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I am, really, a great writer; my only difficulty is in finding great readers.

quote by Frank Harris
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Paperback Writer

(LennonMcCartney)
Paperback writer
Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book?
It took me years to write, will you take a look?
It's based on a novel by a man named Lear
And I need a job, so I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
It's the dirty story of a dirty man
And his clinging wife doesn't understand
His son is working for the Daily Mail
It's a steady job but he wants to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer
It's a thousand pages, give or take a few
I'll be writing more in a week or two
I can make it longer if you like the style
I can change it round and I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
If you really like it you can have the rights
It could make a million for you overnight
If you must return it, you can send it here
But I need a break and I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer (fade out)

song performed by Paul McCartney
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The Third Monarchy, being the Grecian, beginning under Alexander the Great in the 112. Olympiad.

Great Alexander was wise Philips son,
He to Amyntas, Kings of Macedon;
The cruel proud Olympias was his Mother,
She to Epirus warlike King was daughter.
This Prince (his father by Pausanias slain)
The twenty first of's age began to reign.
Great were the Gifts of nature which he had,
His education much to those did adde:
By art and nature both he was made fit,
To 'complish that which long before was writ.
The very day of his Nativity
To ground was burnt Dianaes Temple high:
An Omen to their near approaching woe,
Whose glory to the earth this king did throw.
His Rule to Greece he scorn'd should be confin'd,
The Universe scarce bound his proud vast mind.
This is the He-Goat which from Grecia came,
That ran in Choler on the Persian Ram,
That brake his horns, that threw him on the ground
To save him from his might no man was found:
Philip on this great Conquest had an eye,
But death did terminate those thoughts so high.
The Greeks had chose him Captain General,
Which honour to his Son did now befall.
(For as Worlds Monarch now we speak not on,
But as the King of little Macedon)
Restless both day and night his heart then was,
His high resolves which way to bring to pass;
Yet for a while in Greece is forc'd to stay,
Which makes each moment seem more then a day.
Thebes and stiff Athens both 'gainst him rebel,
Their mutinies by valour doth he quell.
This done against both right and natures Laws,
His kinsmen put to death, who gave no cause;
That no rebellion in in his absence be,
Nor making Title unto Sovereignty.
And all whom he suspects or fears will climbe,
Now taste of death least they deserv'd in time,
Nor wonder is t if he in blood begin,
For Cruelty was his parental sin,
Thus eased now of troubles and of fears,
Next spring his course to Asia he steers;
Leavs Sage Antipater, at home to sway,
And through the Hellispont his Ships made way.
Coming to Land, his dart on shore he throws,
Then with alacrity he after goes;
And with a bount'ous heart and courage brave,
His little wealth among his Souldiers gave.
And being ask'd what for himself was left,
Reply'd, enough, sith only hope he kept.

[...] Read more

poem by Anne Bradstreet
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An Essay On The Different Stiles Of Poetry

To Henry, Lord Viscount Bolingbroke.

I hate the Vulgar with untuneful Mind,
Hearts uninspir'd, and Senses unrefin'd.
Hence ye Prophane, I raise the sounding String,
And Bolingbroke descends to hear me sing.

When Greece cou'd Truth in Mystick Fable shroud,
And with Delight instruct the list'ning Crowd,
An ancient Poet (Time has lost his Name)
Deliver'd Strains on Verse to future Fame.
Still as he sung he touch'd the trembling Lyre,
And felt the Notes a rising Warmth inspire.
Ye sweet'ning Graces in the Musick Throng,
Assist my Genius, and retrieve the Song
From dark Oblivion. See, my Genius goes
To call it forth. 'Twas thus the Poem rose.

Wit is the Muses Horse, and bears on high
The daring Rider to the Muses Sky:
Who, while his strength to mount aloft he tries,
By Regions varying in their Nature, flies.

At first he riseth o'er a Land of Toil,
A barren, hard, and undeserving Soil,
Where only Weeds from heavy Labour grow,
Which yet the Nation prune, and keep for show.
Where Couplets jingling on their Accent run,
Whose point of Epigram is sunk to Pun.
Where Wings by Fancy never feather'd fly,
Where Lines by measure form'd in Hatchets lie;
Where Altars stand, erected Porches gape,
And Sense is cramp'd while Words are par'd to shape;
Where mean Acrosticks labour'd in a Frame,
On scatter'd Letters raise a painful Scheme;
And by Confinement in their Work controul
The great Enlargings of the boundless Soul.
Where if a Warriour's elevated Fire
Wou'd all the brightest Strokes of Verse require,
Then streight in Anagram a wretched Crew
Will pay their undeserving Praises too;
While on the rack his poor disjointed Name
Must tell its Master's Character to Fame.
And (if my Fire and Fears aright presage)
The lab'ring Writers of a future Age
Shall clear new ground, and Grotts and Caves repair,
To civilize the babbling Ecchoes there.
Then while a Lover treads a lonely Walk,
His Voice shall with its own Reflection talk,

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Parnell
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The Writer's Dream

A writer wrote of the hearts of men, and he followed their tracks afar;
For his was a spirit that forced his pen to write of the things that are.
His heart grew tired of the truths he told, for his life was hard and grim;
His land seemed barren, its people cold—yet the world was dear to him;—
So he sailed away from the Streets of Strife, he travelled by land and sea,
In search of a people who lived a life as life in the world should be.
And he reached a spot where the scene was fair, with forest and field and wood,
And all things came with the seasons there, and each of its kind was good;
There were mountain-rivers and peaks of snow, there were lights of green and gold,
And echoing caves in the cliffs below, where a world-wide ocean rolled.
The lives of men from the wear of Change and the strife of the world were free—
For Steam was barred by the mountain-range and the rocks of the Open Sea.

And the last that were born of a noble race—when the page of the South was fair—
The last of the conquered dwelt in peace with the last of the victors there.
He saw their hearts with the author’s eyes who had written their ancient lore,
And he saw their lives as he’d dreamed of such—ah! many a year before.
And ‘I’ll write a book of these simple folk ere I to the world return,
‘And the cold who read shall be kind for these—and the wise who read shall learn.

‘Never again in a song of mine shall a jarring note be heard:
‘Never again shall a page or line be marred by a bitter word;
‘But love and laughter and kindly hours will the book I’ll write recall,
‘With chastening tears for the loss of one, and sighs for their sorrows all.
‘Old eyes will light with a kindly smile, and the young eyes dance with glee—
‘And the heart of the cynic will rest awhile for my simple folk and me.’

The lines ran on as he dipped his pen—ran true to his heart and ear—
Like the brighter pages of memory when every line is clear.
The pictures came and the pictures passed, like days of love and light—
He saw his chapters from first to last, and he thought it grand to write.
And the writer kissed his girlish wife, and he kissed her twice for pride:
‘’Tis a book of love, though a book of life! and a book you’ll read!’ he cried.

He was blind at first to each senseless slight (for shabby and poor he came)
From local ‘Fashion’ and mortgaged pride that scarce could sign its name.
What dreamer would dream of such paltry pride in a scene so fresh and fair?
But the local spirit intensified—with its pitiful shams—was there;
There were cliques wherever two houses stood (no rest for a family ghost!)
They hated each other as women could—but they hated the stranger most.

The writer wrote by day and night and he cried in the face of Fate—
‘I’ll cleave to my dream of life in spite of the cynical ghosts that wait.
‘’Tis the shyness born of their simple lives,’ he said to the paltry pride—
(The homely tongues of the simple wives ne’er erred on the generous side)—
‘They’ll prove me true and they’ll prove me kind ere the year of grace be passed,’
But the ignorant whisper of ‘axe to grind!’ went home to his heart at last.

The writer sat by his drift-wood fire three nights of the South-east gale,
His pen lay idle on pages vain, for his book was a fairy tale.

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Lawson
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Canto the Seventh

I
O Love! O Glory! what are ye who fly
Around us ever, rarely to alight?
There's not a meteor in the polar sky
Of such transcendent and more fleeting flight.
Chill, and chain'd to cold earth, we lift on high
Our eyes in search of either lovely light;
A thousand and a thousand colours they
Assume, then leave us on our freezing way.

II
And such as they are, such my present tale is,
A non-descript and ever-varying rhyme,
A versified Aurora Borealis,
Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime.
When we know what all are, we must bewail us,
But ne'ertheless I hope it is no crime
To laugh at all things -- for I wish to know
What, after all, are all things -- but a show?

III
They accuse me -- Me -- the present writer of
The present poem -- of -- I know not what --
A tendency to under-rate and scoff
At human power and virtue, and all that;
And this they say in language rather rough.
Good God! I wonder what they would be at!
I say no more than hath been said in Danté's
Verse, and by Solomon and by Cervantes;

IV
By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault,
By Fénélon, by Luther, and by Plato;
By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau,
Who knew this life was not worth a potato.
'T is not their fault, nor mine, if this be so --
For my part, I pretend not to be Cato,
Nor even Diogenes. -- We live and die,
But which is best, you know no more than I.

V
Socrates said, our only knowledge was
"To know that nothing could be known;" a pleasant
Science enough, which levels to an ass
Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present.
Newton (that proverb of the mind), alas!
Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent,
That he himself felt only "like a youth
Picking up shells by the great ocean -- Truth."

[...] Read more

poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Don Juan: Canto The Seventh

O Love! O Glory! what are ye who fly
Around us ever, rarely to alight?
There's not a meteor in the polar sky
Of such transcendent and more fleeting flight.
Chill, and chain'd to cold earth, we lift on high
Our eyes in search of either lovely light;
A thousand and a thousand colours they
Assume, then leave us on our freezing way.

And such as they are, such my present tale is,
A non-descript and ever-varying rhyme,
A versified Aurora Borealis,
Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime.
When we know what all are, we must bewail us,
But ne'ertheless I hope it is no crime
To laugh at all things- for I wish to know
What, after all, are all things- but a show?

They accuse me--Me--the present writer of
The present poem--of--I know not what--
A tendency to under-rate and scoff
At human power and virtue, and all that;
And this they say in language rather rough.
Good God! I wonder what they would be at!
I say no more than hath been said in Dante's
Verse, and by Solomon and by Cervantes;

By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault,
By Fenelon, by Luther, and by Plato;
By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau,
Who knew this life was not worth a potato.
'Tis not their fault, nor mine, if this be so-
For my part, I pretend not to be Cato,
Nor even Diogenes.--We live and die,
But which is best, you know no more than I.

Socrates said, our only knowledge was
'To know that nothing could be known;' a pleasant
Science enough, which levels to an ass
Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present.
Newton (that proverb of the mind), alas!
Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent,
That he himself felt only 'like a youth
Picking up shells by the great ocean--Truth.'

Ecclesiastes said, 'that all is vanity'--
Most modern preachers say the same, or show it
By their examples of true Christianity:
In short, all know, or very soon may know it;
And in this scene of all-confess'd inanity,

[...] Read more

poem by Byron
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Writer- a must?

Out of what does a writer write?
Out of hatred or perversion;
Out of denial or deprivation.

Why does a writer write?
To vent his anger or hatred.
To cry out from pain or lust.

How does a writer write?
By borrowing or distorting.
By modeling or duping.

For what does a writer write?
For an applause and a place.
It alone suits him, an idler.

What is the use of a writer?
For him to flaunt his skill.
For readers to idle away

Does the society need a writer?
Does a woman need cosmetics?
Writer is a part of civilization
16.05.2007.

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Hunting or Fishing?

Hunting or fishing – which is better?
That is what I am thinking about!
In business many hunt for customers;
Some men prefer casting net to catch fish!
Even for poets the position is the same
In poetry websites to catch readers!
Some lay wise traps to catch readers!
I use fishing rod with a needle and bait
To catch readers who can understand!

Whether the rank is high or low it is
Immaterial but the true comment is!
Hunting readers to comment and rank
Or fishing readers to comment and rank
Are not really going to enhance one’s status;
For, voluntary comments are indeed valuable!
Poets are jealous to appreciate others’ merit
But some poets raise the status of others!
So, letters to such poets increase sans end!
This is the status of poetry websites now!
So, it is left to you to hunt or fish or lay trap
As you wish to catch readers for rank, etc.!

poem by Ramesh T A
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When Youre Near Me I Have Difficulty

When youre near me I have difficulty respirating
When youre near me I have difficulty concentrating
When youre near me I have difficulty standing upright
When youre near me I have difficulty sleeping at night
I used to stand proud like a sphinx
In a noble immovable state
Then your heart nailed me under a jinx
Now Im feeling like a jellyfish
Just a spineless wobbly jellyfish
And its great, great, so great
I used to stand high like a pine
Just a piece of emotionless wood
When you put your body near mine
Now Im feeling like a jellyfish
And its good, good, so good
I used to be an iceman
Living in iceman town
So Im warning all you cool cool icemen
Youd better be prepared to be melted right down
Down
When youre near me I have difficulty

song performed by Xtc
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Nothing us but only in between us

In finding you
I find me, in looking for you
You look for me, so in finding you finding me,
We finally find out, there is nothing us but only
You and me finding you and me, there is really

No us, just some things between us, always finding
You and me finding you always finding two

Not one, nothing one, but always two, a separate
You finding me and me finding you in this search in futility

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Remember Me

You don't need to ask me if i'll be your friend
I am
I am
You don't need to ask me if i'm sure my friend
I am
I am your friend
You must remember me
I'm the one who saw through the world's disguise
Took away its cloak and i made it hide
From me
Remember me?
Walking on this earth finding you
You, you
Walking on this earth finding you
You, you
What can i say
You don't need to find the words to say what's on your mind
If you need a reason to begin again
I am
I am
You will find an answer at your journey's end
I am
Waiting there my friend
You must remember me
I'm the one who knew you when
I'm the one you call your friend
Feel free
Remember me
Walking on this earth finding you
You, you
Walking on this earth finding you
You, you
What can i say
You don't need to find the words to say what's on your mind
Walking on this earth finding you
You, you
Walking on this earth finding you
You, you
What can i say
You don't need to find the words to say what's on your mind
Walking on this earth finding you
You, you
Walking on this earth finding you
You, you
Walking on this earth finding you
You, you
You, you
You, you
You, you

song performed by Moody Blues
Added by Lucian Velea
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Remember Me (My Friend)

You dont need to ask me if Ill be your friend
I am
I am
You dont need to ask me if Im sure my friend
I am
I am your friend
You must remember me
Im the one who saw through the worlds disguise
Took away its cloak and I made it hide
From me
Remember me?
Walking on this earth finding you
You, you
Walking on this earth finding you
You, you
What can I say
You dont need to find the words to say whats on your mind
If you need a reason to begin again
I am
I am
You will find an answer at your journeys end
I am
Waiting there my friend
You must remember me
Im the one who knew you when
Im the one you call your friend
Feel free
Remember me
Walking on this earth finding you
You, you
Walking on this earth finding you
You, you
What can I say
You dont need to find the words to say whats on your mind
Walking on this earth finding you
You, you
Walking on this earth finding you
You, you
What can I say
You dont need to find the words to say whats on your mind
Walking on this earth finding you
You, you
Walking on this earth finding you
You, you
Walking on this earth finding you
You, you
You, you
You, you
You, you

song performed by Moody Blues
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Finding Out

Theres something wrong, I cant get my finger on it
I must be looking over something
Sometimes at night Ive had to fight with this emptiness
Its been so hard to see, theres something more than this
Im finding out, Im finding out
Yeah it took a little ti me to get what love was about
But honey Im coming round
Im finding out
Ive had enough of all this hard core loneliness
I dont think pain is so romantic
Im just a working man
I feel each day go by
I couldnt understan d I was too weak to fight
But Im finding out, Im finding out
It took a little time for me to stand up and shout
But honey Im coming round, Im finding out
I have to thank you baby, honey I must confess
You have pulled me from this river of loneliness
Im finding out, baby Im finding out
Yeah it took a little time to get what love was about
But honey Im coming round
Im finding out

song performed by Tom Petty
Added by Lucian Velea
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Pout On

IwishthatIcouldrushtoyouandmakeitokay,
ButIcan'tdothatbecauseyou'renotfeelingthatway .
IwishthatIcouldrushtoyouandmakeitokay,
ButIcan'tdothatbecauseyou'renotfeelingthatway .

You rather whine about these times.
Just sitting on your backside finding time to sigh.
You rather whine about these times.
Just sitting on your backside finding time to sigh.

IwishthatIcouldrushtoyouandmakeitoka y,
ButIcan'tdothatbecauseyou'renotfeelingthatway .
IwishthatIcouldrushtoyouandmakeitokay,
ButIcan'tdothatbecauseyou'renotfeelingthatway .

You rather whine about these times.
Just sitting on your backside finding time to sigh.
You rather whine about these times.
Just sitting on your backside finding time to sigh.

Pout on.
Pout on.
Like the others who are shouting 'bout lost pennies in their pots!
Pout on.
Pout on.
Like the others who are shouting 'bout lost pennies in their pots!

IwishthatIcouldrushtoyouandmakeitokay,
ButIcan'tdothatbecauseyou'renotfeelingthatway .
IwishthatIcouldrushtoyouandmakeitokay,
ButIcan'tdothatbecauseyou'renotfeelingthatway .

You rather whine about these times.
Just sitting on your backside finding time to sigh.
You rather whine about these times.
Just sitting on your backside finding time to sigh.

You rather whine about these times.
Just sitting on your backside finding time to sigh.
You rather whine about these times.
Just sitting on your backside finding time to sigh.

Pout on.
Pout on.
Like the others who are shouting 'bout lost pennies in their pots!
IwishthatIcouldrushtoyouandmakeitokay,
ButIcan'tdothatbecauseyou'renotfeelingthatway .
You rather whine about these times.
Just sitting on your backside finding time to sigh.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Without A Priority

Finding oneself...
Might take a lifetime.
And,
Finding one's life...
May not be...
Any need.
But...
Finding one's happiness,
Without a wanting...
May be possible.
But without a priority,
How can this succeed?

Finding oneself and untieing the knots,
May take a lifetime.
And finding one's life without a tear to drop,
May not be a need.
But...
Finding one's happiness without a crave,
May be possible.
But without a priority,
How can this succeed?
Without priority,
How this succeed?

Finding oneself...
Might,
Take a lifetime.
And finding one's life may not,
Be...
Anybody's need,
And...
Finding one's true happiness,
Without a wanting...
May be possible.
But without priority...
How can one succeed?

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Lady Writer

Lady writer on the tv
Talk about the virgin mary
Reminded me of you
Expectation left to come up to yeah
Lady writer on the tv
She had another quality
The way you used to look
And I know you never read a book
Just the way that her hair fell down around her face
And I recall my fall from grace
Another time, another place
Lady writer on the tv
She had all the brains and the beauty
The pictures does not fit
Youd talk to me when you felt like it
Just the way that her hair fell down around her face
And I recall my fall from grace
Another time another place
Yes and your rich old man,
You know hed a call her a dead ringer
You got the same command
Plus your mother was a jazz singer
Just the way that her hair fell down around her face
And I recall my fall from grace
Another time another place
Lady writer on the tv
She knew all about a history
You couldnt hardly write your name
I think I want it just the same as the ...
Lady writer on the tv
Talking about the virgin mary
You know Im talking about you and me
And the lady writer on the tv
Talking about the virgin mary
Yeah you know Im talking about you and me
And the lady writer on the tv

song performed by Dire Straits
Added by Lucian Velea
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Like The Sun

In light of my present mess
In light of my mental weathers turn
In light of all the crash and burn
Ill open my mind as wide as ever
The line behind the lesson
Soul in the open well
It might have been fate
It might have been fortune
It might have been wine and a mellow head
Im finding my way
Finding the words
One body breaking
Someone come and rise up
Rise like the sun
Youll find the world
Somebody save me
Someone come and rise up
Rise up and hold me now
I know that at times life kinda hurts
I know that I will live and learn
So more than survive
I will endeavour
The mind behind the message
Alone on an ocean swell
It might have been great
It might have gorgeous
It might have been why Ive settled in
Im finding my way
Finding the words
One body breaking
Someone come and rise up
Rise like the sun
Youll find the world
Somebody save me
Someone come and rise up
Rise and show
A helpless man
A held out hand
Defining images
That flow through my hope
Surrender the broken moments
And pointing fingers
The closing of open minds
I might have been delayed
I might have been delirious
I might have been otherwise
Taking hammer blows
Like an animal
For others
So heavy was my way

[...] Read more

song performed by I Mother Earth
Added by Lucian Velea
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Preface To Ossian

WITHOUT increasing his genius, the author may have improved his language, in the eleven years that the following poems have been in the hands of the public. Errors in diction might have been committed at twenty-four, which the experience of a riper age may remove; and some exuberances in imagery may be restrained with advantage, by a degree of judgment acquired in the progress of time. Impressed with this opinion, he ran over the whole with attention and accuracy; and he hopes he has brought the work to a state of correctness which will preclude all future improvements.

