Official TRF Poetry Appreciation Thread™ (redux)

[goose]

Autobiographia Literaria - Frank O'Hara

 

When I was a child

I played by myself in a

corner of the schoolyard

all alone.

 

I hated dolls and I

hated games, animals were

not friendly and birds

flew away.

 

If anyone was looking

for me I hid behind a

tree and cried out "I am

an orphan."

 

And here I am, the

center of all beauty!

writing these poems!

Imagine!

 

I'm glad he found a happy ending for himself!

It's a very uplifting poem!

 

This should be mandatory reading for middle school kids.

[goose]

Walt Whitman - Oh Captain, My Captain

 

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

 

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck,

You’ve fallen cold and dead.

 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

But I with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

 

[Blue J]

The Witch's Life, by Anne Sexton

 

 

When I was a child

there was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch.

 

All day she peered from her second story

window

from behind the wrinkled curtains

and sometimes she would open the window

and yell: Get out of my life!

She had hair like kelp

and a voice like a boulder.

 

 

I think of her sometimes now

and wonder if I am becoming her.

 

My shoes turn up like a jester's.

 

Clumps of my hair, as I write this,

curl up individually like toes.

 

I am shoveling the children out,

scoop after scoop.

 

Only my books anoint me,

and a few friends,

those who reach into my veins.

 

Maybe I am becoming a hermit,

opening the door for only

a few special animals?

Maybe my skull is too crowded

and it has no opening through which

to feed it soup?

Maybe I have plugged up my sockets

to keep the gods in?

Maybe, although my heart

is a kitten of butter,

I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.

 

Yes.

It is the witch's life,

climbing the primordial climb,

a dream within a dream,

then sitting here

holding a basket of fire.

[goose]

"I am shoveling the children out, scoop by scoop..."

 

 

That's wonderful!

[x1yyz]

Walt Whitman - Oh Captain, My Captain

 

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

 

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck,

You’ve fallen cold and dead.

 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

But I with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

 

 

For all the references I've heard to this poem, this was the first time I had read it. Thank you for posting it.

[goose]

Walt Whitman - Oh Captain, My Captain

 

 

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

 

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck,

You’ve fallen cold and dead.

 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

But I with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

 

 

 

For all the references I've heard to this poem, this was the first time I had read it. Thank you for posting it.

A beautiful ode to a fallen President Lincoln.

 

"My father does not feel my arm...". What an image...reminds me of the Pieta...

 

http://www.artlex.com/ArtLex/p/images/pieta_michel.rom.lg.jpg

Edited January 18, 2016 by goose

[x1yyz]

*giggle*

 

http://i341.photobucket.com/albums/o371/x1yyz/poetry_zpsaokh6msd.jpg

[Blue J]

I wrote this one about seven years ago, for my sister.

 

 

 

Varying only slightly

from something I told you

in the very first conversation

that was between just you

and just me

I feel compelled to tell you

that I love you for being

who you are

or perhaps that I love you simply

for being

and wonder what that I might accomplish

to repay you

for the simple gesture

of your existence

 

Both of us coming to feel

somehow safe and secure

with the notion that

this life

is tearing our souls to pieces

but leaving just enough

to propel us through another day

or another night

or any of the other in-betweens that we resist-

teeth clenched

and seething against the grain

 

that life is

always on the precipice

like legs hanging off

the edge of the mattress-

the melancholy, the recklessness

the passion we feel

for the love we've lost

both fulfilled and unrequited

alike

 

that life is

never apologizing

never thinking in terms

of 'right' versus 'wrong'

but tethered to that precipice-

remaining faithful to the glory

of light, and love, and living

and ever so cognizant

of the pain that resides

at the bottom of a bottle

of pills

or bittersweet, poison wine

or any of the other instruments

of self-will

in which we might choose

to indulge

 

Out of this mutual, tragic void

that currently binds us

can also blossom a tremendous bond-

as strong and bold as two diamonds

amid the ruinous ash

and at least the potential

to grow beyond the muddled fray

 

As my eyes can see sufficiently above

these granite markers

to finality

I am reminded

of a very different kind of struggle

which was answered as succinctly

as my purpose can be stated now-

"I am, because we are."

 

At this tumultuous and defining moment

With every jagged punch to the gut

which seems to so often find us,

tempered by the warmest and tenderest expressions

of friendship

I know that I have you

in whom I can confide

upon whom I can rely

with whom I can rejoice

 

and you will always have me

for the same

 

and that is how

this life

will go on

 

[x1yyz]

I wrote this one about seven years ago, for my sister.

 

 

 

Varying only slightly

from something I told you

in the very first conversation

that was between just you

and just me

I feel compelled to tell you

that I love you for being

who you are

or perhaps that I love you simply

for being

and wonder what that I might accomplish

to repay you

for the simple gesture

of your existence

 

Both of us coming to feel

somehow safe and secure

with the notion that

this life

is tearing our souls to pieces

but leaving just enough

to propel us through another day

or another night

or any of the other in-betweens that we resist-

teeth clenched

and seething against the grain

 

that life is

always on the precipice

like legs hanging off

the edge of the mattress-

the melancholy, the recklessness

the passion we feel

for the love we've lost

both fulfilled and unrequited

alike

 

that life is

never apologizing

never thinking in terms

of 'right' versus 'wrong'

but tethered to that precipice-

remaining faithful to the glory

of light, and love, and living

and ever so cognizant

of the pain that resides

at the bottom of a bottle

of pills

or bittersweet, poison wine

or any of the other instruments

of self-will

in which we might choose

to indulge

 

Out of this mutual, tragic void

that currently binds us

can also blossom a tremendous bond-

as strong and bold as two diamonds

amid the ruinous ash

and at least the potential

to grow beyond the muddled fray

 

As my eyes can see sufficiently above

these granite markers

to finality

I am reminded

of a very different kind of struggle

which was answered as succinctly

as my purpose can be stated now-

"I am, because we are."

 

At this tumultuous and defining moment

With every jagged punch to the gut

which seems to so often find us,

tempered by the warmest and tenderest expressions

of friendship

I know that I have you

in whom I can confide

upon whom I can rely

with whom I can rejoice

 

and you will always have me

for the same

 

and that is how

this life

will go on

 

Oh wow. I think I know a little bit of the story behind this, which makes it even deeper and more intense.

[bean-tor]

I think there are a few Leonard Cohen fans around the forum; in any case, I watched this piece from the National Film Board of Canada this morning and thought others might enjoy it as well. It shows Cohen at 30 years old reading and discussing his poetry, wandering around Montréal...and in a glorious moment, wearing tightie whities in his hotel room :o

 

http://youtu.be/Uv4J7sID3Pk

[Cyclonus X-1]

I think there are a few Leonard Cohen fans around the forum; in any case, I watched this piece from the National Film Board of Canada this morning and thought others might enjoy it as well. It shows Cohen at 30 years old reading and discussing his poetry, wandering around Montréal...and in a glorious moment, wearing tightie whities in his hotel room :o

 

http://youtu.be/Uv4J7sID3Pk

 

What a talented guy--a man of multiple trades who makes so many interesting observations. I really liked two of the remarks concerning him in that video: his statement that he had "chosen a path that is infinitely wide and without direction" (seemed particularly apt), and the comment that he was "a constant wanderer" with "little black notebooks... stuffed with pertinent observations" (now that's a writer).

 

And the opening bit was very funny. :)

[goose]

Ernest Hemingway - Poem

 

The only man I ever loved

Said good bye

And went away

He was killed in Picardy

On a sunny day.

 

Ernest Hemingway - The Age Demanded

 

The age demanded that we sing

And cut away our tongue.

 

The age demanded that we flow

And hammered in the bung.

 

The age demanded that we dance

And jammed us into iron pants.

 

And in the end the age was handed

The sort of shit that it demanded.

Edited February 6, 2016 by goose

[goose]

"The writer's job is to tell the truth" - Ernest Hemingway

 

 

I try to approach life in this way.

[goose]

'Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.' - Hemingway

[goose]

Ernest Hemingway - Chapter Heading

 

For we have thought the longer thoughts

And gone the shorter way.

And we have danced to devils’ tunes,

Shivering home to pray;

To serve one master in the night,

Another in the day.

[Verena]

Frost At Midnight - Samuel Taylor Coleridge

 

The Frost performs its secret ministry,

Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry

Came loud--and hark, again loud as before.

The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,

Have left me to that solitude, which suits

Abstruser musings : save that at my side

My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.

'Tis calm indeed so calm, that it disturbs

And vexes meditation with its strange

And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,

This populous village Sea, and hill, and wood,

With all the numberless goings-on of life,

Inaudible as dreams the thin blue flame

Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not ;

Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,

Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.

Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature

Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,

Making it a companionable form,

Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit

By its own moods interprets, every where

Echo or mirror seeking of itself,

And makes a toy of Thought.

I like when I read about the dim flames as the only companion as a mirror, echo of the Spirit. The meditation and silence embrace in Winter night appreciation. :)

[Verena]

10:13 pm January 10, 2016

 

Poetic Turd

by

Tombstone Mountain

 

http://www.ancient-origins.net/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/Cuneiform-inscription-by-Xerxes-the-Great_0.jpg?itok=H001xLa3

 

Take the chisel,

and here's a hammer.

Take my words,

set them in stone.

Make new cuneiform,

a language all its own.

 

Only those who think the deepest thoughts,

can decipher the code.

Shake my world, see my soul.

It's hiding in the snow-globe of memories I've made,

my own vault of gold.

 

 

Peer into my mind.

What do you see?

A wasteland of promise?

A womb filled with inert and tiny seeds?

 

Look! It's Narcissus drinking from the stream.

He's come alive from the wall of a cave.

Prehistoric man's cinema,

the ancient world's museum of petroglyphic dreams

 

He can't look up for he's afraid to squander

the image of perfection found on the surface of the water.

 

The image is one of wonder and youth.

 

It creates ripples of arrogance.

Before they hit the muddy bank they disappear,

floating over the grass and into the wind.

 

Am I like Narcissus?

Conquering the cosmos in my dreams?

For in my mind it feels as such.

 

In reality I know,

those dreams don't add up to much.

http://mythlovestories.com/echo04L.jpg

How creative and interesting! Different cultures/ details are compared and united here. :)

Edited February 16, 2016 by rhyv

[Tombstone Mountain]

10:13 pm January 10, 2016

 

Poetic Turd

by

Tombstone Mountain

 

http://www.ancient-origins.net/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/Cuneiform-inscription-by-Xerxes-the-Great_0.jpg?itok=H001xLa3

 

Take the chisel,

and here's a hammer.

Take my words,

set them in stone.

Make new cuneiform,

a language all its own.

 

Only those who think the deepest thoughts,

can decipher the code.

Shake my world, see my soul.

It's hiding in the snow-globe of memories I've made,

my own vault of gold.

 

 

Peer into my mind.

What do you see?

A wasteland of promise?

A womb filled with inert and tiny seeds?

 

Look! It's Narcissus drinking from the stream.

He's come alive from the wall of a cave.

Prehistoric man's cinema,

the ancient world's museum of petroglyphic dreams

 

He can't look up for he's afraid to squander

the image of perfection found on the surface of the water.

 

The image is one of wonder and youth.

 

It creates ripples of arrogance.

Before they hit the muddy bank they disappear,

floating over the grass and into the wind.

 

Am I like Narcissus?

Conquering the cosmos in my dreams?

For in my mind it feels as such.

 

In reality I know,

those dreams don't add up to much.

http://mythlovestories.com/echo04L.jpg

How creative and interesting! Different cultures/ details are compared and united here. :)

Wow...thank you. It just came out

[Tombstone Mountain]

http://s.hswstatic.com/gif/seven-wonder-ancient-world-11.jpg

 

I am Colossus.

