Emily Dickinson
We think of hidden in a white dress
among the folded linens and sachets
of well-kept cupboards, or just out of sight
sending jellies and notes with no address
to all the wondering Amherst neighbors.
Eccentric as New England weather
the stiff wind of her mind, stinging or gentle,
blew two half imagined lovers off.
Yet legend won't explain the sheer sanity
of vision, the serious mischief
of language, the economy of pain.
poem by Linda Pastan
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Related quotes
A Day at the Office (Minimum Wage)
I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
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And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Im A Legend Tonight
Ive been working at my job, slaving like a dog all day
And Ive been thinking about you, girl
And watching the minutes slip away
Yeah, and I know theres someone inside me that nobody sees
And I know in the darkness youre gonna be reaching for me
Im a legend tonight
Gonna make you feel right
When you reach for the light
Im a legend tonight
Im a legend tonight, legend
Gonna make you feel right, legend
When you reach for the light, legend
Im a legend tonight
You know they try to slow me, sometimes I think Im gonna stop
But I gotta keep on going, believing in 5 o clock, yeah
And on the edge of the darkness well be living in another world
And I know that a part of yous gonna be part of me, girl
Im a legend tonight, legend
Gonna make you feel right, legend
When you reach for the light, legend
Im a legend tonight, legend
Im a legend tonight, legend
Gonna make you feel right, legend
When you reach for the light, legend
Im a legend tonight
Look at me
I dont know what happens when the race is run
I dont know what tells me if Ive lost or won
But I know that Ill make it through the day alright
And girl, youre gonna find out
Im a legend tonight, legend
Gonna make you feel right, legend
When you reach for the light, legend
Im a legend tonight, legend
Im a legend tonight, legend
Gonna make you feel right, legend
When you reach for the light, legend
Im a legend tonight, legend
Im a legend tonight, legend
Gonna make you feel right, legend
When you reach for the light, legend
Im a legend tonight, legend
Im a legend tonight, legend
Gonna make you feel right, legend
When you reach for the light, legend
Im a legend tonight, legend
song performed by Kiss
Added by Lucian Velea
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The White Cliffs
I
I have loved England, dearly and deeply,
Since that first morning, shining and pure,
The white cliffs of Dover I saw rising steeply
Out of the sea that once made her secure.
I had no thought then of husband or lover,
I was a traveller, the guest of a week;
Yet when they pointed 'the white cliffs of Dover',
Startled I found there were tears on my cheek.
I have loved England, and still as a stranger,
Here is my home and I still am alone.
Now in her hour of trial and danger,
Only the English are really her own.
II
It happened the first evening I was there.
Some one was giving a ball in Belgrave Square.
At Belgrave Square, that most Victorian spot.—
Lives there a novel-reader who has not
At some time wept for those delightful girls,
Daughters of dukes, prime ministers and earls,
In bonnets, berthas, bustles, buttoned basques,
Hiding behind their pure Victorian masks
Hearts just as hot - hotter perhaps than those
Whose owners now abandon hats and hose?
Who has not wept for Lady Joan or Jill
Loving against her noble parent's will
A handsome guardsman, who to her alarm
Feels her hand kissed behind a potted palm
At Lady Ivry's ball the dreadful night
Before his regiment goes off to fight;
And see him the next morning, in the park,
Complete in busbee, marching to embark.
I had read freely, even as a child,
Not only Meredith and Oscar Wilde
But many novels of an earlier day—
Ravenshoe, Can You Forgive Her?, Vivien Grey,
Ouida, The Duchess, Broughton's Red As a Rose,
Guy Livingstone, Whyte-Melville— Heaven knows
What others. Now, I thought, I was to see
Their habitat, though like the Miller of Dee,
I cared for none and no one cared for me.
III
A light blue carpet on the stair
And tall young footmen everywhere,
Tall young men with English faces
Standing rigidly in their places,
Rows and rows of them stiff and staid
[...] Read more
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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These Are Our Neighbors
Offered are no alternatives.
But complaints are voiced and heard.
Suggestions they have none.
But they come with venom,
On their tongues.
Exposing the teeth of wolves...
Seeking tender meat,
To consume and run!
These are my neighbors.
These are your neighbors.
