I love my passon for writing poems, and more creative works
t r It is not the lark's clear tone Cleaving the morning air with a soaring cry, Nor the nightingale's dulcet melody all the balmy night -
By 11 months ago in Poets
In the heicht o' the foray Sir Raif got a clour, Sir Raif the regairdless, In battle sae dour. O cleanly the saddle
April. You hearken, my fellow, Old slumberer down in my heart? There's a whooping of ice in the rivers; The sap feels a start.
There dwells a wife by the Northern Gate, And a wealthy wife is she; She breeds a breed o' rovin' men And casts them over sea.
Oh! thou bright-beaming god, the plains are thirsting, Thirsting for freshening dew, and man is pining; Wearily move on thy horses
He handed his life a poisoned draught, With a scornful smile and a cold, cold glance, And the merry bystanders loudly laughed
By 12 months ago in Poets
"I was born in Indiany," says a stranger, lank and slim, As us fellers in the restarunt was kindo' guyin' him,
The Autumn day now fades away, The fields are wet and dreary; The rude storm takes the flowers of May,
To sit in silence when we should protest Makes cowards out of men. The human race Has climbed on protest. Had no voice been raised
Poets, your subjects have their parts assign'd To unbend, and to divert their sovereign's mind: When tired with following nature, you think fit
Under the maple boughs we sat, Annie Leslie and I together; She was trimming her sea-side hat
Beside a cottage-door, Sang Ella at her wheel; Ruthven rode o'er the moor, Down at her feet to kneel:
