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Carl Gustav Jung

It all depends on how we look at things, and not on how they are themselves.

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You Know How They Are?

You know how they are...
Loud and boisterous.
Disrespectful and undisciplined.
As if common sense has skipped over them.

With a gutterness despicable.
Expose to others they wish influenced.
Accepting this withoput protest.

And they believe what they do is fine.
Blinded by the show of sighs and dismay!
They have been conditioned,
Their sick behavior is okay!
But...
There is an obvious neglect that reflects.
And destroys what is desired to be left protected.
And investment of a mindset,
Gone!

You know how they are?

'Yes, I do!
But they don't see this as pitiful.
Distracting and off track!
That is the sadness of all of that! '

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Overhearing How They Are From Others

Why do some people hold grudges,
And maintain negative attitudes...
Towards others who may not remember them.
Or may be a close friend,
Of the one innocently victimized?

This makes little sense.
But there is a reality of this in existence.
And many people have not met,
The ones they dislike and disrespect.
Just 'overhearing' how they are from others,
Is enough for some to pass their judgements.

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It All Depends

By eric clapton
So you think you are something special;
I wonder why, baby, is that so?
Could admit, you are something special.
Wont you tell me, girl? Id love to know.
Yes, Ive seen you with your other girlfriends.
I can tell they really think youre fine.
And Ive seen you with your other men friends.
They dont know if youre a love of mine.
It all depends on how you feel, baby.
Ive got to know just how you feel, baby.
It all depends on how you feel, baby.
Ive got to know just how you feel, baby.
Chorus
cause youve taken away
The only thing Ive ever ever had.
Dont you know that I loved you?
Whyd you make me feel bad?
The only thing I ever loved
Was loving you.
First verse
Chorus
What makes you think you are something special?

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It all depends on how we look at things, and not how they are in themselves.

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A helpless animal

Why are we called helpless animal?
Even though we can help and perform well
We have all type of sentiments to react
How far do we go that all depends on the act?

Basically linked with selfish motives
In case they are so sensitive
Generally not all acts are self oriented
It forces him not to act and prevented

It may hardly matter even if pursued with noble intent
People may still feel bad and try to give vent
The wrong signal is always sent
You are taken a back and offer no comment

We are seized with all sorts of problems
It is all so important when are at the helms
It creates awkward situation when we cut sorry figure
It is helpless position and we are not at all sure

Nothing will go right from the beginning
You will be faced with dark side and not with shining
It is all the time more difficult when there is no hope
All your efforts fail when you try to rope

You are compelled to act contrary
Even though it may be looked important and necessary
You are guided by own safety and interest
You try to come out of it and deliver the best

Many may be offended by the act
They will look at you as unfriendly and angrily react
It is natural out burst that compels them to offer
But in reality they never agree with you and differ

It is human tendency and must be accepted as such
Insistence should not be forced or exerted much
It will have unbearable consequences with negative impact
The crux of matter may be altogether different in fact

To err is human but to forget is totally inhuman
We all fall in the same category and domain
No one is really above the same mentality
Only the act is seen not in totality


How can we address it by keeping safe?
It may be called opening of new leaf
It may be entirely decision of one’s own
The yield will be different as seeds are already sown

It is equally reciprocated in same coin
Nothing goes unrewarded if noble cause is joined
People may term you fool or otherwise
But in fact you are considered as noble and wise

Nothing remains permanent here
Only good name remains there
It may speak of volumes
Name will be remembered even if consigned to flames

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Look Around Up And Then Down

Sad? Feeling bad?
Why?
Who picked and selected,
All that you now have?

Look around.
Up and then down.
Look inside.
And then out.

What is it about your life...
You did not approve?
And then ask yourself this...
Who did?

And,
Where were you?
In a state of unconsciousness,
Accusing?

