The Sun, The Wind
Each poem is perfect,
Yet each is imperfect.
For poetry is like the wind.
Can you tell wind to blow?
Each poem is like the sun.
Can you tell sun to shine?
Yet when it makes hot,
We wish the sun to set
And the winds to increase,
But who are we to command
The sun, or the wind?
And when winds cause havoc
We wish them to subside,
And when winter is harsh
We wish the sun to bloom,
But each remains like a seed
Blossoming it their time.
Yet the sun is perfect,
And the wind is perfect,
For nothing can we add
Or take from the either.
Poetry is like the wind,
Poetry is like the sun.
Copyright ©2010 Leslie Alexis
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
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