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LaSoaphiaQuXazs

ToWorkOrNotToWork

Every day can be lovely if you open your mind Face life as it is, do your best and unwind. Some of us lives for work and be important, Some of us spend time doing nothing for them work is unpleasant. It is not the work, but what we learn through where we are now, How we communicate with others & what we learn of life anyhow. So, work hard or do nothing, your place is there to learn the secret, Preferably with peace, happiness, easy living wish & positive deep-set. Then you will find life's easy street, You work only if you want and will find life sweet. Will find how to enjoy everything, With gratefulness in your heart everlasting.

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FrancisDuggan

TooOldToWorkAndTooYoungToDie

That time catches up on us all is surely not a lie He is too old to work and he is too young to die On retirement pension and quite bored with life He spends much of his time arguing with his wife On their fortieth year of marriage and love between them long dead With a son and daughter and seven grandchildren and old age ahead Since the warm feelings of love in their life has gone cold They have nothing to look forward to but growing old He and his wife in their mid to late sixties and their best years long gone And only the will to live keeps them living on Years ago they used to walk hand in hand to the park off of the street But nowadays out walking them one never does meet On his own in the pub he sits and drinks his beer Looking rather unhappy and lacking in cheer.

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DavidWagoner

WallaceStevensOnHisWayToWork

He would leave early and walk slowly As if balancing books On the way to school, already expecting To be tardy once again and heavy With numbers, the unfashionably rounded Toes of his shoes invisible beyond The slope of his corporation. He would pause At his favorite fundamentally sound Park bench, which had been the birthplace Of paeans and ruminations on other mornings, And would turn his back to it, having gauged the distance Between his knees and the edge of the hardwood Almost invariably unoccupied At this enlightened hour by the bums of nighttime (For whom the owlish eye of the moon Had been closed by daylight) , and would give himself wholly over Backwards and trustingly downwards And be well seated there. He would remove From his sinister jacket pocket a postcard And touch it and retouch it with the point Of the fountain he produced at his fingertips And fill it with his never-before-uttered Runes and obbligatos and pellucidly cryptic Duets from private pageants, from broken ends Of fandangos with the amoeba chaos chaos Couchant and rampant. Then he would rise With an effort as heartfelt as a decision To get out of bed on Sunday and carefully Relocate his center of gravity Above and beyond an imaginary axis Between his feet and carry the good news Along the path and the sidewalk, well on his way To readjusting the business of the earth.

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CretanMaineiac

WaterLilyIMetAtWork

No thorns, limbs sashay longly, cheetah walk toward no prey, footloose, her dark blond hair streaming, no intrusion. (Beer) 'Could I've one? ' No harm. 'Lotsa' people hang out here.' No blame. (Smoke) 'Peace, ' she said, in Chrystal clear Downeast, an aroma eluding words, & a smile that lights a soggy joint. 'Peace, ' she says, again, long as she looks past the sniffing. '...I don't think I've ever voted... [T]here's a pebble in my shoe...' (and those feet!) , nature jealously scraping along her only tan-less feature, limnable as last year's hangups. She turns twenty-nine today, loved me watch her walk away.

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PhilipLevine

WhatWorkIs

We stand in the rain in a long line waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work. You know what work is—if you're old enough to read this you know what work is, although you may not do it. Forget you. This is about waiting, shifting from one foot to another. Feeling the light rain falling like mist into your hair, blurring your vision until you think you see your own brother ahead of you, maybe ten places. You rub your glasses with your fingers, and of course it's someone else's brother, narrower across the shoulders than yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin that does not hide the stubbornness, the sad refusal to give in to rain, to the hours wasted waiting, to the knowledge that somewhere ahead a man is waiting who will say, 'No, we're not hiring today,' for any reason he wants. You love your brother, now suddenly you can hardly stand the love flooding you for your brother, who's not beside you or behind or ahead because he's home trying to sleep off a miserable night shift at Cadillac so he can get up before noon to study his German. Works eight hours a night so he can sing Wagner, the opera you hate most, the worst music ever invented. How long has it been since you told him you loved him, held his wide shoulders, opened your eyes wide and said those words, and maybe kissed his cheek? You've never done something so simple, so obvious, not because you're too young or too dumb, not because you're jealous or even mean or incapable of crying in the presence of another man, no, just because you don't know what work is.

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VictoriaHughes

WhenYouGotThereIWasGoneWorkInProgress

I know that today I ran from you I didn't mean to hurt, I couldn't stay a minute longer I'd waited by the church. You said be there by nine When you got there I was gone, I thought it would be fine It was nearly ten past one. I waited there for hours The rain was pouring down Looking at the spires Birds flying and swooping round. You can't hold on forever I have walked out the door I wondered briefly why and realised I didn't want to see you anymore. (C) Victoria Elizabeth Hughes 2005

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OscarRodriguez

WomanAtWork

Now that you work I have suddendly found my self pacing about in our silent apartment missing you and wishing you would ask me the time.

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MayaAngelou

WomanWork

I've got the children to tend The clothes to mend The floor to mop The food to shop Then the chicken to fry The baby to dry I got company to feed The garden to weed I've got shirts to press The tots to dress The can to be cut I gotta clean up this hut Then see about the sick And the cotton to pick. Shine on me, sunshine Rain on me, rain Fall softly, dewdrops And cool my brow again. Storm, blow me from here With your fiercest wind Let me float across the sky 'Til I can rest again. Fall gently, snowflakes Cover me with white Cold icy kisses and Let me rest tonight. Sun, rain, curving sky Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone Star shine, moon glow You're all that I can call my own.

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ElizabethBarrettBrowning

WorkAndContemplation

The woman singeth at her spinning-wheel A pleasant chant, ballad or barcarole; She thinketh of her song, upon the whole, Far more than of her flax; and yet the reel Is full, and artfully her fingers feel With quick adjustment, provident control, The lines--too subtly twisted to unroll-- Out to a perfect thread. I hence appeal To the dear Christian Church--that we may do Our Father's business in these temples mirk, Thus swift and steadfast, thus intent and strong; While thus, apart from toil, our souls pursue Some high calm spheric tune, and prove our work The better for the sweetness of our song.

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RobertWilliamService

WorkAndJoy

Each day I live I thank the Lord I do the work I love; And in it find a rich reward, All price and praise above. For few may do the work they love, The fond unique employ, That fits them as a hand a glove, And gives them joy. Oh gentlefolk, do you and you Who toil for daily hire, Consider that the job you do Is to your heart's desire? Aye, though you are to it resigned, And will no duty shirk, Oh do you in your private mind Adore your work? Twice happy man whose job is joy, Whose hand and heart combine, In brave and excellent employ As radiantly as mine! But oh the weary, dreary day, The wear and tear and irk Of countless souls who cannot say: 'I love my work.'

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KhalilGibran

WorkChapterVii

Then a ploughman said, "Speak to us of Work." And he answered, saying: You work that you may keep pace with the earth and the soul of the earth. For to be idle is to become a stranger unto the seasons, and to step out of life's procession, that marches in majesty and proud submission towards the infinite. When you work you are a flute through whose heart the whispering of the hours turns to music. Which of you would be a reed, dumb and silent, when all else sings together in unison? Always you have been told that work is a curse and labour a misfortune. But I say to you that when you work you fulfil a part of earth's furthest dream, assigned to you when that dream was born, And in keeping yourself with labour you are in truth loving life, And to love life through labour is to be intimate with life's inmost secret. But if you in your pain call birth an affliction and the support of the flesh a curse written upon your brow, then I answer that naught but the sweat of your brow shall wash away that which is written. You have been told also life is darkness, and in your weariness you echo what was said by the weary. And I say that life is indeed darkness save when there is urge, And all urge is blind save when there is knowledge, And all knowledge is vain save when there is work, And all work is empty save when there is love; And when you work with love you bind yourself to yourself, and to one another, and to God. And what is it to work with love? It is to weave the cloth with threads drawn from your heart, even as if your beloved were to wear that cloth. It is to build a house with affection, even as if your beloved were to dwell in that house. It is to sow seeds with tenderness and reap the harvest with joy, even as if your beloved were to eat the fruit. It is to charge all things you fashion with a breath of your own spirit, And to know that all the blessed dead are standing about you and watching. Often have I heard you say, as if speaking in sleep, "he who works in marble, and finds the shape of his own soul in the stone, is a nobler than he who ploughs the soil. And he who seizes the rainbow to lay it on a cloth in the likeness of man, is more than he who makes the sandals for our feet." But I say, not in sleep but in the over-wakefulness of noontide, that the wind speaks not more sweetly to the giant oaks than to the least of all the blades of grass; And he alone is great who turns the voice of the wind into a song made sweeter by his own loving. Work is love made visible. And if you cannot work with love but only with distaste, it is better that you should leave your work and sit at the gate of the temple and take alms of those who work with joy. For if you bake bread with indifference, you bake a bitter bread that feeds but half man's hunger. And if you grudge the crushing of the grapes, your grudge distills a poison in the wine. And if you sing though as angels, and love not the singing, you muffle man's ears to the voices of the day and the voices of the night.

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MarvinBratoSr

WorkEthic

Work requires professionalism, at all times in all set of conditions. let an earned knowledge and skills, an asset to be utilized as maximal. no regrets even if reward is scare, go ahead do it for the love of work. People around need not to be told, everyone knows who perform well. real professional does not brag, seldom claims for recognition. open-minded to a paradigm shift, never pessimistic but often optimistic at anything of value and substance. let others rationalize to find reasons, act on the issues with sound mind no jesting around just do things right.

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EdgardoTugade

WorkHaiku

Today's poem, about what? I asked for help at work and I got a lot. Honesty moves hearts as honest. As policy, it is justly best. (by edgardo s. tugade,22 july 08)

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CathrynMartin

WorkHardPlayHarder

Work seems to be mandatory, For people like me, Slaving over books at school, Just to get the grades, We don’t have much money, So after school I work, Cleaning, babysitting, retail, It’s tiring after awhile, Homework and coursework, Two more pains of teenage life, It seems to me that I, Work all night and work all day, In the future for many years to come, I know I’ll have to work, Uni work and training, I’ll need a part time job too, But then I see, between it all, I do get a rest and have fun, I have great times, out with friends, Addicted to CSI, So now I work faster, To get it over with, Cus my philosophy is, Work hard now, play harder later.

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tiylerdurden

WorkIsAPlaceCalledHell

Hell is a place I have to go Hell is a place that I truly know I have to go to hell I have to hear that ringing bell I must scrape through the day Just need to make some bread every day Hell is a place that makes me pay Hell is a place I hate Hell is a meal that leaves a bitter taste Hell is a place I wake up and go to Is Hell a place you call work, too?