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To Me What Family is

Family to me has many meanings
For all are full of diverse feelings
Love and anger, both within a single one
Children who stay and children who run
Can one family be better than another?
It all depends on how they love each other
A family’s love should last forever
Bonds of love nothing can sever
For the family I have, I am happy and blessed
And nothing more truthful have I ever confessed
Family has many meanings, but one rises above
The greatest meaning of family, is that of love

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Hurts Dont It

(greg holland/jim mcbride)
Youve got a lot of nerve comin here tonight
But thats alright come on in
That look tells me that somethings hurt you deep
And you want me back again
Now you dont have to tell me how it feels
There aint nothin about lonesome I dont know
And wakin up alones a bitter pill
You take one every day and swallow slow
I wish I could help you but my heart tells me not to
It still aint found the trust you threw away
So you cant have it back no matter how bad you want it
Hurts dont it
It hurts dont it
I think you should know its all I can do
To look at you and not give in
I wish you hadnt made forgiving you so hard
On my heart but you did
Now you dont have to tell me how it feels
There aint nothin about lonesome I dont know
And wakin up alones a bitter pill
You take one every day and swallow slow
I wish I could help you but my heart tells me not to
It still aint found the trust you threw away
So you cant have it back no matter how bad you want it
Hurts dont it
It hurts dont it

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Hurts Dont It

(greg holland/jim mcbride)
Youve got a lot of nerve comin here tonight
But thats alright come on in
That look tells me that somethings hurt you deep
And you want me back again
Now you dont have to tell me how it feels
There aint nothin about lonesome I dont know
And wakin up alones a bitter pill
You take one every day and swallow slow
I wish I could help you but my heart tells me not to
It still aint found the trust you threw away
So you cant have it back no matter how bad you want it
Hurts dont it
It hurts dont it
I think you should know its all I can do
To look at you and not give in
I wish you hadnt made forgiving you so hard
On my heart but you did
Now you dont have to tell me how it feels
There aint nothin about lonesome I dont know
And wakin up alones a bitter pill
You take one every day and swallow slow
I wish I could help you but my heart tells me not to
It still aint found the trust you threw away
So you cant have it back no matter how bad you want it
Hurts dont it
It hurts dont it

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Beautiful art

There is one beautiful art
Deceptive arguments with beautiful start
Sometimes called unfaithful and sometimes flirt
She has done everything in her command to hurt

How one can be turned in to liar?
When he is in agreement with her
Like whatever he puts forward
And still force him to fall backward

What makes one makes actually to wonder?
Clouds are bound to make noise and thunder
It is natural and known psychology
Where is need to blame and later on to ask apology?

All females are worth to be praised
It depends on how they are raised
If they are really honest and straight forward
There is no need to express in words

Lie can not be called lie if spoken with sense
Even truth can turn into fiasco if spoken as nonsense
Everybody might be speaking little lie
If one had to meet consequences and die

One should think much on treachery
It is find blend of good oratory]
Everybody does it for pleasing others
It should not be taken as things to bother

Many people are trained to hide the feelings
You won’t come to know whether they are unwilling or willing
Love is such thing that nothing may come in between
Life and wife will be on one side and somebody may come in

Person dies every second and comes to life again
Each move is calculated yet concern still remain
Conscious may not allow but forced to do
This is tragedy of life and very true

Soul and mind does not act together
They may change as per nature and weather
Many flowers may attract the mind
Person may run after it to find


Love is not the item to be defined
One may go after it and will not confine
Whether it is principally wrong or right
There is no need to think over and fight

You have every right to think and alter the course
You must logically analyze and think of course
Love may disappoint and even desert in midst of journey
Yet no one ends life and this has happened with many

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Inspiring object

There is one beautiful art
Deceptive arguments with beautiful start
Sometimes called unfaithful and sometimes flirt
She has done everything in her command to hurt

How one can be turned in to liar?
When he is in agreement with her
Like whatever he puts forward
And still force him to fall backward

What makes one makes actually to wonder?
Clouds are bound to make noise and thunder
It is natural and known psychology
Where is need to blame and later on to ask apology?

All females are worth to be praised
It depends on how they are raised
If they are really honest and straight forward
There is no need to express in words

Lie can not be called lie if spoken with sense
Even truth can turn into fiasco if spoken as nonsense
Everybody might be speaking little lie
If one had to meet consequences and die

One should think much on treachery
It is find blend of good oratory]
Everybody does it for pleasing others
It should not be taken as things to bother

Many people are trained to hide the feelings
You won’t come to know whether they are unwilling or willing
Love is such thing that nothing may come in between
Life and wife will be on one side and somebody may come in

Person dies every second and comes to life again
Each move is calculated yet concern still remain
Conscious may not allow but forced to do
This is tragedy of life and very true

Soul and mind does not act together
They may change as per nature and weather
Many flowers may attract the mind
Person may run after it to find


Love is not the item to be defined
One may go after it and will not confine
Whether it is principally wrong or right
There is no need to think over and fight

