~*~ Dreams ~*~ By: Anne Bronte

While on my lonely couch I lie,

I seldom feel myself alone,

For fancy fills my dreaming eye

With scenes and pleasures of its own.

Then I may cherish at my breast

An infant’s form beloved and fair,

May smile and soothe it into rest

With all a Mother’s fondest care.

How sweet to feel its helpless form

Depending thus on me alone!

And while I hold it safe and warm

What bliss to think it is my own!

And glances then may meet my eyes

That daylight never showed to me;

What raptures in my bosom rise,

Those earnest looks of love to see,

To feel my hand so kindly prest,

To know myself beloved at last,

To think my heart has found a rest,

My life of solitude is past!

But then to wake and find it flown,

The dream of happiness destroyed,

To find myself unloved, alone,

What tongue can speak the dreary void?

A heart whence warm affections flow,

Creator, thou hast given to me,

And am I only thus to know

How sweet the joys of love would be?


London, By: William Blake

William Blake in his ‘Songs of Innocence and of Experience’ showed us the contrast between the idyllic world of innocence and the truths of real world. Here’s one of the most appreciated poem from his ‘Experience’ verses. It’s really wonderful to see how in so few lines this great poet has expressed the combined misery of human life.

All the paths, even the Thames river is bound and controlled by man. Humanity itself is trapped in its self-created traps. The ‘King’ and the ‘Church’ are blind and deaf to the suffering of people and innocence is daily poisoned by the ills that surround us.

That, in brief is what this poem is about. But how beautifully expressed! Especially the third stanza.

Do let me know what you think about this poem.


I wandered through each chartered street,

Near where the chartered Thames does flow,

A mark in every face I meet,

Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every man,

In every infant’s cry of fear,

In every voice, in every ban,

The mind-forged manacles I hear:

How the chimney-sweeper’s cry

Every blackening church appals,

And the hapless soldier’s sigh

Runs in blood down palace-walls.

But most, through midnight streets I hear

How the youthful harlot’s curse

Blasts the new-born infant’s tear,

And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.


Jyoti Arora
Author of Dream’s Sake, Samsung Mobiler



about.me Facebook Page Twitter LinkedIn Google Plus Google Plus Page pinterest YouTube

Human Abstract, By: William Blake

 Pity would be no more,

If we did not make somebody Poor;

And Mercy no more could be,

If all were as happy as we;


And mutual fear brings peace,

 Till the selfish loves increase;

Then Cruelty knits a snare,

And spreads his baits with care.


He sits down with holy fears,

 And waters the ground with tears;

Then Humility takes its root

Underneath his foot.


Soon spreads the dismal shade

 Of Mystery over his head;

And the Caterpillar and Fly

Feed on the Mystery.


And it bears the fruit of Deceit,

 Ruddy and sweet to eat;

And the Raven his nest has made

In its thickest shade.


The Gods of the earth and sea,

 Sought through Nature to find this Tree,

But their search was all in vain;

There grows one in the Human Brain.


Jyoti Arora
Author of Dream’s Sake, Samsung Mobiler



about.me Facebook Page Twitter LinkedIn Google Plus Google Plus Page pinterest YouTube

Camomile Tea, By: Katherine Mansfield

Outside the sky is light with stars;

There’s a hollow roaring from the sea.

And, alas! for the little almond flowers,

The wind is shaking the almond tree.


How little I thought, a year ago,

In the horrible cottage upon the Lee

That he and I should be sitting so

And sipping a cup of camomile tea.


Light as feathers the witches fly,

The horn of the moon is plain to see;

By a firefly under a jonquil flower

A goblin toasts a bumble-bee.


We might be fifty, we might be five,

So snug, so compact, so wise are we!

Under the kitchen-table leg

My knee is pressing against his knee.


Our shutters are shut, the fire is low,

The tap is dripping peacefully;

The saucepan shadows on the wall

Are black and round and plain to see.

I Remember, I Remember, By: Thomas Hood

I remember, I remember

The house where I was born,

The little window where the sun

Came peeping in at morn;

He never came a wink too soon

Nor brought too long a day;

But now, I often wish the night

Had borne my breath away.

I remember, I remember

The roses, red and white,

The violets, and the lily-cups—

Those flowers made of light!

The lilacs where the robin built,

And where my brother set

The laburnum on his birthday,—

The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember

Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh

To swallows on the wing;

My spirit flew in feathers then

That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly cool

The fever on my brow.

I remember, I remember

The fir-trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops

Were close against the sky:

It was a childish ignorance,

But now ’tis little joy

To know I’m farther off from Heaven

Than when I was a boy.


Jyoti Arora
Author of Dream’s Sake, Samsung Mobiler


about.me Facebook Page Twitter LinkedIn Google Plus Google Plus Page pinterest YouTube