dhulQarnayn

Poem of the Day

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Returning, We Hear the Larks by Isaac Rosenberg

 

Sombre the night is:

And, though we have our lives, we know

What sinister threat lurks there.

 

Dragging these anguished limbs, we only know

This poison-blasted track opens on our camp—

On a little safe sleep.

 

But hark! Joy—joy—strange joy.

Lo! Heights of night ringing with unseen larks:

Music showering on our upturned listening faces.

 

Death could drop from the dark

As easily as song—

But song only dropped,

Like a blind man's dreams on the sand

By dangerous tides;

Like a girl's dark hair, for she dreams no ruin lies there,

Or her kisses where a serpent hides.

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The Music-Grinders by Oliver Wendell Holmes

 

THERE are three ways in which men take 

One's money from his purse, 

And very hard it is to tell 

Which of the three is worse; 

But all of them are bad enough        

To make a body curse.

 

You 're riding out some pleasant day, 

And counting up your gains; 

A fellow jumps from out a bush, 

And takes your horse's reins, 

Another hints some words about 

A bullet in your brains. 

  

It 's hard to meet such pressing friends 

In such a lonely spot; 

It 's very hard to lose your cash, 

But harder to be shot; 

And so you take your wallet out, 

Though you would rather not. 

  

Perhaps you 're going out to dine,— 

Some odious creature begs 

You 'll hear about the cannon-ball 

That carried off his pegs, 

And says it is a dreadful thing 

For men to lose their legs. 

  

He tells you of his starving wife, 

His children to be fed, 

Poor little, lovely innocents, 

All clamorous for bread,— 

And so you kindly help to put 

A bachelor to bed.

 

You 're sitting on your window-seat, 

Beneath a cloudless moon; 

You hear a sound, that seems to wear 

The semblance of a tune, 

As if a broken fife should strive 

To drown a cracked bassoon. 

  

And nearer, nearer still, the tide 

Of music seems to come, 

There 's something like a human voice, 

And something like a drum; 

You sit in speechless agony, 

Until your ear is numb. 

  

Poor "home, sweet home" should seem to be 

A very dismal place; 

Your "auld acquaintance" all at once 

Is altered in the face; 

Their discords sting through Burns and Moore, 

Like hedgehogs dressed in lace. 

  

You think they are crusaders, sent 

From some infernal clime, 

To pluck the eyes of Sentiment, 

And dock the tail of Rhyme, 

To crack the voice of Melody, 

And break the legs of Time. 

  

But hark! the air again is still, 

The music all is ground, 

And silence, like a poultice, comes 

To heal the blows of sound; 

It cannot be,—it is,—it is,— 

A hat is going round! 

  

No! Pay the dentist when he leaves 

A fracture in your jaw, 

And pay the owner of the bear 

That stunned you with his paw, 

And buy the lobster that has had 

Your knuckles in his claw; 

  

But if you are a portly man, 

Put on your fiercest frown, 

And talk about a constable 

To turn them out of town; 

Then close your sentence with an oath, 

And shut the window down!

  

And if you are a slender man, 

Not big enough for that, 

Or, if you cannot make a speech, 

Because you are a flat, 

Go very quietly and drop 

A button in the hat!

  

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Auguries of Innocence by William Blake

 

