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Oh, could we do with this world of ours As thou dost with thy garden bowers, Reject the weeds and keep the flowers, What a heaven on earth we'd make it! So bright a dwelling should be our own, So
We may roam through this world, like a child at a feast, Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest; And, when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east, We may order our wings and be off t
I.Cold as the breath of winds that blowTo silver shot descending snow, Lucasta sigh't; when she did close The world in frosty chaines! And then a frowne to rubies frose The blood boyl'd
There was a man in our town, and he was wondrous rich; He gave away his millions to the colleges and sich; And people cried: "The hypocrite! He ought to understand The ones who really need him a
TO THE garden, the world, anew ascending, Potent mates, daughters, sons, preluding, The love, the life of their bodies, meaning and being, Curious, here behold my resurrection, after slumber;
It's my opinion - though I ownIn thinking so I'm quite alone -In some respects I'm but a fright.YOU like my features, I suppose?I'M disappointed with my nose:Some rave about it - perhaps they're
A famished, ill-clad beggar standsAmidst some barking dogs! All searching through the garbage-dumpFor left-over food, fast; Each taking turns at emptying, The things inedible; Their hunger-pangs
A week ago; only a little week:it seems so much much longer, though that dayis every morning still my yesterday;as all my life 'twill be my yesterday,for all my life is morrow to my love.Oh fortu
World-weary girl, Tears form in your eyes, Confusion swirlsLike a virulent tornadoAround your heart, Rending the fragile fabric of your soul, I fear, irreparably apart.I want to kiss your deli
The poet's world and the philosopher'smay seem to be in aim, and truth of act, so different; the poet offers usfine dreams of heart; philosophy, fine fact; and yet, both spring from knowing nothi
Wee falsely think it due unto our friends,That we should grieve for their too early ends:He that surveys the world with serious eys,And stripps Her from her grosse and weak disguise,Shall find 'ti
Through the world which the Spirit creative and kindFirst formed out of chaos, I fly like the wind,Until on the strandOf its billows I land,My anchor cast forth where the breeze blows no more,And