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All paths are the same, leading nowhere. Therefore, pick a path with heart!

quote by Carlos Castaneda
Added by Lucian Velea
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[9] O, Moon, My Sweet-heart!

O, Moon, My Sweet-heart!
[LOVE POEMS]

POET: MAHENDRA BHATNAGAR

POEMS

1 Passion And Compassion / 1
2 Affection
3 Willing To Live
4 Passion And Compassion / 2
5 Boon
6 Remembrance
7 Pretext
8 To A Distant Person
9 Perception
10 Conclusion
10 You (1)
11 Symbol
12 You (2)
13 In Vain
14 One Night
15 Suddenly
16 Meeting
17 Touch
18 Face To Face
19 Co-Traveller
20 Once And Once only
21 Touchstone
22 In Chorus
23 Good Omens
24 Even Then
25 An Evening At ‘Tighiraa’ (1)
26 An Evening At ‘Tighiraa’ (2)
27 Life Aspirant
28 To The Condemned Woman
29 A Submission
30 At Midday
31 I Accept
32 Who Are You?
33 Solicitation
34 Accept Me
35 Again After Ages …
36 Day-Dreaming
37 Who Are You?
38 You Embellished In Song

[...] Read more

poem by Mahendra Bhatnagar
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Nicky Nicky Nicky Nicky Nicky Nick Pick

You can't win the war and the battle cause,
That struggle is in your head.
And kept there seven days a week.
With no sleep there you're reaping.

You can't win the war and the battle cause,
That struggle is in your head.
And kept there seven days a week.
With no sleep there you're reaping.

All you like to do is nitpick my wrongs.
With that constant picking that you see fit.
But only you brood sucking your thumb.
Without that finger licking that you want done!

Nicky nicky nicky nicky nicky nick pick,
Pick bones...
That's all you really want to do,
Pick bones...
Pick over bones that's gone!

Nicky nicky nicky nicky nicky nick pick,
Pick bones...
That's all you really want to do,
Pick bones...
Pick over bones that's gone,
With a finger licking done like you've won!

You can't win the war and the battle cause,
That struggle is in your head.
And kept there seven days a week.
With no sleep there you're reaping.

Nicky nicky nicky nicky nicky nick pick,
Pick bones...
That's all you really want to do,
Pick bones...
Pick over bones that's gone,
With a finger licking done like you've won!

Nicky nicky nicky nicky nicky nick pick,
Pick bones...
That's all you really want to do,
Pick bones...
Pick over bones that's gone,
With a finger licking done like you've won!

You can't win the war and the battle cause,
That struggle is in your head.
And kept there seven days a week.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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You Made Okay To Do It Your Way

You pick up then you kicked the ball.
You pick up then you kicked the ball.
You pick up then you kicked the ball.
You pick up then you kicked the ball.

Why did you choose to pick a ball,
Knowing picking it...
Wasn't cool to do.

You complained,
That you couldn't take the weight.
And a waiting too late makes it okay.

You pick up then you kicked the ball.
You pick up then you kicked the ball.
You pick up then you kicked the ball.
You pick up then you kicked the ball.

You made okay to do it your way,
To...
Pick then kick a ball.
To,
Pick then kick a ball.

You made okay to do it your way,
To...
Pick then kick a ball.
To,
Pick then kick a ball.

Why did you choose to pick a ball,
Knowing picking it...
Wasn't cool to do.

You made okay to do it your way,
To...
Pick then kick a ball.
To,
Pick then kick a ball.

You pick up then you kicked the ball.
You pick up then you kicked the ball.
You pick up then you kicked the ball.
You pick up then you kicked the ball.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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XI. Guido

You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Undying One- Canto III

'THERE is a sound the autumn wind doth make
Howling and moaning, listlessly and low:
Methinks that to a heart that ought to break
All the earth's voices seem to murmur so.
The visions that crost
Our path in light--
The things that we lost
In the dim dark night--
The faces for which we vainly yearn--
The voices whose tones will not return--
That low sad wailing breeze doth bring
Borne on its swift and rushing wing.
Have ye sat alone when that wind was loud,
And the moon shone dim from the wintry cloud?
When the fire was quench'd on your lonely hearth,
And the voices were still which spoke of mirth?

If such an evening, tho' but one,
It hath been yours to spend alone--
Never,--though years may roll along
Cheer'd by the merry dance and song;
Though you mark'd not that bleak wind's sound before,
When louder perchance it used to roar--
Never shall sound of that wintry gale
Be aught to you but a voice of wail!
So o'er the careless heart and eye
The storms of the world go sweeping by;
But oh! when once we have learn'd to weep,
Well doth sorrow his stern watch keep.
Let one of our airy joys decay--
Let one of our blossoms fade away--
And all the griefs that others share
Seem ours, as well as theirs, to bear:
And the sound of wail, like that rushing wind
Shall bring all our own deep woe to mind!

'I went through the world, but I paused not now
At the gladsome heart and the joyous brow:
I went through the world, and I stay'd to mark
Where the heart was sore, and the spirit dark:
And the grief of others, though sad to see,
Was fraught with a demon's joy to me!

'I saw the inconstant lover come to take
Farewell of her he loved in better days,
And, coldly careless, watch the heart-strings break--
Which beat so fondly at his words of praise.
She was a faded, painted, guilt-bow'd thing,
Seeking to mock the hues of early spring,
When misery and years had done their worst

[...] Read more

poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Medley: Pick A Bale Of Cotton / On Top Of Old Smokey / Midnight Special

Gonna jump down, spin around, pick a bale of cotton
Gonna jump down, spin around, pick a bale a day
Gonna jump down, spin around, pick a bale of cotton
Gonna jump down, spin around, pick a bale a day
Oh lordy
Pick a bale of cotton
Oh lordy
Pick a bale a day
Oh lordy
Pick a bale of cotton
Oh lordy
Pick a bale a day
I said me and my buddy gonna pick a bale of cotton
Now me and my buddy gonna pick a bale a day
I said me and my buddy gonna pick a bale of cotton
Now me and my buddy gonna pick a bale a day
Oh lordy
Pick a bale of cotton
Oh lordy
Pick a bale a day
Oh lordy
Pick a bale of cotton
Oh lordy
Pick a bale a day
On top of old Smokey
all covered with snow
I lost my true lover
by courting so slow
For courting's a pleasure
And parting is brief
and a false-hearted lover
is worse than a thief
On top of old Smokey
all covered with snow
I lost my true lover
by courting so slow
Well, you wake up in the morning
Hear the ding dong ring
You go marching to the table
See the same old thing
See the fork on the table
Nothing in your pan
If you say a thing about it
You're in trouble with the man
Let the midnight special
Shine a light on me
Let the midnight special
Shine it's everlovin' light on me
If you ever go to Houston
Well you'd better act right

[...] Read more

song performed by ABBA
Added by Lucian Velea
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Pick A Bale Of Cotton

Gonna jump down
Spin around
Pick a bale of cotton
Gonna jump down
Spin around
Pick a bale a day
Gonna jump down
Spin around
Pick a bale of cotton
Gonna jump down
Spin around
Pick a bale a day
Oh, lordy
Pick a bale of cotton
Oh, lordy
Pick a bale a day
Oh, lordy
Pick a bale of cotton
Oh, lordy
Pick a bale a day
I said
Me and my buddy gonna pick a bale of cotton
Now
Me and my buddy gonna pick a bale a day
I said
Me and my buddy gonna pick a bale of cotton
Now
Me and my buddy gonna pick a bale a day
Oh, lordy
Pick a bale of cotton
Oh, lordy
Pick a bale a day
Oh, lordy
Pick a bale of cotton
Oh, lordy
Pick a bale a day

song performed by ABBA
Added by Lucian Velea
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Three Women

My love is young, so young;
Young is her cheek, and her throat,
And life is a song to be sung
With love the word for each note.

Young is her cheek and her throat;
Her eyes have the smile o' May.
And love is the word for each note
In the song of my life to-day.

Her eyes have the smile o' May;
Her heart is the heart of a dove,
And the song of my life to-day
Is love, beautiful love.

Her heart is the heart of a dove,
Ah, would it but fly to my breast
Where love, beautiful love,
Has made it a downy nest.

Ah, would she but fly to my breast,
My love who is young, so young;
I have made her a downy nest
And life is a song to be sung.

1
I.
A dull little station, a man with the eye
Of a dreamer; a bevy of girls moving by;
A swift moving train and a hot Summer sun,
The curtain goes up, and our play is begun.
The drama of passion, of sorrow, of strife,
Which always is billed for the theatre Life.
It runs on forever, from year unto year,
With scarcely a change when new actors appear.
It is old as the world is-far older in truth,
For the world is a crude little planet of youth.
And back in the eras before it was formed,
The passions of hearts through the Universe stormed.

