Poem Hunter: Poems - Poets - Poetry

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its lovliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkn'd ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
...

not of silver nor of coral,
but of weatherbeaten laurel.

Here, he introduced a sea
uniform like tapestry;

here, a fig-tree; there, a face;
there, a dragon circling space --

designating here, a bower;

...

Wouldn't it be fine to be in silver dressed
As if you were the queen of light or water
I said to myself one night after homework
The school assembly that week
Being on water safety.
I was chosen to be water
And envisioned my costume happily as fashioned with foil
Resembling fine droplets, the path of moonlight over a river spanned
in such a way as to be fairytale spangled and dazzling
And with a tin crown

...

SILENT and amazed, even when a little boy,
I remember I heard the preacher every Sunday put God in his
statements,
As contending against some being or influence.
...

These fine days have been my ruin.
On this kind of day I resigned
My job in 'Pious Foundations'
On this kind of day I started to smoke
On this kind of day I fell in love
On this kind of day I forgot
To bring home bread and salt
On this kind of day I had a relapse
Into my versifying disease.
These fine days have been my ruin.

...

In the depths of silence where shadows dance,
Where whispers linger in a trance,
Thoughtless minds drift through the night,
Lost in a world devoid of light.

A symphony of chaos in the mind's abyss,
Where clarity fades, lost in the mist,
Echoes of forgotten dreams resound,
In the realm where thoughts are unbound.


...

The dreams of my heart and my mind pass,
Nothing stays with me long,
But I have had from a child
The deep solace of song;

If that should ever leave me,
Let me find death and stay
With things whose tunes are played out and forgotten
Like the rain of yesterday.
...

I hear an army charging upon the land,
And the thunder of horses plunging, foam about their knees:
Arrogant, in black armour, behind them stand,
Disdaining the reins, with fluttering whips, the charioteers.

They cry unto the night their battle-name:
I moan in sleep when I hear afar their whirling laughter.
They cleave the gloom of dreams, a blinding flame,
Clanging, clanging upon the heart as upon an anvil.


...

In the depths of my mind, a room resides,
A sanctuary of chaos, where panic hides,
A place of refuge, yet a prison too,
This is the tale of my Panic Room.

Within these walls, anxiety takes hold,
A relentless storm, fierce and bold,
Thoughts collide, like thunder and rain,
Echoing through the chambers of my brain.


...