Yeats, The Wind Among the Reeds.
The Romantic period
I lift the glass to my mouth, I look at you, and sigh. Her poetry, dancing upon the shore, Her soul in division from itself Climbing, falling She knew not where, Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship, Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing Heroically lost, heroically found.
Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet. I'm looking for the face I had, before the world was made And I shall have some peace there, For peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning To where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer, And noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings I will arise and go now, For always night and day I hear lake water lapping With low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway Or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core.
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My son rubs his skin and names it brown, his expression gleeful as I rub a damp cloth over his face this morning. Last night, there were reports that panthers were charging through the streets.
I watched from my seat in front of the television, a safe vista. I see the savannah. The Night Is Still.
I wander thro' each charter'd street, Near where the charter'd Thames does flow, And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every man, In every Infant's cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forg'd manacles I hear. How the Chimney-sweeper's cry Every blackning.
The great shovels and beaks and the.
Change Poems - Poems For Change - - Poem by | Poem Hunter
I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it— A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen. Peel off the napkin O my enemy. The sour breath Will vanish.