My body made of bronze.

Crafted from the mind of genius

I face the Aegean Sea.

 

I am Colossus.

Two worlds I touch.

Above my head I hold the torch of my dreams,

between my legs ships pass, day and night.

 

I am Colossus.

My girth is my power.

Storm and sun, wind and rain

Beat my body relentlessly.

 

I am Colossus.

In the ancient world I lived.

Staring into the ocean blue,

waiting on the sands of time.

 

I am Colossus.

Tear me down.

Melt me into sword and shield.

Take my light and douse it.

 

I am Colossus.

My life is legend.

Pages of history can only tell,

about my fall and nothing else.

Edited February 18, 2016 by Tombstone Mountain

[Verena]

A good mood for the day:

 

My Dearest Frank I wish You Joy

 

My dearest Frank, I wish you joy

Of Mary's safety with a Boy,

Whose birth has given little pain

Compared with that of Mary Jane.--

May he a growing Blessing prove,

And well deserve his Parents' Love!--

Endow'd with Art's and Nature's Good,

Thy Name possessing with thy Blood,

In him, in all his ways, may we

Another Francis WIlliam see!--

Thy infant days may he inherit,

They warmth, nay insolence of spirit;--

We would not with one foult dispense

To weaken the resemblance.

May he revive thy Nursery sin,

Peeping as daringly within,

His curley Locks but just descried,

With 'Bet, my be not come to bide.'--

Fearless of danger, braving pain,

And threaten'd very oft in vain,

Still may one Terror daunt his Soul,

One needful engine of Controul

Be found in this sublime array,

A neigbouring Donkey's aweful Bray.

So may his equal faults as Child,

Produce Maturity as mild!

His saucy words and fiery ways

In early Childhood's pettish days,

In Manhood, shew his Father's mind

Like him, considerate and Kind;

All Gentleness to those around,

And anger only not to wound.

Then like his Father too, he must,

To his own former struggles just,

Feel his Deserts with honest Glow,

And all his self-improvement know.

A native fault may thus give birth

To the best blessing, conscious Worth.

As for ourselves we're very well;

As unaffected prose will tell.--

Cassandra's pen will paint our state,

The many comforts that await

Our Chawton home, how much we find

Already in it, to our mind;

And how convinced, that when complete

It will all other Houses beat

The ever have been made or mended,

With rooms concise, or rooms distended.

You'll find us very snug next year,

Perhaps with Charles and Fanny near,

For now it often does delight us

To fancy them just over-right us.

Edited February 26, 2016 by rhyv

[Tombstone Mountain]

A good mood for the day:

 

My Dearest Frank I wish You Joy

 

My dearest Frank, I wish you joy

Of Mary's safety with a Boy,

Whose birth has given little pain

Compared with that of Mary Jane.--

May he a growing Blessing prove,

And well deserve his Parents' Love!--

Endow'd with Art's and Nature's Good,

Thy Name possessing with thy Blood,

In him, in all his ways, may we

Another Francis WIlliam see!--

Thy infant days may he inherit,

They warmth, nay insolence of spirit;--

We would not with one foult dispense

To weaken the resemblance.

May he revive thy Nursery sin,

Peeping as daringly within,

His curley Locks but just descried,

With 'Bet, my be not come to bide.'--

Fearless of danger, braving pain,

And threaten'd very oft in vain,

Still may one Terror daunt his Soul,

One needful engine of Controul

Be found in this sublime array,

A neigbouring Donkey's aweful Bray.

So may his equal faults as Child,

Produce Maturity as mild!

His saucy words and fiery ways

In early Childhood's pettish days,

In Manhood, shew his Father's mind

Like him, considerate and Kind;

All Gentleness to those around,

And anger only not to wound.

Then like his Father too, he must,

To his own former struggles just,

Feel his Deserts with honest Glow,

And all his self-improvement know.

A native fault may thus give birth

To the best blessing, conscious Worth.

As for ourselves we're very well;

As unaffected prose will tell.--

Cassandra's pen will paint our state,

The many comforts that await

Our Chawton home, how much we find

Already in it, to our mind;

And how convinced, that when complete

It will all other Houses beat

The ever have been made or mended,

With rooms concise, or rooms distended.

You'll find us very snug next year,

Perhaps with Charles and Fanny near,

For now it often does delight us

To fancy them just over-right us.

This is beautiful all the way around. Special lyrical ode

[goose]

Emily Bronte - Love and Friendship

 

Love is like the wild rose-briar,

Friendship like the holly-tree --

The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms

But which will bloom most constantly?

The wild-rose briar is sweet in the spring,

Its summer blossoms scent the air;

Yet wait till winter comes again

And who will call the wild-briar fair?

Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now

And deck thee with the holly's sheen,

That when December blights thy brow

He may still leave thy garland green.

Edited March 1, 2016 by goose

[Verena]

Auguries of Innocence, by William Blake

 

To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour.

 

A Robin Red breast in a Cage

Puts all Heaven in a Rage.

A dove house fill'd with doves & Pigeons

Shudders Hell thro' all its regions.

A dog starv'd at his Master's Gate

Predicts the ruin of the State.

A Horse misus'd upon the Road

Calls to Heaven for Human blood.

Each outcry of the hunted Hare

A fibre from the Brain does tear.

A Skylark wounded in the wing,

A Cherubim does cease to sing.

The Game Cock clipp'd and arm'd for fight

Does the Rising Sun affright.

Every Wolf's & Lion's howl

Raises from Hell a Human Soul.

The wild deer, wand'ring here & there,

Keeps the Human Soul from Care.

The Lamb misus'd breeds public strife

And yet forgives the Butcher's Knife.

The Bat that flits at close of Eve

Has left the Brain that won't believe.

The Owl that calls upon the Night

Speaks the Unbeliever's fright.

He who shall hurt the little Wren

Shall never be belov'd by Men.

He who the Ox to wrath has mov'd

Shall never be by Woman lov'd.

The wanton Boy that kills the Fly

Shall feel the Spider's enmity.

He who torments the Chafer's sprite

Weaves a Bower in endless Night.

The Catterpillar on the Leaf

Repeats to thee thy Mother's grief.

Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly,

For the Last Judgement draweth nigh.

He who shall train the Horse to War

Shall never pass the Polar Bar.

The Beggar's Dog & Widow's Cat,

Feed them & thou wilt grow fat.

The Gnat that sings his Summer's song

Poison gets from Slander's tongue.

The poison of the Snake & Newt

Is the sweat of Envy's Foot.

The poison of the Honey Bee

Is the Artist's Jealousy.

The Prince's Robes & Beggars' Rags

Are Toadstools on the Miser's Bags.

A truth that's told with bad intent

Beats all the Lies you can invent.

It is right it should be so;

Man was made for Joy & Woe;

And when this we rightly know

Thro' the World we safely go.

Joy & Woe are woven fine,

A Clothing for the Soul divine;

Under every grief & pine

Runs a joy with silken twine.

The Babe is more than swadling Bands;

Throughout all these Human Lands

Tools were made, & born were hands,

Every Farmer Understands.

Every Tear from Every Eye

Becomes a Babe in Eternity.

This is caught by Females bright

And return'd to its own delight.

The Bleat, the Bark, Bellow & Roar

Are Waves that Beat on Heaven's Shore.

The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath

Writes Revenge in realms of death.

The Beggar's Rags, fluttering in Air,

Does to Rags the Heavens tear.

The Soldier arm'd with Sword & Gun,

Palsied strikes the Summer's Sun.

The poor Man's Farthing is worth more

Than all the Gold on Afric's Shore.

One Mite wrung from the Labrer's hands

Shall buy & sell the Miser's lands:

Or, if protected from on high,

Does that whole Nation sell & buy.