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StanleyCooper

WorkOfTheDevil

Beautiful majestic Wild horses Roaming freely Full of spirit We Rope them Break them Brand them Enslave them A form of Jim Crow Spirit and freedom Gone No longer Beautiful Majestic Wild Now just Four legged robots The work of the devil MAN

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RandyMcClave

WorkWorkWork

You work, work, work To provide for, and to live, Then you buy, buy, buy You constantly spend and you give. Then you work, work, work Just to pay your bills and your debt, You work, work, work Until you are tired and you sweat. You work to go on a vacation For relaxation and some thrills, But, then when you return home You have more debt and even more bills. So, you work, work, work To find more stuff to buy, Then you work, work, work Until the day that you die. Living, it is just a cycle Life it is just a quest You work, spend and buy Then at the end of the day or life, you rest.

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BenGieske

WorkWorkersPledgeYouth

Work What should be just play Was turned into toil for pay. The curse of sin they say. Why do they lead us astray? Worker's Pledge Salt and sweat will rule my day. I will work for my daily pay. Myself will I never betray. Limits Humans will never know an earthly end Ever striving higher, deeper, faster then Never ready to breath a last amen. Youth Life - what about it do you care for most? Living - isn’t that your only boast? What later then will be your toast? - May 19,2008

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JamieBaumer

aWorkInProgress

Many loves have come and gone, with many never staying too long. But my love for you is un-bending, My thoughts of you un-ending My love for you is as the sea; Ever lasting, ever deep.

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LonnieHicks

WorkPlaceEqualityAndFreedom

We struggle with it under many names; we all feel the tension and the tug- how can I as a child learn equality and go to work where equality dies in the bureaucracy- a lonely stepchild? Where in the hierarchical schema chart does Freedom live? Where is Justice in the work place Meeting With Staff? No, we all have bosses and contemplate each day where do my child-learned ideals fit? I will tell you; in the Water Cooler Gossip Group. There is where Justice is done complaints are vented, where equality before the H2O is talked about and dispensed. How can what I learned democracy is be banned from my work space? How can Fairness and Morality be slaughtered like the lamb in the hierarchy? We have revolutions not because of the ruling class but because of the anger exposed and felt before the Water-Cooler Deity; where shock and awe exist, where plots and plans from the latest gossip-tidbit to strategic strategies shared among participants who like soldiers and couriers make sure to dispense each bon mot and redemption far and wide among those who did not make the morning Water-Cooler Meet. True community exists here, at Water Cooler Church complete with the Paper Water Cooler Communion Cup. Drink up- Salvation is Coming. Truths long concealed bubble up Truthiness is clear like Evian and we drink it down and steeled, return to that cubicle space for another run at Demon Boss who hovers overhead; the Lufiwaulfe; verbal bombs and critiques in the bomb bay ready for release. Excuse me I need a drink. Can't stand too much more of this Faux-Equality.

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ElizabethBarrettBrowning

Work

WHAT are we set on earth for ? Say, to toil; Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vines For all the heat o' the day, till it declines, And Death's mild curfew shall from work assoil. God did anoint thee with his odorous oil, To wrestle, not to reign; and He assigns All thy tears over, like pure crystallines, For younger fellow-workers of the soil To wear for amulets. So others shall Take patience, labor, to their heart and hand From thy hand and thy heart and thy brave cheer, And God's grace fructify through thee to The least flower with a brimming cup may stand, And share its dew-drop with another near.

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HenryVanDyke

Work

Let me but do my work from day to day, In field or forest, at the desk or loom, In roaring market-place or tranquil room; Let me but find it in my heart to say, When vagrant wishes beckon me astray, "This is my work; my blessing, not my doom; "Of all who live, I am the one by whom "This work can best be done in the right way." Then shall I see it not too great, nor small, To suit my spirit and to prove my powers; Then shall I cheerful greet the labouring hours, And cheerful turn, when the long shadows fall At eventide, to play and love and rest, Because I know for me my work is best.

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MarvinBratoSr

Work

A work is an act of exerting an effort to accomplish something, with dedication and enthusiasm. Do you work?

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RobertWilliamService

Work

When twenty-one I loved to dream, And was to loafing well inclined; Somehow I couldn't get up steam To welcome work of any kind. While students burned the midnight lamp, With dour ambition as their goad, I longed to be a gayful tramp And greet adventure on the road. But now that sixty years have sped, Behold! I toil from morn to night. The thoughts that teem into my head I pray: God give me time to write. With eager and unflagging pen No drudgery of desk I shirk, And preach to all retiring men The gospel of unceasing work. And yet I do not sadly grieve Such squandering of golden days; For from my dreaming I believe Have stemmed my least unworthy lays. Aye, toil is best when all is said, As age has made me understand . . . So fitly fold, when I am dead, A pencil in my hand.

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jackfrost

Work

Work is the curse of the working class The rich just bide their time Work gives riches to all but me The rich just get by fine Work is the cures of the working class The ratio is not clear The rich get most of all that’s earnt The worker just little I fear The worker is not a happy soul The rich sit back in glee And if he gets but half a chance they’ll take everything from me If I get rich I would like to think That wealth I would want to share But something tells me when you’re rich You never seem to care So all I ask is half a chance To prove that theory wrong Give me half a million quid And see how I get along No’ give me two’ no give me three Sod it give me four Just look what happens when you’re rich You’re always wanting more So maybe work will keep me down My feet firm on the floor I have my wife my health my kids Who could ask for more.

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MargaretAlice

WorkPoemsPlayingMusicalChairsInTaxOffice

Margaret Alice did not master e-filing, her electronic tax form was all wrong, the tax office sent her a note come fix your e-filing form; this morning I went Took my place on a chair, as the first guy vacated his chair we all hopped up like Jack-in-the-box to move to the next one – I nearly stuck out my tongue Then my turn at the big desk, got to see Mr Phaswana, first name Elvis, told him of the Pratchett I was clutching while still chuckling, Elvis retyped my e-filing form to make it conform to the norm; more people arriving hopping up and down, making the game even better to watch All the while Elvis typed away while explaining he’d love to learn French some day – and voilà, before long the form was done and the tax ghost Was laid for 2007 – next year the struggle will begin again, combating e-filing, but until then – freedom, comrades, freedom for me; thank you Elvis – most heartily!

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MargaretAlice

WorkPoemsTolylfluanidAndDimethylaminosulfotoluididePrinceDiazinon

1. Fun Why would the sum of Tolylfluanid and Dimethylaminosulfotoluidide be expressed as Tolylfluanid? Clearly Tolylfluanid is a he and Dimethylaminosulfotoluidide is a she, so the kid should proudly carry the name Of the father’s clan… But I’m glad to report the sum of Benomyl and Carbendazim is expressed as Carbendazim making the gender question quite superfluous If you know what I mean… 2. Last But Not Least – Prince Diazinon I know, these impressive names could be used in a Terry-Pratchett-type novel about the Discworld - ancient families in the Ramtops and learned scholars at Magic University, though Mustrum Ridcully will always be my favourite, the library baboon definitely a firm second, as well as Lord Vetinirari Let’s look at the fabulous list of families: Mr and Mrs Azoxystrobin, young Chlorfenapyr, The beautiful Isabella Folpet, Madame Iprodione, she’d have to be the seamstresses’ leader, I think Professor Lambda-Cyhalothrin, That mad Hatter of a guy called Maleic Hydrazide, Little Metalaxyl, and last but not least – Prince Diazinon…

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vijaygupta

boundToWork

“Bound to work” She was ailing with pain. Work speed was some slow still then she was working. Why? She was a worker in a factory. Work provides food and medicine for her family. So, she was bound to work in illness also. She was not telling to the manager about her ailment. Because it may be possible that manager can sent her on leave with out pay. And pay was everything for her. She was a poor worker of a factory having burden of her poor family. Poverty and burden was her destiny. I feel that it is the story of unaccountable poor people of the world.

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BobGotti

WorkPreparedForUs

The Lord has work for all to do, prepared good works for me and you. A work that is intended to Glorify, the One who on the cross had died. Jesus’ work accomplished for all, man’s redemption from Adam’s fall. Christ’s finished work for all of us, a work in which we place our trust. And nothing can be added to, His work accomplished for me and you. For salvation is a gift of Grace, secured when Jesus died in our place. No righteous works on our part; it was all of Christ right from the start. Christ’s finished work on that cross, alone is what saves sinners lost. The work prepared for us you see, is to point others towards Eternity. As God will use you in many ways, as you live out your earthly days. God above can use most any skill, as it’s tempered by His loving will, Pointing other men to Jesus Christ, as The Holy Spirit leads your life. This work was prepared long before, anybody knew Christ was Lord. An Eternal Plan by The Lord above, and centered on a cross of Love. Where Christ Jesus paid the price, by offering Himself as a sacrifice. For a body was prepared for Him, as the atonement for all of our sin. Now for us the work to be done, is to lead all men to God’s Only Son. What better work could there be, than in helping other people to see, That The Lord Jesus died for us, and in Him we must place our trust, So when all earthly labors cease, with Him we’ll have Eternal Peace. (Copyright ©03/2006)

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MarkRSlaughter

WorkSleepWorkSleepWork

Work, sleep, work, sleep, Work, sleep, work, sleep, Work, sleep, work, sleep, Work: Work, sleep, work, sleep, Work, sleep, work, sleep, Work, sleep, work, sleep, Work. Oh free me please with gentle ease From work, sleep, work, sleep, work! This odium, pounding tedium Of my work, sleep, work, sleep, work. Just whisk me off to lands afar From work, sleep, work, sleep, work - That grinding train of rhythmic pain Called ‘Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.’ Poor neural circuits fizzle and pop In work, sleep, work, sleep, work, In trying to make some sense of all this Work, sleep, work, sleep, work. But Hark! I see a golden gleam - A saving spirit of hope: ‘You’re fired! ’ He screams. What news to bear, This wondrous hangman’s rope! So now I’m free, released from all this Work, sleep, work, sleep, work - Eternal peace and rest for me, no Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.

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TomZart

WorkThatBodyWorkThatSoul

Drive my car wear my jewels Make me feel like the king of fools. Work that body Work that body Try not to hurt nobody David loved Bathsheba, Samson loved Delilah I love you and your name's Twyla. Work that body Work that body Try not to hurt nobody Life without love is empty and cruel Without God's grace we remain a fool. Work that body Work that body Try not to hurt nobody After death I pray to go to Heaven For I've been saved since I was eleven. Work that body Work that body Try not to hurt nobody Life can be short, life can be long God sees all we do right or wrong. Work that body Work that body Try not to hurt nobody By Tom Zart Most Published Poet On The Web! Tom Zart www.internetvoicesradio.com/t_zart/ http: //www.veteranstodayforum.com/viewforum.php? f=38

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Micron

WorkTheCycle

Wake, work, home, eat sleep This cycle keeps on and on As the time it takes is so long Wake, work, home, eat sleep Wake work home eat sleep This cycle don't seem at all to end All your life in work you seem to spend Wake work home eat sleep Wake work home eat sleep You start to see your life is slipping away As people no longer around you stay Wake work home eat sleep Wake work home eat sleep I'm surprised now I'm even getting time to eat It would be bliss to stop rest my feet Wake work home eat sleep Wake work home eat sleep You doing so many hours you feel ill And you keep doing the cycle still Wake work home eat sleep Wake work home eat sleep People bosses customers just keep adding more You start to long for sleep and to snore Wake work home eat sleep Wake work home eat sleep Something drastic happens the cycle breaks And that all that it really takes Wake work home eat sleep no more.....

