part—
My self-respect, my care for a good name,
Pride in an old one, love of kindred—just
A mother, brothers, sisters, and the like,
That looked up to my face when days were dim,
And fancied they found light there—no one spot,
Foppishly sensitive, but has paid its pang.
That, and not this you now oblige me with,
That was the Vigil-torment, if you please!
The poor old noble House that drew the rags
O' the Franceschini's once superb array
Close round her, hoped to slink unchallenged by,—
Pluck off these! Turn the drapery inside out
And teach the tittering town how scarlet wears!
Show men the lucklessness, the improvidence
Of the easy-natured Count before this Count,
The father I have some slight feeling for,
Who let the world slide, nor foresaw that friends
Then proud to cap and kiss their patron's shoe,
Would, when the purse he left held spider-webs,
Properly push his child to wall one day!

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Dying Daze

Are ya living to live?
Are you living to die
Are you living a tale?
Are you living a lie?
You got one life to life
Are you living it right?
You've got one life to live
Who wants to ride?
Everyday, I do it my way
Live my life my way, but don't care what they say
Dying daze
Dying daze
Dying daze
Dying daze
Ridin till my dyin daze
I'm sick of watchin birds spill
I'm sick of chasin dollar bills
I'm sick of systems tryin to seal my fate (Oh, oh, oh)
I'd rather taste the sunshine with some endo in my ride
I wanna climb waterfalls all day (Oh, oh, oh)
I wanna break the open sky with my psychedelic eye
I wanna ride around the world today (Oh, oh, oh)
And if I never make it home I know my soul is gonna roam
I'm gonna ride until my dying day
Ridin till my dyin daze
Ridin till my dyin daze
Ridin till my dyin daze
Ridin till my dyin daze
I've been all around the world from the east to the west
Japan to LA, I said damn take a breath
Livin life fast put the rest in the past
Till my dyin daze I'll go ridin to the last
And until my dying days I'm living life to the fullest
Staring at the ripcord wondering when I should pull it
Thinkin I wanna stop but no I gotta go faster
Gonna go till I'm broke then throw me out to pasture
Alright Johnny Ric' need to stick to the picture
Knowin damn well how we flip these scriptures
The beats gonna hit ya, ya feel that vibe
It's a dance hall funk with the punk rock rhyme
So get down to pit cause its gonna explode
Circle gonna blow from the first distant go
Whether hittin 5th wide or chargin 12 step
Gaps, that's it when you commit cause there's no turning back.
That's it when you commit cause there's no turning back
That's it when you commit cause there's no turning back
Ridin till my dyin
Ridin till my dyin daze
Dyin daze
Dyin daze

[...] Read more

song performed by Kottonmouth Kings
Added by Lucian Velea
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Song of Wink Star

The Song of Wink Star
a happy story for children of all ages
story and text © Raj Arumugam, June 2008

☼ ☼

☼ Preamble

Come…children all, children of all ages…sit close and listen…
Come and listen to this happy story of the stars and of life…
Come children of the universe, children of all nations and of all races, and of all climates and of all kinds of space and dimensions and universes…
Come, dearest children of all beings of the living universe, come and listen to The Song of Wink Star…

Come and listen to this story, this happy story…listen, as the story itself sings to you…

Sit close then, and listen to the story that was not made by any, or written by a poet, or fashioned by grandfathers and grandmothers warming themselves at the fire of burning stars…

O dearest children all, come and listen to the story that lives
of itself, and that glows bright and happy….

Come…children all, children of all ages, come and listen to this happy story, the story so natural and smooth as life, as it sings itself to you….

☼ The Song of Wink Star
a happy story for children of all ages

☼ 1

Night Child, always so light and gentle, slept on a flower.
And every night, before he went to sleep, he would look up at the sky.
He would look at the eastern corner, five o’clock.

And there he would see all the stars in near and distant galaxies that were only visible to the People of Star Eyes.

Night Child was one of the People of Star Eyes. And so he could see the stars. And of all the stars he could see, he loved to watch Wink Star.

Wink Star twinkled and winked and laughed.
Every night Wink Star did that. Winked and laughed.

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poem by Raj Arumugam
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Three Women

My love is young, so young;
Young is her cheek, and her throat,
And life is a song to be sung
With love the word for each note.

Young is her cheek and her throat;
Her eyes have the smile o' May.
And love is the word for each note
In the song of my life to-day.

Her eyes have the smile o' May;
Her heart is the heart of a dove,
And the song of my life to-day
Is love, beautiful love.

Her heart is the heart of a dove,
Ah, would it but fly to my breast
Where love, beautiful love,
Has made it a downy nest.

Ah, would she but fly to my breast,
My love who is young, so young;
I have made her a downy nest
And life is a song to be sung.

1
I.
A dull little station, a man with the eye
Of a dreamer; a bevy of girls moving by;
A swift moving train and a hot Summer sun,
The curtain goes up, and our play is begun.
The drama of passion, of sorrow, of strife,
Which always is billed for the theatre Life.
It runs on forever, from year unto year,
With scarcely a change when new actors appear.
It is old as the world is-far older in truth,
For the world is a crude little planet of youth.
And back in the eras before it was formed,
The passions of hearts through the Universe stormed.

Maurice Somerville passed the cluster of girls
Who twisted their ribbons and fluttered their curls
In vain to attract him; his mind it was plain
Was wholly intent on the incoming train.
That great one eyed monster puffed out its black breath,
Shrieked, snorted and hissed, like a thing bent on death,

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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Seventh Book

'THE woman's motive? shall we daub ourselves
With finding roots for nettles? 'tis soft clay
And easily explored. She had the means,
The moneys, by the lady's liberal grace,
In trust for that Australian scheme and me,
Which so, that she might clutch with both her hands,
And chink to her naughty uses undisturbed,
She served me (after all it was not strange,;
'Twas only what my mother would have done)
A motherly, unmerciful, good turn.

