Punk In Drublic

Plays: 14  | Likes: 2  | Shelves: 1  | Comments: 3

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Poetry is not for the faint of heart.

Created: October 19,2018

Submitted: October 15, 2018

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Submitted: October 15, 2018

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When you are old and grey and full of sleep, 

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead 

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. 

 

 

 

Some say the world will end in fire, 

Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great 

And would suffice. 

 

I never saw a wild thing

 sorry for itself. 

 

A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough,

without ever having felt sorry for itself.

 

Some say the world will end in fire, 

Some say in ice.

From what I've tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great 

 

And would suffice. 

 

I never saw a wild thing

 sorry for itself. 

 

A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough,

 

without ever having felt sorry for itself.

 

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead. 

 

I never saw a wild thing

 sorry for itself. 

 

A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough,

without ever having felt sorry for itself. 


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