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JoJoBean

WorkTogether

Work Together* Every creature on earth has feelings no matter the age And the 'Go Getters' want to set their own stage They forget how they got to be so smart For they were taught by the older one's heart We learn from our elders on what we should do and we should all work together to see all things through 13 May 2008 *response to David's poem 'Old and New' thanks for the inspiration Big Bruv: O)

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SamuelTaylorColeridge

WorkWithoutHope

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair-- The bees are stirring--birds are on the wing-- And WINTER slumbering in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring ! And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing, Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. Yet well I ken the banks where Amaranths blow, Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow. Bloom, O ye Amaranths ! bloom for whom ye may, For me ye bloom not ! Glide, rich streams, away ! With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll : And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul ? WORK WITHOUT HOPE draws nectar in a sieve, And HOPE without an object cannot live.

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JOEPOEWHIT

WorkWithoutPaymizzCopper

Hammer closed the sale that day. Your sweat man-profit of ways. Work in the field, sun is hot. Water boy, fast or maybe not. Master wants more work today. You have no real say. What is the time of morn. Sun down-fullmoon- work long. Cant ever stop this pace. Thought I was part of the human race. More ships are comming ashore. Work without pay-open door. Man has found many ways. Pet dogs and bones of may. [GOOGLE: search, POEWHIT]

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LovinaSylviaChidi

WorkWorkAndReap

Work! Work! Work! And Reap! Work! Work! Work! And Sleep! Everyday most of we work Some of us love to work Some of us just want to rock Some of us want to lie on a beach or take a walk If we had our way, we could spend all day and talk But work we all must Or our lifestyles will go bust! We may then have to readjust To unacceptable standards of living in disgust Work! Work! Work! And Reap! Work! Work! Work! And Sleep! We all have different professions Some of us have silent confessions We fancy someone at work with an obsession Work is then fun with a passion until confusion Work! Work! Work! And Reap! Work! Work! Work! And Sleep! There are jobs that are monotonous The atmosphere is negatively outrageous Nothing in the air signifies hilarious Every single person is always very serious Sometimes played at work Is the kind of politics That makes one quite sick This is where the strong kick Kick hardest the backside of the weak But work we all must Or our lifestyles will go bust! As we find ourselves lost And then try hard to readjust So do we swallow? Or is fighting back shallow Will it leave in your pocket a dent that is hollow? Or produce a scene labeled horror Enough to leave you in tears of sorrow I don't have all the answers I know work is a living cancer People at work ought to be a little nicer Everyone needs to make a living including a dancer! Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi

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GajananMishra

WorkWorkAndWork

Work is the means Cessation of works Is also a means. Work and work Work is ladder Work is different Parts of ladder. Complete the works And be perfect.

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FrancescaJohnson

workTillTheGrave

You WILL work till you're 70, all you sloggers. My government can't afford to pay you a pension, and I'd like to mention I need my expenses and recompenses. And those poor young things pushing buggies and things need food and fags and we need to support the dads (if we know who they are) . Asylum seekers, foreign speakers, benefit tweakers and the like need a hike into comfortable living. So you'll need to be giving your ALL for all. Poor dears, no jobs or careers, they can't live on fresh air, you know. So off you go, work till the grave. We will shave every penny off you. I have people to support and I don't want to be short of a bob or two myself. Gordon Black, MP. Just off to claim my expenses. I'm entitled to mortgage payments on my mansion...em I mean house...in London. And I need to carpet my house in the country. My cars need replacing and how could I do all that on a measly MP's wages, I ask you?

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johntiongchunghoo

01andTheMoonAndTheStarsAndTheWorld

long walk at night the breeze freezes my spirit the moon warms it up pulling at my poetic soul the crickets sing their poems to the night a million other insects contribute their share to loosen up the night for lovers, husbands and wives while a tide of words too creeps in all directions in my mental sphere saturates the poetic bar of the intellect waiting to be strummed into verses the rhythm swims along with them as i write out verse by verse the moon my friend shares its light the night wind inspires lovelorn stars wave all the way a million light years away heralding the birth of a song sparkling, twinkling guided by intricate orchestration of the night before gracing the written page long walk in the night even the insects with the lamps start to lend me their lights between the twinke of the stars they dance, sing, beat out a dance

world

HerbertNehrlich

ANewWorld

Is there a man who never ate his daily bread with tears, is there a man whose destined fate led to the land of fears? Is there a man who never loved another human being, is there a surgeon, scrubbed and gloved who operates unseeing? Is there a man who steals and robs who hesitates but kills, a killer who so loudly sobs about all mankind's ills? Is there a man good in his heart who will not compromise, or is he just another tart a man made up of lies? Is there a God, so good and pure a holy, but free sample, that he could guarantee a cure by heavenly example? Are all the Gods up in their sky completely apathetic, and are they of indifferent eye besmirched by anaesthetic? Is there a world that we foresee that could approach perfection, or does the fault lie painfully with faulty gene selection? There is no God, no world, no man who'd make us only proud, we need a new God, one who can come down from his high cloud. A God who doesn't sit and snicker about our bad behaviour, nor raise his finger, scold and bicker, can we please have a saviour? And will He pardon my advice to scrap all DNA and I don't care if this defies the rules He may obey. Is there in all the universe a bigger, sadder mess, if not perhaps He could rehearse new plans, where best is less. 'Cause I am certain He does know this world must be destroyed, all new ones will be pure, and glow forever overjoyed. No blame shall fall upon Him then for all the hasty dealings He did when He created men Good luck, God, no hard feelings.

world

HerbertNehrlich

AWorldOfShadows

A shadow is a second fiddle and always feels inferior it tries to reach the golden middle of things in the interior but is condemned to stay outside can't mix it with the boys can only come along to ride like ragged children's toys. A shadow has no real life it is a saprophyte though if you try to use a knife cut loose this parasite you'll find that no amount of prying can kill this sad reflection so now you know, there's no denying you add to your collection of fans and others who adore your talent and your wit a shadow sticks for evermore it really is a zit that needs supply from the outside of nutrients to eat it lives in layers of your hide and draws your body heat and when its life comes to an end it shrivels up and dies a shadow hovers to offend and when rebuffed it cries a zit is born with intellect a shadow pretty dumb the former would be a defect the latter is a bum who wants a handout from his host that's why he never leaves and clings to you just like a ghost all shadows then are thieves. A word of warning to you now don't ever shadow-box your shadow knows exactly how he's agile as a fox Then what, you ask is there to do to make you shadow-free you show him he has no IQ and he will leave you be.

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RichardWilbur

AWorldWithoutObjectsIsASensibleEmptiness

The tall camels of the spirit Steer for their deserts, passing the last groves loud With the sawmill shrill of the locust, to the whole honey of the arid Sun. They are slow, proud, And move with a stilted stride To the land of sheer horizon, hunting Traherne's Sensible emptiness, there where the brain's lantern-slide Revels in vast returns. O connoisseurs of thirst, Beasts of my soul who long to learn to drink Of pure mirage, those prosperous islands are accurst That shimmer on the brink Of absence; auras, lustres, And all shinings need to be shaped and borne. Think of those painted saints, capped by the early masters With bright, jauntily-worn Aureate plates, or even Merry-go-round rings. Turn, O turn From the fine sleights of the sand, from the long empty oven Where flames in flamings burn Back to the trees arrayed In bursts of glare, to the halo-dialing run Of the country creeks, and the hills' bracken tiaras made Gold in the sunken sun, Wisely watch for the sight Of the supernova burgeoning over the barn, Lampshine blurred in the steam of beasts, the spirit's right Oasis, light incarnate.

