Ask not the cause why sullen spring (John Henry Dryden Poems)
Ask not the cause why sullen springSo long delays her flow'rs to bear;Why warbling birds forget to sing,And winter storms ...
Ask not the cause why sullen springSo long delays her flow'rs to bear;Why warbling birds forget to sing,And winter storms ...
You are the apple of my eye,My heart's delight:I am remote from my valley,To me you are the Burning Bush ...
Friends have I in Bohemia three —My pipe, my dog, myself, you seeWe make a jolly trinity —We three are ...
The poet sits and dreams and dreams;He scans his verse; he probes his themes.Then turns to stretch or stir about,Lest, ...
Sighed a poet when his fameAfter fifty winters cameAnd the Editors were asking for his rhyme:Alas, I've lost my chanceAs ...
It chanced one day, in the middle of May, There came to the great King SploshA policeman, who said, while ...
'Twas a Venerable Person, whom I met one Sunday morning,All appareled as a prophet of a melancholy sect;And in a ...
this man used to be aninteresting writer,he was able to say brisk andrefreshing things.at the timeI suggested to the editors ...
what? they say, "you got acomputer?"it's like I have sold out tothe enemy.I had no idea so manypeople were prejudicedagainstcomputers.even ...
this is great, I just wrote twopoems I didn't like.there is a trash can on thiscomputer.I just moved the poemsoverand ...
There was once a young man quite erratic Who lived all alone in an attic, He wrote ...
(a) they seek to celebrate the word not to bring their knives out on a poem dissecting it to find ...
When I die I don't care what happens to my body throw ashes in the air, scatter 'em in East ...
For Carl Solomon I I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves ...
To wash an Ethiope; He's wash'd, his gloomy skin a peaceful shade, For his white soul is made; And now, ...
Know you fair, on what you look; Divinest love lies in this book, Expecting fire from your eyes, To kindle ...
The end of spring-- the poet is brooding about editors. (Yosa Buson)
I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny they are small, ...
I can remember starving in a small room in a strange city shades pulled down, listening to classical music I ...
"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land, "This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." In the afternoon they ...
The sudden death of Eugene Carman Put me in line to be promoted to fifty dollars a month, And I ...
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