You have every right to think and alter the course
You must logically analyze and think of course
Love may disappoint and even desert in midst of journey
Yet no one ends life and this has happened with many

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A good promise

Where does the promise stand when they prove hollow?
How people can trust when you stand in their eyes very low?
It is very strange but startling revelation of fact
The matter stands very clear as day light in fact

You are being judged not by action alone but by words too
It is fundamental error that we commit and it is very true
We loose all our credit and public loose faith and trust
It is most unfortunate thing in life we must improve upon or must

It has all the ingredients of a successful and powerful man
The whole world is under your feet and anything you can
You may be able to put all round show and succeed in plan
You may cut through the ice where as others may face the ban

Words have no meaning if they are hidden or concealed
It may gain momentum only when truly revealed
Prayers too offered with half heart has got no meaning
you will stand exposed and it may prove as demeaning

Heart will not beat truly until it is made to breath with ease
Feelings may not come on surface until they are forced to release
Vision has got no meaning until they are able to look through
Bitterness may not disappear until they are assuaged or attempt is made to woo

Midas touch can turn any metal into gold
Summer can only be realized with disappearance of cold
You might have written anything on wall for people to read
It has got no meaning g if you are not in position to lead

Darkness may go off only if day is emerged
Prayers may be heard only when they are truly urged
Anybody may wish to go in for eternal happiness
It has all the power to remove the loneliness

It is common knowledge that honor doesn’t come of its own
The harvest too may yield result only if seeds are properly sown
If they are not being taken care of properly nothing May come out
the success story is not written all of sudden but comes all about

No one may grant you an easy access
If you are showing off more or in excess
Not only must your work speak with good intentions
But there should be all chances for its retentions

God may think twice before granting an access
if his disciple is not committing an excess
truly loved life with noble intentions
it must have all its chance for retentions

Nothing can be pre- judged or assured
It stands tall and can’t be measured
It is real urge from within that goes for test
It will not rewarded if not tried for its best

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Edith Wharton

Vesalius In Zante

Set wide the window. Let me drink the day.
I loved light ever, light in eye and brain—
No tapers mirrored in long palace floors,
Nor dedicated depths of silent aisles,
But just the common dusty wind-blown day
That roofs earth’s millions.

O, too long I walked
In that thrice-sifted air that princes breathe,
Nor felt the heaven-wide jostling of the winds
And all the ancient outlawry of earth!
Now let me breathe and see.

This pilgrimage
They call a penance—let them call it that!
I set my face to the East to shrive my soul
Of mortal sin? So be it. If my blade
Once questioned living flesh, if once I tore
The pages of the Book in opening it,
See what the torn page yielded ere the light
Had paled its buried characters—and judge!

The girl they brought me, pinioned hand and foot
In catalepsy—say I should have known
That trance had not yet darkened into death,
And held my scalpel. Well, suppose I knew?
Sum up the facts—her life against her death.
Her life? The scum upon the pools of pleasure
Breeds such by thousands. And her death? Perchance
The obolus to appease the ferrying Shade,
And waft her into immortality.
Think what she purchased with that one heart-flutter
That whispered its deep secret to my blade!
For, just because her bosom fluttered still,
It told me more than many rifled graves;
Because I spoke too soon, she answered me,
Her vain life ripened to this bud of death
As the whole plant is forced into one flower,
All her blank past a scroll on which God wrote
His word of healing—so that the poor flesh,
Which spread death living, died to purchase life!

Ah, no! The sin I sinned was mine, not theirs.
Not that they sent me forth to wash away—
None of their tariffed frailties, but a deed
So far beyond their grasp of good or ill
That, set to weigh it in the Church’s balance,
Scarce would they know which scale to cast it in.
But I, I know. I sinned against my will,
Myself, my soul—the God within the breast:
Can any penance wash such sacrilege?