Maurice Somerville passed the cluster of girls
Who twisted their ribbons and fluttered their curls
In vain to attract him; his mind it was plain
Was wholly intent on the incoming train.
That great one eyed monster puffed out its black breath,
Shrieked, snorted and hissed, like a thing bent on death,

[...] Read more

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Few Can Pick Them To Then Run

How can one live without risks.
Or prevent risks to exist.
Risk taking is a part of this life lived,
As it is...
For everyone.

Few can pick them to then run.
Few can pick them to then run.
Few can pick them to then run...
To be undone.

Few can pick them to then run.
Few can pick them to then run.
Few can pick them to then run...
To be undone.

How can one live without risks.
Or prevent risks to exist.
Risk taking is a part of this life lived,
As it is...
For everyone.

Few can pick them to then run.
Few can pick them to then run.
Few can pick them to then run...
To be undone.

Few can pick them to then run.
Few can pick them to then run.
Few can pick them to then run...
To be undone.

Living life is taking risks.
And no one living can resist...
Those risks.

Few can pick them to then run,
From those risks.
Few can pick them to then run,
From those risks.
Few can pick them to then run...
To be undone.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Karma Theory Of Islam

God has written down in brief
Our endless life story
That is being played
On the seven-storied stage of sky!
.
At the same time it’s also true:
We are the architects
Of our own future
Cause we get result of what we do!

However we’ll have the final result
Of our actions on the Day of Resurrection!

God acts according to plans
We should also plan our future
And try to make it happen.

Even God does not know everything
In absolute detail
And He doesn’t need to know it.
It is an endless story
Even God forgets some things
After zillions and zillions of years
That’s one of the reasons
Why God has written down every important matter
Be it big or small on Laohay Mahfuz.
Therefore we should also read and write
To preserve and spread our wisdom.

There are seventy thousand paths
That lead to paradise
For example
Path of Belief
Path of Truthfulness
Path of Remembrance of God
Path of Charity
Path of Salat
Path of Fasting
Path of Tax
Path of Hajj
And so on.
All the aforesaid paths are straight paths
That leads to respective gates of paradise!
In fact Pool Sirat has seventy thousand levels
All end at the respective gates of paradise!
The Gate of Faith of paradise is the biggest
And it is the must have access to paradise.

However
For a hassle-free journey to paradise

[...] Read more

poem by Asif Andalib
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Pick Yourself Up Off the Bottom

Doo-doo-doo-doo do...Bedoo.
Bedoobe doo-bee-do...Be-dooooo-beeeeahhh.
Bah dum.
And-pick-yourself-up-off-the-bottom.

Doo-doo-doo-doo do...Bedoo.
Bedoobe doo-bee-do...Be-dooooo-beeeeahhh.
Bah dum.
And-pick-yourself-up-off-the-bottom.
B ah dum.
And-pick-yourself-up-off-the-bottom.

Get back to a simpler time.
If not just in your mind...
When you found a reason and rhyme.
To unwind.

Get back to a purposeness.
When you had much more sense.
And your mind wasn't condensed...
To accepting false lies...
To fly like they do!

Hop-in-that-taxi...and get back to you.

Doo-doo-doo-doo do...Bedoo.
Bedoobe doo-bee-do...Be-dooooo-beeeeahhh.
Bah dum.

Doo-doo-doo-doo do...Bedoo.
Bedoobe doo-bee-do...Be-dooooo-beeeeahhh.
Bah dum.
And-pick-yourself-up-off-the-bottom.

Doo-doo-doo-doo do...Bedoo.
Bedoobe doo-bee-do...Be-dooooo-beeeeahhh.
Bah dum.
And-pick-yourself-up-off-the-bottom.
Bah dum.
And-pick-yourself-up-off-the-bottom.

Doo-doo-doo-doo do...Bedoo.
Bedoobe doo-bee-do...Be-dooooo-beeeeahhh.
Bah dum.
And-pick-yourself-up-off-the-bottom.
B ah dum.
And-pick-yourself-up-off-the-bottom.
B ah dum.
Pick-yourself-up-off-the-bottom.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Troubadour. Canto 3

LAND of the olive and the vine,
The saint and soldier, sword and shrine!
How glorious to young RAYMOND'S eye
Swell'd thy bold heights, spread thy clear sky,
When first he paused upon the height
Where, gather'd, lay the Christian might.
Amid a chesnut wood were raised
Their white tents, and the red cross blazed
Meteor-like, with its crimson shine,
O'er many a standard's scutcheon'd line.

