The Windmill – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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Behold! a giant am I!
Aloft here in my tower,
With my granite jaws I devour
The maize, and the wheat, and the rye,
And grind them into flour.

I look down over the farms;
In the fields of grain I see
The harvest that is to be,
And I fling to the air my arms,
For I know it is all for me.

I hear the sound of flails
Far off, from the threshing-floors
In barns, with their open doors,
And the wind, the wind in my sails,
Louder and louder roars.

I stand here in my place,
With my foot on the rock below,
And whichever way it may blow,
I meet it face to face,
As a brave man meets his foe.

And while we wrestle and strive,
My master, the miller, stands
And feeds me with his hands;
For he knows who makes him thrive,
Who makes him lord of lands.

On Sundays I take my rest;
Church-going bells begin
Their low, melodious din;
I cross my arms on my breast,
And all is peace within.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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toward the east: for Qiaoen

Leonard Durso

the scent of jasmine
hangs in the air
the cup of tea
grows cold on the desk
a lone dog
howls in the dark
the clock on the wall
ticks away the night
and my mind
turns toward the east
five long hours away
where the morning sun
shines high in the sky
and this planet earth
is graced by her smile

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Cherry Blossom Tragedy

Words To My Soul

This poem originally started with me laying on my roof watching the cherry blossoms sway in the wind. I pictured them as drunk people and found myself laughing loudly to that thought. But my mind never ceases to amaze me, and quickly analyzed the thought and made it relate to a broken man. The best way to deal with tragedy is to create art from it.

……

The flowers on the trees

Sway like drunk men

Walking home

With a storm following

Through the sky.

Watching them has a sort humor to it,

Each petal swaying to the wind,

Humanized into arms flailing

To catch the balance of a wayward man.

What a sad sight to see

Like a crash you can’t look away from

And the tragedy pulling you in

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Stay

Gems And Stars- Poetry and Prose

What do you when you’re drowning
Do you pull every branch out there
Do you hold on to the shallow ends in the hope they’ll keep you safe
Do you let someone try to keep you from drowning
And take them down with you

When you’re falling
Do you panic and ruin everything around you like the storm that you are
Do you avoid the deep ends
Or do you take every rope extended to you that makes you stayz

When you’re running away
Do you take those you love with you
Or do you leave them behind for their own good
Do you kiss them goodbye

So when you’re drowning
Falling
And running away
How do you stumble upon your perserverance and indefatigable efforts and stay where you are?

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Ode To Tomatoes – Pablo Neruda

The street
filled with tomatoes,
midday,
summer,
light is
halved
like
a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
In December,
unabated,
the tomato
invades
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
murder it:
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera
a cool
sun,
profound,
inexhaustible,
populates the salads
of Chile,
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
we
pour
oil,
essential
child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
pepper
adds
its fragrance,
salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding
of the day,
parsley
hoists
its flag,
potatoes
bubble vigorously,
the aroma
of the roast
knocks
at the door,
it’s time!
come on!
and, on
the table, at the midpoint
of summer,
the tomato,
star of earth, recurrent
and fertile
star,
displays
its convolutions,
its canals,
its remarkable amplitude
and abundance,
no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and cool completeness.

Pablo Neruda
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Poem analysis

SILVER (WALTER DE LA MARE)

Another Kind Of Grass

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Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in silver feathered sleep
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws, and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.

Walter de la Mare

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The Search for Lost Lives – James Tate

Another Kind Of Grass

I was chasing this blue butterfly down
the road when a car came by and clipped me.   
It was nothing serious, but it angered me and
I turned around and cursed the driver who didn’t
even slow down to see if I was hurt.  Then I
returned my attention to the butterfly which   
was nowhere to be seen.  One of the Doubleday   
girls came running up the street with her toy
poodle toward me.  I stopped her and asked,
“Have you seen a blue butterfly around here?”
“It’s down near that birch tree near Grandpa’s,”
she said. “Thanks,” I said, and walked briskly
toward the tree.  It was fluttering from flower
to flower in Mr.  Doubleday’s extensive garden,   
a celestial blueness to soothe the weary heart.   
I didn’t know what I was doing there. I certain-
ly didn’t want to capture it.  It was like
something I had known in…

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A Stream Flowing

Another Kind Of Grass

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Now I saw a stream flowing;
Now neither bank nor bridge was seen.
Now I saw a bush in bloom;
Now neither rose nor thorn was seen.

Lalla

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HIS HEART WAS DARKER THAN THE STARLESS NIGHT – EMILY DICKINSON

Another Kind Of Grass

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His Heart was darker than the starless night
For that there is a morn
But in this black Receptacle
Can be no Bode of Dawn

EMILY DICKINSON

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