In the Sullen Night Poem by Stan Petrovich
I know the lovers' moan
For I too have moaned, a lover, too;
Then, the bell tolls for you.
And the foghorn, somewhere, groans.
Life forgiven is nothing,
Our actions move mountains
Of infinitesimal concatenations.
It is a portentous paternity;
It is a monstrous sorority.
From what I know
Of the moments of human
Bondage, indulgence and craving,
All forms of which pervade,
All craving invades, ant-like,
Eating up whole countrysides.
I am the speaker who chides you,
And then I hide in my den,
Hide from you:
And is hated too.
I accept my fate with cunningness and fear,
Because even your rippled words of hate
Are dear to me.
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Comments about this poem (In the Sullen Night by Stan Petrovich )
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
A Dream Within A Dream
Edgar Allan Poe
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
(16 April 1918 – 27 February 2002)
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- On the Ning Nang Nong, Spike Milligan
- Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- 'Hope' is the thing with feathers, Emily Dickinson
- Why so pale and wan, fond lover?, Sir John Suckling