Is It Poetry
You sleep I hear singing and water coming.
I indissoluble make it out each continent.
The shape of each desire when open, I do.
Glammer such most in fluid element clear
never forcing each days competition.
The sun being when it rains full illuminated.
You I make full of God magnetic when with her Hand.
Life and of love and the colleague of the colleague is love.
As for me I sigh as I watch all the rivers of America bank there over,
and the whole of the grassy brown plains made this more green
with each brand new arrivale lush feel such plants.
Thickly as a coastal Great Lakes spring from wood.
Separated impossibly thick hidden from the banks are the cities.
Democracy of your this Trilling and O, to be against it useful,
femme of femme that mother!
Because of you,
and as for me once again I feel the sound the birds
flying over me, they are singing, trilling.
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Comments about this poem (Trilling by Is It Poetry )
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Edgar Allan Poe
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(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(18 November 1939)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
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(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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(January 17, 1914 – August 28, 1993)
(17 June 1867 – 2 September 1922)
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- The Landlady, Margaret Atwood
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- Tonight I can write the saddest lines, Pablo Neruda
- Dreams, Langston Hughes
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