When I was young in Venice, years ago,
I walked the hospice with a Spanish monk,
A solitary cloistered in high thoughts,
The great Loyola, whom I reckoned then
A mere refurbisher of faded creeds,
Expert to edge anew the arms of faith,
As who should say, a Galenist, resolved
To hold the walls of dogma against fact,
Experience, insight, his own self, if need be!
Ah, how I pitied him, mine own eyes set
Straight in the level beams of Truth, who groped
In error’s old deserted catacombs
And lit his tapers upon empty graves!
Ay, but he held his own, the monk—more man
Than any laurelled cripple of the wars,
Charles’s spent shafts; for what he willed he willed,
As those do that forerun the wheels of fate,
Not take their dust—that force the virgin hours,
Hew life into the likeness of themselves
And wrest the stars from their concurrences.
So firm his mould; but mine the ductile soul
That wears the livery of circumstance
And hangs obsequious on its suzerain’s eye.
For who rules now? The twilight-flitting monk,
Or I, that took the morning like an Alp?
He held his own, I let mine slip from me,
The birthright that no sovereign can restore;
And so ironic Time beholds us now
Master and slave—he lord of half the earth,
I ousted from my narrow heritage.

For there’s the sting! My kingdom knows me not.
Reach me that folio—my usurper’s title!
Fallopius reigning, vice—nay, not so:
Successor, not usurper. I am dead.
My throne stood empty; he was heir to it.
Ay, but who hewed his kingdom from the waste,
Cleared, inch by inch, the acres for his sowing,
Won back for man that ancient fief o’ the Church,
His body? Who flung Galen from his seat,
And founded the great dynasty of truth
In error’s central kingdom?

Ask men that,
And see their answer: just a wondering stare
To learn things were not always as they are
The very fight forgotten with the fighter;
Already grows the moss upon my grave!
Ay, and so meet—hold fast to that, Vesalius.
They only, who re-conquer day by day
The inch of ground they camped on over-night,
Have right of foothold on this crowded earth.
I left mine own; he seized it; with it went
My name, my fame, my very self, it seems,
Till I am but the symbol of a man,
The sign-board creaking o’er an empty inn.
He names me—true! Oh, give the door its due
I entered by. Only, I pray you, note,
Had door been none, a shoulder-thrust of mine
Had breached the crazy wall”—he seems to say.
So meet—and yet a word of thanks, of praise,
Of recognition that the clue was found,
Seized, followed, clung to, by some hand now dust—
Had this obscured his quartering of my shield?

How the one weakness stirs again! I thought
I had done with that old thirst for gratitude
That lured me to the desert years ago.
I did my work—and was not that enough?
No; but because the idlers sneered and shrugged,
The envious whispered, the traducers lied,
And friendship doubted where it should have cheered
I flung aside the unfinished task, sought praise
Outside my soul’s esteem, and learned too late
That victory, like God’s kingdom, is within.
(Nay, let the folio rest upon my knee.
I do not feel its weight.) Ingratitude?
The hurrying traveller does not ask the name
Of him who points him on his way; and this
Fallopius sits in the mid-heart of me,
Because he keeps his eye upon the goal,
Cuts a straight furrow to the end in view,
Cares not who oped the fountain by the way,
But drinks to draw fresh courage for his journey.
That was the lesson that Ignatius taught—
The one I might have learned from him, but would not
That we are but stray atoms on the wind,
A dancing transiency of summer eves,
Till we become one with our purpose, merged
In that vast effort of the race which makes
Mortality immortal.

“He that loseth
His life shall find it”: so the Scripture runs.
But I so hugged the fleeting self in me,
So loved the lovely perishable hours,
So kissed myself to death upon their lips,
That on one pyre we perished in the end—
A grimmer bonfire than the Church e’er lit!
Yet all was well—or seemed so—till I heard
That younger voice, an echo of my own,
And, like a wanderer turning to his home,
Who finds another on the hearth, and learns,
Half-dazed, that other is his actual self
In name and claim, as the whole parish swears,
So strangely, suddenly, stood dispossessed
Of that same self I had sold all to keep,
A baffled ghost that none would see or hear!
“Vesalius? Who’s Vesalius? This Fallopius
It is who dragged the Galen-idol down,
Who rent the veil of flesh and forced a way
Into the secret fortalice of life”—
Yet it was I that bore the brunt of it!

Well, better so! Better awake and live
My last brief moment as the man I was,
Than lapse from life’s long lethargy to death
Without one conscious interval. At least
I repossess my past, am once again
No courtier med’cining the whims of kings
In muffled palace-chambers, but the free
Friendless Vesalius, with his back to the wall
And all the world against him. O, for that
Best gift of all, Fallopius, take my thanks—
That, and much more. At first, when Padua wrote:
“Master, Fallopius dead, resume again
The chair even he could not completely fill,
And see what usury age shall take of youth
In honours forfeited”—why, just at first,
I was quite simply credulously glad
To think the old life stood ajar for me,
Like a fond woman’s unforgetting heart.
But now that death waylays me—now I know
This isle is the circumference of my days,
And I shall die here in a little while—
So also best, Fallopius!