To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower 

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand 

And Eternity in an hour

A Robin Red breast in a Cage

Puts all Heaven in a Rage 

A Dove house filld with Doves & Pigeons

Shudders Hell thr' all its regions 

A dog starvd at his Masters Gate

Predicts the ruin of the State 

A Horse misusd upon the Road

Calls to Heaven for Human blood 

Each outcry of the hunted Hare

A fibre from the Brain does tear 

A Skylark wounded in the wing 

A Cherubim does cease to sing 

The Game Cock clipd & armd for fight

Does the Rising Sun affright 

Every Wolfs & Lions howl

Raises from Hell a Human Soul 

The wild deer, wandring here & there 

Keeps the Human Soul from Care 

The Lamb misusd breeds Public Strife

And yet forgives the Butchers knife 

The Bat that flits at close of Eve

Has left the Brain that wont Believe

The Owl that calls upon the Night

Speaks the Unbelievers fright

He who shall hurt the little Wren

Shall never be belovd by Men 

He who the Ox to wrath has movd

Shall never be by Woman lovd

The wanton Boy that kills the Fly

Shall feel the Spiders enmity 

He who torments the Chafers Sprite

Weaves a Bower in endless Night 

The Catterpiller on the Leaf

Repeats to thee thy Mothers grief 

Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly 

For the Last Judgment draweth nigh 

He who shall train the Horse to War

Shall never pass the Polar Bar 

The Beggars Dog & Widows Cat 

Feed them & thou wilt grow fat 

The Gnat that sings his Summers Song

Poison gets from Slanders tongue 

The poison of the Snake & Newt

Is the sweat of Envys Foot 

The poison of the Honey Bee

Is the Artists Jealousy

The Princes Robes & Beggars Rags

Are Toadstools on the Misers Bags 

A Truth thats told with bad intent

Beats all the Lies you can invent 

It is right it should be so 

Man was made for Joy & Woe 

And when this we rightly know 

Thro the World we safely go 

Joy & Woe are woven fine 

A Clothing for the soul divine 

Under every grief & pine

Runs a joy with silken twine 

The Babe is more than swadling Bands

Throughout all these Human Lands

Tools were made & Born were hands 

Every Farmer Understands

Every Tear from Every Eye

Becomes a Babe in Eternity 

This is caught by Females bright

And returnd to its own delight 

The Bleat the Bark Bellow & Roar 

Are Waves that Beat on Heavens Shore 

The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath

Writes Revenge in realms of Death 

The Beggars Rags fluttering in Air

Does to Rags the Heavens tear 

The Soldier armd with Sword & Gun 

Palsied strikes the Summers Sun

The poor Mans Farthing is worth more

Than all the Gold on Africs Shore

One Mite wrung from the Labrers hands

Shall buy & sell the Misers Lands 

Or if protected from on high 

Does that whole Nation sell & buy 

He who mocks the Infants Faith

Shall be mockd in Age & Death 

He who shall teach the Child to Doubt

The rotting Grave shall neer get out 

He who respects the Infants faith

Triumphs over Hell & Death 

The Childs Toys & the Old Mans Reasons

Are the Fruits of the Two seasons 

The Questioner who sits so sly 

Shall never know how to Reply 

He who replies to words of Doubt

Doth put the Light of Knowledge out 

The Strongest Poison ever known

Came from Caesars Laurel Crown 

Nought can Deform the Human Race

Like to the Armours iron brace 

When Gold & Gems adorn the Plow

To peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow 

A Riddle or the Crickets Cry

Is to Doubt a fit Reply 

The Emmets Inch & Eagles Mile

Make Lame Philosophy to smile 

He who Doubts from what he sees

Will neer Believe do what you Please 

If the Sun & Moon should Doubt 

Theyd immediately Go out 

To be in a Passion you Good may Do 

But no Good if a Passion is in you 

The Whore & Gambler by the State

Licencd build that Nations Fate 

The Harlots cry from Street to Street 

Shall weave Old Englands winding Sheet 

The Winners Shout the Losers Curse 

Dance before dead Englands Hearse 

Every Night & every Morn

Some to Misery are Born 

Every Morn and every Night

Some are Born to sweet delight 

Some are Born to sweet delight 

Some are Born to Endless Night 

We are led to Believe a Lie

When we see not Thro the Eye

Which was Born in a Night to perish in a Night 

When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light 

God Appears & God is Light

To those poor Souls who dwell in Night 

But does a Human Form Display

To those who Dwell in Realms of day

 

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A Psalm of Life  by Henry  Wadsworth Longfellow

What The Heart Of The Young Man Said To The Psalmist.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 

   Life is but an empty dream! 

For the soul is dead that slumbers, 

   And things are not what they seem. 

 

Life is real! Life is earnest! 

   And the grave is not its goal; 

Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 

   Was not spoken of the soul. 

 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

   Is our destined end or way; 

But to act, that each to-morrow 

   Find us farther than to-day. 

 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 

   And our hearts, though stout and brave, 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating 

   Funeral marches to the grave. 

 

In the world’s broad field of battle, 

   In the bivouac of Life, 

Be not like dumb, driven cattle! 

   Be a hero in the strife! 

 

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant! 

   Let the dead Past bury its dead! 

Act,— act in the living Present! 

   Heart within, and God o’erhead! 

 

Lives of great men all remind us 

   We can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us 

   Footprints on the sands of time; 

 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 

   Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 

   Seeing, shall take heart again. 

 

Let us, then, be up and doing, 

   With a heart for any fate; 

Still achieving, still pursuing, 

   Learn to labor and to wait.

 

 

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I love reading Sayidka poetry but in English as I understand that. I am fluent in Somali but I enjoy them more in Englsih. Sadly I haven't seen good sources.

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