I am a young passionate blogger, very passionate to learn about , something different, on research
Let you not say of me when I am old, In pretty worship of my withered hands Forgetting who I am, and how the sands
By prashant sapkota3 years ago in Poets
Haggard as if resurgent from a tomb, The moon uprears her ghastly, shrunken head, Crowned with such light as flares upon the dead
Go, faithful Portrait! and where long hath knelt Margaret, the Saintly Foundress, take thy place; And, if Time spare the colours for the grace
Ye shadowy forms, again ye're drawing near, So wont of yore to meet my troubled gaze! Were it in vain to seek to keep you here?
Storm, strong with all the bitter heart of hate, Smote England, now nineteen dark years ago, As when the tide's full wrath in seaward flow
What can I give you, my lord, my lover, You who have given the world to me, Showed me the light and the joy that cover
We gentler grow by sorrow; not the breast That never crouches in the nights of tears, That never bends beneath the loads of years,
Only a breath - hardly a breath! The shore Is still a huddled alabaster floor Of shelving ice and shattered slabs of cold,
In a mansion grand, just over the way Lives bonny, beautiful Dell; You may have heard of this lady gay,
As one who, long by wasting sickness worn, Weary has watched the lingering night, and heard Unmoved the carol of the matin bird
The solemn Sea of Silence lies between us; I know thou livest, and them lovest me, And yet I wish some white ship would come sailing
The Puppy cannot mew or talk, He has a funny kind of walk, His tail is diffiult tco wag And that's what makes him walk zigzag.