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"poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "818": { "poet_x_poem.id": 818, "poem.id": 818, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:44:40", "poem.title": "From Love's First Fever To Her Plague", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "819": { "poet_x_poem.id": 819, "poem.id": 819, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:44:44", "poem.title": "Ceremony After A Fire Raid", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "820": { "poet_x_poem.id": 820, "poem.id": 820, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:44:47", "poem.title": "Our Eunuch Dreams", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "821": { "poet_x_poem.id": 821, "poem.id": 821, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:44:50", "poem.title": "On No Work Of Words", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "822": { "poet_x_poem.id": 822, "poem.id": 822, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:44:56", "poem.title": "January 1939", "poem.date": 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"poem.title": "Not From This Anger", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20206": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20206, "poem.id": 20206, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:26:38", "poem.title": "There Was A Saviour", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20207": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20207, "poem.id": 20207, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:26:44", "poem.title": "Where Once The Waters Of Your Face", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20208": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20208, "poem.id": 20208, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:26:50", "poem.title": "A Saint About To Fall", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20209": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20209, "poem.id": 20209, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:26:56", "poem.title": "When All My Five And Country Senses See", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20210": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20210, "poem.id": 20210, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:27:01", "poem.title": "I, In My Intricate Image", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20211": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20211, "poem.id": 20211, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:27:06", "poem.title": "Holy Spring", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20212": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20212, "poem.id": 20212, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:27:11", "poem.title": "I Have Longed To Move Away", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20213": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20213, "poem.id": 20213, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:27:15", "poem.title": "Lie Still, Sleep Becalmed", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20214": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20214, "poem.id": 20214, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:27:19", "poem.title": "My Hero Bares His Nerves", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20215": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20215, "poem.id": 20215, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:27:25", "poem.title": "Because The Pleasure-Bird Whistles", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20216": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20216, "poem.id": 20216, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:27:27", "poem.title": "Foster The Light", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20217": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20217, "poem.id": 20217, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:27:31", "poem.title": "I Dreamed My Genesis", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20218": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20218, "poem.id": 20218, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:27:36", "poem.title": "The Hand That Signed The Paper", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20219": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20219, "poem.id": 20219, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:27:41", "poem.title": "Do You Not Father Me", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", 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seagull and rookAnd the knock of sailing boats on the net webbed wallMyself to set footThat secondIn the still sleeping town and set forth.My birthday began with the water-Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my nameAbove the farms and the white horsesAnd I roseIn rainy autumnAnd walked abroad in a shower of all my days.High tide and the heron dived when I took the roadOver the borderAnd the gatesOf the town closed as the town awoke.A springful of larks in a rollingCloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistlingBlackbirds and the sun of OctoberSummeryOn the hill's shoulder,Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenlyCome in the morning where I wandered and listenedTo the rain wringingWind blow coldIn the wood faraway under me.Pale rain over the dwindling harbourAnd over the sea wet church the size of a snailWith its horns through mist and the castleBrown as owlsBut all the gardensOf spring and summer were blooming in the tall talesBeyond the border and under the lark full cloud.There could I marvelMy birthdayAway but the weather turned around.It turned away from the blithe countryAnd down the other air and the blue altered skyStreamed again a wonder of summerWith applesPears and red currantsAnd I saw in the turning so clearly a child'sForgotten mornings when he walked with his motherThrough the parablesOf sun lightAnd the legends of the green chapelsAnd the twice told fields of infancyThat his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.These were the woods the river and seaWhere a boyIn the listeningSummertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joyTo the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.And the mysterySang aliveStill in the water and singingbirds.And there could I marvel my birthdayAway but the weather turned around. And the trueJoy of the long dead child sang burningIn the sun.It was my thirtiethYear to heaven stood there then in the summer noonThough the town below lay leaved with October blood.O may my heart's truthStill be sungOn this high hill in a year's turning.", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20224": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20224, "poem.id": 20224, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:27:56", "poem.title": "The Hunchback In The Park", "poem.date": "11/12/2005", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20225": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20225, "poem.id": 20225, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:28:03", "poem.title": "Being But Men", "poem.date": "4/27/2011", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20226": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20226, "poem.id": 20226, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:28:07", "poem.title": "On A Wedding Anniversary", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20227": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20227, "poem.id": 20227, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:28:11", "poem.title": "If I Were Tickled By The Rub Of Love", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20228": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20228, "poem.id": 20228, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:28:17", "poem.title": "In The Beginning", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20229": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20229, "poem.id": 20229, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:28:23", "poem.title": "Lament", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20230": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20230, "poem.id": 20230, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:28:28", "poem.title": "All That I Owe The Fellows Of The Grave", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20231": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20231, "poem.id": 20231, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:28:30", "poem.title": "Ballad Of The Long-Legged Bait", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "The bows glided down, and the coastBlackened with birds took a last lookAt his thrashing hair and whale-blue eye;The trodden town rang its cobbles for luck.Then good-bye to the fishermannedBoat with its anchor free and fastAs a bird hooking over the sea,High and dry by the top of the mast,Whispered the affectionate sandAnd the bulwarks of the dazzled quay.For my sake sail, and never look back,Said the looking land.Sails drank the wind, and white as milkHe sped into the drinking dark;The sun shipwrecked west on a pearlAnd the moon swam out of its hulk.Funnels and masts went by in a whirl.Good-bye to the man on the sea-legged deckTo the gold gut that sings on his reelTo the bait that stalked out of the sack,For we saw him throw to the swift floodA girl alive with his hooks through her lips;All the fishes were rayed in blood,Said the dwindling ships.Good-bye to chimneys and funnels,Old wives that spin in the smoke,He was blind to the eyes of candlesIn the praying windows of wavesBut heard his bait buck in the wakeAnd tussle in a shoal of loves.Now cast down your rod, for the wholeOf the sea is hilly with whales,She longs among horses and angels,The rainbow-fish bend in her joys,Floated the lost cathedralChimes of the rocked buoys.Where the anchor rode like a gullMiles over the moonstruck boatA squall of birds bellowed and fell,A cloud blew the rain from its throat;He saw the storm smoke out to killWith fuming bows and ram of ice,Fire on starlight, rake Jesu's stream;And nothing shone on the water's faceBut the oil and bubble of the moon,Plunging and piercing in his courseThe lured fish under the foamWitnessed with a kiss.Whales in the wake like capes and AlpsQuaked the sick sea and snouted deep,Deep the great bushed bait with raining lipsSlipped the fins of those humpbacked tonsAnd fled their love in a weaving dip.Oh, Jericho was falling in their lungs!She nipped and dived in the nick of love,Spun on a spout like a long-legged ballTill every beast blared down in a swerveTill every turtle crushed from his shellTill every bone in the rushing graveRose and crowed and fell!Good luck to the hand on the rod,There is thunder under its thumbs;Gold gut is a lightning thread,His fiery reel sings off its flames,The whirled boat in the burn of his bloodIs crying from nets to knives,Oh the shearwater birds and their boatsized broodOh the bulls of Biscay and their calvesAre making under the green, laid veilThe long-legged beautiful bait their wives.Break the black news and paint on a sailHuge weddings in the waves,Over the wakeward-flashing sprayOver the gardens of the floorClash out the mounting dolphin's day,My mast is a bell-spire,Strike and smoothe, for my decks are drums,Sing through the water-spoken prowThe octopus walking into her limbsThe polar eagle with his tread of snow.From salt-lipped beak to the kick of the sternSing how the seal has kissed her dead!The long, laid minute's bride drifts onOld in her cruel bed.Over the graveyard in the waterMountains and galleries beneathNightingale and hyenaRejoicing for that drifting deathSing and howl through sand and anemoneValley and sahara in a shell,Oh all the wanting flesh his enemyThrown to the sea in the shell of a girlIs old as water and plain as an eel;Always good-bye to the long-legged breadScattered in the paths of his heelsFor the salty birds fluttered and fedAnd the tall grains foamed in their bills;Always good-bye to the fires of the face,For the crab-backed dead on the sea-bed roseAnd scuttled over her eyes,The blind, clawed stare is cold as sleet.The tempter under the eyelidWho shows to the selves asleepMast-high moon-white women nakedWalking in wishes and lovely for shameIs dumb and gone with his flame of brides.Susannah's drowned in the bearded streamAnd no-one stirs at Sheba's sideBut the hungry kings of the tides;Sin who had a woman's shapeSleeps till Silence blows on a cloudAnd all the lifted waters walk and leap.Lucifer that bird's droppingOut of the sides of the northHas melted away and is lostIs always lost in her vaulted breath,Venus lies star-struck in her woundAnd the sensual ruins makeSeasons over the liquid world,White springs in the dark.Always good-bye, cried the voices through the shell,Good-bye always, for the flesh is castAnd the fisherman winds his reelWith no more desire than a ghost.Always good luck, praised the finned in the featherBird after dark and the laughing fishAs the sails drank up the hail of thunderAnd the long-tailed lightning lit his catch.The boat swims into the six-year weather,A wind throws a shadow and it freezes fast.See what the gold gut drags from underMountains and galleries to the crest!See what clings to hair and skullAs the boat skims on with drinking wings!The statues of great rain stand still,And the flakes fall like hills.Sing and strike his heavy haulToppling up the boatside in a snow of light!His decks are drenched with miracles.Oh miracle of fishes! The long dead bite!Out of the urn a size of a manOut of the room the weight of his troubleOut of the house that holds a townIn the continent of a fossilOne by one in dust and shawl,Dry as echoes and insect-faced,His fathers cling to the hand of the girlAnd the dead hand leads the past,Leads them as children and as airOn to the blindly tossing tops;The centuries throw back their hairAnd the old men sing from newborn lips:Time is bearing another son.Kill Time! She turns in her pain!The oak is felled in the acornAnd the hawk in the egg kills the wren.He who blew the great fire inAnd died on a hiss of flamesOr walked the earth in the eveningCounting the denials of the grainsClings to her drifting hair, and climbs;And he who taught their lips to singWeeps like the risen sun amongThe liquid choirs of his tribes.The rod bends low, divining land,And through the sundered water crawlsA garden holding to her handWith birds and animalsWith men and women and waterfallsTrees cool and dry in the whirlpool of shipsAnd stunned and still on the green, laid veilSand with legends in its virgin lapsAnd prophets loud on the burned dunes;Insects and valleys hold her thighs hard,Times and places grip her breast bone,She is breaking with seasons and clouds;Round her trailed wrist fresh water weaves,with moving fish and rounded stonesUp and down the greater wavesA separate river breathes and runs;Strike and sing his catch of fieldsFor the surge is sown with barley,The cattle graze on the covered foam,The hills have footed the waves away,With wild sea fillies and soaking bridlesWith salty colts and gales in their limbsAll the horses of his haul of miraclesGallop through the arched, green farms,Trot and gallop with gulls upon themAnd thunderbolts in their manes.O Rome and Sodom To-morrow and LondonThe country tide is cobbled with townsAnd steeples pierce the cloud on her shoulderAnd the streets that the fisherman combedWhen his long-legged flesh was a wind on fireAnd his loin was a hunting flameCoil from the thoroughfares of her hairAnd terribly lead him home aliveLead her prodigal home to his terror,The furious ox-killing house of love.Down, down, down, under the ground,Under the floating villages,Turns the moon-chained and water-woundMetropolis of fishes,There is nothing left of the sea but its sound,Under the earth the loud sea walks,In deathbeds of orchards the boat dies downAnd the bait is drowned among hayricks,Land, land, land, nothing remainsOf the pacing, famous sea but its speech,And into its talkative seven tombsThe anchor dives through the floors of a church.Good-bye, good luck, struck the sun and the moon,To the fisherman lost on the land.He stands alone in the door of his home,With his long-legged heart in his hand.", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20232": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20232, "poem.id": 20232, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:28:34", "poem.title": "Poem On His Birthday", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20233": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20233, "poem.id": 20233, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:28:38", "poem.title": "The Force That Through The Green Fuse Drives The Flower", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20234": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20234, "poem.id": 20234, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:28:42", "poem.title": "Author's Prologue", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "This day winding down nowAt God speeded summer's endIn the torrent salmon sun,In my seashaken houseOn a breakneck of rocksTangled with chirrup and fruit,Froth, flute, fin, and quillAt a wood's dancing hoof,By scummed, starfish sandsWith their fishwife crossGulls, pipers, cockles, and snails,Out there, crow black, menTackled with clouds, who kneelTo the sunset nets,Geese nearly in heaven, boysStabbing, and herons, and shellsThat speak seven seas,Eternal waters awayFrom the cities of nineDays' night whose towers will catchIn the religious windLike stalks of tall, dry straw,At poor peace I singTo you strangers (though songIs a burning and crested act,The fire of birds inThe world's turning wood,For my swan, splay sounds),Out of these seathumbed leavesThat will fly and fallLike leaves of trees and as soonCrumble and undieInto the dogdayed night.Seaward the salmon, sucked sun slips,And the dumb swans drub blueMy dabbed bay's dusk, as I hackThis rumpus of shapesFor you to knowHow I, a spining man,Glory also this star, birdRoared, sea born, man torn, blood blest.Hark: I trumpet the place,From fish to jumping hill! Look:I build my bellowing arkTo the best of my loveAs the flood begins,Out