You are now in London town, Louis Becke, Keeping up your old renown, Writing yarns of women brown, Getting yellow money down,
By shyam sapkota3 years ago in Poets
They turned him loose; he bowed his head, A felon, bent and grey. His face was even as the Dead, He had no word to say.
One noonday, at my window in the town, I saw a sight--saddest that eyes can see-- Young soldiers marching lustily
I would I had thrust my hands of flesh Into the disk - flowers bee-infested, Into the mirror-like core of fire
Standing here alone, Let me pause awhile, Drinking in the light Ere, with plunge of white limbs prone, I raise the sparkling flight
Gayly a knight set forth against the foe, For a fair face had shone on him in dreams; A voice had stirred the silence of his sleep,
That was a curious dream; I thought the three Great planets that are drawing near the sun With such unerring certainty begun
Now, vot'ries of the Muses, turn your eyes, Unto the East, and say what there appears! "Alas!" the voice of Poesy replies,
Oh tidings of freedom! oh accents of hope! Waft, waft them, ye zephyrs, to Erin's blue sea, And refresh with their sounds every son of the Pope,
By voyages in air, With constant thought and care, Much knowledge had a swallow gain'd, Which she for public use retain'd,
Delany reports it, and he has a shrewd tongue, That we both act the part of the clown and cow-dung; We lie cramming ourselves, and are ready to burst,
I bring an unaccustomed wine To lips long parching, next to mine, And summon them to drink. Crackling with fever, they essay;