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JohnDonne

AnAnatomyOfTheWorld

When that rich soul which to her heaven is gone, Whom all do celebrate, who know they have one (For who is sure he hath a soul, unless It see, and judge, and follow worthiness, And by deeds praise it? He who doth not this, May lodge an inmate soul, but 'tis not his) When that queen ended here her progress time, And, as t'her standing house, to heaven did climb, Where loath to make the saints attend her long, She's now a part both of the choir, and song; This world, in that great earthquake languished; For in a common bath of tears it bled, Which drew the strongest vital spirits out; But succour'd then with a perplexed doubt, Whether the world did lose, or gain in this, (Because since now no other way there is, But goodness, to see her, whom all would see, All must endeavour to be good as she) This great consumption to a fever turn'd, And so the world had fits; it joy'd, it mourn'd; And, as men think, that agues physic are, And th' ague being spent, give over care, So thou, sick world, mistak'st thy self to be Well, when alas, thou'rt in a lethargy. Her death did wound and tame thee then, and then Thou might'st have better spar'd the sun, or man. That wound was deep, but 'tis more misery That thou hast lost thy sense and memory. 'Twas heavy then to hear thy voice of moan, But this is worse, that thou art speechless grown. Thou hast forgot thy name thou hadst; thou wast Nothing but she, and her thou hast o'erpast. For, as a child kept from the font until A prince, expected long, come to fulfill The ceremonies, thou unnam'd had'st laid, Had not her coming, thee her palace made; Her name defin'd thee, gave thee form, and frame, And thou forget'st to celebrate thy name. Some months she hath been dead (but being dead, Measures of times are all determined) But long she'ath been away, long, long, yet none Offers to tell us who it is that's gone. But as in states doubtful of future heirs, When sickness without remedy impairs The present prince, they're loath it should be said, 'The prince doth languish,' or 'The prince is dead;' So mankind feeling now a general thaw, A strong example gone, equal to law, The cement which did faithfully compact And glue all virtues, now resolv'd, and slack'd, Thought it some blasphemy to say sh'was dead, Or that our weakness was discovered In that confession; therefore spoke no more Than tongues, the soul being gone, the loss deplore. But though it be too late to succour thee, Sick world, yea dead, yea putrified, since she Thy' intrinsic balm, and thy preservative, Can never be renew'd, thou never live, I (since no man can make thee live) will try, What we may gain by thy anatomy. Her death hath taught us dearly that thou art Corrupt and mortal in thy purest part. Let no man say, the world itself being dead, 'Tis labour lost to have discovered The world's infirmities, since there is none Alive to study this dissection; For there's a kind of world remaining still, Though she which did inanimate and fill The world, be gone, yet in this last long night, Her ghost doth walk; that is a glimmering light, A faint weak love of virtue, and of good, Reflects from her on them which understood Her worth; and though she have shut in all day, The twilight of her memory doth stay, Which, from the carcass of the old world free, Creates a new world, and new creatures be Produc'd. The matter and the stuff of this, Her virtue, and the form our practice is. And though to be thus elemented, arm These creatures from home-born intrinsic harm, (For all assum'd unto this dignity So many weedless paradises be, Which of themselves produce no venomous sin, Except some foreign serpent bring it in) Yet, because outward storms the strongest break, And strength itself by confidence grows weak, This new world may be safer, being told The dangers and diseases of the old; For with due temper men do then forgo, Or covet things, when they their true worth know. There is no health; physicians say that we At best enjoy but a neutrality. And can there be worse sickness than to know That we are never well, nor can be so? We are born ruinous: poor mothers cry That children come not right, nor orderly; Except they headlong come and fall upon An ominous precipitation. How witty's ruin! how importunate Upon mankind! It labour'd to frustrate Even God's purpose; and made woman, sent For man's relief, cause of his languishment. They were to good ends, and they are so still, But accessory, and principal in ill, For that first marriage was our funeral; One woman at one blow, then kill'd us all, And singly, one by one, they kill us now. We do delightfully our selves allow To that consumption; and profusely blind, We kill our selves to propagate our kind. And yet we do not that; we are not men; There is not now that mankind, which was then, When as the sun and man did seem to strive, (Joint tenants of the world) who should survive; When stag, and raven, and the long-liv'd tree, Compar'd with man, died in minority; When, if a slow-pac'd star had stol'n away From the observer's marking, he might stay Two or three hundred years to see't again, And then make up his observation plain; When, as the age was long, the size was great (Man's growth confess'd, and recompens'd the meat), So spacious and large, that every soul Did a fair kingdom, and large realm control; And when the very stature, thus erect, Did that soul a good way towards heaven direct. Where is this mankind now? Who lives to age, Fit to be made Methusalem his page? Alas, we scarce live long enough to try Whether a true-made clock run right, or lie. Old grandsires talk of yesterday with sorrow, And for our children we reserve tomorrow. So short is life, that every peasant strives, In a torn house, or field, to have three lives. And as in lasting, so in length is man Contracted to an inch, who was a span; For had a man at first in forests stray'd, Or shipwrack'd in the sea, one would have laid A wager, that an elephant, or whale, That met him, would not hastily assail A thing so equall to him; now alas, The fairies, and the pigmies well may pass As credible; mankind decays so soon, We'are scarce our fathers' shadows cast at noon, Only death adds t'our length: nor are we grown In stature to be men, till we are none. But this were light, did our less volume hold All the old text; or had we chang'd to gold Their silver; or dispos'd into less glass Spirits of virtue, which then scatter'd was. But 'tis not so; w'are not retir'd, but damp'd; And as our bodies, so our minds are cramp'd; 'Tis shrinking, not close weaving, that hath thus In mind and body both bedwarfed us. We seem ambitious, God's whole work t'undo; Of nothing he made us, and we strive too, To bring our selves to nothing back; and we Do what we can, to do't so soon as he. With new diseases on our selves we war, And with new physic, a worse engine far. Thus man, this world's vice-emperor, in whom All faculties, all graces are at home (And if in other creatures they appear, They're but man's ministers and legates there To work on their rebellions, and reduce Them to civility, and to man's use); This man, whom God did woo, and loath t'attend Till man came up, did down to man descend, This man, so great, that all that is, is his, O what a trifle, and poor thing he is! If man were anything, he's nothing now; Help, or at least some time to waste, allow T'his other wants, yet when he did depart With her whom we lament, he lost his heart. She, of whom th'ancients seem'd to prophesy, When they call'd virtues by the name of she; She in whom virtue was so much refin'd, That for alloy unto so pure a mind She took the weaker sex; she that could drive The poisonous tincture, and the stain of Eve, Out of her thoughts, and deeds, and purify All, by a true religious alchemy, She, she is dead; she's dead: when thou knowest this, Thou knowest how poor a trifling thing man is, And learn'st thus much by our anatomy, The heart being perish'd, no part can be free, And that except thou feed (not banquet) on The supernatural food, religion, Thy better growth grows withered, and scant; Be more than man, or thou'rt less than an ant. Then, as mankind, so is the world's whole frame Quite out of joint, almost created lame, For, before God had made up all the rest, Corruption ent'red, and deprav'd the best; It seiz'd the angels, and then first of all The world did in her cradle take a fall, And turn'd her brains, and took a general maim, Wronging each joint of th'universal frame. The noblest part, man, felt it first; and then Both beasts and plants, curs'd in the curse of man. So did the world from the first hour decay, That evening was beginning of the day, And now the springs and summers which we see, Like sons of women after fifty be. And new philosophy calls all in doubt, The element of fire is quite put out, The sun is lost, and th'earth, and no man's wit Can well direct him where to look for it. And freely men confess that this world's spent, When in the planets and the firmament They seek so many new; they see that this Is crumbled out again to his atomies. 'Tis all in pieces, all coherence gone, All just supply, and all relation; Prince, subject, father, son, are things forgot, For every man alone thinks he hath got To be a phoenix, and that then can be None of that kind, of which he is, but he. This is the world's condition now, and now She that should all parts to reunion bow, She that had all magnetic force alone, To draw, and fasten sund'red parts in one; She whom wise nature had invented then When she observ'd that every sort of men Did in their voyage in this world's sea stray, And needed a new compass for their way; She that was best and first original Of all fair copies, and the general Steward to fate; she whose rich eyes and breast Gilt the West Indies, and perfum'd the East; Whose having breath'd in this world, did bestow Spice on those Isles, and bade them still smell so, And that rich India which doth gold inter, Is but as single money, coin'd from her; She to whom this world must it self refer, As suburbs or the microcosm of her, She, she is dead; she's dead: when thou know'st this, Thou know'st how lame a cripple this world is ....

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CharlesBukowski

AndTheMoonAndTheStarsAndTheWorld

Long walks at night-- that's what good for the soul: peeking into windows watching tired housewives trying to fight off their beer-maddened husbands.

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CharlesBaudelaire

AnywhereOutOfTheWorld

This life is a hospital where every patient is possessed with the desire to change beds; one man would like to suffer in front of the stove, and another believes that he would recover his health beside the window. It always seems to me that I should feel well in the place where I am not, and this question of removal is one which I discuss incessantly with my soul. 'Tell me, my soul, poor chilled soul, what do you think of going to live in Lisbon? It must be warm there, and there you would invigorate yourself like a lizard. This city is on the sea-shore; they say that it is built of marble and that the people there have such a hatred of vegetation that they uproot all the trees. There you have a landscape that corresponds to your taste! a landscape made of light and mineral, and liquid to reflect them!' My soul does not reply. 'Since you are so fond of stillness, coupled with the show of movement, would you like to settle in Holland, that beatifying country? Perhaps you would find some diversion in that land whose image you have so often admired in the art galleries. What do you think of Rotterdam, you who love forests of masts, and ships moored at the foot of houses?' My soul remains silent. 'Perhaps Batavia attracts you more? There we should find, amongst other things, the spirit of Europe married to tropical beauty.' Not a word. Could my soul be dead? 'Is it then that you have reached such a degree of lethargy that you acquiesce in your sickness? If so, let us flee to lands that are analogues of death. I see how it is, poor soul! We shall pack our trunks for Tornio. Let us go farther still to the extreme end of the Baltic; or farther still from life, if that is possible; let us settle at the Pole. There the sun only grazes the earth obliquely, and the slow alternation of light and darkness suppresses variety and increases monotony, that half-nothingness. There we shall be able to take long baths of darkness, while for our amusement the aurora borealis shall send us its rose-coloured rays that are like the reflection of Hell's own fireworks!' At last my soul explodes, and wisely cries out to me: 'No matter where! No matter where! As long as it's out of the world!'

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WilliamBrightyRands

GreatWideBeautifulWonderfulWorld

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World, With the wonderful water round you curled, And the wonderful grass upon your breast-- World, you are beautifully drest. The wonderful air is over me, And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree, It walks on the water, and whirls the mills, And talks to itself on the tops of the hills. You friendly Earth! how far do you go, With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow, With cities and gardens, and cliffs, and isles, And people upon you for thousands of miles? Ah, you are so great, and I am so small, I tremble to think of you, World, at all; And yet, when I said my prayers to-day, A whisper inside me seemed to say, "You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot: You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!"

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EdwinArlingtonRobinson

AsAWorldWouldHaveIt

ALCESTIS Shall I never make him look at me again? I look at him, I look my life at him, I tell him all I know the way to tell, But there he stays the same. Shall I never make him speak one word to me? Shall I never make him say enough to show My heart if he be glad? Be glad? … ah! God, Why did they bring me back? I wonder, if I go to him again, If I take him by those two cold hands again, Shall I get one look of him at last, or feel One sign—or anything? Or will he still sit there in the same way, Without an answer for me from his lips, Or from his eyes,—or even with a touch Of his hand on my hand?… “Will you look down this once—look down at me? Speak once—and if you never speak again, Tell me enough—tell me enough to make Me know that you are glad! “You are my King, and once my King would speak: You were Admetus once, you loved me once: Life was a dream of heaven for us once— And has the dream gone by? “Do I cling to shadows when I call you Life? Do you love me still, or are the shadows all? Or is it I that love you in the grave, And you that mourn for me? “If it be that, then do not mourn for me; Be glad that I have loved you, and be King. But if it be not that—if it be true … Tell me if it be true!” Then with a choking answer the King spoke; But never touched his hand on hers, or fixed His eyes on hers, or on the face of her: “Yes, it is true,” he said. “You are alive, and you are with me now; And you are reaching up to me that I— That I may take you—I that am a King— I that was once a man." So then she knew. She might have known before; Truly, she thought, she must have known it long Before: she must have known it when she came From that great sleep of hers. She knew the truth, but not yet all of it: He loved her, but he would not let his eyes Prove that he loved her; and he would not hold His wife there in his arms. So, like a slave, she waited at his knees, And waited. She was not unhappy now. She quivered, but she knew that he would speak Again—and he did speak. And while she felt the tremor of his words, He told her all there was for him to tell; And then he turned his face to meet her face, That she might look at him. She looked; and all her trust was in that look, And all her faith was in it, and her love; And when his answer to that look came back, It flashed back through his tears. So then she put her arms around his neck, And kissed him on his forehead and his lips; And there she clung, fast in his arms again, Triumphant, with closed eyes. At last, half whispering, she spoke once more: “Why was it that you suffered for so long? Why could you not believe me—trust in me? Was I so strange as that? “We suffer when we do not understand; And you have suffered—you that love me now— Because you are a man.… There is one thing No man can understand. “I would have given everything?—gone down To Tartarus—to silence? Was it that? I would have died? I would have let you live?— And was it very strange?”