He who mocks the Infant's Faith

Shall be mock'd in Age & Death.

He who shall teach the Child to Doubt

The rotting Grave shall ne'er get out.

He who respects the Infant's faith

Triumph's over Hell & Death.

The Child's Toys & the Old Man's Reasons

Are the Fruits of the Two seasons.

The Questioner, who sits so sly,

Shall never know how to Reply.

He who replies to words of Doubt

Doth put the Light of Knowledge out.

The Strongest Poison ever known

Came from Caesar's Laurel Crown.

Nought can deform the Human Race

Like the Armour's iron brace.

When Gold & Gems adorn the Plow

To peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow.

A Riddle or the Cricket's Cry

Is to Doubt a fit Reply.

The Emmet's Inch & Eagle's Mile

Make Lame Philosophy to smile.

He who Doubts from what he sees

Will ne'er believe, do what you Please.

If the Sun & Moon should doubt

They'd immediately Go out.

To be in a Passion you Good may do,

But no Good if a Passion is in you.

The Whore & Gambler, by the State

Licenc'd, build that Nation's Fate.

The Harlot's cry from Street to Street

Shall weave Old England's winding Sheet.

The Winner's Shout, the Loser's Curse,

Dance before dead England's Hearse.

Every Night & every Morn

Some to Misery are Born.

Every Morn & every Night

Some are Born to sweet Delight.

Some ar Born to sweet Delight,

Some are born to Endless Night.

We are led to Believe a Lie

When we see not Thro' the Eye

Which was Born in a Night to Perish in a Night

When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light.

God Appears & God is Light

To those poor Souls who dwell in the Night,

But does a Human Form Display

To those who Dwell in Realms of day.

[Verena]

A good mood for the day:

 

My Dearest Frank I wish You Joy

 

My dearest Frank, I wish you joy

Of Mary's safety with a Boy,

Whose birth has given little pain

Compared with that of Mary Jane.--

May he a growing Blessing prove,

And well deserve his Parents' Love!--

Endow'd with Art's and Nature's Good,

Thy Name possessing with thy Blood,

In him, in all his ways, may we

Another Francis WIlliam see!--

Thy infant days may he inherit,

They warmth, nay insolence of spirit;--

We would not with one foult dispense

To weaken the resemblance.

May he revive thy Nursery sin,

Peeping as daringly within,

His curley Locks but just descried,

With 'Bet, my be not come to bide.'--

Fearless of danger, braving pain,

And threaten'd very oft in vain,

Still may one Terror daunt his Soul,

One needful engine of Controul

Be found in this sublime array,

A neigbouring Donkey's aweful Bray.

So may his equal faults as Child,

Produce Maturity as mild!

His saucy words and fiery ways

In early Childhood's pettish days,

In Manhood, shew his Father's mind

Like him, considerate and Kind;

All Gentleness to those around,

And anger only not to wound.

Then like his Father too, he must,

To his own former struggles just,

Feel his Deserts with honest Glow,

And all his self-improvement know.

A native fault may thus give birth

To the best blessing, conscious Worth.

As for ourselves we're very well;

As unaffected prose will tell.--

Cassandra's pen will paint our state,

The many comforts that await

Our Chawton home, how much we find

Already in it, to our mind;

And how convinced, that when complete

It will all other Houses beat

The ever have been made or mended,

With rooms concise, or rooms distended.

You'll find us very snug next year,

Perhaps with Charles and Fanny near,

For now it often does delight us

To fancy them just over-right us.

 

I just forgot to add this poem was written by Jane Austen. ;)

[Tick]

Tell your lies, smoke your pipe

Run and hide, that's your life

Will it begin again, or end in defeat

The ones you trust, the ones you eat

Let it be written, but not also done

For when it begins it isn't much fun

You run for the hills, you stay in your bed

You battle the demons that live in your head

The demons are real, the demons are strong

You'll never defeat them, the longer your gone

But if you return, to turn on the light

the journey won't end, so begin the fight

Edited November 2, 2016 by Tick