The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
Wherever I am, there's always Pooh,
There's always Pooh and Me.
Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy;
Sometimes when I'm alone
I Cry,
She walks in Beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Quiero, a la sombra de un ala, contar este cuento en flor:
No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
Once there was a tree....
and she loved a little boy.
too much too little too fat
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
As soon as Wolf began to feel That he would like a decent meal,
My heart leaps up when I behold
A Rainbow in the sky:
There must be a wound!
No one can be this hurt
TURNING and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
Once riding in old Baltimore,
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee;
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
I do not love you except because I love you; I go from loving to not loving you,
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
The eyeless labourer in the night
the selfless, shapeless seed I hold,
In the event of my Demise
when my heart can beat no more
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
'Attar began The Conference of the Birds (Mantiq al-tair) with an invocation praising the holy Creator in which he suggested that one mu
Fifteen men on the Dead Man's Chest—
Drink and the devil had done for the rest—
Did you hear about the rose that grew
from a crack in the concrete?
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray,
And when I cross'd the Wild,
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
I have to live with myself and so
I want to be fit for myself to know.
I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
Today, as I rode by,
I saw the brown leaves dropping from their tree
He thrust his joy against the weight of the sea;
climbed through, slid under those long banks of
A sincere man am I
From the land where palm trees grow,
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