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Poems about Life
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The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy;
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
A sincere man am I
From the land where palm trees grow,
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
Friends
The old word is dead.
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
It's two in the mornin' on Saturday night
At Rosalie's Good Eats Café.
Old Meg she was a gipsy;
And liv'd upon the moors:
Two people walk through a bare, cold grove;
The moon races along with them, they look into it.
A creative heart, obsessed with satisfying
this dormant and uncaring society
Fine living . . . a la carte?
Come to the Waldorf-Astoria!
before u came the triangle never broke.
we were bonded and melded as one,
At ten a.m. the young housewife
moves about in negligee behind
Miss Thompson at Home
In her lone cottage on the downs,
Waking in the night;
the lamp is low,
Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
Never trust a white man,
Never kill a Jew,
I'd like to be a boy again, a care-free prince of
joy again,
I do not think all failure's undeserved,
And all success is merely someone's luck;
De gorja son y rapidez los tiempos: Corre cual luz la voz; en alta aguja
Four bells were struck, the watch was called on deck, All work aboard was over for the hour,
Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
In the dungeon crypts idly did I stray,
Reckless of the lives wasting there away;
It's September, and the orchards are afire with red and gold, And the nights with dew are heavy, and the morning's sharp with cold;
How do you tackle your work each day? Are you scared of the job you find?
It would be nice
In any case,
Come, come away! the spring,
By every bird that can but sing,
Tiene el leopardo un abrigo En su monte seco y pardo:
Yo sé de Egipto y Nigricia, Y de Persia y Xenophonte;
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