The eagerness with which these poems have been received abroad, is a recompense for the coldness with which a few have affected to treat them at home. All the polite nations of Europe have transferred them into their respective languages; and they speak of him who brought them to light, in terms that might flatter the vanity of one fond of flame. In a convenient indifference for a literary reputation, the author hears praise without being elevated, and ribaldry without being depressed. He has frequently seen the first bestowed too precipitately; and the latter is so faithless to its purpose, that it is often the only index to merit in the present age.

Though the taste which defines genius by the points of the compass, is a subject fit for mirth in itself, it is often a serious matter in the sale of the work. When rivers define the limits of abilities, as well as the boundaries of countries, a writer may measure his success by the latitude under which he was born. It was to avoid a part of this inconvenience, that the author is said by some, who speak without any authority, to nave ascribed his own productions to another name. If this was the case, he was but young in the art of deception. When he placed the poet in antiquity, the translator should have been born on this side of the Tweed.

These observations regard only the frivolous in matters of literature; these, however, form a majority of every age and nation. In this countrymen of genuine taste abound; but their still voice is drowned in the clamors of a multitude, who judge by fashion of poetry, as of dress. The truth is, to judge aright, requires almost as much genius as to write well; and good critics are as rare as great poets. Though two hundred thousand Romans stood up when Virgil came into the theatre, Varius only could correct the Æneid. He that obtains fame must receive it through mere fashion; and gratify his vanity with the applause of men, of whose judgment he cannot approve.

The following poems, it must be confessed, are more calculated to please persons of exquisite feelings of heart, than those who receive all their impressions by the car. The novelty of cadence, in what is called a prose version, thou h not destitute of harmony, will not, to common readers, supply the absence of the frequent returns of rhyme. This was the opinion of the writer himself, though he yielded to the judgment of others, in a mode, which presented freedom and dignity of expression, instead of fetters, which cramp the thought, whilst the harmony of language is preserved. His attention was to publish inverse.--The making of poetry, like any other handicraft, may be learned by industry; and he had served his apprenticeship, though in secret, to the Muses.

It is, however, doubtful, whether the harmony which these poems might derive from rhyme, even in much better hands than those of the translator, could atone for the simplicity and energy which they would lose. The determination of this point shall be left to the readers of this preface. The following is the beginning of a poem, translated from the Norse to the Gaelic language; and, from the latter, transferred into English. The verse took little more time to the writer than the prose; and he himself is doubtful (if he has succeeded in either) which of them is the most literal version.

FRAGMENT OF A NORTHERN TALE.

WHERE Harold, with golden hair, spread o'er Lochlinn his high commands; where, with justice, he ruled the tribes, who sunk, subdued, beneath his sword; abrupt rises Gormal in snow! the tempests roll dark on his sides, but calm, above, his vast forehead appears. White-issuing from the skirt of his storms, the troubled torrents pour down his sides. Joining, as they roar along, they bear the Torno, in foam, to the main.

Gray on the bank, and far from men, half-covered, by ancient pines, from the wind, a lonely pile exalts its head, long shaken by the storms of the north. To this fled Sigurd, fierce in fight, from Harold the leader of armies, when fate had brightened his spear with renown: when he conquered in that rude field, where Lulan's warriors fell in blood, or rose in terror on the waves of the main. Darkly sat the gray-haired chief; yet sorrow dwelt not in his soul. But when the warrior thought on the past, his proud heart heaved against his side: forth flew his sword from its place: he wounded Harold in all the winds.