On the hill opposite there stood
The warriors of the Moorish blood,--
With their silver crescents gleaming,
And their horse-tail pennons streaming;
With cymbals and the clanging gong,
The muezzin's unchanging song,
The turbans that like rainbows shone,
The coursers' gay caparison,
As if another world had been
Where that small rivulet ran between.

And there was desperate strife next day:
The little vale below that lay
Was like a slaughter-pit, of green
Could not one single trace be seen;
The Moslem warrior stretch'd beside
The Christian chief by whom he died;
And by the broken falchion blade
The crooked scymeter was laid.

And gallantly had RAYMOND borne
The red cross through the field that morn,
When suddenly he saw a knight
Oppress'd by numbers in the fight:
Instant his ready spear was flung,
Instant amid the band he sprung;--
They fight, fly, fall,--and from the fray
He leads the wounded knight away!
Gently he gain'd his tent, and there
He left him to the leech's care;
Then sought the field of death anew,--
Little was there for knight to do.

That field was strewn with dead and dying;
And mark'd he there DE VALENCE lying
Upon the turbann'd heap, which told
How dearly had his life been sold.
And yet on his curl'd lip was worn
The impress of a soldier's scorn;

[...] Read more

poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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On A Path Of Least Resistance

I'm on a path of least resistance.
And its existence.
On a path of least resistance.

I'm on a path of least resistance,
And its existence.
On a path of least resistance.

Pain,
And its existence.
Felt,
And its existence.
Hurts,
In this existence...
And I need to get away.

Pain,
And its existence.
Felt,
And its existence.
Hurts,
In this existence...
And I need to get away.

I'm on a path of least resistance.
And its existence.
On a path of least resistance,
And I need to get away.

I'm on a path of least resistance.
And its existence.
On a path of least resistance,
And I need to get away.
Oh!
Pain,
And its existence.
Oh.
Felt,
And its existence.
Oh.
Hurts,
In this existence...
And I need to get away.

Oh pain,
And its existence.
Oh.
Felt,
And its existence.
Oh.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Pick It Up Or Be Gone

Pick it up or be gone.
What's given.
Pick it up or be gone.
What's there.
Pick it up or be gone.
The steak.
Or the rake.
Or the keys,
To open the gate!
Now...
Pick it up or be gone.
What's given.
Pick it up or be gone.
What's there.
Pick it up or be gone.
The steak.
Or the rake.
Or the keys,
To open the gate!
Now...
Don't try to imitate,
Homemade cake.
Oh no.
And don't ever try to duplicate,
A delicious taste.
Or...
Butter up faked mashed potatos.

Pick it up or be gone.
What's given.
Pick it up or be gone.
What's there.
Pick it up or be gone.
The steak.
Or the rake.
Or the keys,
To open the gate!
Now...
Pick it up or be gone.
Oooow.
Pick it up or be gone.
Yeah.
Pick it up or be gone.
Now...
Pick it up or be gone!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Rose Mary

Of her two fights with the Beryl-stone
Lost the first, but the second won.

PART I

“MARY mine that art Mary's Rose
Come in to me from the garden-close.
The sun sinks fast with the rising dew,
And we marked not how the faint moon grew;
But the hidden stars are calling you.
“Tall Rose Mary, come to my side,
And read the stars if you'd be a bride.
In hours whose need was not your own,
While you were a young maid yet ungrown
You've read the stars in the Beryl-stone.
“Daughter, once more I bid you read;
But now let it be for your own need:
Because to-morrow, at break of day,
To Holy Cross he rides on his way,
Your knight Sir James of Heronhaye.
“Ere he wed you, flower of mine,
For a heavy shrift he seeks the shrine.
Now hark to my words and do not fear;
Ill news next I have for your ear;
But be you strong, and our help is here.
“On his road, as the rumour's rife,
An ambush waits to take his life.
He needs will go, and will go alone;
Where the peril lurks may not be known;
But in this glass all things are shown.”
Pale Rose Mary sank to the floor:—
“The night will come if the day is o'er!”
“Nay, heaven takes counsel, star with star,
And help shall reach your heart from afar:
A bride you'll be, as a maid you are.”
The lady unbound her jewelled zone
And drew from her robe the Beryl-stone.
Shaped it was to a shadowy sphere,—
World of our world, the sun's compeer,
That bears and buries the toiling year.
With shuddering light 'twas stirred and strewn
Like the cloud-nest of the wading moon:
Freaked it was as the bubble's ball,
Rainbow-hued through a misty pall
Like the middle light of the waterfall.
Shadows dwelt in its teeming girth
Of the known and unknown things of earth;
The cloud above and the wave around,—
The central fire at the sphere's heart bound,
Like doomsday prisoned underground.