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RabindranathTagore

BabysWorld

I wish I could take a quiet corner in the heart of my baby's very own world. I know it has stars that talk to him, and a sky that stoops down to his face to amuse him with its silly clouds and rainbows. Those who make believe to be dumb, and look as if they never could move, come creeping to his window with their stories and with trays crowded with bright toys. I wish I could travel by the road that crosses baby's mind, and out beyond all bounds; Where messengers run errands for no cause between the kingdoms of kings of no history; Where Reason makes kites of her laws and flies them, the Truth sets Fact free from its fetters.

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WilliamButlerYeats

BeforeTheWorldWasMade

If I make the lashes dark And the eyes more bright And the lips more scarlet, Or ask if all be right From mirror after mirror, No vanity's displayed: I'm looking for the face I had Before the world was made. What if I look upon a man As though on my beloved, And my blood be cold the while And my heart unmoved? Why should he think me cruel Or that he is betrayed? I'd have him love the thing that was Before the world was made.

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RobertWilliamService

BraveNewWorld

One spoke: "Come, let us gaily go With laughter, love and lust, Since in a century or so We'll all be boneyard dust. When unborn shadows hold the screen, (Our betters, I'll allow) 'Twill be as if we'd never been, A hundred years from now. When we have played life's lively game Right royally we'll rot, And not a soul will care a damn The why or how we fought; To grub for gold or grab for fame Or raise a holy row, It will be all the bloody same A hundred years from now." Said I: "Look! I have built a tower Upon you lonely hill, Designed to be a daughter's dower, Yet when my heart is still, The stone I set with horny hand And salty sweat of brow, A record of my strength will sand A hundred years from now. "There's nothing lost and nothing vain In all this world so wide; The ocean hoards each drop of rain To swell its sweeping tide; The desert seeks each grain of sand It's empire to endow, And we a bright brave world have planned A hundred years from now. And all we are and all we do Will bring that world to be; Our strain and pain let us not rue, Though other eyes shall see; For other hearts will bravely beat And lips will sing of how We strove to make life sane and sweet A hundred years from now.

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JoyceKilmer

CitizenOfTheWorld

No longer of Him be it said "He hath no place to lay His head." In every land a constant lamp Flames by His small and mighty camp. There is no strange and distant place That is not gladdened by His face. And every nation kneels to hail The Splendour shining through Its veil. Cloistered beside the shouting street, Silent, He calls me to His feet. Imprisoned for His love of me He makes my spirit greatly free. And through my lips that uttered sin The King of Glory enters in.

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ElizaCook

DonTTellTheWorldThatYouReWaitingForMe

THREE summers have gone since the first time we met, love, And still 'tis in vain that I ask thee to wed ; I hear no reply but a gentle " Not yet, love," With a smile of your lip, and a shake of your head. Ah ! how oft have I whispered, how oft have I sued thee, And breathed my soul's question of " When shall it be ?" You know, dear, how long and how truly I've wooed thee, So don't tell the world that you're waiting for me. I have fashioned a home, where the fairies might dwell, love, I've planted the myrtle, the rose, and the vine ; But the cottage to me is a mere hermit's cell, love, And the bloom will be dull till the flowers are thine. I've a ring of bright gold, which I gaze on when lonely, And sigh with Hope's eloquence, " When will it be ?" There needs but thy " Yes," love--one little word only, So don't tell the world that you're waiting for me.

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WilliamHenryDrummond

DothThenTheWorldGoThus

Doth then the world go thus? doth all thus move? Is this the justice which on earth we find? Is this that firm decree which all doth bind? Are these your influences, Powers above? Those souls, which vice's moody mists most blind, Blind Fortune, blindly, most their friend doth prove; And they who thee, poor idol Virtue! love, Ply like a feather tossed by storm and wind. Ah! if a Providence doth sway this all, Why should best minds groan under most distress? Or why should pride humility make thrall, And injuries the innocent oppress? Heavens! hinder, stop this fate; or grant a time When good may have, as well as bad, their prime!

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HenryDavidThoreau

EpitaphOnTheWorld

Here lies the body of this world, Whose soul alas to hell is hurled. This golden youth long since was past, Its silver manhood went as fast, An iron age drew on at last; 'Tis vain its character to tell, The several fates which it befell, What year it died, when 'twill arise, We only know that here it lies.

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StephenCrane

GodFashionedTheShipOfTheWorld

God fashioned the ship of the world carefully. With the infinite skill of an All-Master Made He the hull and the sails, Held He the rudder Ready for adjustment. Erect stood He, scanning His work proudly. Then -- at fateful time -- a wrong called, And God turned, heeding. Lo, the ship, at this opportunity, slipped slyly, Making cunning noiseless travel down the ways. So that, forever rudderless, it went upon the seas Going ridiculous voyages, Making quaint progress, Turning as with serious purpose Before stupid winds. And there were many in the sky Who laughed at this thing.

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JohnDonne

HolySonnetVIAmALittleWorldMadeCunningly

I am a little world made cunningly Of elements, and an angelic sprite; But black sin hath betrayed to endless night My worlds both parts, and (oh!) both parts must die. You which beyond that heaven which was most high Have found new spheres, and of new lands can write, Pour new seas in mine eyes, that so I might Drown my world with my weeping earnestly, Or wash it if it must be drowned no more: But oh it must be burnt! alas the fire Of lust and envy have burnt it heretofore, And made it fouler: Let their flames retire, And burn me, O Lord, with a fiery zeal Of Thee and Thy house, which doth in eating heal.

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JohnDonne

HolySonnetVIAmALittleWorld

I am a little world made cunningly Of Elements, and an Angelike spright, But black sinne hath betraid to endlesse night My worlds both parts, and (oh) both parts must die. You which beyond that heaven which was most high Have found new sphears, and of new lands can write, Powre new seas in mine eyes, that so I might Drowne my world with my weeping earnestly, Or wash it if it must be drown'd no more; But oh it must be burnt! alas the fire Of lust and envie have burnt it heretofore, And made it fouler; Let their flames retire, And burne me o Lord, with a fiery zeale Of thee and thy house, which doth in eating heale.

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RainerMariaRilke

IAmMuchTooAloneInThisWorldYetNotAlone

I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone enough to truly consecrate the hour. I am much too small in this world, yet not small enough to be to you just object and thing, dark and smart. I want my free will and want it accompanying the path which leads to action; and want during times that beg questions, where something is up, to be among those in the know, or else be alone. I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection, never be blind or too old to uphold your weighty wavering reflection. I want to unfold. Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent; for there I would be dishonest, untrue. I want my conscience to be true before you; want to describe myself like a picture I observed for a long time, one close up, like a new word I learned and embraced, like the everday jug, like my mother's face, like a ship that carried me along through the deadliest storm.

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WilliamBrightyRands

ISawANewWorld

I SAW a new world in my dream, Where all the folks alike did seem: There was no Child, there was no Mother, There was no Change, there was no Other. For everything was Same, the Same; There was no praise, there was no blame; There was neither Need nor Help for it; There was nothing fitting or unfit. Nobody laugh’d, nobody wept; None grew weary, so none slept; There was nobody born, and nobody wed; This world was a world of the living-dead. I long’d to hear the Time-Clock strike In the world where people were all alike; I hated Same, I hated Forever; I long’d to say Neither, or even Never. I long’d to mend, I long’d to make; I long’d to give, I long’d to take; I long’d for a change, whatever came after, I long’d for crying, I long’d for laughter. At last I heard the Time-Clock boom, And woke from my dream in my little room; With a smile on her lips my Mother was nigh, And I heard the Baby crow and cry. And I thought to myself, How nice it is For me to live in a world like this, Where things can happen, and clocks can strike, And none of the people are made alike; Where Love wants this, and Pain wants that, Where all our hearts want Tit for Tat In the jumbles we make with our heads and our hands, In a world that nobody understands, But with work, and hope, and the right to call Upon Him who sees it and knows us all!

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StephenCrane

IStoodMusingInABlackWorld

I stood musing in a black world, Not knowing where to direct my feet. And I saw the quick stream of men Pouring ceaselessly, Filled with eager faces, A torrent of desire. I called to them, "Where do you go? What do you see?" A thousand voices called to me. A thousand fingers pointed. "Look! look! There!" I know not of it. But, lo! In the far sky shone a radiance Ineffable, divine -- A vision painted upon a pall; And sometimes it was, And sometimes it was not. I hesitated. Then from the stream Came roaring voices, Impatient: "Look! look! There!" So again I saw, And leaped, unhesitant, And struggled and fumed With outspread clutching fingers. The hard hills tore my flesh; The ways bit my feet. At last I looked again. No radiance in the far sky, Ineffable, divine; No vision painted upon a pall; And always my eyes ached for the light. Then I cried in despair, "I see nothing! Oh, where do I go?" The torrent turned again its faces: "Look! look! There!" And at the blindness of my spirit They screamed, "Fool! fool! fool!"

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Anonymous

IfAllTheWorldWerePaper

"If all the world were paper And all the sea were ink, If all the trees were bread and cheese What would we do for drink? If all the world were sand O, Oh then what should we lack O, if as they say there were no clay How should we take Tobacco? If all our vessels ran-a, If none but had a crack-a, If Spanish apes ate all the grapes How should we do for sack-a? If all the world were men And men lived all in trenches, And there were none but we alone, How should we do for wenches? If friars had no bald pates Nor nuns had no dark cloisters, If all the seas were beans and peas How should we do for oysters? If there had been no projects Nor none that did great wrongs, If fiddlers shall turn players all How should we do for songs? If all things were eternal And nothing their end bringing, If this should be, then how should we Here make an end of singing?

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AnonymousAmericas

IfAllTheWorldWerePaper

"If all the world were paper And all the sea were ink, If all the trees were bread and cheese What would we do for drink? If all the world were sand O, Oh then what should we lack O, if as they say there were no clay How should we take Tobacco? If all our vessels ran-a, If none but had a crack-a, If Spanish apes ate all the grapes How should we do for sack-a? If all the world were men And men lived all in trenches, And there were none but we alone, How should we do for wenches? If friars had no bald pates Nor nuns had no dark cloisters, If all the seas were beans and peas How should we do for oysters? If there had been no projects Nor none that did great wrongs, If fiddlers shall turn players all How should we do for songs? If all things were eternal And nothing their end bringing, If this should be, then how should we Here make an end of singing?

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JudithViorst

IfIWereInChargeOfTheWorld

If I were in charge of the world I'd cancel oatmeal, Monday mornings, Allergy shots, and also Sara Steinberg. If I were in charge of the world There'd be brighter nights lights, Healthier hamsters, and Basketball baskets forty eight inches lower. If I were in charge of the world You wouldn't have lonely. You wouldn't have clean. You wouldn't have bedtimes. Or "Don't punch your sister." You wouldn't even have sisters. If I were in charge of the world A chocolate sundae with whipped cream and nuts would be a vegetable All 007 movies would be G, And a person who sometimes forgot to brush, And sometimes forgot to flush, Would still be allowed to be In charge of the world.

