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Richer Than Gold


You may have tangible wealth untold;

Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.

Richer than I you can never be...

I had a mother who read to me.


~Strickland Gillian~


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this was my favourite poem during my jr high!! its about dream! read it to the end to follow it.




by: John Keats (1795-1821)



Y heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:

'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,

But being too happy in thy happiness,--

That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,

In some melodious plot

Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,

Singest of summer in full-throated ease.




O for a draught of vintage that hath been

Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvèd earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country green,

Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!

O for a beaker full of warm South,

Full of the true, the blissful Hippocrene,

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

And purple-stainèd mouth;

That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,

And with thee fade away into the forest dim:



Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

What thou among the leaves hast never known,

The weariness, the fever, and the fret

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;

Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

And leaden-eyed despairs,

Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,

Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.




Away! away! for I will fly to thee,

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,

But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:

Already with thee! tender is the night,

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,

Clustered around by all her starry Fays;

But here there is no light,

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown

Through verdurous glooms and windless mossy ways.




I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,

But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet

Wherewith the seasonable month endows

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;

White hawthorne, and the pastoral eglantine;

Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;

And mid-May's eldest child,

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.




Darkling I listen; and for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath;

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

In such an ecstasy!

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain--

To thy high requiem become a sod.




Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

No hungry generations tread thee down;

The voice I hear this passing night was heard

In ancient days by emperor and clown:

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,

She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

The same that oft-times hath

Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.




Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

To toll me back from thee to my sole self!

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well

As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

Past the near meadows, over the still stream,

Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep

In the next valley-glades:

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music: -- Do I wake or sleep?

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The Spiteful Letter

by Lord Alfred Tennyson


Here, it is here, the close of the year,

And with it a spiteful letter.

My name in song has done him much wrong,

For himself has done much better


O little bard, is your lot so hard,

If men neglect your pages?

I think not much of yours or of mine,

I hear the roll of the ages.


Rhymes and rhymes in the range of the times!

Are mine for the moment stronger?

Yet hate me not, but abide your lot,

I last but a moment longer.


This faded leaf, our names are as brief;

What room is left for a hater?

Yet the yellow leaf hates the greener leaf,

For it hangs one moment later.


Greater than I -is that your cry?

And men will live to see it.

Well -if it be so -so it is, you know;

And if it be so, so be it.


Brief, brief is a summer leaf,

But this is the time of hollies.

O hollies and ivies and evergreens,

How I hate the spites and the follies!


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لولا رجائي



أبو تمام



ألَمْ يان٠تَرْكÙÙŠ لا عَلَيَّ Ùˆ لا Ù„Ù

وعزمي على ما يَا Ùيه إصلاح حالÙيا


وقد نال مني الشيب وابْيَضَّ Ù…Ùرقي

وغالت سوادي شهبة ÙÙŠ قذاليا


وحالت بي الحالات عما عهدتها

بكر الليالي والليالي كما هيا


Ø£ÙصَوّÙت٠بالدنيا وليست تجيبني

أحاول أن أبقى وكي٠بقائيا


وما تبرح الأيام تحذ٠مدتي

بÙعَدّ٠حساب لا كَعَدّ٠حسابيا


لتمحوَ آثاري وتخلق جدتي

وتخلي من ربعي بÙكرْه٠مكانيا


كما Ùعلت قبلي بطسم وجرهم

وآل ثمود بعد عاد٠بن عاديا


وأبقى صريعا بين أهلي جنازة

ويحوي ذوو الميراث خالصَ ماليا


أقول لنÙسي حين مالت بصغوها

إلى خطرات قد نتجن أمانيا


هبيني من الدنيا ظÙرت بكل ما

تمنيت أو أعطيت Ùوق أمانيا


أليس الليالي غاصباتي بمهجتي

كما غصبت قبلي القرون الخواليا


Ùˆ Ù…ÙسْكÙنَتÙÙŠ لَحْداً لدى Ø­Ùرة بها

يطول إلى أخرى الليالي ثوائيا


كما أسْكَنَتْ ساما وحاما وياÙثا

ونوحا ومن أضحى بمكة ثاويا


Ùقد آنست بالموت Ù†Ùسي لأنني

رأيت المنايا يخترمن حياتيا


Ùيا ليتني من بعد موتي ومبعثي

أكون رÙاتا لا علي ولا ليا


أخا٠الهي ثم أرجو نواله

ولكن خوÙÙŠ قاهر لرجائيا


ولولا رجائي واتكالي على الذي

توحَّد لي بالصنع كهلا و ناشيا


لما ساغ لي عذب من الماء بارد

ولا طاب لي عيش ولا زلت باكيا


على إثر ما قد كان مني صبابة

ليالي Ùيها كنت لله عاصيا


Ùإني جدير أن أخا٠وأتقي

وان كنت لم أشرك بذي العرش ثانيا

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is my new poems


Never say ur


when ur


Never say ur


when ur

not ok..

Never say u

feel good

when u

feel bad..

and Never say

ur alone, when..


Someone asked

me once

Have you ever

missed someone

so much?

it made me

stop & think

then i smiled




i was thinking


of YOU

i Miss You

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this one is my favorite;


Burning Drift-Wood


Before my drift-wood fire I sit,

And see, with every waif I burn,

Old dreams and fancies coloring it,

And folly's unlaid ghosts return.


O ships of mine, whose swift keels cleft

The enchanted sea on which they sailed,

Are these poor fragments only left

Of vain desires and hopes that failed?