For I see
The gods may give anew, but not restore;
And though I think that, in my chair again,
I might have argued my supplanters wrong
In this or that—this Cesalpinus, say,
With all his hot-foot blundering in the dark,
Fabricius, with his over-cautious clutch
On Galen (systole and diastole
Of Truth’s mysterious heart!)—yet, other ways,
It may be that this dying serves the cause.
For Truth stays not to build her monument
For this or that co-operating hand,
But props it with her servants’ failures—nay,
Cements its courses with their blood and brains,
A living substance that shall clinch her walls
Against the assaults of time. Already, see,
Her scaffold rises on my hidden toil,
I but the accepted premiss whence must spring
The airy structure of her argument;
Nor could the bricks it rests on serve to build
The crowning finials. I abide her law:
A different substance for a different end—
Content to know I hold the building up;
Though men, agape at dome and pinnacles,
Guess not, the whole must crumble like a dream
But for that buried labour underneath.
Yet, Padua, I had still my word to say!
Let others say it!—Ah, but will they guess
Just the one word—? Nay, Truth is many-tongued.
What one man failed to speak, another finds
Another word for. May not all converge
In some vast utterance, of which you and I,
Fallopius, were but halting syllables?
So knowledge come, no matter how it comes!
No matter whence the light falls, so it fall!
Truth’s way, not mine—that I, whose service failed
In action, yet may make amends in praise.
Fabricius, Cesalpinus, say your word,
Not yours, or mine, but Truth’s, as you receive it!
You miss a point I saw? See others, then!
Misread my meaning? Yet expound your own!
Obscure one space I cleared? The sky is wide,
And you may yet uncover other stars.
For thus I read the meaning of this end:
There are two ways of spreading light: to be
The candle or the mirror that reflects it.
I let my wick burn out—there yet remains
To spread an answering surface to the flame
That others kindle.

Turn me in my bed.
The window darkens as the hours swing round;
But yonder, look the other casement glows!
Let me face westward as my sun goes down.

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Introductory 04

Again, the bride of imagination can for want of beauty not lift up her head nor raise her eyes from the feet of bashfulness to appear in the assembly of persons endowed with pulchritude, unless adorned with the ornaments of approbation from the great Amir, who is learned, just, aided by heaven, victorious, supporter of the throne of the Sultanate and councillor in deliberations of the realm, refuge of the poor, asylum of strangers, patron of learned men, lover of the pious, glory of the dynasty of Pares, right hand of the kingdom, chief of the nobles, boast of the monarchy and of the religion, succour of Islam and of the Musalmans, buttress of kings and sultans, Abu Bekr, son of Abu Nassar, may Allah prolong his life, augment his dignity, enlighten his breast and increase his reward twofold, because he enjoys the praise of all great men and is the embodiment of every laudable quality.

Whoever reposes in the shadow of his favour,
His sin is transmuted to obedience and his foe into a friend.

Every attendant and follower has an appointed duty and if, in the performance thereof, he gives way to remissness and indolence, he is certainly called to account and becomes subject to reproaches, except the tribe of dervishes, from whom thanks are due for the benefits they receive from great men as well as praises and prayers, all of which duties are more suitably performed in their absence than in their presence, because in the latter they look like ostentation and in the former they are free from ceremony.

The back of the bent sky became flat with joy,
When dame nature brought forth a child like thee.
It is an instance of wisdom if the Creator
Causes a servant to make the general welfare his special duty.
He has found eternal happiness who lived a good life,
Because, after his end, good repute will keep his name alive.
No matter whether virtuous men praise you or not
A lovely maid stands in no need of a tire woman.