[...] Read more

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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The Dream

'TWAS summer eve; the changeful beams still play'd
On the fir-bark and through the beechen shade;
Still with soft crimson glow'd each floating cloud;
Still the stream glitter'd where the willow bow'd;
Still the pale moon sate silent and alone,
Nor yet the stars had rallied round her throne;
Those diamond courtiers, who, while yet the West
Wears the red shield above his dying breast,
Dare not assume the loss they all desire,
Nor pay their homage to the fainter fire,
But wait in trembling till the Sun's fair light
Fading, shall leave them free to welcome Night!

So when some Chief, whose name through realms afar
Was still the watchword of succesful war,
Met by the fatal hour which waits for all,
Is, on the field he rallied, forced to fall,
The conquerors pause to watch his parting breath,
Awed by the terrors of that mighty death;
Nor dare the meed of victory to claim,
Nor lift the standard to a meaner name,
Till every spark of soul hath ebb'd away,
And leaves what was a hero, common clay.

Oh! Twilight! Spirit that dost render birth
To dim enchantments; melting Heaven with Earth,
Leaving on craggy hills and rumning streams
A softness like the atmosphere of dreams;
Thy hour to all is welcome! Faint and sweet
Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet,
Who, slow returning from his task of toil,
Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil,
And, tho' such radliance round him brightly glows,
Marks the small spark his cottage window throws.
Still as his heart forestals his weary pace,
Fondly he dreams of each familiar face,
Recalls the treasures of his narrow life,
His rosy children, and his sunburnt wife,

To whom his coming is the chief event
Of simple days in cheerful labour spent.
The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past,
And those poor cottagers have only cast
One careless glance on all that show of pride,
Then to their tasks turn'd quietly aside;
But him they wait for, him they welcome home,
Fond sentinels look forth to see him come;
The fagot sent for when the fire grew dim,
The frugal meal prepared, are all for him;
For him the watching of that sturdy boy,

[...] Read more

poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Pick A Fight

I can't be happy without you
You can't be happy without me
Still you always wanna pick a fight now
You say it's written in the stars
Some psychic read it in my cards
Still you always wanna pick a fight with me

You say that I'm the only one
The one you're looking for
Try and keep a straight face when you laugh
You talk to me like I'm a saint
But all your friends just say
We have been so over for some time

And I know that you had the best intentions for me
I know that what you're saying is goodbye

I can't be happy without you
You can't be happy without me
Still you always wanna pick a fight now
You say it's written in the stars
Some psychic read it in my cards
Still you always wanna pick a fight with me

You say you changed your mind again
You don't know how you feel
Give me some more time is what you say
You wanna use me like a toy
That you get bored with
Now you wanna store me far away

And I know that you had the best intentions for me
I know that what you're saying is goodbye...goodbye

I can't be happy without you
You can't be happy without me
Still you always wanna pick a fight now
You say it's written in the stars
Some psychic read it in my cards
Still you always wanna pick a fight with me

I can't be happy without you
I can't be happy without me

[...] Read more

song performed by Goldfinger from Stomping Ground
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Voice