Did I not watch from them the light

Of sunset on my towers in Spain,

And see, far off, uploom in sight

The Fortunate Isles I might not gain?


Did sudden lift of fog reveal

Arcadia's vales of song and spring,

And did I pass, with grazing keel,

The rocks whereon the sirens sing?


Have I not drifted hard upon

The unmapped regions lost to man,

The cloud-pitched tents of Prester John,

The palace domes of Kubla Khan?


Did land winds blow from jasmine flowers,

Where Youth the ageless Fountain fills?

Did Love make sign from rose blown bowers,

And gold from Eldorado's hills?


Alas! the gallant ships, that sailed

On blind Adventure's errand sent,

Howe'er they laid their courses, failed

To reach the haven of Content.


And of my ventures, those alone

Which Love had freighted, safely sped,

Seeking a good beyond my own,

By clear-eyed Duty piloted.


O mariners, hoping still to meet

The luck Arabian voyagers met,

And find in Bagdad's moonlit street,

Haroun al Raschid walking yet,


Take with you, on your Sea of Dreams,

The fair, fond fancies dear to youth.

I turn from all that only seems,

And seek the sober grounds of truth.


What matter that it is not May,

That birds have flown, and trees are bare,

That darker grows the shortening day,

And colder blows the wintry air!


The wrecks of passion and desire,

The castles I no more rebuild,

May fitly feed my drift-wood fire,

And warm the hands that age has chilled.


Whatever perished with my ships,

I only know the best remains;

A song of praise is on my lips

For losses which are now my gains.


Heap high my hearth! No worth is lost;

No wisdom with the folly dies.

Burn on, poor shreds, your holocaust

Shall be my evening sacrifice!


Far more than all I dared to dream,

Unsought before my door I see;

On wings of fire and steeds of steam

The world's great wonders come to me,


And holier signs, unmarked before,

Of Love to seek and Power to save,—

The righting of the wronged and poor,

The man evolving from the slave;


And life, no longer chance or fate,

Safe in the gracious Fatherhood.

I fold o'er-wearied hands and wait,

In full assurance of the good.


And well the waiting time must be,

Though brief or long its granted days,

If Faith and Hope and Charity

Sit by my evening hearth-fire's blaze.


And with them, friends whom Heaven has spared,

Whose love my heart has comforted,

And, sharing all my joys, has shared

My tender memories of the dead,—


Dear souls who left us lonely here,

Bound on their last, long voyage, to whom

We, day by day, are drawing near,

Where every bark has sailing room.


I know the solemn monotone

Of waters calling unto me;

I know from whence the airs have blown

That whisper of the Eternal Sea.


As low my fires of drift-wood burn,

I hear that sea's deep sounds increase,

And, fair in sunset light, discern

Its mirage-lifted Isles of Peace.




it is very long but worth the read :D .....

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You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

why are you beset with gloom?

'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise.


Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops.

Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don't you take it awful hard

'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Diggin' in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

you may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I'll rise.


Does my sexiness upset you?

does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame

I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise


Maya Angelou

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Author: Edgar Allan Poe


It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.


I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea;

But we loved with a love that was more than love -

I and my Annabel Lee;

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven

Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsman came

And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulcher

In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me

Yes! that was the reason

(as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.


But our love was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we

Of many far wiser than we

And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,

In the sepulcher there by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

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Poetry, the last frontier. Don't know much about it, can't decide if I want to learn more. But I did once read a touching poem on the London Underground, and it has stuck with me since.


Once after Pushkin


I loved you once.

D’you hear a small ‘I love you’

Each time we’re forced to meet?

Don’t groan, don’t hide!

A damaged tree can live without a bud;

No one need break the branches and uncover

The green that should have danced, dying inside.


I loved you, knowing I’d never be your lover.

And now? I wish you a summer of leaf-shine

And leaf-shade, and a face in dreams above you,

As tender and innocent as mine.

by Carol Rumens (b 1944 - )



^ Overwhelmingly poignant and the closest to a favourite for me.

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OhMY. I like it but it reminds me too much of a certain someone I just couldn't shake off. Poignant it may be from the writer's point of view but from the point of view of the non-reciprocating one..still get the shivers

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Here is a selection of poems i have seen n s.o.l or the net that i have enjoyed, these are some but by al means not all.



To my One and Only


My first and last stab at poetry ;)


Dont forget me


My Favourite Poem. Excellent articulation and descriptions, the mssge or story the writer was putting across was done brilliantly


Ya Allah




Excellent Poems


If your Happy and you Know it Bomb Iraq


Before the War on Iraq, a sartircal but accurate reflection of the events that have now unfolded and the reasons behind them


A Challenge rom the Heart




Dont wanna be a Farah no More


Qaulity entertainment lol


Amiri Baraka-someone Blue up america


Brave Effort :cool:

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George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788–1824)


When We Two Parted


When we two parted

In silence and tears,

Half broken-hearted

To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

Colder thy kiss;

Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this.


The dew of the morning

Sunk chill on my brow—

It felt like the warning

Of what I feel now.

Thy vows are all broken,

And light is thy fame;

I hear thy name spoken,

And share in its shame.


They name thee before me,

A knell to mine ear;

A shudder comes o'er me—

Why wert thou so dear?

They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee too well—

Long, long shall I rue thee,

To deeply to tell.


In secret we met—

In silence I grieve,

That thy heart could forget,

Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee?—

With silence and tears.

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