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This morning the snow,
The soft distances
Beyond the trees
In which nothing appeared-
Nothing appeared.
The several silences,
Imposed one upon another,
Were unintelligible.
I was therefore ill at ease
When the crows came down,
Whirling down and calling,
Into the yard below
And stood in a mindless manner
On the gray, luminous crust,
Altogether definite, composed,
In the bright enmity of my regard,
In the hard nature of crows.
Considering what is happening worldwide i have been thinking of this a lot..
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of "Spiritus Mundi"
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly-
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!
That motley drama- oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out- out are the lights- out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
"Every government degenerates when trusted to the rulers of the people alone. The people themselves, therefore, are its only safe depositories." Thomas Jefferson
My favourite poet is Robert Frost, then there's a host of other poets I like..Alfred Noyes, E.A. Robinson, Lord Tennyson, John Milton, Shelley, Wordsworth, Shakespeare, Virgil, Ramdhari Singh Dinkar, Edgar Allan Poe, Emerson, Robert and Elizabeth Browning, Robert Burns, William Blake.....darn, I'd better stop here..
When our perils are past, shall our gratitude sleep? - George Canning sigpic
Can anyone post any poems they've written? I was going to start a new thread, but this will just have to suffice.
I'll probably be writing some dark type of poem, and glad to share it with you.
Mobbed
I've written poetry, mostly to my lady love, so it may be a little corny. I'll post some in short order. I like gothic poetry, would be interested to read your poems Mobbme.
I've written poetry, mostly to my lady love, so it may be a little corny. I'll post some in short order. I like gothic poetry, would be interested to read your poems Mobbme.
Gothic is good, so are the love ones :)
Post if you have them. I was going to write one just for WAB, but I don't know what happened, I will, but they won't be good
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