David Lewis Paget

Gold Star - 8,565 Points (22.11.1944 / Nottingham, England/live in Australia)

David Lewis Paget Poems

361. Mcavanagh's Hill 1/19/2015
362. Merman 8/8/2012
363. Merry Christmas! 12/15/2012
364. Metzengerstein 4/19/2008
365. Midnight 11/28/2014
366. Mirror Image 8/3/2015
367. Misbegotten Heart 11/23/2013
368. Mismatch 6/23/2012
369. Mistaken Identity 11/21/2012
370. Monsters! 1/13/2015
371. Morning Glory 7/3/2013
372. Moth! 11/6/2013
373. Mother Of Sons 9/17/2005
374. Mother Of The Bride 11/21/2013
375. Ms Found In A Belfry 9/30/2008
376. Mumbo Jumbo 1/7/2010
377. My Lady Jane 11/16/2014
378. Nadine 12/28/2014
379. Natural Man 2/7/2013
380. Near Thing! 6/11/2015
381. Necronicon 11/15/2009
382. Nemesis 7/7/2013
383. Never Come Here Again! 1/15/2015
384. Never The God... 9/18/2005
385. New Souls For Old 8/1/2013
386. Next Time Around 5/20/2014
387. Night Mites 1/9/2013
388. Ninety Steps 10/26/2016
389. No Emails! 3/6/2013
390. No Escape! 3/6/2015
391. No Man's Land 1/6/2009
392. Nobody's Girl 6/16/2017
393. No-Name The Cat 9/18/2005
394. Nostradamus 9/18/2005
395. Not Enough... 7/21/2015
396. Nothing Gained 6/24/2017
397. Now That I'M Mad 10/4/2005
398. Nowhere 3/14/2017
399. Obit. 3/2/2008
400. Obsession 9/16/2015
Best Poem of David Lewis Paget

Swan Song

Her hair was as black as a starling's tail,
Her cheeks as pale as a swan,
Her eyes, like two slim moonstones, glowed
And her mouth was the Holy Grail.
She'd played in the dirt of the village street
So long ago, so long...
She'd swum in the pools of the mountain stream,
But now, that girl had gone.

While I still rise with the early bird
To tend to my father's fields,
As the only son of an only son
I watched the woman leave.
She cried sweet tears as she said farewell
And vowed to come back, and soon,
But the village streets of a western ...

Read the full of Swan Song

Sir John De Vere

Sir John de Vere has took a quill
And set himself to sit and write
The sweetest love that is of men
To take unto his heart's delight.

And he has took a damsel fair
That flitteth by, beseemingly,
And with a strand of golden hair
Begun to weave her mystery.

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