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Poet not to remain

It is essence of poet not to remain quiet
Even though may not have knowledge considered to be basic
The thoughts and images must reach to the masses
As they may have enough of it to read in classes

The flower may not know what fragrance it has
There might not be awareness yesterday as it was
Still there may be bright tomorrow to celebrate
It may be simple try by poet to project and narrate

The poets are called crazy and thought driven
They do not bother for their appearance even
They eat whatever they get and stay wherever they are
The world is so close to them and not very far

They are part of each living object
They accept it in mind and never reject
They try to feel natural belongingness
And it is there as gift to feel oneness

Not all can feel the impulse of nature
Not all can see the well being of future
Only few can breathe with it and survive
They make it perfect and try to revive

It requires third eye to feel the real soul
You may witness it casually and not as whole
You get hurt when something wrong is done to nature
You express sorrow when over apathy to cure

Not that people are cruel and less sentimental
They may be part of bad set up and very much instrumental
Yet poet is different from others and feels grieved
He has the noble soul and her words are respected and believed

Everybody may be passing through critical phase
There may be mad race and long chase
Yet there may be enough of reasonability in approach
Poet may try to project but not attempt to teach or preach

Some of them may be called nationalist
Some one may be well known as futurists
Some may come out as strong supporters of the liberty
Some may prove very good at prayers of almighty

It is not that only poets do great service
People from many walks of life also suffice
Their contribution is well known and of very good standard
It is the basis for which to go ahead and look forward

But the rainbow can only be seen in poetic heart
By little appearance of natural beauty it will simply start
It will pen beautiful words to please old and young alike
Not all the ideas may occur to all or strike

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Poet not to remain quiet

It is essence of poet not to remain quiet
Even though may not have knowledge considered to be basic
The thoughts and images must reach to the masses
As they may have enough of it to read in classes

The flower may not know what fragrance it has
There might not be awareness yesterday as it was
Still there may be bright tomorrow to celebrate
It may be simple try by poet to project and narrate

The poets are called crazy and thought driven
They do not bother for their appearance even
They eat whatever they get and stay wherever they are
The world is so close to them and not very far

They are part of each living object
They accept it in mind and never reject
They try to feel natural belongingness
And it is there as gift to feel oneness

Not all can feel the impulse of nature
Not all can see the well being of future
Only few can breathe with it and survive
They make it perfect and try to revive

It requires third eye to feel the real soul
You may witness it casually and not as whole
You get hurt when something wrong is done to nature
You express sorrow when over apathy to cure

Not that people are cruel and less sentimental
They may be part of bad set up and very much instrumental
Yet poet is different from others and feels grieved
He has the noble soul and her words are respected and believed

Everybody may be passing through critical phase
There may be mad race and long chase
Yet there may be enough of reasonability in approach
Poet may try to project but not attempt to teach or preach

Some of them may be called nationalist
Some one may be well known as futurists
Some may come out as strong supporters of the liberty
Some may prove very good at prayers of almighty

It is not that only poets do great service
People from many walks of life also suffice
Their contribution is well known and of very good standard
It is the basis for which to go ahead and look forward

But the rainbow can only be seen in poetic heart
By little appearance of natural beauty it will simply start
It will pen beautiful words to please old and young alike
Not all the ideas may occur to all or strike

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Phantasies

I. Evening.

Rest, beauty, stillness: not a waif of a cloud
From gray-blue east sheer to the yellow west-
No film of mist the utmost slopes to shroud.

The earth lies grace, by quiet airs caressed,
And shepherdeth her shadows, but each stream,
Free to the sky, is by that glow possessed,
And traileth with the splendors of a dream
Athwart the dusky land. Uplift thine eyes!
Unbroken by a vapor or a gleam,

The vast clear reach of mild, wan twilight skies.
But look again, and lo, the evening star!
Against the pale tints black the slim elms rise,

The earth exhales sweet odors nigh and far,
And from the heavens fine influences fall.
Familiar things stand not for what they are:

What they suggest, foreshadow, or recall
The spirit is alert to apprehend,
Imparting somewhat of herself to all.

Labor and thought and care are at an end:
The soul is filled with gracious reveries,
And with her mood soft sounds and colors blend;

For simplest sounds ring forth like melodies
In this weird-lighted air-the monotone
Of some far bell, the distant farmyard cries,

A barking dog, the thin, persistent drone
Of crickets, and the lessening call of birds.
The apparition of yon star alone

Breaks on the sense like music. Beyond word
The peace that floods the soul, for night is here,
And Beauty still is guide and harbinger.


II. Aspiration.

Dark lies the earth, and bright with worlds the sky:
That soft, large, lustrous star, that first outshone,
Still holds us spelled with potent sorcery.

Dilating, shrinking, lightening, it hath won
Our spirit with its strange strong influence,
And sways it as the tides beneath the moon.

