All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
we had goldfish and they circled around and around
in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes
covering the picture window and
my mother, always smiling, wanting us all
to be happy, told me, 'be happy Henry!'
and she was right: it's better to be happy if you
but my father continued to beat her and me several times a week while
raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn't
understand what was attacking him from within.
With pride in my stride,
With grace in my dignity,
I claim with all my might,
Yes, a teacher, a social builder, I am!
Perfect we never claim to be,
We are humans too, you see,
Kindling ways to upgrade-
the trusting young faces in front,
locking pearls of wisdom in their hearts forever!
Writing a poem is not about bringing some words together to create some charming sentences. It's so much deeper than that. Writing poetry is a bridge that allows people to express their feelings and make others live every single word they read. Poetry is to educate people, to lead them away from hate to love, from violence to mercy and pity. Writing poetry is to help this community better understand life and live it more passionately. PoemHunter.com contains an enormous number of famous poems from all over the world, by both classical and modern poets. You can read as many as you want, and also submit your own poems to share your writings with all our poets, members, and visitors.
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
I want you to know
You know how this is:
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
Villain in cape of black
slipping through dark of night
hooded eyes peer about
searching for a dark somewhere
Tune: Green Head Ducks
An Indescribable Mid-Autumn Night
By William He
Poem by Chan Mongol
September 19 of 2021
তোমরা ভাবো ঈশ্বর পুরুষ
আমি ভাবি নারী।
নারী বিনা এ জগতে
I own a flourishing garden
But there are snakes in the garden
To scare the hell out of me
Or bring the best out of me.
क्या बारिश वहाँ भी हुई होगी
जहाँ भीगे हैं हम,
वहाँ क्या आप भी भीगे होंगे
"Do not seek yourself outside yourself."
In Aug 1947, when India became independent, the entire world was skeptical about the duration upto which we will be able to uphold the principles of Integrity and self-reliance in a unified India. But India was to prove otherwise. With such a myriad of cultural, political, religious, linguistic and ethnic backgrounds; it is a case study for world scholars to examine the soil of its personnel which has made unification of such diversity a living reality. It was infact the USSR that disintegrated in Dec 1991 rather than the Soverign, Socialist, Democratic, Republic of India.
In the perfect year, if I was offered one more chance,
I would earn your trust; make you feel happy and safe.
I would learn to feel I deserve your love, and enhance,
To focus on people and time, to listen and be brave
I had suitcases
filled with poems
hoping to change the
shape of liberty bludgeoned
tenebrous sand dunes
coursing and casting
the virility of love
I remember Gilgandra
air, and Dubbo moonlight
glazed by Mutawintji
I beckon to you all,
To those who can hear me, pay attention!
The low lands call
I am tempted to answer
They are offering me a free dwelling
Without having to conquer
Beautiful is the 'thank you'
Wrapped with gratitude,
Offered to peace prone people
Who offer what is real-themselves
Indoors by technology, outdoors by speedy transport
I travel the world
Today in Japan, tomorrow in Rome,
Next day by an ancient civilization or in Hawaii or Coast Ivory,
The Peace Warrior Of Mzansi, among heroes - a colossus!
Sun Of The Nation; A rare gift of Providence.
Once, entangled in the web of racist succubus;
Unruffled he declares before High Justice:
No earthquake, no thunder, no volcanic eruption
Or even there was not any of other natural calamities,
A sudden loud sound broke out all through the bush
With whizzing, shuddering, cracking, tearing, echoing,
If you die before me
I would jump down into your grave
and hug you so innocently
that angels will become jealous.
Sweet moment, stay with me,
and pray do not flee so soon,
Let me enjoy the bliss of that
first kiss beneath the moon.
Il pleuvait sans cesse sur Brest ce jour-là
Et tu marchais souriante
Épanouie ravie ruisselante
TO AMARANTHA; THAT SHE WOULD DISHEVELL HER HAIRE.
Amarantha sweet and faire,
you put this pen
in my hand and you
take the pen from you put this pen
On this dry prepared path walk heavy feet.
This is not "dinner music." This is a power structure.
"Come, pretty birds, present your lays,
And learn to chaunt a goddess praise;
Ye wood-nymphs, let your voices be
Employ'd to serve her deity:
If you had the choice of two women to wed,
(Though of course the idea is quite absurd)
And the first from her heels to her dainty head
Was charming in every sense of the word:
A little while, a little while,
The weary task is put away,
And I can sing and I can smile,
Alike, while I have holiday.