of the fountainheadOf fear, rage read, manalive,Molten and mountainous to streamOver the wound asleepSheep white hollow farmsTo Wales in my arms.Hoo, there, in castle keep,You king singsong owls, who moonbeamThe flickering runs and diveThe dingle furred deer dead!Huloo, on plumbed bryns,O my ruffled ring dovein the hooting, nearly darkWith Welsh and reverent rook,Coo rooning the woods' praise,who moons her blue notes from her nestDown to the curlew herd!Ho, hullaballoing clanAgape, with woeIn your beaks, on the gabbing capes!Heigh, on horseback hill, jackWhisking hare! whoHears, there, this fox light, my flood ship'sClangour as I hew and smite(A clash of anvils for myHubbub and fiddle, this tuneOn atounged puffball)But animals thick as theivesOn God's rough tumbling grounds(Hail to His beasthood!).Beasts who sleep good and thin,Hist, in hogback woods! The haystackedHollow farms ina throngOf waters cluck and cling,And barnroofs cockcrow war!O kingdom of neighbors finnedFelled and quilled, flash to my patchWork ark and the moonshineDrinking Noah of the bay,With pelt, and scale, and fleece:Only the drowned deep bellsOf sheep and churches noisePoor peace as the sun setsAnd dark shoals every holy field.We will ride out alone then,Under the stars of Wales,Cry, Multiudes of arks! AcrossThe water lidded lands,Manned with their loves they'll moveLike wooden islands, hill to hill.Huloo, my prowed dove with a flute!Ahoy, old, sea-legged fox,Tom tit and Dai mouse!My ark sings in the sunAt God speeded summer's endAnd the flood flowers now.", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20235": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20235, "poem.id": 20235, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:28:48", "poem.title": "Light Breaks Where No Sun Shines", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20236": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20236, "poem.id": 20236, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:28:51", "poem.title": "A Winter's Tale", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "It is a winter's taleThat the snow blind twilight ferries over the lakesAnd floating fields from the farm in the cup of the vales,Gliding windless through the hand folded flakes,The pale breath of cattle at the stealthy sail,And the stars falling cold,And the smell of hay in the snow, and the far owlWarning among the folds, and the frozen holdFlocked with the sheep white smoke of the farm house cowlIn the river wended vales where the tale was told.Once when the world turned oldOn a star of faith pure as the drifting bread,As the food and flames of the snow, a man unrolledThe scrolls of fire that burned in his heart and head,Torn and alone in a farm house in a foldOf fields. And burning thenIn his firelit island ringed by the winged snowAnd the dung hills white as wool and the henRoosts sleeping chill till the flame of the cock crowCombs through the mantled yards and the morning menStumble out with their spades,The cattle stirring, the mousing cat stepping shy,The puffed birds hopping and hunting, the milkmaidsGentle in their clogs over the fallen sky,And all the woken farm at its white trades,He knelt, he wept, he prayed,By the spit and the black pot in the log bright lightAnd the cup and the cut bread in the dancing shade,In the muffled house, in the quick of night,At the point of love, forsaken and afraid.He knelt on the cold stones,He wept form the crest of grief, he prayed to the veiled skyMay his hunger go howling on bare white bonesPast the statues of the stables and the sky roofed stiesAnd the duck pond glass and the blinding byres aloneInto the home of prayersAnd fires where he should prowl down the cloudOf his snow blind love and rush in the white lairs.His naked need struck him howling and bowedThough no sound flowed down the hand folded airBut only the wind strungHunger of birds in the fields of the bread of water, tossedIn high corn and the harvest melting on their tongues.And his nameless need bound him burning and lostWhen cold as snow he should run the wended vales amongThe rivers mouthed in night,And drown in the drifts of his need, and lie curled caughtIn the always desiring centre of the whiteInhuman cradle and the bride bed forever soughtBy the believer lost and the hurled outcast of light.Deliver him, he cried,By losing him all in love, and cast his needAlone and naked in the engulfing bride,Never to flourish in the fields of the white seedOr flower under the time dying flesh astride.Listen. The minstrels singIn the departed villages. The nightingale,Dust in the buried wood, flies on the grains of her wingsAnd spells on the winds of the dead his winter's tale.The voice of the dust of water from the withered springIs telling. The wizenedStream with bells and baying water bounds. The dew ringsOn the gristed leaves and the long gone glisteningParish of snow. The carved mouths in the rock are wind swept strings.Time sings through the intricately dead snow drop. Listen.It was a hand or soundIn the long ago land that glided the dark door wideAnd there outside on the bread of the groundA she bird rose and rayed like a burning bride.A she bird dawned, and her breast with snow and scarlet downed.Look. And the dancers moveOn the departed, snow bushed green, wanton in moon lightAs a dust of pigeons. Exulting, the grave hoovedHorses, centaur dead, turn and tread the drenched whitePaddocks in the farms of birds. The dead oak walks for love.The carved limbs in the rockLeap, as to trumpets. Calligraphy of the oldLeaves is dancing. Lines of age on the stones weave in a flock.And the harp shaped voice of the water's dust plucks in a foldOf fields. For love, the long ago she bird rises. Look.And the wild wings were raisedAbove her folded head, and the soft feathered voiceWas flying through the house as though the she bird praisedAnd all the elements of the slow fall rejoicedThat a man knelt alone in the cup of the vales,In the mantle and calm,By the spit and the black pot in the log bright light.And the sky of birds in the plumed voice charmedHim up and he ran like a wind after the kindling flightPast the blind barns and byres of the windless farm.In the poles of the yearWhen black birds died like priests in the cloaked hedge rowAnd over the cloth of counties the far hills rode near,Under the one leaved trees ran a scarecrow of snowAnd fast through the drifts of the thickets antlered like deer,Rags and prayers down the knee-Deep hillocks and loud on the numbed lakes,All night lost and long wading in the wake of the she-Bird through the times and lands and tribes of the slow flakes.Listen and look where she sails the goose plucked sea,The sky, the bird, the bride,The cloud, the need, the planted stars, the joy beyondThe fields of seed and the time dying flesh astride,The heavens, the heaven, the grave, the burning font.In the far ago land the door of his death glided wide,And the bird descended.On a bread white hill over the cupped farmAnd the lakes and floating fields and the river wendedVales where he prayed to come to the last harmAnd the home of prayers and fires, the tale ended.The dancing perishesOn the white, no longer growing green, and, minstrel dead,The singing breaks in the snow shoed villages of wishesThat once cut the figures of birds on the deep breadAnd over the glazed lakes skated the shapes of fishesFlying. The rite is shornOf nightingale and centaur dead horse. The springs witherBack. Lines of age sleep on the stones till trumpeting dawn.Exultation lies down. Time buries the spring weatherThat belled and bounded with the fossil and the dew reborn.For the bird lay beddedIn a choir of wings, as though she slept or died,And the wings glided wide and he was hymned and wedded,And through the thighs of the engulfing bride,The woman breasted and the heaven headedBird, he was brought low,Burning in the bride bed of love, in the whirl-Pool at the wanting centre, in the foldsOf paradise, in the spun bud of the world.And she rose with him flowering in her melting snow.", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20237": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20237, "poem.id": 20237, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:28:54", "poem.title": "In My Craft Or Sullen Art", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20238": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20238, "poem.id": 20238, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:28:59", "poem.title": "Ears In The Turrets Hear", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20239": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20239, "poem.id": 20239, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:29:01", "poem.title": "Altarwise By Owl-Light", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "Altarwise by owl-light in the half-way houseThe gentleman lay graveward with his furies; Abaddon in the hangnail cracked from Adam,And, from his fork, a dog among the fairies,The atlas-eater with a jaw for news,Bit out the mandrake with to-morrows scream.Then, penny-eyed, that gentlemen of wounds,Old cock from nowheres and the heaven's egg,With bones unbuttoned