SEE ALL TAGS & MOODS
If this brain’s over-tempered
consider that the fire was want
and the hammers were fists.
Sure, there’s a spell the leaves can make, shuddering,
and in their lying suddenly still again — flat, and still,
like time itself when it seems unexpectedly more
What horror to awake at night
and in the dimness see the light.
…
He wants to be
a brutal old man,
an aggressive old man,
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
If I were to sleep, it would be on an iron bed,
bolted to the floor in a bomb-proof concrete room
with twelve locks on the door.
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading — treading — till it seemed
For everyone
The swimmer's moment at the whirlpool comes,
But many at that moment will not say
They flee from me that sometime did me seek
With naked foot, stalking in my chamber.
I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek,
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
They are all gone away,
The House is shut and still,
There is nothing more to say.
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
A high bare field, brown from the plough, and borne
Aslant from sunset; amber wastes of sky
Washing the ridge; a clamour…
After Li Po
While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.
Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were — I have not seen
As others saw — I could not bring
I think I should have loved you presently,
And given in earnest words I flung in jest;
And lifted honest eyes for you to see,
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
When I was fair and young, then favor graced me.
Of many was I sought their mistress for to be.
But I did scorn them all and answered them therefore:
I grieve and dare not show my discontent,
I love and yet am forced to seem to hate,
I do, yet dare not say I ever meant,
‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
I am — yet what I am none cares or knows;
My friends forsake me like a memory lost:
I am the self-consumer of my woes —
A little black thing among the snow,
Crying “weep! ‘weep!” in notes of woe!
“Where are thy father and mother? say?”
