I am a young passionate blogger, very passionate to learn about , something different, on research
Oh lend me thy hand in the darkness, Lead me once more to the light, Bear with my folly and weakness, Point me the way to do right.
By prashant sapkota3 years ago in Poets
The songs Love sang to us are dead: Yet shall he sing to us again, When the dull days are wrapped in lead, And the red woodland drips with rain.
Oh some are fond of red wine, and some are fond of white, And some are all for dancing by the pale moonlight; But rum alone's the tipple, and the heart's delight
The mountain held the town as in a shadow I saw so much before I slept there once: I noticed that I missed stars in the west,
I borrow De Quincey's Confessions of an Opium Eater, the aforementioned an account of that singular
Changed? Yes, I will confess it - I have changed. I do not love in the old fond way. I am your friend still - time has not estranged
Kind, wise, and true as truth's own heart, A soul that here Chose and held fast the better part And cast out fear,
All that I ask," says Love, "is just to stand And gaze, unchided, deep in thy dear eyes; For in their depths lies largest Paradise.
It is easy enough to be pleasant When life flows by like a song, But the man worth while is the one who will smile
Yumping over crossings, over svitchesBumping, Till ay tenk dis enyine Going to fall in ditches; Hiding vith some cattle,
I went by the Druid stone That broods in the garden white and lone, And I stopped and looked at the shifting shadows
You that would break with the Past, rudWhy with so e a gesture take your leave? None hinders, go your way; but wherefore cast