Lord, have mercy
Bang! - A gunshot rings out
13-year-old baby falls 2 the ground
See the killer runnin' down the street
Tell me killer, can U hear the sound?
Tap, tap, tappin' on your window like a fallin' rain
Cryin' like a baby in a cradle sayin' pick me up again
Ching! - Mr. Politician goes on vacation
Brings along a friend or 2
In the disguise of taxes
Mr. Politician (sends) sends the bill 2 U know who
Tap, tap, tappin' on your window like a fallin' rain
(Tappin' on my window like a fallin' rain)
Cryin' like a baby in a cradle sayin' pick me up again
(Cryin' like a baby, pick me up)
Can't U hear the voice? (Oh yeah)
The nightsticks are still singin'
4-part harmony on brother's back
Justice is doomed when we don't start no S-H
And there's still some I-T in all of that
Tap, tap, tappin' on your window like a fallin' rain
(Can't U hear it tappin' like a fallin' rain fine-tune cryin' like a baby?)
Cryin' like a baby in a cradle sayin' pick me up again
(Pick me up, pick me up)
I'm talkin' about the voice, y'all
Ha, suky, suky now
Sho'mon (Tap)
Sho'mon (Tap)
Help me here (Tap)
Tappin' (Tap)
Tappin', tappin', ha ha (Tap)
Tap on it, tap on it (Tap) (Tap)
Can't U see it's just dirty money?
If your brother man is dyin' in the flow
Take off these chains (Tap) (Tap)
And listen 2 the voice callin' (Tap)
We gotta go, gotta go (Tap) (Tap)
Tap, tap, tappin' on your window like a fallin' rain
(Oh yeah, like a fallin' rain)
Cryin' like a baby in a cradle sayin' pick me up again
(Cryin' like a baby, pick me up, pick me up)
5-4-3-2-1, keep the war over (Tap)
But how many wanna keep the peace (Tap) (Tap)
We keep buildin' guns when we could build love (Tap)
(When we need 2 build love)
Cuz that's when the war will cease
U know it, U know it (Tap) (Tap)
Can't U hear the voices? (Tap) (Tap)
Can't U hear the sound? (Tap)
Take heed, get your house in order (Tap)

[...] Read more

song performed by Prince
Added by Lucian Velea
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Peter Bell, A Tale

PROLOGUE

There's something in a flying horse,
There's something in a huge balloon;
But through the clouds I'll never float
Until I have a little Boat,
Shaped like the crescent-moon.

And now I 'have' a little Boat,
In shape a very crescent-moon
Fast through the clouds my boat can sail;
But if perchance your faith should fail,
Look up--and you shall see me soon!

The woods, my Friends, are round you roaring,
Rocking and roaring like a sea;
The noise of danger's in your ears,
And ye have all a thousand fears
Both for my little Boat and me!

Meanwhile untroubled I admire
The pointed horns of my canoe;
And, did not pity touch my breast,
To see how ye are all distrest,
Till my ribs ached, I'd laugh at you!

Away we go, my Boat and I--
Frail man ne'er sate in such another;
Whether among the winds we strive,
Or deep into the clouds we dive,
Each is contented with the other.

Away we go--and what care we
For treasons, tumults, and for wars?
We are as calm in our delight
As is the crescent-moon so bright
Among the scattered stars.

Up goes my Boat among the stars
Through many a breathless field of light,
Through many a long blue field of ether,
Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her:
Up goes my little Boat so bright!

The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull--
We pry among them all; have shot
High o'er the red-haired race of Mars,
Covered from top to toe with scars;
Such company I like it not!

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poem by William Wordsworth
Added by Poetry Lover
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Lara

LARA. [1]

CANTO THE FIRST.

I.

The Serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain, [2]
And slavery half forgets her feudal chain;
He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord —
The long self-exiled chieftain is restored:
There be bright faces in the busy hall,
Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall;
Far chequering o'er the pictured window, plays
The unwonted fagots' hospitable blaze;
And gay retainers gather round the hearth,
With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth.

II.

The chief of Lara is return'd again:
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main?
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know,
Lord of himself; — that heritage of woe,
That fearful empire which the human breast
But holds to rob the heart within of rest! —
With none to check, and few to point in time
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime;
Then, when he most required commandment, then
Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men.
It skills not, boots not, step by step to trace
His youth through all the mazes of its race;
Short was the course his restlessness had run,
But long enough to leave him half undone.

III.

And Lara left in youth his fatherland;
But from the hour he waved his parting hand
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all
Had nearly ceased his memory to recall.
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare,
'Twas all they knew, that Lara was not there;
Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew
Cold in the many, anxious in the few.
His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name,
His portrait darkens in its fading frame,
Another chief consoled his destined bride,
The young forgot him, and the old had died;
"Yet doth he live!" exclaims the impatient heir,
And sighs for sables which he must not wear.

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poem by Byron
Added by Poetry Lover
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