Old Town Types No. 5 – Mr Mead The Printer (C J Dennis Poems)
Mr Mead, the printer -- so the townsfolk called him; But never in his presence since his reign began;Such a ...
Mr Mead, the printer -- so the townsfolk called him; But never in his presence since his reign began;Such a ...
Led by Wilhelm, as you tell,God has done extremely well;You with patronizing nodShow that you approve of God.Kaiser, face a ...
I START the day with paper white, And put it in my old machine, And wonder whether, as I write ...
I AM two brothers with one face, So which is the real man who can trace? (My wrongs are raging ...
Forever: 'tis a single word! Our rude forefathers deemed it two:Can you imagine so absurd A view?"Forever"! What ...
There's not a resolution passed beneath the gavel's head;There is no tale however true, no tribute, vote or plea;There are ...
WHY is it that the poet tells So little of the sense of smell? These are the odors I love ...
Morning paper? Here you are!Morning papers everywhere-Bed or breakfast-tram or car.'Nothing in it.' But it's there.Banging bombs and sweating men-Nights ...
The Body of Benjamin Franklin (Printer)(Like the cover of an old bookIts contents torn outAnd stript of its lettering and ...
I WROTE some lines once on a time In wondrous merry mood, And thought, as usual, men would say They ...
Taut, thick fingers punch the teeth of my typewriter. Three words are down on paper in capitals: SPRING SPRING SPRING... ...
To think that Spinoza died polishing eyeglasses. That Blake got tired at a printer's shop waiting for that day's conversation ...
Land lies in water; it is shadowed green. Shadows, or are they shallows, at its edges showing the line of ...
A goddess, with a siren's grace,-- A sun-haired girl on a craggy place Above a bay where fish-boats lay Drifting ...
1 AFTER all, not to create only, or found only, But to bring, perhaps from afar, what is already founded, ...
I was never a film buff, give me Widmark and Wayne any day Saturday matin?es with Margaret Gardener still hold ...
1 STARTING from fish-shape Paumanok, where I was born, Well-begotten, and rais'd by a perfect mother; After roaming many lands-lover ...
I do not write for love of pelf, Nor lust for phantom fame; I do not rhyme to please myself, ...
My garden hath a slender path With ivy overgrown, A secret place where once would pace A pot all alone; ...
You see that sheaf of slender books Upon the topmost shelf, At which no browser ever looks, Because they're by ...
1 Some day soon this rhyming volume, if you learn with proper speed, Little Louis Sanchez, will be given you ...
© 2020 Inspirational Stories