These are our neighbors...
Every one.
These are my neighbors.
These are your neighbors.
These are our neighbors...
Every one.
Knockingdownwhatcanbefoundtogetnothin gdone.
Takingoutofcontextwithawishfailurecomes!
And these are my neighbors.
These are your neighbors.
These are our neighbors...
Every one.
Yes these are my neighbors.
These are your neighbors.
And these are our neighbors...
Every one.
Pickinguptheirtelephonestogossipwithm orelies.
Hopingwhatissaidwillkeepthetruthindis guise.
To keep deceit and defeat on the rise!
And...
These are my neighbors.
These are your neighbors.
These are our neighbors...
Every one.
Yes...
These are my neighbors.
These are your neighbors.
These are our neighbors...
Every one.
Offered are no alternatives.
But complaints are voiced and heard.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The House Of Dust: Complete
I.
The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.
The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:
And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.
A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.
Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.
And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams,
The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street,
And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain.
The purple lights leap down the hill before him.
The gorgeous night has begun again.
'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams,
I will hold my light above them and seek their faces.
I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .'
The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness,
Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest,
Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains.
We hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music,
Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard;
We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight,
We pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair,
With laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word;
We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer
Moves among us like light, like evening air . . .
Good-night! Good-night! Good-night! We go our ways,
The rain runs over the pavement before our feet,
The cold rain falls, the rain sings.
We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces
To what the eternal evening brings.
Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid,
We have built a tower of stone high into the sky,
We have built a city of towers.
Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness.
Our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . .
What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . .
Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . .
And after a while they will fall to dust and rain;
Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands;
And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again.
II.
[...] Read more
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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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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Canto the Second
I
Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,
Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain,
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions,
It mends their morals, never mind the pain:
The best of mothers and of educations
In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain,
Since, in a way that's rather of the oddest, he
Became divested of his native modesty.
II
Had he but been placed at a public school,
In the third form, or even in the fourth,
His daily task had kept his fancy cool,
At least, had he been nurtured in the north;
Spain may prove an exception to the rule,
But then exceptions always prove its worth -—
A lad of sixteen causing a divorce
Puzzled his tutors very much, of course.
III
I can't say that it puzzles me at all,
If all things be consider'd: first, there was
His lady-mother, mathematical,
A—never mind; his tutor, an old ass;
A pretty woman (that's quite natural,
Or else the thing had hardly come to pass);
A husband rather old, not much in unity
With his young wife—a time, and opportunity.
IV
Well—well, the world must turn upon its axis,
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails,
And live and die, make love and pay our taxes,
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails;
The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us,
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales,
A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame,
Fighting, devotion, dust,—perhaps a name.
V
I said that Juan had been sent to Cadiz -—
A pretty town, I recollect it well -—
'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is
(Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel),
And such sweet girls—I mean, such graceful ladies,
Their very walk would make your bosom swell;
I can't describe it, though so much it strike,
Nor liken it—I never saw the like:
[...] Read more
poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Courtship of Miles Standish
I
MILES STANDISH
In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims
To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,
Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather,
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.
Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing
Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare,
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, --
Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus,
Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence,
While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock.
Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,
Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron;
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already
Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.
Near him was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion,
Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window:
Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion,
Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives
Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, "Not Angles, but Angels."
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower.
Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting,
Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth.
"Look at these arms," he said, "the war-like weapons that hang here
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!
This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate,
Well I remember the day! once save my life in a skirmish;
Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet
Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero.
Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish
Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses."
Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:
"Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet;
He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!"
Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling:
"See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging;
That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.
Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage;
So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.
Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army,
Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock,
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage,
And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!"
This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams
Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment.
Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued:
"Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Added by Poetry Lover
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Suicide Lovers
suicide lovers 6x
suicide lovers are always there in the dark still together
still huging eachother still holding eachother up
suicide lovers are the only ones in the dark
shering ther feeling and shering ther thoughts
feeling pain and feeling love thinking about dieing
and thinking about been with eachotherno matter what
they talk about how there going to die together
holding hands and deareming about the day that comes
suicide lovers are the only ones int he dark still
hugging eachother and holding eachother up dreaming
about love and dreaming about the heart when it stops
we all die and we'll never give it up they think life has no point
theres nothing in the worldfor them exept for eachother
ther thinking about having a baby and dieing together
suicide lovers have a babythere baby is growing up good
and strong. healthy and stands up for herself the
she finds a guy just like her they are together forevere
they will never give it up ther love becomes pure and up ther
thinking about marriageand having a baby of there own
they have a son there dreams come truethey will call him
skyler a name they both like, they are thinking about another
baby so they have a girl and call her carli they thought that carli was
a goog name for there child skyler and carli are getting along
one is 17 and one is 21, damb they grow ou fast and strong
i cant belive what they been throug years dreaming and thinking
the world of each other they both find ther one and the both
are happy so they will be together forever! !
suicide lovers, suicide lovers, suicide lovers
suicide suicide i already diiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeedddddd...... loverrrrrrrrrrrrrss
suicide lovers suicide lovers are always in the dark
suicide lovers 6x
suicide lovers are always there in the dark still together
still huging eachother still holding eachother up
suicide lovers are the only ones in the dark
shering ther feeling and shering ther thoughts
feeling pain and feeling love thinking about dieing
and thinking about been with eachotherno matter what
they talk about how there going to die together
holding hands and deareming about the day that comes
suicide lovers are the only ones int he dark still
hugging eachother and holding eachother up dreaming
about love and dreaming about the heart when it stops
we all die and we'll never give it up they think life has no point
theres nothing in the worldfor them exept for eachother
ther thinking about having a baby and dieing together
[...] Read more
poem by Valya Madden
Added by Poetry Lover
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Courtship of Miles Standish, The
I
MILES STANDISH
In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims
To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,
Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather,
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.
Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing
Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare,
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, --
Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus,
Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence,
While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock.
Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,
Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron;
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already
Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.
Near him was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion,
Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window:
Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion,
Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives
Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, "Not Angles, but Angels."
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower.
Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting,
Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth.
"Look at these arms," he said, "the war-like weapons that hang here
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!
This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate,
Well I remember the day! once save my life in a skirmish;
Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet
Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero.
Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish
Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses."
Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:
"Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet;
He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!"
Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling:
"See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging;
That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.
Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage;
So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.
Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army,
Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock,
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage,
And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!"
This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams
Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment.
Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued:
"Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Added by Poetry Lover
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Tamar
I
A night the half-moon was like a dancing-girl,
No, like a drunkard's last half-dollar
Shoved on the polished bar of the eastern hill-range,
Young Cauldwell rode his pony along the sea-cliff;
When she stopped, spurred; when she trembled, drove
The teeth of the little jagged wheels so deep
They tasted blood; the mare with four slim hooves
On a foot of ground pivoted like a top,
Jumped from the crumble of sod, went down, caught, slipped;
Then, the quick frenzy finished, stiffening herself
Slid with her drunken rider down the ledges,
Shot from sheer rock and broke
Her life out on the rounded tidal boulders.
The night you know accepted with no show of emotion the little
accident; grave Orion
Moved northwest from the naked shore, the moon moved to
meridian, the slow pulse of the ocean
Beat, the slow tide came in across the slippery stones; it drowned
the dead mare's muzzle and sluggishly
Felt for the rider; Cauldwell’s sleepy soul came back from the
blind course curious to know
What sea-cold fingers tapped the walls of its deserted ruin.
Pain, pain and faintness, crushing
Weights, and a vain desire to vomit, and soon again
die icy fingers, they had crept over the loose hand and lay in the
hair now. He rolled sidewise
Against mountains of weight and for another half-hour lay still.
With a gush of liquid noises
The wave covered him head and all, his body
Crawled without consciousness and like a creature with no bones,
a seaworm, lifted its face
Above the sea-wrack of a stone; then a white twilight grew about
the moon, and above
The ancient water, the everlasting repetition of the dawn. You
shipwrecked horseman
So many and still so many and now for you the last. But when it
grew daylight
He grew quite conscious; broken ends of bone ground on each
other among the working fibers
While by half-inches he was drawing himself out of the seawrack
up to sandy granite,
Out of the tide's path. Where the thin ledge tailed into flat cliff
he fell asleep. . . .
Far seaward
The daylight moon hung like a slip of cloud against the horizon.
