And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.
Virginia WoolfTags: poem
It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.
Virginia WoolfSour Milk
You can't make it
turn sweet
again.
Once
it was an innocent color
like the flowers of wild strawberries,
and its texture was simple
would pass through a clean cheesecloth,
its taste was fresh.
And now
with nothing more guilty that the passage of time
to chide it with,
the same substance
has turned sour and lumpy.
The sour milk
makes interesting
Tags: poem
To see her is a picture—
To hear her is a tune—
To know her an Intemperance
As innocent as June—
To know her not—Affliction—
To own her for a Friend
A warmth as near as if the Sun
Were shining in your Hand.
Tags: friendship innocence love poem affection girl adoration warmth
Miracles are to come.
With you I leave a remembrance
of miracles: they are by
somebody who can love
and who shall be continually reborn,
a human being.
Tags: poem
How clear, how lovely bright,
How beautiful to sight
Those beams of morning play;
How heaven laughs out with glee
Where, like a bird set free,
Up from the eastern sea
Soars the delightful day.
To-day I shall be strong,
No more shall yield to wrong,
Shall squander life no more;
Days lost, I know not how,
I shall retrieve them now;
Now I shall keep the vow
I never kept before.
Ensanguining the skies
How heavily it dies
Into the west away;
Past touch and sight and sound
Not further to be found,
How hopeless under ground
Falls the remorseful day.
There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't sit still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin, And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest; Their's is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.
Tags: life poem rolling-stone travels wanderlust
Just looking at them
I grow greedy, as if they were
freshly baked loaves
waiting on their shelves
to be broken open--that one
and that--and I make my choice
in a mood of exalted luck,
browsing among them
like a cow in sweetest pasture.
For life is continuous
as long as they wait
to be read--these inked paths
opening into the future, page
after page, every book
its own receding horizon.
And I hold them, one in each hand,
a curious ballast weighing me
here to earth.
Tags: poem
You might as well ask an artist to explain his art, or ask a poet to explain his poem. It defeats the purpose. The meaning is only clear thorough the search.
Rick RiordanTags: art poetry poem artist poet painting
دهان ات را می بویند
مبادا که گفته باشی دوست ات می دارم.
دل ات را می بویند
روزگار غریبی ست، نازنین
وعشق را
کنار تیرک راه بند
تازیانه می زنند.
عشق را در پستوی خانه نهان باید کرد
Tags: poem
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