Moonlight – By: Sara Teasdale

It will not hurt me when I am old,
A running tide where moonlight burned
Will not sting me like silver snakes;
The years will make me sad and cold,
It is the happy heart that breaks.

The heart asks more than life can give,
When that is learned, then all is learned;
The waves break fold on jewelled fold,
But beauty itself is fugitive,
It will not hurt me when I am old.

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How far can a person go to fulfill the dream’s of someone else?

Read Dream’s Sake to find out. Click on the picture for reviews and free preview of the novel

Let me die a youngman’s death – by: Roger McGough

Let me die a youngman’s death

not a clean and inbetween

the sheets holywater death

not a famous-last-words

peaceful out of breath death

When I’m 73

and in constant good tumour

may I be mown down at dawn

by a bright red sports car

on my way home

from an allnight party

Or when I’m 91

with silver hair

and sitting in a barber’s chair

may rival gangsters

with hamfisted tommyguns burst in

and give me a short back and insides

Or when I’m 104

and banned from the Cavern

may my mistress

catching me in bed

with her daughter

and fearing for her son

cut me up into little pieces

and throw away every piece but one

Let me die a youngman’s death

not a free from sin tiptoe in

candle wax and waning death

not a curtains drawn by angels borne

‘what a nice way to go’ death.

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How far can a person go to fulfill the dream’s of someone else?

Read Dream’s Sake to find out. Click on the picture for reviews and free preview of the novel

Clown in the Moon – By: Dylan Thomas

My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.

I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream.

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How far can a person go to fulfill the dream’s of someone else?

Read Dream’s Sake to find out. Click on the picture for reviews and free preview of the novel

Ode to a Skylark – By: Percy Bysshe Shelley

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!

                     Bird thou never wert –

                 That from Heaven or near it

                       Pourest thy full heart

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

                Higher still and higher

                     From the earth thou springest,

                Like a cloud of fire;

                     The blue deep thou wingest,

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

                In the golden lightning

                    Of the sunken sun,

                O’er which clouds are bright’ning,

                    Thou dost float and run,

Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

                 The pale purple even

                     Melts around thy flight;

                 Like a star of Heaven,

                     In the broad daylight

Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight –

                 Keen as are the arrows

                     Of that silver sphere

                 Whose intense lamp narrows

                     In the white dawn clear,

Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

                 All the earth and air

                    With thy voice is loud,

                 As, when night is bare,

                     From one lonely cloud

The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflowed.

                 What thou art we know not;

                     What is most like thee?

                  From rainbow clouds there flow not

                     Drops so bright to see,

As from thy presence showers a rain of melody: –

                 Like a Poet hidden

                     In the light of thought,

                 Singing hymns unbidden,

                     Till the world is wrought

To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

                 Like a high-born maiden

                     In a palace-tower,

                 Soothing her love-laden

                     Soul in secret hour

With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

                 Like a glow-worm golden

                     In a dell of dew,

                 Scattering unbeholden

                     Its aërial hue

Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view:

                   Like a rose embowered

                       In its own green leaves,

                   By warm winds deflowered,

                       Till the scent it gives

Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingéd thieves:

                   Sound of vernal showers

                       On the twinkling grass,

                   Rain-awakened flowers –

                       All that ever was

Joyous and clear and fresh – thy music doth surpass.

                    Teach us, Sprite or Bird,

                        What sweet thoughts are thine:

                     I have never heard

                         Praise of love or wine

That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

                     Chorus hymeneal,

                         Or triumphal chant,

                    Matched with thine would be all

                         but an empty vaunt –

A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

                    What objects are the fountains

                        Of thy happy strain?

                    What fields, or waves, or mountains?

                        What shapes of sky or plain?

What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

                     With thy clear keen joyance

                          Languor cannot be:

                     Shadow of annoyance

                         Never came near thee:

Thou lovest, but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety.

                     Waking or asleep,

                         Thou of death must deem

                     Things more true and deep

                         Than we mortals dream,

Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

                     We look before and after,

                         And pine for what is not:

                     Our sincerest laughter

                         With some pain is fraught;

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

                     Yet, if we could scorn

                        Hate and pride and fear,

                     If we were things born

                         Not to shed a tear,

I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

                     Better than all measures

                         Of delightful sound,

                     Better than all treasures

                         That in books are found,

Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

                     Teach me half the gladness

                         That thy brain must know;

                     Such harmonious madness

                         From my lips would flow,

The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

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How far can a person go to fulfill the dream’s of someone else?

