Passonate writing and love writing poems
The infant lies in blessed ease Upon his mother's breast; No storm, no dark, the baby sees Invade his heaven of rest.
By Bg Das3 years ago in Poets
Syren of sullen moods and fading hues, Yet haply not incapable of joy, Sweet Autumn! I thee hail With welcome all unfeigned;
A house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master, With doors that none but the wind ever closes, Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster;
One yestereve, in the waning light, When the wind was still and the gloaming bright, There came a breath from a far countrie,
We may roam thro' this world, like a child at a feast, Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest; And, when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east,
"Sweet! Sweet! Come, come and eat, Dear little girls With yellow curls; For here you'll find Sweets to your mind.
Down on the Lumbee river Where the eddies ripple cool Your boat, I know, glides stealthily
A florist - wit had run a rig - Had set his fancy on a pig; Which followed master like a dog, And petted was, although a hog.
So Davies wrote: "This leaves me in the pink." Then scrawled his name: "Your loving sweetheart, Willie." With crosses for a hug. He'd had a drink
Could we dig up this long-buried treasure, Were it worth the pleasure, We never could learn love's song, We are parted too long.
Ay! gloriously thou standest there, Beautiful, boundles firmament! That, swelling wide o'er earth and air, And round the horizon bent,
Well, Mabel, 'tis over and ended - The ball I wrote was to be; And oh! it was perfectly splendid - If you could have been here to see.