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HenryLawson

InTheDaysWhenTheWorldWasWide

The world is narrow and ways are short, and our lives are dull and slow, For little is new where the crowds resort, and less where the wanderers go; Greater, or smaller, the same old things we see by the dull road-side -- And tired of all is the spirit that sings of the days when the world was wide. When the North was hale in the march of Time, and the South and the West were new, And the gorgeous East was a pantomime, as it seemed in our boyhood's view; When Spain was first on the waves of change, and proud in the ranks of pride, And all was wonderful, new and strange in the days when the world was wide. Then a man could fight if his heart were bold, and win if his faith were true -- Were it love, or honour, or power, or gold, or all that our hearts pursue; Could live to the world for the family name, or die for the family pride, Could fly from sorrow, and wrong, and shame in the days when the world was wide. They sailed away in the ships that sailed ere science controlled the main, When the strong, brave heart of a man prevailed as 'twill never prevail again; They knew not whither, nor much they cared -- let Fate or the winds decide -- The worst of the Great Unknown they dared in the days when the world was wide. They raised new stars on the silent sea that filled their hearts with awe; They came to many a strange countree and marvellous sights they saw. The villagers gaped at the tales they told, and old eyes glistened with pride -- When barbarous cities were paved with gold in the days when the world was wide. 'Twas honest metal and honest wood, in the days of the Outward Bound, When men were gallant and ships were good -- roaming the wide world round. The gods could envy a leader then when `Follow me, lads!' he cried -- They faced each other and fought like men in the days when the world was wide. They tried to live as a freeman should -- they were happier men than we, In the glorious days of wine and blood, when Liberty crossed the sea; 'Twas a comrade true or a foeman then, and a trusty sword well tried -- They faced each other and fought like men in the days when the world was wide. The good ship bound for the Southern seas when the beacon was Ballarat, With a `Ship ahoy!' on the freshening breeze, `Where bound?' and `What ship's that?' -- The emigrant train to New Mexico -- the rush to the Lachlan Side -- Ah! faint is the echo of Westward Ho! from the days when the world was wide. South, East, and West in advance of Time -- and, ay! in advance of Thought Those brave men rose to a height sublime -- and is it for this they fought? And is it for this damned life we praise the god-like spirit that died At Eureka Stockade in the Roaring Days with the days when the world was wide? We fight like women, and feel as much; the thoughts of our hearts we guard; Where scarcely the scorn of a god could touch, the sneer of a sneak hits hard; The treacherous tongue and cowardly pen, the weapons of curs, decide -- They faced each other and fought like men in the days when the world was wide. Think of it all -- of the life that is! Study your friends and foes! Study the past! And answer this: `Are these times better than those?' The life-long quarrel, the paltry spite, the sting of your poisoned pride! No matter who fell it were better to fight as they did when the world was wide. Boast as you will of your mateship now -- crippled and mean and sly -- The lines of suspicion on friendship's brow were traced since the days gone by. There was room in the long, free lines of the van to fight for it side by side -- There was beating-room for the heart of a man in the days when the world was wide. . . . . . With its dull, brown days of a-shilling-an-hour the dreary year drags round: Is this the result of Old England's power? -- the bourne of the Outward Bound? Is this the sequel of Westward Ho! -- of the days of Whate'er Betide? The heart of the rebel makes answer `No! We'll fight till the world grows wide!' The world shall yet be a wider world -- for the tokens are manifest; East and North shall the wrongs be hurled that followed us South and West. The march of Freedom is North by the Dawn! Follow, whate'er betide! Sons of the Exiles, march! March on! March till the world grows wide!

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RaviSathasivam

LetPeacePrevailInThisWorld

When you look for peace then the peace lies within you When you search for peace then it is not hard to find When you want to keep peace alive then you allow white doves to fly over you When you make peace with others then the whole world live in your heart When you let peace be in the world then you live in wonderful world When you allow peace flow around the world then your hateness will go and love will flow When you open the door for peace then peace welcome to your lives. Let the peace prevail in our wonderful world

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HenryVanDyke

LibertyEnlighteningTheWorld

Thou warden of the western gate, above Manhatten Bay, The fogs of doubt that hid thy face are driven clean away: Thine eyes at last look far and clear, thou liftest high thy hand To spread the light of liberty world-wide for every land. No more thou dreamest of a peace reserved alone for thee, While friends are fighting for thy cause beyond the guardian sea: The battle that they wage is thine; thou fallest if they fall; The swollen flood of Prussian pride will sweep unchecked o'er all. O cruel is the conquer-lust in Hohenzollern brains; The paths they plot to gain their goal are dark with shameful stains: No faith they keep, no law revere, no god but naked Might; -- They are the foemen of mankind. Up, Liberty, and smite! Britain, and France, and Italy, and Russia newly born, Have waited for thee in the night. Oh, come as comes the morn. Serene and strong and full of faith, America, arise, With steady hope and mighty help to join th brave Allies. O dearest country of my heart, home of the high desire, Make clean thy soul for sacrifice on Freedom's altar-fire: For thou must suffer, thou must fight, until the warlords cease, And all the peoples lift their heads in liberty and peace.

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MarinaIvanovnaTsvetaeva

LittleWorld

Children - are staring of eyes so frightful, Mischievous legs on a wooden floor, Children - is sun in the gloomy motives, Hypotheses' of happy sciences world. Eternal disorder in the ring's gold, Tender word's whispers in semi-sleep, On the wall in a cozy child's room, the dreaming Peaceful pictures of birds and sheep. Children - is evening, evening on the couch, In the fog, through the window, glimmer street lamps, A measured voice of the tale of King Saltan, Mermaid-sisters of seas from tales. Children - is rest, brief moment of respite, A trembling vow before God's eyes, Children - are the world's tender riddles, Where in the riddle the answer hides!

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RichardWilbur

LoveCallsUsToTheThingsOfThisWorld

The eyes open to a cry of pulleys, And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul Hangs for a moment bodiless and simple As false dawn. Outside the open window The morning air is all awash with angels. Some are in bed-sheets, some are in blouses, Some are in smocks: but truly there they are. Now they are rising together in calm swells Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they wear With the deep joy of their impersonal breathing; Now they are flying in place, conveying The terrible speed of their omnipresence, moving And staying like white water; and now of a sudden They swoon down in so rapt a quiet That nobody seems to be there. The soul shrinks From all that it is about to remember, From the punctual rape of every blessed day, And cries, "Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry, Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam And clear dances done in the sight of heaven." Yet, as the sun acknowledges With a warm look the world's hunks and colors, The soul descends once more in bitter love To accept the waking body, saying now In a changed voice as the man yawns and rises, "Bring them down from their ruddy gallows; Let there be clean linen for the backs of thieves; Let lovers go fresh and sweet to be undone, And the heaviest nuns walk in a pure floating Of dark habits, keeping their difficult balance." Submitted by Robert Fish

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RichardLovelace

LucastasWorld

I. Cold as the breath of winds that blow To 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 in our veines: Yet cooled not the heat her sphere Of beauties first had kindled there. II. Then mov'd, and with a suddaine flame Impatient to melt all againe, Straight from her eyes she lightning hurl'd, And earth in ashes mournes; The sun his blaze denies the world, And in her luster burnes: Yet warmed not the hearts, her nice Disdaine had first congeal'd to ice. III. And now her teares nor griev'd desire Can quench this raging, pleasing fire; Fate but one way allowes; behold Her smiles' divinity! They fann'd this heat, and thaw'd that cold, So fram'd up a new sky. Thus earth, from flames and ice repreev'd, E're since hath in her sun-shine liv'd.

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ArielleGWyman

MyOwnWorld

I sit here alone, in this dark place. My mind has gone crazy, my heart's in a race. I sit here alone, with my thoughts gone mad. I feel I'm insane, my life's turned bad. I sit here alone, as people pass by. I scream to be heard, but can't and cry. I sit here alone, I'm all messed up. I have no control, It's time to give up. I sit here alone, I can't hold on. I'm losing my grasp, My sanity's gone. I sit here alone, My freedom is here, The struggle is over, I won't shed a tear. I sit here alone, I shall never see light. I have only darkness, In my own world tonight.

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CJHeck

MyWorldChildren

In my dream, all the oceans are chocolate that I sail in my gummy bear boat. The mountain, there, is a chocolate cake with waterfalls to root beer floats. Bubble gum berries grow wild here and there. Tall pretzels are telephone poles. Potato chips fall like crisp autumn leaves that I gather in sugar cone bowls. In my garden, the trees all grow jelly beans with every color they make, except black. The leaves on the flowers are little green spoons 'cause the flowers bloom jello cup snacks. When it rains, the puddles are lemonade and I swallow sweet drops from the sky. In the winter, it always snows popcorn so I make popcorn men seven feet high. Chocolate chip cookies are stepping stones under soft cotton candy pink clouds. The sidewalks are made of red licorice sticks. It all tastes just as good as it sounds. If my world could be like my dream, what an exciting place it would make - to have all of my favorites everywhere, but never a bad tummy ache.

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ChristinaGeorginaRossetti

PassingAwaySaithTheWorld

Passing away, saith the World, passing away: Chances, beauty and youth, sapp'd day by day: Thy life never continueth in one stay. Is the eye waxen dim, is the dark hair changing to grey That hath won neither laurel nor bay? I shall clothe myself in Spring and bud in May: Thou, root-stricken, shalt not rebuild thy decay On my bosom for aye. Then I answer'd: Yea. Passing away, saith my Soul, passing away: With its burden of fear and hope, of labour and play, Hearken what the past doth witness and say: Rust in thy gold, a moth is in thine array, A canker is in thy bud, thy leaf must decay. At midnight, at cockcrow, at morning, one certain day Lo, the Bridegroom shall come and shall not delay: Watch thou and pray. Then I answer'd: Yea. Passing away, saith my God, passing away: Winter passeth after the long delay: New grapes on the vine, new figs on the tender spray, Turtle calleth turtle in Heaven's May. Though I tarry, wait for Me, trust Me, watch and pray. Arise, come away, night is past and lo it is day, My love, My sister, My spouse, thou shalt hear Me say. Then I answer'd: Yea.

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DylanThomas

MyWorldIsPyramid

I Half of the fellow father as he doubles His sea-sucked Adam in the hollow hulk, Half of the fellow mother as she dabbles To-morrow's diver in her horny milk, Bisected shadows on the thunder's bone Bolt for the salt unborn. The fellow half was frozen as it bubbled Corrosive spring out of the iceberg's crop, The fellow seed and shadow as it babbled The swing of milk was tufted in the pap, For half of love was planted in the lost, And the unplanted ghost. The broken halves are fellowed in a cripple, The crutch that marrow taps upon their sleep, Limp in the street of sea, among the rabble Of tide-tongued heads and bladders in the deep, And stake the sleepers in the savage grave That the vampire laugh. The patchwork halves were cloven as they scudded The wild pigs' wood, and slime upon the trees, Sucking the dark, kissed on the cyanide, And loosed the braiding adders from their hairs, Rotating halves are horning as they drill The arterial angel. What colour is glory? death's feather? tremble The halves that pierce the pin's point in the air, And prick the thumb-stained heaven through the thimble. The ghost is dumb that stammered in the straw, The ghost that hatched his havoc as he flew Blinds their cloud-tracking eye. II My world is pyramid. The padded mummer Weeps on the desert ochre and the salt Incising summer. My Egypt's armour buckling in its sheet, I scrape through resin to a starry bone And a blood parhelion. My world is cypress, and an English valley. I piece my flesh that rattled on the yards Red in an Austrian volley. I hear, through dead men's drums, the riddled lads, Screwing their bowels from a hill of bones, Cry Eloi to the guns. My grave is watered by the crossing Jordan. The Arctic scut, and basin of the South, Drip on my dead house garden. Who seek me landward, marking in my mouth The straws of Asia, lose me as I turn Through the Atlantic corn. The fellow halves that, cloven as they swivel On casting tides, are tangled in the shells, Bearding the unborn devil, Bleed from my burning fork and smell my heels. The tongue's of heaven gossip as I glide Binding my angel's hood. Who blows death's feather? What glory is colour? I blow the stammel feather in the vein. The loin is glory in a working pallor. My clay unsuckled and my salt unborn, The secret child, I sift about the sea Dry in the half-tracked thigh.

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DelmoreSchwartz

NewsOfTheGoldWorldOfMay

News of the Gold World of May in Holland Michigan: "Wooden shoes will clatter again on freshly scrubbed streets--" The tulip will arise and reign again from awnings and windows of all colors and forms its vine, verve and valentine curves upon the city streets, the public grounds and private lawns (wherever it is conceivable that a bulb might take root and the two lips, softly curved, come up possessed by the skilled love and will of a ballerina.) The citizens will dance in folk dances. They will thump, they will pump, thudding and shoving elbow and thigh, bumping and laughing, like barrels and bells. Vast fields of tulips in full bloom, the reproduction of a miniature Dutch village, part of a gigantic flower show.

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ThomasMoore

OhCouldWeDoWithThisWorldOfOurs

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 warranted free from sigh or frown, That angels soon would be coming down, By the week or month to take it. Like those gay flies that wing through air, And in themselves a lustre bear, A stock of light, still ready there, Whenver they wish to use it; So in this world I'd make for thee, Our hearts should all like fire-flies be, And the flash of wit or poesy Break forth whenever we choose it. While every joy that glads our sphere Hath still some shadow hovering near, In this new world of ours, my dear, Such shadows will all be omitted; -- Unless they're like that graceful one, Which when thou'rt dancing in the sun, Still near thee, leaves a charm upon Each spot where it hath flitted!

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AllenGinsberg

OnTheConductOfTheWorldSeekingBeautyAgainstGovernment

Is that the only way we can become like Indians, like Rhinoceri, like Quartz Crystals, like organic farmers, like what we imagine Adam & Eve to’ve been, caressing each other with trembling limbs before the Snake of Revolutionary Sex wrapped itself round The Tree of Knowledge? What would Roque Dalton joke about lately teeth chattering like a machine gun as he dabated mass tactics with his Companeros? Necessary to kill the Yanquis with big bomb Yes but don’t do it by yourself, better consult your mother to get the Correct Line of Thought, if not consult Rimbaud once he got his leg cut off or Lenin after his second stroke sending a message thru Mrs Krupskaya to the rude Georgian, & just before his deathly fit when the Cheka aides outside his door looked in coldly assuring him his affairs were in good hands no need to move - What sickness at the pit of his stomach moved up to his brain? What thought Khlebnikov on the hungry train exposing his stomach to the sun? Or Mayakovsky before the bullet hit his brain, what sharp propaganda for action on the Bureaucratic Battlefield in the Ministry of Collective Agriculture in Ukraine? What Slogan for Futurist architects or epic hymn for masses of Communist Party Card holders in Futurity on the conduct of the world seeking beauty against Government?

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FrancisQuarles

OnTheWorld

The world's an Inn; and I her guest. I eat; I drink; I take my rest. My hostess, nature, does deny me Nothing, wherewith she can supply me; Where, having stayed a while, I pay Her lavish bills, and go my way.

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WilliamButlerYeats

OnThoseThatHatedThePlayboyOfTheWesternWorld1907

Once, when midnight smote the air, Eunuchs ran through Hell and met On every crowded street to stare Upon great Juan riding by: Even like these to rail and sweat Staring upon his sinewy thigh.

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WilliamButlerYeats

OnThoseThatHatedThePlayboyOfTheWesternWorld

ONCE, when midnight smote the air, Eunuchs ran through Hell and met On every crowded street to stare Upon great Juan riding by: Even like these to rail and sweat Staring upon his sinewy thigh.

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WilliamSchwenckGilbert

OneAgainstTheWorld

It's my opinion - though I own In 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 right. My figure just sets off a fit; But when they say it's exquisite (And they DO say so), that's too strong. I hope I'm not what people call Opinionated! After all, I'm but a goose, and may be wrong! When charms enthral There's some excuse For measures strong; And after all I'm but a goose, And may be wrong! My teeth are very neat, no doubt; But after all they MAY fall out: I think they will - some think they won't. My hands are small, as you may see, But not as small as they might be, At least, I think so - others don't. But there, a girl may preach and prate From morning six to evening eight, And never stop to dine, When all the world, although misled, Is quite agreed on any head - And it is quite agreed on mine! All said and done, It's little I Against a throng. I'm only one, And possibly I may be wrong!

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HenryVanDyke

OneWorld

"The worlds in which we live are two The world 'I am' and the world 'I do.'" The worlds in which we live at heart are one, The world "I am," the fruit of "I have done"; And underneath these worlds of flower and fruit, The world "I love,"--the only living root.

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PhilipLevine

PicturePostcardFromTheOtherWorld

Since I don't know who will be reading this or even if it will be read, I must invent someone on the other end of eternity, a distant cousin laboring under the same faint stars I labored all those unnumbered years ago. I make you like me in everything I can -- a man or woman in middle years who having lost whatever faiths he held goes on with only the faith that even more will be lost. Like me a wanderer, someone with a taste for coastal towns sparkling in the cold winter sun, boardwalks without walkers, perfect beaches shrouded in the dense fogs of December, morning cafes before the second customer arrives, the cats have been fed, and the proprietor stops muttering into the cold dishwater. I give you the gift of language, my gift and no more, so that wherever you go words fall around you meaning no more than the full force of their making, and you translate the clicking of teeth against teeth and tongue as morning light spilling into the enclosed squares of a white town, breath drawn in and held as the ocean when no one sees it, the waves still, the fishing boats drift in a calm beyond sleep. The gift of sleep, too, and the waking from it day after day without knowing why the small sunlit room with its single bed, white counterpane going yellow, and bare floor holds itself with such assurance while the flaming nebulae of dust swirl around you. And the sense not to ask. Like me you rise immediately and sit on the bed's edge and let whatever dream of a childhood home or a rightful place you had withdraw into the long shadows of the tilted wardrobe and the one chair. Before you've even washed your face you see it on the bedoilied chiffonier -- there, balanced precariously on the orange you bought at yesterday's market and saved for now. Someone entered soundlessly while you slept and left you sleeping and left this postcard from me and thought to close the door with no more fuss than the moon makes. There's your name in black ink in a hand as familiar as your own and not your own, and the address even you didn't know you'd have an hour before you got it. When you turn it over, there it is, not the photo of a star, or the bright sailboats your sister would have chosen or the green urban meadows my brother painted. What is it? It could be another planet just after its birth except that at the center the colors are earth colors. It could be the cloud that formed above the rivers of our blood, the one that brought rain to a dry time or took wine from a hungry one. It could be my way of telling you that I too burned and froze by turns and the face I came to was more dirt than flame, it could be the face I put on everything, or it could be my way of saying nothing and saying it perfectly.

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OgdenNash

ReflectionOnAWickedWorld

Purity Is obscurity.

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StephenCrane

ShouldTheWideWorldRollAway

X Should the wide world roll away Leaving black terror Limitless night, Nor God, nor man, nor place to stand Would be to me essential If thou and thy white arms were there And the fall to doom a long way.

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FranklinPierceAdams

SoShinesAGoodDeedInANaughtyWorld

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 are the children of this land." When Andrew Croesus built a home for children who were sick, The people said they rather thought he did it as a trick, And writers said: "He thinks about the drooping girls and boys, But what about conditions with the men whom he employs?" There was a man in our town who said that he would share His profits with his laborers, for that was only fair, And people said: "Oh, isn't he the shrewd and foxy gent? It cost him next to nothing for that free advertisement." There was a man in our town who had the perfect plan To do away with poverty and other ills of man, But he feared the public jeering, and the folks who would defame him, So he never told the plan he had, and I can hardly blame him.

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DeniseLevertov

SojournsInTheParallelWorld

We live our lives of human passions, cruelties, dreams, concepts, crimes and the exercise of virtue in and beside a world devoid of our preoccupations, free from apprehension--though affected, certainly, by our actions. A world parallel to our own though overlapping. We call it "Nature"; only reluctantly admitting ourselves to be "Nature" too. Whenever we lose track of our own obsessions, our self-concerns, because we drift for a minute, an hour even, of pure (almost pure) response to that insouciant life: cloud, bird, fox, the flow of light, the dancing pilgrimage of water, vast stillness of spellbound ephemerae on a lit windowpane, animal voices, mineral hum, wind conversing with rain, ocean with rock, stuttering of fire to coal--then something tethered in us, hobbled like a donkey on its patch of gnawed grass and thistles, breaks free. No one discovers just where we've been, when we're caught up again into our own sphere (where we must return, indeed, to evolve our destinies) --but we have changed, a little.

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ElizabethBarrettBrowning

Sonnet07TheFaceOfAllTheWorldIsChangedIThink

VII The face of all the world is changed, I think, Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they stole Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink, Was caught up into love, and taught the whole Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink, And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee anear. The names of country, heaven, are changed away For where thou art or shalt be, there or here; And this . . . this lute and song . . . loved yesterday, (The singing angels know) are only dear Because thy name moves right in what they say.

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WilliamShakespeare

Sonnet72OLestTheWorldShouldTaskYouToRecite

O, lest the world should task you to recite What merit lived in me that you should love After my death, dear love, forget me quite; For you in me can nothing worthy prove— Unless you would devise some virtuous lie To do more for me than mine own desert, And hang more praise upon deceasèd I Than niggard truth would willingly impart. O, lest your true love may seem false in this, That you for love speak well of me untrue, My name be buried where my body is, And live no more to shame nor me nor you. For I am shamed by that which I bring forth, And so should you, to love things nothing worth.

