great poem Kiz!
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great poem Kiz!
This is simply a BRILLIANT thread idea!!!!
Of all the poems from all the poets that ring a bell with my heart and soul, the last line of an ee cummings' poem called "since feeling is first" does the trick.
"for life's not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis"
These best describe my chaos:
Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay
To mould me man? Did I beseech thee from
Darkness to promote me?
or
Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;
And in the lowest deep, a lower deep
Still threat'ning to devour me opens wide,
To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.
Milton is amazing.
Dear Members,
I woill be the 'she' in this poem.
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“A Wind Rose in the Night”
Aline Kilmer
A WIND rose in the night,
(She had always feared it so!)
Sorrow plucked at my heart
And I could not help but go.
Softly I went and stood 5
By her door at the end of the hall.
Dazed with grief I watched
The candles flaring and tall.
The wind was wailing aloud:
I thought how she would have cried 10
For my warm familiar arms
And the sense of me by her side.
The candles flickered and leapt,
The shadows jumped on the wall.
She lay before me small and still 15
And did not care at all.
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What an imagery?I came across this poem as I was browisng Bartleby.com
Thank you.
It's a great poem..but..I feel disturbed when reading it. Interesting.Quote:
Originally Posted by V.Jayalakshmi
Wind and Window Flower - Robert Frost
Lovers, forget your love,
And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
And he a winter breeze.
When the frosty window veil
Was melted down at noon,
And the caged yellow bird
Hung over her in tune,
He marked her through the pane,
He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by
To come again at dark.
He was a winter wind,
Concerned with ice and snow,
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
And little of love could know.
But he sighed upon the sill,
He gave the sash a shake,
As witness all within
Who lay that night awake.
Perchance he half prevailed
To win her for the flight
From the firelit looking-glass
And warm stove-window light.
But the flower leaned aside
And thought of naught to say,
And morning found the breeze
A hundred miles away.
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i'd be the window flower always thinking of naught to say.