What impulse this, o'ermastering heart and sense?
Exalted, thrilled, the freed soul fain would soar
Unto that point of shining prominence,

Craving new fields and some unheard-of shore,
Yea, all the heavens, for her activity,
To mount with daring flight, to hover o'er

Low hills of earth, flat meadows, level sea,
And earthly joy and trouble. In this hour
Of waning light and sound, of mystery,

Of shadowed love and beauty-veiled power,
She feels her wings: she yearns to grasp her own,
Knowing the utmost good to be her dower.

A dream! a dream! for at a touch 't is gone.
O mocking spirit! thy mere fools are we,
Unto the depths from heights celestial thrown.

From these blind gropings toward reality,
This thirst for truth, this most pathetic need
Of something to uplift, to justify,

To help and comfort while we faint and bleed,
May we not draw, wrung from the last despair,
Some argument of hope, some blessed creed,

That we can trust the faith which whispers prayer,
The vanishings, the ecstasy, the gleam,
The nameless aspiration, and the dream?


III. Wherefore?

Deep languor overcometh mind and frame:
A listless, drowsy, utter weariness,
A trance wherein no thought finds speech or name,

The overstrained spirit doth possess.
She sinks with drooping wing-poor unfledged bird,
That fain had flown!-in fluttering breathlessness.

To what end those high hopes that wildly stirred
The beating heart with aspirations vain?
Why proffer prayers unanswered and unheard

To blank, deaf heavens that will not heed her pain?
Where lead these lofty, soaring tendencies,
That leap and fly and poise, to fall again,

Yet seem to link her with the utmost skies?
What mean these clinging loves that bind to earth,
And claim her with beseeching, wistful eyes?

This little resting-place 'twixt death and birth,
Why is it fretted with the ceaseless flow
Of flood and ebb, with overgrowth and dearth,

And vext with dreams, and clouded with strange woe?
Ah! she is tired of thought, she yearns for peace,
Seeing all things one equal end must know.

Wherefore this tangle of perplexities,
The trouble or the joy? the weary maze
Of narrow fears and hopes that may not cease?

A chill falls on her from the skyey ways,
Black with the night-tide, where is none to hear
The ancient cry, the Wherefore of our days.


IV. Fancies.

The ceaseless whirr of crickets fills the ear
From underneath each hedge and bush and tree,
Deep in the dew-drenched grasses everywhere.

The simple sound dispels the fantasy
Of gloom and terror gathering round the mind.
It seems a pleasant thing to breathe, to be,

To hear the many-voiced, soft summer wind
Lisp through the dark thick leafage overhead-
To see the rosy half-moon soar behind

The black slim-branching elms. Sad thoughts have fled,
Trouble and doubt, and now strange reveries
And odd caprices fill us in their stead.

From yonder broken disk the redness dies,
Like gold fruit through the leaves the half-sphere gleams,
Then over the hoar tree-tops climbs the skies,

Blanched ever more and more, until it beams
Whiter than crystal. Like a scroll unfurled,
And shadowy as a landscape seen in dreams,

Reveals itself the sleeping, quiet world,
Painted in tender grays and whites subdued-
The speckled stream with flakes of light impearled,

The wide, soft meadow and the massive wood.
Naught is too wild for our credulity
In this weird hour: our finest dreams hold good.

Quaint elves and frolic flower-sprites we see,
And fairies weaving rings of gossamer,
And angels floating through the filmy air.


V. In the Night.

Let us go in: the air is dank and chill
With dewy midnight, and the moon rides high
O'er ghostly fields, pale stream, and spectral hill.

This hour the dawn seems farthest from the sky
So weary long the space that lies between
That sacred joy and this dark mystery

Of earth and heaven: no glimmering is seen,
In the star-sprinkled east, of coming day,
Nor, westward, of the splendor that hath been.

Strange fears beset us, nameless terrors sway
The brooding soul, that hungers for her rest,
Out worn with changing moods, vain hopes' delay,

With conscious thought o'erburdened and oppressed.
The mystery and the shadow wax too deep;
She longs to merge both sense and thought in sleep.


VI. Faerie.

From the oped lattice glance once more abroad
While the ethereal moontide bathes with light
Hill, stream, and garden, and white-winding road.

All gracious myths born of the shadowy night
Recur, and hover in fantastic guise,
Airy and vague, before the drowsy sight.

On yonder soft gray hill Endymion lies
In rosy slumber, and the moonlit air
Breathes kisses on his cheeks and lips and eyes.