The tide was ebbing
From the dead horse and the black belt of sea-growth. Cauldwell
seemed to have felt her crying beside him,
[...] Read more
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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What Becomes A Legend Most
What becomes a legend most
When shes alone in a hotel lobby
What becomes a legend most
Some bad champagne and some foreign bottled beer
What becomes a legend most
When the musicians have come and then leave her
What becomes a legend most
Besides being a legendary star
What becomes a legend most
Lying in bed cold and regal
What becomes a legend most
Lying in bed watching a talk show on tv
What becomes a legend most
Fifty days in fifty cities
And everyone says she looks pretty
At least as pretty as a legend should
Fifty days can wear you down
Fifty cities flying by
A different man in each different hotel
And if youre not careful, word can get around
What becomes a legend most
Not a bed, that is half empty
Not a heart, that is left empty
Thats not pretty, not pretty at all
What becomes a legend most
When shes lying in her hotel room
What becomes a legend most
Well baby, tonight its you (tonight its you)
Baby, tonight its you
(what becomes a legend most, sha-la-la-la-la) baby, its you
(what becomes a legend most, sha-la-la-la-la) maybe tomorrow
(what becomes a legend most, sha-la-la-la-la) baby, its you
(what becomes a legend most, sha-la-la-la-la)
(what becomes a legend most, sha-la-la-la-la)
(what becomes a legend most, sha-la-la-la-la)
(what becomes a legend most, sha-la-la-la-la)
(what becomes a legend most, sha-la-la-la-la)
song performed by Lou Reed
Added by Lucian Velea
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Give Your Heart To The Hawks
1 he apples hung until a wind at the equinox,
That heaped the beach with black weed, filled the dry grass
Under the old trees with rosy fruit.
In the morning Fayne Fraser gathered the sound ones into a
basket,
The bruised ones into a pan. One place they lay so thickly
She knelt to reach them.
Her husband's brother passing
Along the broken fence of the stubble-field,
His quick brown eyes took in one moving glance
A little gopher-snake at his feet flowing through the stubble
To gain the fence, and Fayne crouched after apples
With her mop of red hair like a glowing coal
Against the shadow in the garden. The small shapely reptile
Flowed into a thicket of dead thistle-stalks
Around a fence-post, but its tail was not hidden.
The young man drew it all out, and as the coil
Whipped over his wrist, smiled at it; he stepped carefully
Across the sag of the wire. When Fayne looked up
His hand was hidden; she looked over her shoulder
And twitched her sunburnt lips from small white teeth
To answer the spark of malice in his eyes, but turned
To the apples, intent again. Michael looked down
At her white neck, rarely touched by the sun,
But now the cinnabar-colored hair fell off from it;
And her shoulders in the light-blue shirt, and long legs like a boy's
Bare-ankled in blue-jean trousers, the country wear;
He stooped quietly and slipped the small cool snake
Up the blue-denim leg. Fayne screamed and writhed,
Clutching her thigh. 'Michael, you beast.' She stood up
And stroked her leg, with little sharp cries, the slender invader
Fell down her ankle.
Fayne snatched for it and missed;
Michael stood by rejoicing, his rather small
Finely cut features in a dance of delight;
Fayne with one sweep flung at his face
All the bruised and half-spoiled apples in the pan,
[...] Read more
poem by Robinson Jeffers
Added by Poetry Lover
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Sending Me Angels
(frankie miller/ jerry lynn williams)
Producer for bonnie: gene capel
I walked down to the river
Stood on the shore
Seems like the devils always
Tryin to get in my door
Just when I thought
I couldnt take anymore
You come again, my friend
He keeps sending me angels
From up on high
He keeps sending me angels
Teach me to fly
He keeps sending me angels
Sweet and true
He keeps sending me angels
Just like you
As I stand on this mountain
Face to the wind
Amazed by the number of times
You go and sin
The countless enemies
That couldve been friends
Oh here he comes again
*he keeps sending me angels
Here they come a flyin
He keeps sending me angels
To keep me from cryin
(he keeps) sending me angels
So Ill never he blue
He keeps sending me angels
Just like you
He keeps sending me angels
From up on high
He keeps sending me angels
Teach me to fly
He keeps sending me angels
So Ill never be blue
He keeps sending me angels
Lust like you
Some say that its comin
Say its already here
But love is among us
Through the joy and the fear
When I look in your eyes
Everything is so clear
My friend, here it comes again
(*repeat)
** he keeps sending me angels
From up on high
[...] Read more
song performed by Bonnie Tyler
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Ballad of the White Horse
DEDICATION
Of great limbs gone to chaos,
A great face turned to night--
Why bend above a shapeless shroud
Seeking in such archaic cloud
Sight of strong lords and light?