to the half-way winds,Hatched from the windy salvage on one leg,Scraped at my cradle in a walking wordThat night of time under the Christward shelter:I am the long world's gentlemen, he said,And share my bed with Capricorn and Cancer.Death is all metaphors, shape in one history; The child that sucketh long is shooting up,The planet-ducted pelican of circlesWeans on an artery the genders strip; Child of the short spark in a shapeless countrySoon sets alight a long stick from the cradle; The horizontal cross-bones of Abaddon,You by the cavern over the black stairs,Rung bone and blade, the verticals of Adam,And, manned by midnight, Jacob to the stars.Hairs of your head, then said the hollow agent,Are but the roots of nettles and feathersOver the groundworks thrusting through a pavementAnd hemlock-headed in the wood of weathers.First there was the lamb on knocking kneesAnd three dead seasons on a climbing graveThat Adam's wether in the flock of horns,Butt of the tree-tailed worm that mounted Eve,Horned down with skullfoot and the skull of toesOn thunderous pavements in the garden of time; Rip of the vaults, I took my marrow-ladleOut of the wrinkled undertaker's van,And, Rip Van Winkle from a timeless cradle,Dipped me breast-deep in the descending bone; The black ram, shuffling of the year, old winter,Alone alive among his mutton fold,We rung our weathering changes on the ladder,Said the antipodes, and twice spring chimed.What is the metre of the dictionary? The size of genesis? the short spark's gender? Shade without shape? the shape of the Pharaohs echo? (My shape of age nagging the wounded whisper.) Which sixth of wind blew out the burning gentry? (Questions are hunchbacks to the poker marrow.) What of a bamboo man amomg your acres? Corset the boneyards for a crooked boy? Button your bodice on a hump of splinters,My camel's eyes will needle through the shroud.Loves reflection of the mushroom features,Still snapped by night in the bread-sided field,Once close-up smiling in the wall of pictures,Arc-lamped thrown back upon the cutting flood.", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20240": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20240, "poem.id": 20240, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:29:03", "poem.title": "All All And All The Dry Worlds Lever", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20241": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20241, "poem.id": 20241, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:29:07", "poem.title": "After The Funeral (In Memory Of Ann Jones)", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "After the funeral, mule praises, brays,Windshake of sailshaped ears, muffle-toed tapTap happily of one peg in the thickGrave's foot, blinds down the lids, the teeth in black,The spittled eyes, the salt ponds in the sleeves,Morning smack of the spade that wakes up sleep,Shakes a desolate boy who slits his throatIn the dark of the coffin and sheds dry leaves,That breaks one bone to light with a judgment clout'After the feast of tear-stuffed time and thistlesIn a room with a stuffed fox and a stale fern,I stand, for this memorial's sake, aloneIn the snivelling hours with dead, humped AnnWhose hodded, fountain heart once fell in puddlesRound the parched worlds of Wales and drowned each sun(Though this for her is a monstrous image blindlyMagnified out of praise; her death was a still drop;She would not have me sinking in the holyFlood of her heart's fame; she would lie dumb and deepAnd need no druid of her broken body).But I, Ann's bard on a raised hearth, call allThe seas to service that her wood-tongud virtueBabble like a bellbuoy over the hymning heads,Bow down the walls of the ferned and foxy woodsThat her love sing and swing through a brown chapel,Blees her bent spirit with four, crossing birds.Her flesh was meek as milk, but this skyward statueWith the wild breast and blessed and giant skullIs carved from her in a room with a wet windowIn a fiercely mourning house in a crooked year.I know her scrubbed and sour humble handsLie with religion in their cramp, her threadbareWhisper in a damp word, her wits drilled hollow,Her fist of a face died clenched on a round pain;And sculptured Ann is seventy years of stone.These cloud-sopped, marble hands, this monumentalArgument of the hewn voice, gesture and psalmStorm me forever over her grave untilThe stuffed lung of the fox twitch and cry LoveAnd the strutting fern lay seeds on the black sill.", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20242": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20242, "poem.id": 20242, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:29:12", "poem.title": "Elegy", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "Too proud to die; broken and blind he diedThe darkest way, and did not turn away,A cold kind man brave in his narrow prideOn that darkest day, Oh, forever mayHe lie lightly, at last, on the last, crossedHill, under the grass, in love, and there growYoung among the long flocks, and never lie lostOr still all the numberless days of his death, thoughAbove all he longed for his mother's breastWhich was rest and dust, and in the kind groundThe darkest justice of death, blind and unblessed.Let him find no rest but be fathered and found,I prayed in the crouching room, by his blind bed,In the muted house, one minute beforeNoon, and night, and light. the rivers of the deadVeined his poor hand I held, and I sawThrough his unseeing eyes to the roots of the sea.(An old tormented man three-quarters blind,I am not too proud to cry that He and heWill never never go out of my mind.All his bones crying, and poor in all but pain,Being innocent, he dreaded that he diedHating his God, but what he was was plain:An old kind man brave in his burning pride.The sticks of the house were his; his books he owned.Even as a baby he had never cried;Nor did he now, save to his secret wound.Out of his eyes I saw the last light glide.Here among the liught of the lording skyAn old man is with me where I goWalking in the meadows of his son's eyeOn whom a world of ills came down like snow.He cried as he died, fearing at last the spheres'Last sound, the world going out without a breath:Too proud to cry, too frail to check the tears,And caught between two nights, blindness and death.O deepest wound of all that he should dieOn that darkest day. oh, he could hideThe tears out of his eyes, too proud to cry.Until I die he will not leave my side.)", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20243": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20243, "poem.id": 20243, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:29:14", "poem.title": "Among Those Killed In The Dawn Raid Was A Man Aged A Hundred", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20244": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20244, "poem.id": 20244, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:29:18", "poem.title": "Before I Knocked", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20245": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20245, "poem.id": 20245, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:29:20", "poem.title": "A Process In The Weather Of The Heart", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20246": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20246, "poem.id": 20246, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:29:27", "poem.title": "A Letter To My Aunt", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "A Letter To My Aunt Discussing The Correct Approach To Modern PoetryTo you, my aunt, who would exploreThe literary Chankley Bore,The paths are hard, for you are notA literary HottentotBut just a kind and cultured dameWho knows not Eliot (to her shame).Fie on you, aunt, that you should seeNo genius in David G.,No elemental form and soundIn T.S.E. and Ezra Pound.Fie on you, aunt! I'll show you howTo elevate your middle brow,And how to scale and see the sightsFrom modernist Parnassian heights.First buy a hat, no Paris modelBut one the Swiss wear when they yodel,A bowler thing with one or twoFeathers to conceal the view;And then in sandals walk the street(All modern painters use their feetFor painting, on their canvas strips,Their wives or mothers, minus hips).Perhaps it would be best if youCreated something very new,A dirty novel done in ErseOr written backwards in Welsh verse,Or paintings on the backs of vests,Or Sanskrit psalms on lepers' chests.But if this proved imposs-i-blePerhaps it would be just as well,For you could then write what you please,And modern verse is done with ease.Do not forget that 'limpet' rhymesWith 'strumpet' in these troubled times,And commas are the worst of crimes;Few understand the works of Cummings,And few James Joyce's mental slummings,And few young Auden's coded chatter;But then it is the few that matter.Never be lucid, never state,If you would be regarded great,The simplest thought or sentiment,(For thought, we know, is decadent);Never omit such vital wordsAs belly, genitals and -----,For these are things that play a part(And what a part) in all good art.Remember this: each rose is wormy,And every lovely woman's germy;Remember this: that love dependsOn how the Gallic letter bends;Remember, too, that life is hellAnd even heaven has a smellOf putrefying angels whoMake deadly whoopee in the blue.These things remembered, what can stopA poet going to the top?A final word: before you startThe convulsions of your art,Remove your brains, take out your heart;Minus these curses, you can beA genius like David G.Take courage, aunt, and send your stuffTo Geoffrey Grigson with my luff,And may I yet live to admireHow well your poems light the fire.", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20247": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20247, "poem.id": 20247, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:29:32", "poem.title": "Deaths And Entrances", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20248": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20248, "poem.id": 20248, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:29:38", "poem.title": "Love In The Asylum", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20249": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20249, "poem.id": 20249, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:29:44", "poem.title": "Especially When The October Wind", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20250": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20250, "poem.id": 20250, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:29:51", "poem.title": "A Refusal To Mourn The Death, By Fire, Of A Child In London", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20251": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20251, "poem.id": 20251, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:29:55", "poem.title": "Clown In The Moon", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20252": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20252, "poem.id": 20252, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:29:59", "poem.title": "Fern Hill", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughsAbout the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,The night above the dingle starry,Time let me hail and climbGolden in the heydays of his eyes,And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple townsAnd once below a time I lordly had the trees and leavesTrail with daisies and barleyDown the rivers of the windfall light.And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barnsAbout the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,In the sun that is young once only,Time let me play and beGolden in the mercy of his means,And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calvesSang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear andcold,And the sabbath rang slowlyIn the pebbles of the holy streams.All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hayFields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it wasairAnd playing, lovely and wateryAnd fire green as grass.And nightly under the simple starsAs I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, thenightjarsFlying with the ricks, and the horsesFlashing into the dark.And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer whiteWith the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was allShining, it was Adam and maiden,The sky gathered againAnd the sun grew round that very day.So it must have been after the birth of the simple lightIn the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walkingwarmOut of the whinnying green stableOn to the fields of praise.And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay houseUnder the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,In the sun born over and over,I ran my heedless ways,My wishes raced through the house high hayAnd nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allowsIn all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songsBefore the children green and goldenFollow him out of grace.Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time wouldtake meUp to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,In the moon that is always rising,Nor that riding to sleepI should hear him fly with the high fieldsAnd wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,Time held me green and dyingThough I sang in my chains like the sea.", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20253": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20253, "poem.id": 20253, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:30:02", "poem.title": "A Child's Christmas In Wales", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen.It was on the afternoon of the Christmas Eve, and I was in Mrs. Prothero's garden, waiting for cats, with her son Jim. It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland, though there were no reindeers. But there were cats. Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks, we waited to snowball the cats. Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered, spitting and snarling, they would slink and sidle over the white back-garden walls, and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I, fur-capped and moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road, would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their eyes. The wise cats never appeared.We were so still, Eskimo-footed arctic marksmen in the muffling silence of the eternal snows - eternal, ever since Wednesday - that we never heard Mrs. Prothero's first cry from her igloo at the bottom of the garden. Or, if we heard it at all, it was, to us, like the far-off challenge of our enemy and prey, the neighbor's polar cat. But soon the voice grew louder.\"Fire!\" cried Mrs. Prothero, and she beat the dinner-gong.And we ran down the garden, with the snowballs in our arms, toward the house; and smoke, indeed, was pouring out of the dining-room, and the gong was bombilating, and Mrs. Prothero was announcing ruin like a town crier in Pompeii. This was better than all the cats in Wales standing on the wall in a row. We bounded into the house, laden with snowballs, and stopped at the open door of the smoke-filled room.Something was burning all right; perhaps it was Mr. Prothero, who always slept there after midday dinner with a newspaper over his face. But he was standing in the middle of the room, saying, \"A fine Christmas!\" and smacking at the smoke with a slipper.\"Call the fire brigade,\" cried Mrs. Prothero as she beat the gong.\"There won't be there,\" said Mr. Prothero, \"it's Christmas.\"There was no fire to be seen, only clouds of smoke and Mr. Prothero standing in the middle of them, waving his slipper as though he were conducting.\"Do something,\" he said. And we threw all our snowballs into the smoke - I think we missed Mr. Prothero - and ran out of the house to the telephone box.\"Let's call the police as well,\" Jim said. \"And the ambulance.\" \"And Ernie Jenkins, he likes fires.\"But we only called the fire brigade, and soon the fire engine came and three tall men in helmets brought a hose into the house and Mr. Prothero got out just in time before they turned it on. Nobody could have had a noisier Christmas Eve. And when the firemen turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, Jim's Aunt, Miss. Prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very quietly, to hear what she would say to them. She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets, standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said, \"Would you like anything to read?\"Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the daft and happy hills bareback, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: \"It snowed last year, too. I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.\"\"But that was not the same snow,\" I say. \"Our snow was not only shaken from white wash buckets down the sky, it came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely -ivied the walls and settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards.\"\"Were there postmen then, too?\"\"With sprinkling eyes and wind-cherried noses, on spread, frozen feet they crunched up to the doors and mittened on them manfully. But all that the children could hear was a ringing of bells.\"\"You mean that the postman went rat-a-tat-tat and the doors rang?\"\"I mean that the bells the children could hear were inside them.\"\"I only hear thunder sometimes, never bells.\"\"There were church bells, too.\"\"Inside them?\"\"No, no, no, in the bat-black, snow-white belfries, tugged by bishops and storks. And they rang their tidings over the bandaged town, over the frozen foam of the powder and ice-cream hills, over the crackling sea. It seemed that all the churches boomed for joy under my window; and the weathercocks crew for Christmas, on our fence.\"\"Get back to the postmen\"\"They were just ordinary postmen, found of walking and dogs and Christmas and the snow. They knocked on the doors with blue knuckles ....\"\"Ours has got a black knocker....\"\"And then they stood on the white Welcome mat in the little, drifted porches and huffed and puffed, making ghosts with their breath, and jogged from foot to foot like small boys wanting to go out.\"\"And then the presents?\"\"And then the Presents, after the Christmas box. And the cold postman, with a rose on his button-nose, tingled down the tea-tray-slithered run of the chilly glinting hill. He went in his ice-bound boots like a man on fishmonger's slabs. \"He wagged his bag like a frozen camel's hump, dizzily turned the corner on one foot, and, by God, he was gone.\"\"Get back to the Presents.\"\"There were the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and mittens made for giant sloths; zebra scarfs of a substance like silky gum that could be tug-o'-warred down to the galoshes; blinding tam-o'-shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking tribes; from aunts who always wore wool next to the skin there were mustached and rasping vests that made you wonder why the aunts had any skin left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from an aunt now, alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pictureless books in which small boys, though warned with quotations not to, would skate on Farmer Giles' pond and did and drowned; and books that told me everything about the wasp, except why.\"\"Go on the Useless Presents.\"\"Bags of moist and many-colored jelly babies and a folded flag and a false nose and a tram-conductor's cap and a machine that punched tickets and rang a bell; never a catapult; once, by mistake that no one could explain, a little hatchet; and a celluloid duck that made, when you pressed it, a most unducklike sound, a mewing moo that an ambitious cat might make who wished to be a cow; and a painting book in which I could make the grass, the trees, the sea and the animals any colour I pleased, and still the dazzling sky-blue sheep are grazing in the red field under the rainbow-billed and pea-green birds. Hardboileds, toffee, fudge and allsorts, crunches, cracknels, humbugs, glaciers, marzipan, and butterwelsh for the Welsh. And troops of bright tin soldiers who, if they could not fight, could always run. And Snakes-and-Families and Happy Ladders. And Easy Hobbi-Games for Little Engineers, complete with instructions. Oh, easy for Leonardo! And a whistle to make the dogs bark to wake up the old man next door to make him beat on the wall with his stick to shake our picture off the wall. And a packet of cigarettes: you put one in your mouth and you stood at the corner of the street and you waited for hours, in vain, for an old lady to scold you for smoking a cigarette, and then with a smirk you ate it. And then it was breakfast under the balloons.\"\"Were there Uncles like in our house?\"\"There are always Uncles at Christmas. The same Uncles. And on Christmas morning, with dog-disturbing whistle and sugar fags, I would scour the swatched town for the news of the little world, and find always a dead bird by the Post Office or by the white deserted swings; perhaps a robin, all but one of his fires out. Men and women wading or scooping back from chapel, with taproom noses and wind-bussed cheeks, all albinos, huddles their stiff black jarring feathers against the irreligious snow. Mistletoe hung from the gas brackets in all the front parlors; there was sherry and walnuts and bottled beer and crackers by the dessertspoons; and cats in their fur-abouts watched the fires; and the high-heaped fire spat, all ready for the chestnuts and the mulling pokers. Some few large men sat in the front parlors, without their collars, Uncles almost certainly, trying their new cigars, holding them out judiciously at arms' length, returning them to their mouths, coughing, then holding them out again as though waiting for the explosion; and some few small aunts, not wanted in the kitchen, nor anywhere else for that matter, sat on the very edge of their chairs, poised and brittle, afraid to break, like faded cups and saucers.\"Not many those mornings trod the piling streets: an old man always, fawn-bowlered, yellow-gloved and, at this time of year, with spats of snow, would take his constitutional to the white bowling green and back, as he would take it wet or fire on Christmas Day or Doomsday; sometimes two hale young men, with big pipes blazing, no overcoats and wind blown scarfs, would trudge, unspeaking, down to the forlorn sea, to work up an appetite, to blow away the fumes, who knows, to walk into the waves until nothing of them was left but the two furling smoke clouds of their inextinguishable briars. Then I would be slap-dashing home, the gravy smell of the dinners of others, the bird smell, the brandy, the pudding and mince, coiling up to my nostrils, when out of a snow-clogged side lane would come a boy the spit of myself, with a pink-tipped cigarette and the violet past of a black eye, cocky as a bullfinch, leering all to himself.I hated him on sight and sound, and would be about to put my dog whistle to my lips and blow him off the face of Christmas when suddenly he, with a violet wink, put his whistle to his lips and blew so stridently, so high, so exquisitely loud, that gobbling faces, their cheeks bulged with goose, would press against their tinsled windows, the whole length of the white echoing street. For dinner we had turkey and blazing pudding, and after dinner the Uncles sat in front of the fire, loosened all buttons, put their large moist hands over their watch chains, groaned a little and slept. Mothers, aunts and sisters scuttled to and fro, bearing tureens. Auntie Bessie, who had already been frightened, twice, by a clock-work mouse, whimpered at the sideboard and had some elderberry wine. The dog was sick. Auntie Dosie had to have three aspirins, but Auntie Hannah, who liked port, stood in the middle of the snowbound back yard, singing like a big-bosomed thrush. I would blow up balloons to see how big they would blow up to; and, when they burst, which they all did, the Uncles jumped and rumbled. In the rich and heavy afternoon, the Uncles breathing like dolphins and the snow descending, I would sit among festoons and Chinese lanterns and nibble dates and try to make a model man-o'-war, following the Instructions for Little Engineers, and produce what might be mistaken for a sea-going tramcar.Or I would go out, my bright new boots squeaking, into the white world, on to the seaward hill, to call on Jim and Dan and Jack and to pad through the still streets, leaving huge footprints on the hidden pavements.\"I bet people will think there's been hippos.\"\"What would you do if you saw a hippo coming down our street?\"\"I'd go like this, bang! I'd throw him over the railings and roll him down the hill and then I'd tickle him under the ear and he'd wag his tail.\"\"What would you do if you saw two hippos?\"Iron-flanked and bellowing he-hippos clanked and battered through the scudding snow toward us as we passed Mr. Daniel's house.\"Let's post Mr. Daniel a snow-ball through his letter box.\"\"Let's write things in the snow.\"\"Let's write, 'Mr. Daniel looks like a spaniel' all over his lawn.\"Or we walked on the white shore. \"Can the fishes see it's snowing?\"The silent one-clouded heavens drifted on to the sea. Now we were snow-blind travelers lost on the north hills, and vast dewlapped dogs, with flasks round their necks, ambled and shambled up to us, baying \"Excelsior.\" We returned home through the poor streets where only a few children fumbled with bare red fingers in the wheel-rutted snow and cat-called after us, their voices fading away, as we trudged uphill, into the cries of the dock birds and the hooting of ships out in the whirling bay. And then, at tea the recovered Uncles would be jolly; and the ice cake loomed in the center of the table like a marble grave. Auntie Hannah laced her tea with rum, because it was only once a year.Bring out the tall tales now that we told by the fire as the gaslight bubbled like a diver. Ghosts whooed like owls in the long nights when I dared not look over my shoulder; animals lurked in the cubbyhole under the stairs and the gas meter ticked. And I remember that we went singing carols once, when there wasn't the shaving of a moon to light the flying streets. At the end of a long road was a drive that led to a large house, and we stumbled up the darkness of the drive that night, each one of us afraid, each one holding a stone in his hand in case, and all of us too brave to say a word. The wind through the trees made noises as of old and unpleasant and maybe webfooted men wheezing in caves. We reached the black bulk of the house. \"What shall we give them? Hark the Herald?\"\"No,\" Jack said, \"Good King Wencelas. I'll count three.\" One, two three, and we began to sing, our voices high and seemingly distant in the snow-felted darkness round the house that was occupied by nobody we knew. We stood close together, near the dark door. Good King Wencelas looked out On the Feast of Stephen ... And then a small, dry voice, like the voice of someone who has not spoken for a long time, joined our singing: a small, dry, eggshell voice from the other side of the door: a small dry voice through the keyhole. And when we stopped running we were outside our house; the front room was lovely; balloons floated under the hot-water-bottle-gulping gas; everything was good again and shone over the town.