Cities poems from famous poets and best beautiful poems to feel good. Best Cities poems ever written. Read all poems about Cities.
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,
No distance ever separates
Dreams and desires
No mirror ever dissolves
Reflection and water
It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
When a man starts out with nothing,
When a man starts out with his hands
Empty, but clean,
When a man starts to build a world,
Above us, stars. Beneath us, constellations.
Five billion miles away, a galaxy dies
like a snowflake falling on water. Below us,
some farmer, feeling the chill of that distant death,
COME, I will make the continent indissoluble;
I will make the most splendid race the sun ever yet shone upon;
I will make divine magnetic lands,
O! nothing earthly save the ray
(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye,
As in those gardens where the day
Springs from the gems of Circassy-
Five years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur.--Once again
It is funny to live at the bottom of well-sunken ancient quarter, To follow seagulls and sparrows and pigeons alike. To tremble from chilly breezes, to walk dusty sidewalks of burrows and bulks of sudden grass. Capote has liitle in common with folks of crowd; And yet, he is the first to give up aristocratic nookw worldwide. He is much more shaggy than Nabokov or Bunin are; though he is yet of arrogancy and posh and zest and vigor. I count for circumstances when outside at zigzags of subway lines. All is unified, of firm entity, of strict dependance. The diary of the city is comprised of out won destinies, if continuous lifestories. I judge by the subways of Moscow and Piter and Nizhny. But I ask attentive frienship in response for my promptness, as Capote once did. The revival of subways of Warsaw and Berlin is much more doomed. So Nabokov turned artificial and tedious, at places. It is not the matter of syntax or exquisite morphology. I never went more Western than the Alps; it is my weekness and my flaw. Vicious cities are less vulnerable. I tread my way through the familiar up paved strands, as I grow to nothingness. Europe is yet more than ever expected. It allows itself dawns and twilights. I drive myself out to final stations, half-built and half-'wooded'. It is this way all along. This layer is of storeys, though vast, irrespective of characters from beyond. Less is imposed to it; it is compelled only to the exuberant past. It is ever, ever this way. I wonder how Capote could have altered cities, if he was so much, drastically condemned to the avalanche of New York. Normally folks agree for less. Sat, I am exactly to what I beling to. Even if I out feign this general truth, my formula is distinct, my exaggeration is moderate. Moscow,2022.
Here they are-my tribe descending from the heights of the past- dust- colored gray eyed
Winds of the future lash them towards oases populated with rainwater
Here they are - like locusts of imminent drought coming from the last lands of the world
They arrived and scattered in this sandy desert like stone
Mom, he said - I'm in Ukraine.
There is a real war raging here.
I am afraid.
We are bombing all of the cities, together,
The days shock us, the wave killed many of us, destroyed beyond repair, by the nightmare, a foul creature of tales and song, we could grow, this time, stich up your wounds, make it big, make it special, this fight has to be worth while, mental states will so haywire, were going extinct, is there any fight left? Where are the others? The last days of New York, cities in rambles, towns in shambles, villages become ghost towns, close...the beast has crushed my army, the only one left, what a weird fate, here it comes, I'll send us to hell, ship sinking down, to travels we go!
Pushkin loved the idea of St. Petersburg
and the bronze horseman who saw
the city before it was built. Langston
Hughes loved the idea of Harlem,
Village development on par with cities will become a perfect paradise
With the pastoral settings beautifully created with gardens and parks
Interspersed with small buildings with a lot of trees, flower plants,
Fountains and green pastures for all to visit with children playing!
Rural development on par with urban areas is real progress
That provides road connectivity, electric connection, pure
water, sanitation, markets, shops, restaurants, hospitals,
Schools, colleges and all conveyance facilities sure ever!
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