Where seven sunken Englands
Lie buried one by one,
Why should one idle spade, I wonder,
Shake up the dust of thanes like thunder
To smoke and choke the sun?
In cloud of clay so cast to heaven
What shape shall man discern?
These lords may light the mystery
Of mastery or victory,
And these ride high in history,
But these shall not return.
Gored on the Norman gonfalon
The Golden Dragon died:
We shall not wake with ballad strings
The good time of the smaller things,
We shall not see the holy kings
Ride down by Severn side.
Stiff, strange, and quaintly coloured
As the broidery of Bayeux
The England of that dawn remains,
And this of Alfred and the Danes
Seems like the tales a whole tribe feigns
Too English to be true.
Of a good king on an island
That ruled once on a time;
And as he walked by an apple tree
There came green devils out of the sea
With sea-plants trailing heavily
And tracks of opal slime.
Yet Alfred is no fairy tale;
His days as our days ran,
He also looked forth for an hour
On peopled plains and skies that lower,
From those few windows in the tower
That is the head of a man.
But who shall look from Alfred's hood
[...] Read more
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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Shockwaves
(bill wray/diana ross/mark cawley)
Bloodpressures rising
Cant catch my breath
Everytime I hear footsteps coming nearer
These strange vibrations
I cant resist
The feeling scares me so
I lose control
My head is shaking
And my knees are weak
I feel the ground moving under me
Youre sending
Youre sending me shockwaves, shockwaves
Youre sending
Youre sending me shockwaves, shockwaves
This strong sensation
Is burning in me
Everytime I hear you whisper in my ear
Got to have hold of my heart
Like gravity I cant try to hide it
No way to fight it
My hands are shaking
And my knees are weak
I feel the ground moving under me
Youre sending
Youre sending me shockwaves, shockwaves
Youre sending
Youre sending me shockwaves, shockwaves
Youre sending
Youre sending me shockwaves, shockwaves
Youre sending me
Youre sending me shockwaves, shockwaves
Heaven knows I tried
To keep my sanity
But mama never told me
What a man like you could do to me
Hey shockwaves
Hey shockwaves
Youre sending, youre sending me shockwaves
Youre sending, youre sending me shockwaves
Youre sending, youre sending me shockwaves
Youre sending, youre sending me shockwaves
song performed by Diana Ross
Added by Lucian Velea
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Stiff Upper Lip
(young - young)
Well I was out on a drive
On a bit of a trip
Lookin for thrills
To get me some kicks
Now I warn you ladies
I shoot from the hip
I was born with a stiff
Stiff upper lip
Like a dog in a howl
I bite everything
And Im big and Im drawl
And Ill ball your thing
I keep a stiff upper lip
And I shoot from the hip
I keep a stiff upper lip
And I shoot
And I shoot
Shoot from the hip
Yeah I shoot from the hip
Now listen
Well Im workin it out
And Ive done everything
And I cant reform no
Can you feel my sting
Babe I keep a stiff upper lip
And I shoot from the hip, yeah
I keep a stiff upper lip
And I shoot
And I shoot
And I shoot, shoot, shoot
Shoot from the hip
Well Im out on the prowl
And Ill ball your thing
I got the teeth thatll bite you
Can you feel my sting
Babe I keep a stiff upper lip
And I shoot from the hip
I keep a stiff upper lip
And I shoot shoot shoot from the hip
I got a (stiff upper lip)
Better believe me (stiff upper lip)
Comin down (stiff upper lip)
See my (stiff upper lip)
Yeah I got a (stiff upper lip)
Stiff upper lip
Stiff upper lip
I got a stiff upper lip
I got a stiff upper lip
Stiff upper lip
[...] Read more
song performed by AC-DC
Added by Lucian Velea
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A Stinging From A Venomous Tongue
What's been done...
Will always come back to be,
Left for another...
To be delivered,
And...received.
With a stinging from a venomous tongue.
And a stunning meaning to leave stung.
What's been done...
Will always come back to be,
Left for another...
To be delivered,
And...received.
With a stinging from a venomous tongue.
And a stunning meaning to leave stung.
And,
Deserved...
When,
Someone gets to receive...
A stunning meaning to leave stung.
From,
A stinging from a venomous tongue.
A stinging from a venomous tongue.
And,
Deserved...
When someone gets to receive,
A...
Stunning meaning to leave stung.
From...
Someone with a venomous tongue.
And a stinging of it meant to be done.
It's...
Deserved!
When someone gets to receive,
A...
Stunning meaning to leave stung.
From...
Someone with a venomous tongue.
And a stinging of it meant to be done.
A stinging of it meant to be done.
It's...
Deserved!
When someone gets to receive,
A stinging from a venomous tongue.
And a stinging of it meant to be done.
From someone with a venomous tongue.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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Get Stiff Quick
When your backbone bends,
And your vision dims...
You've got to,
Get stiff.
Get stiff quick.
When you know you need to move,
From foolish doers...
Get stiff.
Get stiff quick.
No need to put up more with that funky stuff.
You've got to,
Get stiff.
Get stiff quick.
No need to ride a roller coaster,
You know was tough.
No need to do a shuffle singing those sad songs.
Or get along with others you wish from you gone!
Just,
Get stiff.
Get stiff quick.
You've got to,
Get stiff.
Get stiff quick!
When your backbone bends,
And your vision dims...
You've got to,
Get stiff.
Get stiff quick.
Mean what you say and be done with it.
You've got to,
Get stiff...
Get stiff quick!
Don't let just anything fall from your lips.
Or bite your tongue to let an old patience sit.
When you wish to make a point you know wont quit.
You've got to,
Get stiff.
Get stiff quick.
You've got to,
Get stiff.
Get stiff quick.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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Thurso’s Landing
I
The coast-road was being straightened and repaired again,
A group of men labored at the steep curve
Where it falls from the north to Mill Creek. They scattered and hid
Behind cut banks, except one blond young man
Who stooped over the rock and strolled away smiling
As if he shared a secret joke with the dynamite;
It waited until he had passed back of a boulder,
Then split its rock cage; a yellowish torrent
Of fragments rose up the air and the echoes bumped
From mountain to mountain. The men returned slowly
And took up their dropped tools, while a banner of dust
Waved over the gorge on the northwest wind, very high
Above the heads of the forest.
Some distance west of the road,
On the promontory above the triangle
Of glittering ocean that fills the gorge-mouth,
A woman and a lame man from the farm below
Had been watching, and turned to go down the hill. The young
woman looked back,
Widening her violet eyes under the shade of her hand. 'I think
they'll blast again in a minute.'
And the man: 'I wish they'd let the poor old road be. I don't
like improvements.' 'Why not?' 'They bring in the world;
We're well without it.' His lameness gave him some look of age
but he was young too; tall and thin-faced,
With a high wavering nose. 'Isn't he amusing,' she said, 'that
boy Rick Armstrong, the dynamite man,
How slowly he walks away after he lights the fuse. He loves to
show off. Reave likes him, too,'
She added; and they clambered down the path in the rock-face,
little dark specks
Between the great headland rock and the bright blue sea.
II
The road-workers had made their camp
North of this headland, where the sea-cliff was broken down and
sloped to a cove. The violet-eyed woman's husband,
Reave Thurso, rode down the slope to the camp in the gorgeous
autumn sundown, his hired man Johnny Luna
Riding behind him. The road-men had just quit work and four
or five were bathing in the purple surf-edge,
The others talked by the tents; blue smoke fragrant with food
and oak-wood drifted from the cabin stove-pipe
And slowly went fainting up the vast hill.
Thurso drew rein by
a group of men at a tent door
And frowned at them without speaking, square-shouldered and
heavy-jawed, too heavy with strength for so young a man,
He chose one of the men with his eyes. 'You're Danny Woodruff,
[...] Read more
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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