He stepped back and threw his arms out."I'm always crazy around you Rose. Here, I'm going to write an impromptu poem for you."He tipped his head back and shouted to the sky:"Rose is in redBut never in blueSharp as a thornFights like one too.
Unable and crippled I amAs I gaze into the vastnessThe vastness that harbors your praiseAnd glories of the best of creation...If I tried to spell..A drop of ink from your loveMa quill would burn in shamefor your love match no words...ya rasoolullah!
Nainen kerää kourat täyteen heinäsirkkoja,sudenkorentoja, kunnes eksyy yhä syvemmälleyhä paremmin eksyyeikä halua pois, sillä pedotvenyttelevät jäseniään janostavat kuonon kohti taivasta.
I have been one acquainted with the night.I have walked out in rain - and back in rain.I have outwalked the furthest city light.I have looked down the saddest city lane.I have passed by the watchman on his beatAnd dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
Tumbling-hair picker of buttercups violetsdandelionsAnd the big bullying daisies through the field wonderfulwith eyes a little sorryAnother comes also picking flowers
Standing is stupid, Crawling's a curse, Skipping is silly,Walking is worse.Hopping is hopeless,Jumping's a chore,Sitting is senseless, Leaning's a bore.Running's ridiculous,Jogging's insane-Guess I'll go upstairs andLie down again.
Gle malu voćku poslije kiše:Puna je kapi pa ih njiše.I bliješti suncem obasjana,Čudesna raskoš njenih grana.Al nek se sunce malko skrije,Nestane sve te čarolije.Ona je opet kao prvo,Obično, jadno, malo drvo.
Since ever the world was spinningAnd till the world shall endYou've your man in the beginningOr you have him in the end,But to have him from start to finishAnd neither nor borrow nor lendIs what all of the girls are wantingAnd none of the gods can send
ويهزني صحوى .. فافتقدكولكن بلا جدوىبلا جدوى ..
Through the darkest hours of the nightand through the dreamers realm I seek,Far beyond the starry skyand beyond galaxies I am free.Through the grimmest memoriesand past a seasons air I cannot breathe,Far beyond this mortal worldin an afterlife we shall meet.
Don't be polite.Bite in.Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice that may run down your chin. It is ready and ripe now, whenever you are. You do not need a knife or fork or spoon.For there is no coreor stemor rindor pitor seedor skinto throw away.
A perfect poem owes its perfection to sounding the voice of the heart and the melodies of the conscience, as well as its ability to reflect the considerations, beliefs, opinions, and horizons of thought of the poet, but not due to its formal or mental aspects.
The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest— Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast.
I would say poetry is language charged with emotion. It's words, rhythmically organized . . . A poem is a complete little universe. It exists separately. Any poem that has any worth expresses the whole life of the poet. It gives a view of what the poet is.