'Twixt bush and bush gleam flower-white limbs, left bare,
Of huntress-nymphs, and flying raiment thin,
Vanishing faces, and bright floating hair.

The quaint midsummer fairies and their kin,
Gnomes, elves, and trolls, on blossom, branch, and grass
Gambol and dance, and winding out and in

Leave circles of spun dew where'er they pass.
Through the blue ether the freed Ariel flies;
Enchantment holds the air; a swarming mass

Of myriad dusky, gold-winged dreams arise,
Throng toward the gates of sense, and so possess
The soul, and lull it to forgetfulness.


VII. Confused Dreams.

O strange, dim other-world revealed to us,
Beginning there where ends reality,
Lying 'twixt life and death, and populous

With souls from either sphere! now enter we
Thy twisted paths. Barred is the silver gate,
But the wild-carven doors of ivory

Spring noiselessly apart: between them straight
Flies forth a cloud of nameless shadowy things,
With harpies, imps, and monsters, small and great,

Blurring the thick air with darkening wings.
All humors of the blood and brain take shape,
And fright us with our own imaginings.

A trouble weighs upon us: no escape
From this unnatural region can there be.
Fixed eyes stare on us, wide mouths grin and gape,

Familiar faces out of reach we see.
Fain would we scream, to shatter with a cry
The tangled woof of hideous fantasy,

When, lo! the air grows clear, a soft fair sky
Shines over head: sharp pain dissolves in peace;
Beneath the silver archway quietly

We float away: all troublous visions cease.
By a strange sense of joy we are possessed,
Body and spirit soothed in perfect rest.


VIII. The End of the Song.

What dainty note of long-drawn melody
Athwart our dreamless sleep rings sweet and clear,
Till all the fumes of slumber are brushed by,

And with awakened consciousness we hear
The pipe of birds? Look forth! The sane, white day
Blesses the hilltops, and the sun is near.

All misty phantoms slowly roll away
With the night's vapors toward the western sky.
The Real enchants us, the fresh breath of hay

Blows toward us; soft the meadow-grasses lie,
Bearded with dew; the air is a caress;
The sudden sun o'ertops the boundary

Of eastern hills, the morning joyousness
Thrills tingling through the frame; life's pulse beats strong;
Night's fancies melt like dew. So ends the song!

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Robert Frost

Revelation

We make ourselves a place apart
Behind light words that tease and flout,
But oh, the agitated heart
Till someone find us really out.

'Tis pity if the case require
(Or so we say) that in the end
We speak the literal to inspire
The understanding of a friend.

But so with all, from babes that play
At hide-and-seek to God afar,
So all who hide too well away
Must speak and tell us where they are.

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Others Who Fake It

Needing less attention.
And confessing human sins.
This aging phase,
Finds many who have made it...
At such a rewarding,
Appreciative stage.

Feeling grateful to have life!
And understanding more,
Of this 'gift' that life is.

Seeing things for what they are...
And not for what they are not.
Finding it so trivial now...
To hold onto pettiness held,
To become glad and light hearted...
Knowing that 'stuff'
Has long been dropped.

I feel where I am now,
Should be the beginning.
And not near the end that comes.
Accepting reality for what it is for me.
And realizing with a maturity,
That's how life should be lived...
By each and everyone!

And that makes a happier life to live.
Knowing I am here,
To leave others who fake it...
Or however it is taken,
For their own sakes...
And making it on their own,
Alone!

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You're The Best Mom!

Moms are best!
They carry us to their tummy for 9 months
Even if their one feet is into death,
They choose us to be born
Thanks mom for loving me.


Moms are best!
They re like wonder woman
They woke up early, prepared us healthy foods
They cleaned the house, and gave all we need.
Thanks mom for taking care of us.


Moms are best!
They re like a nurse, but they are the best
When were sick, they’re the first one who get hurt.
They never sleep, just to make sure that were fine!
Thanks for the moms hug it’s like medicine, can cure all the pain.


Moms are best!
They are the best teacher.
When were young and not yet studying.
They are the first one who teach us good manners and respect elders
Thanks mom for guiding and teaching me, while I’m growing up.


Moms are best!
They’re not only mom but “best friend”
They are always there and hear my thoughts
They keep your girl secret and give good advice.
Thanks moms for the happy girls bonding, for always understanding me.


Moms are best
But my mom is the best mom in the world!
Thanks you mom for your love and everything
I thank GOD because I have a mom like you.
So I wrote this poem just for you.

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