Brighton, United Kingdom
Joined: Sep 2008
|What are your favorite poet's poems|
i like William Wordsworth, daffodils poem is my favorite,
i love poetry,
let me know what your favorites are?
Two tramps in mud time.
My object in living is to unite my avocation with my vocation as my two eyes make one in sight (or something thing like that
Road not taken
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
If you can keep your head when those about are losing theirs and blaming you
If you can trust your self when others doubt and account for their doubting too
Sound of silence
The people bowed and prayed
To the neon God they made
I am a Rock
I've built walls,
A fortress deep and mighty,
That none may penetrate.
I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain.
It's laughter and it's loving I disdain.
I am a rock,
I am an island.
Bowing in the Wind
How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
How many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, and how many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they're forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind
The answer is blowin' in the wind
There was a Man from Nantucket
|"Ozymandias" - Percy Bysshe Shelley|
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
"Speaking Confidentially" - Michael Timmins (Cowboy Junkies)
the fire that burnt inside of me
has turned to ash the tortured tree
that grows beside the anguished sea
the earth I trust beneath my feet
is moving now ever so slightly
I shift my feet but feel no relief
if the air you breathed was so unique
would you use it up to idly speak
or horde it for a rainy week
Speaking kind of cryptically
the sea that raged beside the tree
burning bright for all to see
it just might mean the most to me
Speaking kind of cryptically
|how interesting, thank you for those|
Returner and proud
|Sonnet XCI - William Shakespeare |
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their bodies' force,
Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill,
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;
And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:
But these particulars are not my measure;
All these I better in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,
Of more delight than hawks or horses be;
And having thee, of all men's pride I boast:
Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take
All this away and me most wretched make.