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Nos Immortales

Perhaps we go with wind and cloud and sun,
Into the free companionship of air;
Perhaps with sunsets when the day is done,
All's one to me -- I do not greatly care;
So long as there are brown hills -- and a tree
Like a mad prophet in a land of dearth --
And I can lie and hear eternally
The vast monotonous breathing of the earth.

I have known hours, slow and golden-glowing,
Lovely with laughter and suffused with light,
O Lord, in such a time appoint my going,
When the hands clench, and the cold face grows white,
And the spark dies within the feeble brain,
Spilling its star-dust back to dust again.

poem by Stephen Vincent Benet
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Why is there Oil?

Why is there oil I asked one night,

and a startling answer came into sight.

It’s Mother’s Earth’s blood, that is what oil is,

It’s Sacred and my blood to share.

Be wise in your pumping

Man is not to do wrong with this blood,

For it’s not to be shed so humans end up dead

for here is what she seriously said:

“You are pumping the blood right out of ME,

Which makes ME very Sad,

[...] Read more

poem by Suzae Chevalier
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Psalm 6

My soul is greatly troubled
But you oh Lord-how long
I am weary with my groaning
And my night has lost its song

All night long my bed it swims
And my couch is bathed in tears
My grief has overwhelmed me
And I am surrounded by all my fears

The Lord has heard my weeping
As I lay in my bed at night
Oh Lord you know how weak I am
For you have surely beheld my plight

Oh Lord do not rebuke my soul
And in your sorrow chasten me
For you came and died upon the cross
You came to set me free

[...] Read more

poem by Frank McEleny
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Lux Perdita

Thine were the weak, slight hands
That might have taken this strong soul, and bent
Its stubborn substance to thy soft intent,
And bound it unresisting, with such bands
As not the arm of envious heaven had rent.

Thine were the calming eyes
That round my pinnace could have stilled the sea,
And drawn thy voyager home, and bid him be
Pure with their pureness, with their wisdom wise,
Merged in their light, and greatly lost in thee.

But thou-thou passed'st on,
With whiteness clothed of dedicated days,
Cold, like a star; and me in alien ways
Thou leftest following life's chance lure, where shone
The wandering gleam that beckons and betrays.

poem by William Watson
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It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by the dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions and spends himself in a worthy course; who at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who, at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly; so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory or defeat.

quote by Theodore Roosevelt (1910)
Added by Lucian Velea
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Thersites

So, in the Sunday papers _you_, Del Mar,
Damn, all great Englishmen in English speech?
I am no Englishman, but in my reach
A rogue shall never rail where heroes are.

You are the man, if I mistake you not,
Who lately with a supplicating twitch
Plucked at the pockets of the London rich
And paid your share-engraver all you got.

Because that you have greatly lied, because
You libel nations, and because no hand
Of officer is raised to bid you stand,
And falsehood is unpunished of the laws,

I stand here in a public place to mark
With level finger where you part the crowd
I stand to name you and to cry aloud:
'Behold mendacity's great hierarch!'

poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Great Teachers

I salute to great teachers of ancient India
For their achievement and dedication to the services of mother India
We are greatly indebted and honor the sons of India
Bow our head for their rich cultural heritage left for future India

Think of a life without contribution from teacher
In fact he is our guide and leader
Best friend and face reader
Never his profession was made as trader

So is the glorious day
We must celebrate today
Pay the tribute to all those people
Who did glory and took us out of trouble

Today we are at top of position
With their nice contribution
We owe a lot to salute and remember
They are formidable part of our life and member

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Love Sonnet 01: First love I would remember now and hence,

First love I would remember now and hence,
Like rain that came ahead of April's norms,
It wets us through, though deemed of no offence,
And laced our days throughout the August storms;
First things have always claimed in mind a room,
As how strangely, we would greatly uphold,
What first enters or goes out of the womb:
The virgin's loss, or firstborns' heirloom gold;
The foremost pain was that eggshell to break,
For love that lies unsaid in many ways,
If by queer chance, might I, those days remake,
No more will I hold back on love's forays;
....Now I have known, to mourn not love when lost,
....If but it's known to one who mattered most.
.

poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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For an Autograph

THOUGH old the thought and oft exprest,
'Tis his at last who says it best,
I'll try my fortune with the rest.
Life is a leaf of paper white
Whereon each one of us may write
His word or two, and then comes night.

'Lo, time and space enough,' we cry,
'To write an epic! ' so we try
Our nibs upon the edge, and die.
Muse not which way the pen to hold,
Luck hates the slow and loves the bold,
Soon come the darkness and the cold.

Greatly begin! though thou have time
But for a line, be that sublime,
Not failure, but low aim, is crime.
Ah, with what lofty hope we came!
But we forget it, dream of fame,
And scrawl, as I do here, a name.

poem by James Russell Lowell
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Grey Ocean

While walking on her beach
I met an Ocean
This event will stay with me forever
This is why

While looking very closely at the Ocean,
I noticed that it was Grey
This startled me
I had thought that all Oceans were blue
Not Grey

I looked at the Ocean and said
'Why on earth are you Grey? '

It let out a cry which stated
'Well, because I'm made of stones! '

I asked it why it was stone
It then told me long tale
About how children use to throw rocks at the Ocean

[...] Read more

poem by David Corman
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