'Well, after. There are nettles everywhere,
But smooth green grasses are more common still;
The blue of heaven is larger than the cloud;
A miller's wife at Clichy took me in
And spent her pity on me,–made me calm
And merely very reasonably sad.
She found me a servant's place in Paris where
I tried to take the cast-off life again,
And stood as quiet as a beaten ass
Who, having fallen through overloads, stands up
To let them charge him with another pack.

'A few months, so. My mistress, young and light,
Was easy with me, less for kindness than
Because she led, herself, an easy time
Betwixt her lover and her looking-glass,
Scarce knowing which way she was praised the most.
She felt so pretty and so pleased all day
She could not take the trouble to be cross,
But sometimes, as I stooped to tie her shoe,
Would tap me softly with her slender foot
Still restless with the last night's dancing in't,
And say 'Fie, pale-face! are you English girls
'All grave and silent? mass-book still, and Lent?
'And first-communion colours on your cheeks,
'Worn past the time for't? little fool, be gay!'
At which she vanished, like a fairy, through
A gap of silver laughter.
'Came an hour
When all went otherwise. She did not speak,
But clenched her brows, and clipped me with her eyes
As if a viper with a pair of tongs,
Too far for any touch, yet near enough
To view the writhing creature,–then at last,
'Stand still there, in the holy Virgin's name,
'Thou Marian; thou'rt no reputable girl,
'Although sufficient dull for twenty saints!
'I think thou mock'st me and my house,' she said;
'Confess thou'lt be a mother in a month,

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poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Canto the Second

I
Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,
Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain,
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions,
It mends their morals, never mind the pain:
The best of mothers and of educations
In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain,
Since, in a way that's rather of the oddest, he
Became divested of his native modesty.

II
Had he but been placed at a public school,
In the third form, or even in the fourth,
His daily task had kept his fancy cool,
At least, had he been nurtured in the north;
Spain may prove an exception to the rule,
But then exceptions always prove its worth -—
A lad of sixteen causing a divorce
Puzzled his tutors very much, of course.

III
I can't say that it puzzles me at all,
If all things be consider'd: first, there was
His lady-mother, mathematical,
A—never mind; his tutor, an old ass;
A pretty woman (that's quite natural,
Or else the thing had hardly come to pass);
A husband rather old, not much in unity
With his young wife—a time, and opportunity.

IV
Well—well, the world must turn upon its axis,
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails,
And live and die, make love and pay our taxes,
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails;
The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us,
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales,
A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame,
Fighting, devotion, dust,—perhaps a name.

V
I said that Juan had been sent to Cadiz -—
A pretty town, I recollect it well -—
'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is
(Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel),
And such sweet girls—I mean, such graceful ladies,
Their very walk would make your bosom swell;
I can't describe it, though so much it strike,
Nor liken it—I never saw the like:

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poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
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Destitute & Loosin

Im destitute and loosin, all that I got.
I got too much booze in me, oh, and Ive been smokin a lot.
Sometimes I wish my memory, didnt serve me so good.
Maybe then I wouldnt think of the world, but you know that I would.
cause Im ...
Destitute and loosin, all of my mind.
But I know I got to meet my maker children, at the end of the line.
Nothing good lasts forever, not on this earth.
Im a victim of circumstance, my mistake was my birth.
cause Im ...
Chorus
Destitute and loosin, sure cant be choosin.
Destitute and loosin, sure cant be choosin.
Im destitute and loosin, Im loosin my way.
There will be no more choosin, come the judgment day.
Theres no place for me to go, but, I know darn well.
When it comes time for me to leave here, Im going straight, straight down to hell
cause Im ...
Im destitute and loosin, Im losin my mind.
Said, Im destitute and loosin, children, loosin all the time.
Ive never been a winner, at nothing Ive done.
I know that Im a sinner, and you know my time is come.
cause Im ...
Chorus
Chorus
Ive been soooo ... low children, I just dont know which way to go.
Lord, you know I just dont give a fuu ...

song performed by Grand Funk Railroad
Added by Lucian Velea
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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

Epigraph

Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.

I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.

You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:

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poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Zenana

WHAT is there that the world hath not
Gathered in yon enchanted spot?
Where, pale, and with a languid eye,
The fair Sultana listlessly
Leans on her silken couch, and dreams
Of mountain airs, and mountain streams.
Sweet though the music float around,
It wants the old familiar sound;

And fragrant though the flowers are breathing,
From far and near together wreathing,
They are not those she used to wear,
Upon the midnight of her hair.—

She's very young, and childhood's days
With all their old remembered ways,
The empire of her heart contest
With love, that is so new a guest;
When blushing with her Murad near,
Half timid bliss, half sweetest fear,
E'en the beloved past is dim,
Past, present, future, merge in him.
But he, the warrior and the chief,
His hours of happiness are brief;
And he must leave Nadira's side
To woo and win a ruder bride;

Sought, sword in hand and spur on heel,
The fame, that weds with blood and steel.
And while from Delhi far away,
His youthful bride pines through the day,
Weary and sad: thus when again
He seeks to bind love's loosen'd chain;
He finds the tears are scarcely dry
Upon a cheek whose bloom is faded,
The very flush of victory
Is, like the brow he watches, shaded.
A thousand thoughts are at her heart,
His image paramount o'er all,
Yet not all his, the tears that start,
As mournful memories recall
Scenes of another home, which yet
That fond young heart can not forget.
She thinks upon that place of pride,
Which frowned upon the mountain's side;

While round it spread the ancient plain,
Her steps will never cross again.
And near those mighty temples stand,
The miracles of mortal hand,

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poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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