One daughter, and only one, but bright in form and mild of soul, the last beam of the setting line, remained to Sigurd of all his race. His son, in Lulan's battle slain, beheld not his father's flight from his foes. Nor finished seemed the ancient line! The splendid beauty of bright-eyed Fithon covered still the fallen king with renown. Her arm was white like Gormal's snow; her bosom whiter than the foam of the main, when roll the waves beneath the wrath of the winds. Like two stars were her radiant eyes, like two stars that rise on the deep, when dark tumult embroils the night. Pleasant are their beams aloft, as stately they ascend the skies.

Nor Odin forgot, in aught, the maid. Her form scarce equalled her lofty mind. Awe moved around her stately steps. Heroes loved-but shrunk away in their fears. Yet, midst the pride of all her charms, her heart was soft and her soul was kind. She saw the mournful with tearful eyes. Transient darkness arose in her breast. Her joy was in the chase. Each morning, when doubtful light wandered dimly on Lulan's waves, she roused the resounding woods to Gormal's head of snow. Nor moved the maid alone, &c.

The same versified.

Where fair-hair'd Harold, o'er Scandinia reign'd,
And held with justice what his valor gain'd ,
Sevo, in snow, his rugged forehead rears,
A o'er the warfare of his storms, appears
Abrupt and vast.--White wandering down his side
A thousand torrents, gleaming as they glide,
Unite below, and, pouring through the plain,
flurry the troubled Torno to the main.
Gray, on the bank, remote from human kind,
By aged pines half-shelter'd from the wind,
A homely mansion rose, of antique form,
For ages batter'd by the polar storm.
To this, fierce Sigurd fled from Norway's lord,
When fortune settled on the warrior's sword,
In that rude field, where Suecia's chiefs were slain,
Or forc'd to wander o'er the Bothnic main.
Dark was his life, yet undisturb'd with woes,
But when the memory of defeat arose,
His proud heart struck his side; he grasp'd the spear,
And wounded Harold in the vacant air.
One daughter only, but of form divine,
The last fair beam of the departing line,
Remain'd of Sigurd's race. His warlike son
Fell in the shock which overturn'd the throne.
Nor desolate the house! Fionia's charms
Sustain'd the glory which they lost in arms.

[...] Read more

poem by James Macpherson
Added by Poetry Lover
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Needle In A Haystack

(william stevenson / norman whitfield)
Well, well, I once believed
All fellas were nice
But girls, listen to me
And take my advice
A-girls, youd better get yourselves
On the right track
cause finding a good man, girls
Is like finding a
(needle in a haystack)
A-what did I say, girls?
(needle in a haystack)
Girls, those fellas are sly, slick and shy, yeah
Oh, dont you ever let them catch you looking starry-eyed
Theyll tell you that their love is true
And theyll walk right over you
Now girls, youd better know these things
A-right off a-the bat
cause finding a good man, girls
Is like finding a
(needle in a haystack)
What did I say, girls?
(needle in a haystack)
Hey, hey, hey, hey
Well, now girls, I say, Im tellin you the natural facts
cause finding a good man, girls
Is like finding a
(needle in a haystack)
What did I say, girls?
(needle in a haystack)
Im telling you, girls
Youd better look before you leap
Still water sometimes is a-very deep
Youll be in sorrow when you discover
That youre just his pasttime lover
Girls, youd better know these things
A-right off a-the bat
cause finding a good man, girls
Is like finding a
(needle in a haystack)
What did I say, girls?
(needle in a haystack)
I say youd better take heed
And listen to me
Youd better play hard to get
Or youre gonna regret
The day you were born, yeah
A-when you leaves you alone
I bet, youd better regret
Oh, youd better regret

song performed by Dusty Springfield
Added by Lucian Velea
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Readers

Wormed,
I have died many times in this life;
Dragged,
I have suffered many times in this life;
But my readers will learn from me like the sea of love,
For, i am with the works of peace in this world.

Readers, reed, read, dear, deer, ear, ears, are, red;
Now i feel safe with you,
But the level of your love stems out from your hearts! !

Readers, sad, rare, dare, sear, seer, see, sea, as;
And like the muse of your love!
For, it comes out straight from the heart.

Readers,
My source of pleasure;
Readers,
The source of my hope;
But, forgivde me if i have wronged you,
For the acts of your total power is like the loyal soldier!

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Added by Poetry Lover
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