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ElizabethBarrettBrowning

SonnetViiTheFaceOfAllTheWorld

The face of all the world is changed, I think, Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they stole Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink, Was caught up into love, and taught the whole Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink, And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee anear. The names of country, heaven, are changed away For where thou art or shalt be, there or here; And this . . . this lute and song . . . loved yesterday, (The singing angels know) are only dear Because thy name moves right in what they say.

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GeorgeGordonByron

StanzasForMusicTheresNotAJoyTheWorldCanGive

There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay; 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past. Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess: The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain The shore to which their shivered sail shall never stretch again. Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears. Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest, 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruined turret wreath— All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey beneath. Oh, could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanished scene; As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be, So, midst the withered waste of life, those tears would flow to me.

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MarkDoty

TheAncientWorld

Today the Masons are auctioning their discarded pomp: a trunk of turbans, gemmed and ostrich-plumed, and operetta costumes labeled inside the collar "Potentate" and "Vizier." Here their chairs, blazoned with the Masons' sign, huddled like convalescents, lean against one another on the grass. In a casket are rhinestoned poles the hierophants carried in parades; here's a splendid golden staff some ranking officer waved, topped with a golden pyramid and a tiny, inquisitive sphinx. No one's worn this stuff for years, and it doesn't seem worth buying; where would we put it? Still, I want that staff. I used to love to go to the library -- the smalltown brick refuge of those with nothing to do, really, 'Carnegie' chiseled on the pediment above columns that dwarfed an inconsequential street. Embarrassed to carry the same book past the water fountain's plaster centaurs up to the desk again, I'd take The Wonders of the World to the Reading Room where Art and Industry met in the mural on the dome. The room smelled like two decades before I was born, when the name carved over the door meant something. I never read the second section, "Wonders of the Modern World"; I loved the promise of my father's blueprints, the unfulfilled turquoise schemes, but in the real structures you could hardly imagine a future. I wanted the density of history, which I confused with the smell of the book: Babylon's ziggurat tropical with ferns, engraved watercourses rippling; the Colossus of Rhodes balanced over the harbormouth on his immense ankles. Athena filled one end of the Parthenon, in an "artist's reconstruction", like an adult in a dollhouse. At Halicarnassus, Mausolus remembered himself immensely, though in the book there wasn't even a sketch, only a picture of huge fragments. In the pyramid's deep clockworks, did the narrow tunnels mount toward the eye of God? That was the year photos were beamed back from space; falling asleep I used to repeat a new word to myself, telemetry , liking the way it seemed to allude to something storied. The earth was whorled marble, at that distance. Even the stuck-on porticoes and collonades downtown were narrative, somehow, but the buildings my father engineered were without stories. All I wanted was something larger than our ordinary sadness -- greater not in scale but in context, memorable, true to a proportioned, subtle form. Last year I knew a student, a half mad boy who finally opened his arms with a razor, not because he wanted to die but because he wanted to design something grand on his own body. Once he said, When a child realizes his parents aren't enough, he turns to architecture . I think I know what he meant. Imagine the Masons parading, one of them, in his splendid get-up, striding forward with the golden staff, above his head Cheops' beautiful shape -- a form we cannot separate from the stories about the form, even if we hardly know them, even if it no longer signifies, if it only shines.

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RonaldStuartThomas

TheAncientsOfTheWorld

The salmon lying in the depths of Llyn Llifon Secretly as a thought in a dark mind, Is not so old as the owl of Cwm Cowlyd Who tells her sorrow nightly on the wind. The ousel singing in the woods of Cilgwri, Tirelessly as a stream over the mossed stones, Is not so old as the toad of Cors Fochno Who feels the cold skin sagging round his bones. The toad and the ousel and the stag of Rhedynfre, That has cropped each leaf from the tree of life, Are not so old as the owl of Cwm Cowlyd, That the proud eagle would have to wife.

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WilliamButlerYeats

TheAttackOnthePlayboyOfTheWesternWorld1907

Once, when midnight smote the air, Eunuchs ran through Hell and met From thoroughfare to thoroughfare, While that great Juan galloped by; And like these to rail and sweat Staring upon his sinewy thigh.

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ElizabethBarrettBrowning

TheBestThingInTheWorld

What's the best thing in the world? June-rose, by May-dew impearled; Sweet south-wind, that means no rain; Truth, not cruel to a friend; Pleasure, not in haste to end; Beauty, not self-decked and curled Till its pride is over-plain; Love, when, so, you're loved again. What's the best thing in the world? --Something out of it, I think.

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ThomasHood

TheWorldIsWithMe

The world is with me, and its many cares, Its woes--its wants--the anxious hopes and fears That wait on all terrestrial affairs-- The shades of former and of future years-- Forboding fancies and prophetic tears, Quelling a spirit that was once elate. Heavens! what a wilderness the world appears, Where youth, and mirth, and health are out of date; But no--a laugh of innocence and joy Resounds, like music of the fairy race, And, gladly turning from the world's annoy, I gaze upon a little radiant face, And bless, internally, the merry boy Who "makes a son-shine in a shady place."

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WilliamGay

TheCrazyWorld

THE WORLD did say to me, ‘My bread thou shalt not eat, I have no place for thee In house nor field nor street. ‘I have on land nor sea For thee nor home nor bread, I scarce can give to thee A grave when thou art dead.’ ‘O crazy World,’ said I, ‘What is it thou canst give, Which wanting, I must die, Or having, I shall live? ‘When thou thy all hast spent, And all thy harvests cease, I still have nutriment That groweth by decrease. ‘Thy streets will pass away, Thy towers of steel be rust, Thy heights to plains decay, Thyself be wandering dust; ‘But I go ever on From prime to endless prime, I sit on Being’s throne, A lord o’er space and time. ‘Then, crazy World,’ said I, ‘What is it thou canst give, Which wanting, I must die, Or having, I shall live?’

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ArchibaldMacLeish

TheEndOfTheWorld

Quite unexpectedly, as Vasserot The armless ambidextrian was lighting A match between his great and second toe, And Ralph the lion was engaged in biting The neck of Madame Sossman while the drum Pointed, and Teeny was about to cough In waltz-time swinging Jocko by the thumb Quite unexpectedly to top blew off: And there, there overhead, there, there hung over Those thousands of white faces, those dazed eyes, There in the starless dark, the poise, the hover, There with vast wings across the cancelled skies, There in the sudden blackness the black pall Of nothing, nothing, nothing -- nothing at all.

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EricaJong

TheEndOfTheWorld

Here, at the end of the world, the flowers bleed as if they were hearts, the hearts ooze a darkness like india ink, & poets dip their pens in & they write. "Here, at the end of the world," they write, not knowing what it means. "Here, where the sky nurses on black milk, where the smokestack feed the sky, where the trees tremble in terror & people come to resemble them. . . . " Here, at the end of the world, the poets are bleeding. Writing & bleeding are thought to be the same; singing & bleeding are thought to be the same. Write us a letter! Send us a parcel of food! Comfort us with proverbs or candied fruit, with talk of one God. Distract us with theories of art no one can prove. Here at the end of the world our heads are empty, & the wind walks through them like ghosts through a haunted house.

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FriedrichSchiller

TheFourAgesOfTheWorld

The goblet is sparkling with purpled-tinged wine, Bright glistens the eye of each guest, When into the hall comes the Minstrel divine, To the good he now brings what is best; For when from Elysium is absent the lyre, No joy can the banquet of nectar inspire. He is blessed by the gods, with an intellect clear, That mirrors the world as it glides; He has seen all that ever has taken place here, And all that the future still hides. He sat in the god's secret councils of old And heard the command for each thing to unfold. He opens in splendor, with gladness and mirth, That life which was hid from our eyes; Adorns as a temple the dwelling of earth, That the Muse has bestowed as his prize, No roof is so humble, no hut is so low, But he with divinities bids it o'erflow. And as the inventive descendant of Zeus, On the unadorned round of the shield, With knowledge divine could, reflected, produce Earth, sea, and the star's shining field,-- So he, on the moments, as onward they roll, The image can stamp of the infinite whole. From the earliest age of the world he has come, When nations rejoiced in their prime; A wanderer glad, he has still found a home With every race through all time. Four ages of man in his lifetime have died, And the place they once held by the fifth is supplied. Saturnus first governed, with fatherly smile, Each day then resembled the last; Then flourished the shepherds, a race without guile Their bliss by no care was o'ercast, They loved,--and no other employment they had, And earth gave her treasures with willingness glad. Then labor came next, and the conflict began With monsters and beasts famed in song; And heroes upstarted, as rulers of man, And the weak sought the aid of the strong. And strife o'er the field of Scamander now reigned, But beauty the god of the world still remained. At length from the conflict bright victory sprang, And gentleness blossomed from might; In heavenly chorus the Muses then sang, And figures divine saw the light;-- The age that acknowledged sweet phantasy's sway Can never return, it has fleeted away. The gods from their seats in the heavens were hurled, And their pillars of glory o'erthrown; And the Son of the Virgin appeared in the world For the sins of mankind to atone. The fugitive lusts of the sense were suppressed, And man now first grappled with thought in his breast. Each vain and voluptuous charm vanished now, Wherein the young world took delight; The monk and the nun made of penance a vow, And the tourney was sought by the knight. Though the aspect of life was now dreary and wild, Yet love remained ever both lovely and mild. An altar of holiness, free from all stain, The Muses in silence upreared; And all that was noble and worthy, again In woman's chaste bosom appeared; The bright flame of song was soon kindled anew By the minstrel's soft lays, and his love pure and true. And so, in a gentle and ne'er-changing band, Let woman and minstrel unite; They weave and they fashion, with hand joined to hand, The girdle of beauty and right. When love blends with music, in unison sweet, The lustre of life's youthful days ne'er can fleet.

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FriedrichSchiller

TheGreatnessOfTheWorld

Through the world which the Spirit creative and kind First formed out of chaos, I fly like the wind, Until on the strand Of its billows I land, My anchor cast forth where the breeze blows no more, And Creation's last boundary stands on the shore. I saw infant stars into being arise, For thousands of years to roll on through the skies; I saw them in play Seek their goal far away,-- For a moment my fugitive gaze wandered on,-- I looked round me, and lo!--all those bright stars had flown! Madly yearning to reach the dark kingdom of night. I boldly steer on with the speed of the light; All misty and drear The dim heavens appear, While embryo systems and seas at their source Are whirling around the sun-wanderer's course. When sudden a pilgrim I see drawing near Along the lone path,--"Stay! What seekest thou here?" "My bark, tempest-tossed, I sail toward the land where the breeze blows no more, And Creation's last boundary stands on the shore." "Stay, thou sailest in vain! 'Tis INFINITY yonder!"-- "'Tis INFINITY, too, where thou, pilgrim, wouldst wander! Eagle-thoughts that aspire, Let your proud pinions tire! For 'tis here that sweet phantasy, bold to the last, Her anchor in hopeless dejection must cast!"

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