public marks

PUBLIC MARKS from tadeufilippini with tag poemhunter

2010

Confined Love by John Donne

Confined Love Some man unworthy to be possessor Of old or new love, himself being false or weak, Thought his pain and shame would be lesser If on womankind he might his anger wreak, And thence a law did grow, One might but one man know; But are other creatures so? Are Sun, Moon, or Stars by law forbidden To smile where they list, or lend away their light? Are birds divorced, or are they chidden If they leave their mate, or lie abroad a-night? Beasts do no jointures lose Though they new lovers choose, But we are made worse than those. Who e'er rigged fair ship to lie in harbours And not to seek new lands, or not to deal withal? Or built fair houses, set trees, and arbors, Only to lock up, or else to let them fall? Good is not good unless A thousand it possess, But dost waste with greediness. John Donne

A Broken Appointment by Thomas Hardy

You did not come, And marching Time drew on, and wore me numb. Yet less for loss of your dear presence there Than that I thus found lacking in your make That high compassion which can overbear Reluctance for pure lovingkindness' sake Grieved I, when, as the hope-hour stroked its sum, You did not come. You love not me, And love alone can lend you loyalty; -I know and knew it. But, unto the store Of human deeds divine in all but name, Was it not worth a little hour or more To add yet this: Once you, a woman, came To soothe a time-torn man; even though it be You love not me. A Broken Appointment Thomas Hardy (1840-1928 / Dorchester / England)

Poet: Henry David Thoreau - All poems of Henry David Thoreau

Henry David Thoreau (1817 - 1862 / Boston / United States) Biography Poems Quotations Comments More Info Stats

Mist by Henry David Thoreau

Low-anchored cloud, Newfoundland air, Fountain head and source of rivers, Dew-cloth, dream drapery, And napkin spread by fays; Drifting meadow of the air, Where bloom the dasied banks and violets, And in whose fenny labyrinth The bittern booms and heron wades; Spirit of the lake and seas and rivers, Bear only purfumes and the scent Of healing herbs to just men's fields! Henry David Thoreau Mist Henry David Thoreau (1817 - 1862 / Boston / United States)

2009

Poet: Emily Dickinson - All poems of Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886 / Amherst / Massachusetts) Biography Poems Quotations Comments More Info Stats Emily Dickinson grew up in a prominent and prosperous household in Amherst, Massachusetts. Along with her younger siter Lavinia and older brother Aust .. more >> 1472 poems of Emily Dickinson File Size:4538 k File Format: Acrobat Reader To download the eBook right-Click on the title and select "Save Target As".

2008

First Day at School by Roger McGough

First Day at School A millionbillionwillion miles from home Waiting for the bell to go. (To go where?) Why are they all so big, other children? So noisy? So much at home they Must have been born in uniform Lived all their lives in playgrounds Spent the years inventing games That don't let me in. Games That are rough, that swallow you up. And the railings. All around, the railings. Are they to keep out wolves and monsters? Things that carry off and eat children? Things you don't take sweets from? Perhaps they're to stop us getting out Running away from the lessins. Lessin. What does a lessin look like? Sounds small and slimy. They keep them in the glassrooms. Whole rooms made out of glass. Imagine. I wish I could remember my name Mummy said it would come in useful. Like wellies. When there's puddles. Yellowwellies. I wish she was here. I think my name is sewn on somewhere Perhaps the teacher will read it for me. Tea-cher. The one who makes the tea. Roger McGough

RPO -- Marianne Moore : Silence

(via)
Marianne Moore (1887-1972) Silence 1My father used to say, 2"Superior people never make long visits, 3have to be shown Longfellow's grave 4nor the glass flowers at Harvard. 5Self reliant like the cat -- 6that takes its prey to privacy, 7the mouse's limp tail hanging like a shoelace from its mouth -- 8they sometimes enjoy solitude, 9and can be robbed of speech 10by speech which has delighted them. 11The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence; 12not in silence, but restraint." 13Nor was he insincere in saying, "`Make my house your inn'." 14Inns are not residences.

Silence by Marianne Moore

Silence My father used to say, "Superior people never make long visits, have to be shown Longfellow's grave nor the glass flowers at Harvard. Self reliant like the cat -- that takes its prey to privacy, the mouse's limp tail hanging like a shoelace from its mouth -- they sometimes enjoy solitude, and can be robbed of speech by speech which has delighted them. The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence; not in silence, but restraint." Nor was he insincere in saying, "`Make my house your inn'." Inns are not residences. Marianne Moore

a-sort-of-a-song

A Sort of a Song Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait, sleepless. -- through metaphor to reconcile the people and the stones. Compose. (No ideas but in things) Invent! Saxifrage is my flower that splits the rocks. William Carlos Williams

if-i-were-tickled-by-the-rub-of-love

If I Were Tickled By the Rub of Love If I were tickled by the rub of love, A rooking girl who stole me for her side, Broke through her straws, breaking my bandaged string, If the red tickle as the cattle calve Still set to scratch a laughter from my lung, I would not fear the apple nor the flood Nor the bad blood of spring. Shall it be male or female? say the cells, And drop the plum like fire from the flesh. If I were tickled by the hatching hair, The winging bone that sprouted in the heels, The itch of man upon the baby's thigh, I would not fear the gallows nor the axe Nor the crossed sticks of war. Shall it be male or female? say the fingers That chalk the walls with greet girls and their men. I would not fear the muscling-in of love If I were tickled by the urchin hungers Rehearsing heat upon a raw-edged nerve. I would not fear the devil in the loin Nor the outspoken grave. If I were tickled by the lovers' rub That wipes away not crow's-foot nor the lock Of sick old manhood on the fallen jaws, Time and the crabs and the sweethearting crib Would leave me cold as butter for the flies The sea of scums could drown me as it broke Dead on the sweethearts' toes. This world is half the devil's and my own, Daft with the drug that's smoking in a girl And curling round the bud that forks her eye. An old man's shank one-marrowed with my bone, And all the herrings smelling in the sea, I sit and watch the worm beneath my nail Wearing the quick away. And that's the rub, the only rub that tickles. The knobbly ape that swings along his sex From damp love-darkness and the nurse's twist Can never raise the midnight of a chuckle, Nor when he finds a beauty in the breast Of lover, mother, lovers, or his six Feet in the rubbing dust. And what's the rub? Death's feather on the nerve? Your mouth, my love, the thistle in the kiss? My Jack of Christ born thorny on the tree? The words of death are dryer than his stiff, My wordy wounds are printed with your hair. I would be tickled by the rub that is: Man be my metaphor. Dylan Thomas

I'm nobody! Who are you? by Emily Dickinson

I'm nobody! Who are you? I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there's a pair of us -- don't tell! They'd advertise -- you know! How dreary to be somebody! How public like a frog To tell one's name the livelong day To an admiring bog! Emily Dickinson

William Carlos Williams

William Carlos Williams was born in Rutherford, New Jersey, in 1883. He began writing poetry while a student at Horace Mann High School, at which time he made the decision to become both a writer and a doctor. He received his M.D. from the University of Pennsylvania, where he met and befriended Ezra .. .. more >>

funeral blues - w.h.auden

Funeral Blues Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead. Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods; For nothing now can ever come to any good. W.H. Auden

A Dream Within A Dream by Edgar Allan Poe

A Dream Within A Dream Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow- You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream. I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand- How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep- while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream? Edgar Allan Poe Read poems about / on: dream, kiss, hope, god, night

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