Read Dream’s Sake to find out. Click on the picture for reviews and free preview of the novel

Life’s Tragedy – By: Paul Laurence Dunbar

It may be misery not to sing at all,

And to go silent through the brimming day;

It may be misery never to be loved,

But deeper griefs than these beset the way.

To sing the perfect song,

And by a half-tone lost the key,

There the potent sorrow, there the grief,

The pale, sad staring of Life’s Tragedy.

To have come near to the perfect love,

Not the hot passion of untempered youth,

But that which lies aside its vanity,

And gives, for thy trusting worship, truth.

This, this indeed is to be accursed,

For if we mortals love, or if we sing,

We count our joys not by what we have,

But by what kept us from that perfect thing.

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How far can a person go to fulfill the dream’s of someone else?

Read Dream’s Sake to find out. Click on the picture for reviews and free preview of the novel

Speak gently – By: G. W. Langford

    Speak gently! it is better far

    To rule by love than fear

    Speak gently; let no harsh word mar

    The good we may do here!

    Speak gently to the little child!

    Its love be sure to gain;

    Teach it in accents soft and mild;

    It may not long remain.

    Speak gently to the young, for they

    Will have enough to bear;

    Pass through this life as best they may,

    ‘Tis full of anxious care!

    Speak gently to the aged one,

    Grieve not the care-worn heart;

    Whose sands of life are nearly run,

    Let such in peace depart!

    Speak gently, kindly to the poor;

    Let no harsh tone be heard;

    They have enough they must endure,

    Without an unkind word!

    Speak gently to the erring; know

    The must have toiled in vain;

     Pechance unkindness made them so;

     Oh, win them back again.

    Speak gently; Love doth whisper low

     The vows that true hearts bind;

     And gently Friendship’s accents flow;

     Affection’s voice is kind.

     Speak gently; ’tis a little thing

     Dropped in the heart’s deep well;

     The good, the joy, that it may bring,

    Eternity shall tell.

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How far can a person go to fulfill the dream’s of someone else?

Read Dream’s Sake to find out. Click on the picture for reviews and free preview of the novel

I’m explaining a few things – by: Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)

You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?

and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?

and the rain repeatedly spattering

its words and drilling them full

of apertures and birds?

I’ll tell you all the news.

I lived in a suburb,

a suburb of Madrid, with bells,

and clocks, and trees.

From there you could look out

over Castille’s dry face:

a leather ocean.

My house was called

the house of flowers, because in every cranny

geraniums burst: it was

a good-looking house

with its dogs and children.

Remember, Raul?

Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember

from under the ground

my balconies on which

the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?

Brother, my brother!

Everything

loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,

pile-ups of palpitating bread,

the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue

like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:

oil flowed into spoons,

a deep baying

of feet and hands swelled in the streets,

metres, litres, the sharp

measure of life,

stacked-up fish,

the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which

the weather vane falters,

the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,

wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.

And one morning all that was burning,

one morning the bonfires

leapt out of the earth

devouring human beings —

and from then on fire,

gunpowder from then on,

and from then on blood.

Bandits with planes and Moors,

bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,

bandits with black friars spattering blessings

came through the sky to kill children

and the blood of children ran through the streets

without fuss, like children’s blood.

Jackals that the jackals would despise,

stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,

vipers that the vipers would abominate!

Face to face with you I have seen the blood

of Spain tower like a tide

to drown you in one wave

of pride and knives!

Treacherous

generals:

see my dead house,

look at broken Spain :

from every house burning metal flows

instead of flowers,

from every socket of Spain

Spain emerges

and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,

and from every crime bullets are born

which will one day find

the bull’s eye of your hearts.

And you’ll ask: why doesn’t his poetry

speak of dreams and leaves

and the great volcanoes of his native land?

Come and see the blood in the streets.

Come and see

The blood in the streets.

Come and see the blood

In the streets!

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How far can a person go to fulfill the dream’s of someone else?

Read Dream’s Sake to find out. Click on the picture for reviews and free preview of the novel