\"Perhaps it was a ghost,\" Jim said. \"Perhaps it was trolls,\" Dan said, who was always reading.\"Let's go in and see if there's any jelly left,\" Jack said. And we did that.Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang \"Cherry Ripe,\" and another uncle sang \"Drake's Drum.\" It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a Bird's Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20254": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20254, "poem.id": 20254, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:30:06", "poem.title": "And Death Shall Have No Dominion", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "Your browser does not support the audio element.", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" }, "20255": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20255, "poem.id": 20255, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:30:11", "poem.title": "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Dylan Thomas" } } }, "22": { "poet.id": 22, "poet.ts": "2018-02-28 20:39:54", "poet.title": "Ogden Nash", "poet.poet_x_poem_id": { "828": { "poet_x_poem.id": 828, "poem.id": 828, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:45:31", "poem.title": "The Grackle", "poem.date": "5/21/2015", "poem.content": "The grackle's voice is less than mellow,His heart is black, his eye is yellow,He bullies more attractive birdsWith hoodlum deeds and vulgar words,And should a human interfere,Attacks that human in the rear.I cannot help but deem the grackleAn ornithological debacle.", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "829": { "poet_x_poem.id": 829, "poem.id": 829, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:45:33", "poem.title": "Reprise", "poem.date": "4/6/2015", "poem.content": "Geniuses of countless nationsHave told their love for generationsTill all their memorable phrasesAre common as goldenrod or daisies.Their girls have glimmered like the moon,Or shimmered like a summer moon,Stood like a lily, fled like a fawn,Now the sunset, now the dawn,Here the princess in the towerThere the sweet forbidden flower.Darling, when I look at youEvery aged phrase is new,And there are moments when it seemsI've married one of Shakespeare's dreams.", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "830": { "poet_x_poem.id": 830, "poem.id": 830, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:45:36", "poem.title": "Summer Serenade", "poem.date": "5/12/2015", "poem.content": "When the thunder stalks the sky, When tickle-footed walks the fly, When shirt is wet and throat is dry, Look, my darling, thats July. Through the grassy lawn be leather, And prickly temper tug the tether, Shall we postpone our love for weather? If we must melt, lets melt together!", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "831": { "poet_x_poem.id": 831, "poem.id": 831, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:45:40", "poem.title": "Nothing makes me sicker", "poem.date": "10/31/2015", "poem.content": "Nothing makes me sickerthan liquorand candyis too expandy", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "832": { "poet_x_poem.id": 832, "poem.id": 832, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:45:43", "poem.title": "Morning Prayer", "poem.date": "11/17/2015", "poem.content": "Now another day is breaking,Sleep was sweet and so is waking.Dear Lord, I promised you last nightNever again to sulk or fight.Such vows are easier to keepWhen a child is sound asleep.Today, O Lord, for your dear sake,I'll try to keep them when awake.", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "833": { "poet_x_poem.id": 833, "poem.id": 833, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:45:47", "poem.title": "Ice Breaking", "poem.date": "2/10/2015", "poem.content": "CandyIs dandy,But liquorIs quicker", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "834": { "poet_x_poem.id": 834, "poem.id": 834, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:45:51", "poem.title": "A Flea And A Fly In A Flue", "poem.date": "2/4/2015", "poem.content": "A flea and a fly in a flueWere imprisoned, so what could they do?Said the fly, \"let us flee!\"\"Let us fly!\" said the flea.So they flew through a flaw in the flue.", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "835": { "poet_x_poem.id": 835, "poem.id": 835, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:45:54", "poem.title": "I'Ll Get One Tomorrow", "poem.date": "4/28/2011", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "836": { "poet_x_poem.id": 836, "poem.id": 836, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:45:59", "poem.title": "Samson Agonistes", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "837": { "poet_x_poem.id": 837, "poem.id": 837, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:46:03", "poem.title": "The Solitary Huntsman", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "838": { "poet_x_poem.id": 838, "poem.id": 838, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:46:05", "poem.title": "The Squab", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "839": { "poet_x_poem.id": 839, "poem.id": 839, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:46:12", "poem.title": "Reflection On Caution", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "840": { "poet_x_poem.id": 840, "poem.id": 840, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:46:14", "poem.title": "Pretty Halcyon Days", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "841": { "poet_x_poem.id": 841, "poem.id": 841, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:46:18", "poem.title": "The Middle", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "842": { "poet_x_poem.id": 842, "poem.id": 842, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:46:20", "poem.title": "The Joyous Malingerer", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "843": { "poet_x_poem.id": 843, "poem.id": 843, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:46:26", "poem.title": "The Rhinoceros", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "844": { "poet_x_poem.id": 844, "poem.id": 844, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:46:29", "poem.title": "The Praying Mantis", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "845": { "poet_x_poem.id": 845, "poem.id": 845, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:46:34", "poem.title": "The Centipede", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "846": { "poet_x_poem.id": 846, "poem.id": 846, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:46:40", "poem.title": "Reflection On The Fallibility Of Nemesis", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "847": { "poet_x_poem.id": 847, "poem.id": 847, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:46:42", "poem.title": "The Bargain", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "848": { "poet_x_poem.id": 848, "poem.id": 848, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:46:47", "poem.title": "Old Dr. Valentine To His Son", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "849": { "poet_x_poem.id": 849, "poem.id": 849, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:46:51", "poem.title": "Kipling's Vermont", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "850": { "poet_x_poem.id": 850, "poem.id": 850, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:46:55", "poem.title": "The Sunset Years Of Samuel Shy", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "851": { "poet_x_poem.id": 851, "poem.id": 851, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:46:58", "poem.title": "One Third Of The Calendar", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "852": { "poet_x_poem.id": 852, "poem.id": 852, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:47:04", "poem.title": "Spring Comes To Murray Hill", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "853": { "poet_x_poem.id": 853, "poem.id": 853, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:47:07", "poem.title": "Reflection On Babies", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "854": { "poet_x_poem.id": 854, "poem.id": 854, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:47:09", "poem.title": "Reflection On A Wicked World", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "855": { "poet_x_poem.id": 855, "poem.id": 855, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:47:15", "poem.title": "Requiem", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "856": { "poet_x_poem.id": 856, "poem.id": 856, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:47:19", "poem.title": "Pg Wooster, Just As He Useter", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "857": { "poet_x_poem.id": 857, "poem.id": 857, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:47:23", "poem.title": "Tableau At Twilight", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "858": { "poet_x_poem.id": 858, "poem.id": 858, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:47:28", "poem.title": "The Shrimp", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "859": { "poet_x_poem.id": 859, "poem.id": 859, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:47:34", "poem.title": "Soliloquy In Circles", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "860": { "poet_x_poem.id": 860, "poem.id": 860, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:47:40", "poem.title": "If He Were Alive Today, Mayhap, Mr. Morgan Would Sit On The Midget's Lap", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "861": { "poet_x_poem.id": 861, "poem.id": 861, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:47:42", "poem.title": "Lines Indited With All The Depravity Of Poverty", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "862": { "poet_x_poem.id": 862, "poem.id": 862, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:47:44", "poem.title": "Peekabo, I Almost See You", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "863": { "poet_x_poem.id": 863, "poem.id": 863, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:47:48", "poem.title": "The Abominable Snowman", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "864": { "poet_x_poem.id": 864, "poem.id": 864, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:47:51", "poem.title": "Possessions Are Nine Points Of Conversation", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "865": { "poet_x_poem.id": 865, "poem.id": 865, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:47:54", "poem.title": "The Cantaloupe", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "866": { "poet_x_poem.id": 866, "poem.id": 866, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:47:59", "poem.title": "Lather As You Go", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "867": { "poet_x_poem.id": 867, "poem.id": 867, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:48:04", "poem.title": "The Romantic Age", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20296": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20296, "poem.id": 20296, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:30:17", "poem.title": "The Guppy", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20297": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20297, "poem.id": 20297, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:30:20", "poem.title": "The Clean Plater", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20298": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20298, "poem.id": 20298, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:30:26", "poem.title": "The Parent", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20299": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20299, "poem.id": 20299, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:30:29", "poem.title": "Portrait Of The Artist As A Prematurely Old Man", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20300": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20300, "poem.id": 20300, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:30:32", "poem.title": "Song Of The Open Road", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20301": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20301, "poem.id": 20301, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:30:38", "poem.title": "The Chipmunk", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20302": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20302, "poem.id": 20302, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:30:44", "poem.title": "The Ostrich", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20303": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20303, "poem.id": 20303, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:30:50", "poem.title": "The Porcupine", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20304": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20304, "poem.id": 20304, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:30:56", "poem.title": "No, You Be A Lone Eagle", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20305": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20305, "poem.id": 20305, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:31:00", "poem.title": "Lines On Facing Forty", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20306": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20306, "poem.id": 20306, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:31:04", "poem.title": "The Hunter", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20307": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20307, "poem.id": 20307, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:31:07", "poem.title": "The Lion", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20308": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20308, "poem.id": 20308, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:31:11", "poem.title": "Song To Be Sung By The Father Of Infant Female Children", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20309": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20309, "poem.id": 20309, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:31:13", "poem.title": "Will Consider Situation", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20310": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20310, "poem.id": 20310, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:31:18", "poem.title": "The Wasp", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20311": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20311, "poem.id": 20311, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:31:21", "poem.title": "The Eel", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20312": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20312, "poem.id": 20312, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:31:26", "poem.title": "Grandpa Is Ashamed", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20313": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20313, "poem.id": 20313, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:31:31", "poem.title": "You Can Be A Republican, I'M A Genocrat", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20314": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20314, "poem.id": 20314, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:31:35", "poem.title": "The Jellyfish", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20315": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20315, "poem.id": 20315, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:31:42", "poem.title": "Reflections On Ice-Breaking", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20316": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20316, "poem.id": 20316, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:31:45", "poem.title": "The Cuckoo", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20317": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20317, "poem.id": 20317, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:31:49", "poem.title": "The Octopus", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20318": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20318, "poem.id": 20318, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:31:56", "poem.title": "The Termite", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20319": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20319, "poem.id": 20319, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:32:02", "poem.title": "The Camel", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20320": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20320, "poem.id": 20320, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:32:06", "poem.title": "Lines To Be Embroidered On A Bib", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20321": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20321, "poem.id": 20321, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:32:08", "poem.title": "So Does Everybody Else, Only Not So Much", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20322": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20322, "poem.id": 20322, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:32:15", "poem.title": "The Cow", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20323": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20323, "poem.id": 20323, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:32:20", "poem.title": "The Firefly", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20324": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20324, "poem.id": 20324, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:32:25", "poem.title": "The Germ", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20325": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20325, "poem.id": 20325, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:32:28", "poem.title": "The Ant", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20326": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20326, "poem.id": 20326, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:32:31", "poem.title": "Goody For Our Side And Your Side Too", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20327": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20327, "poem.id": 20327, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:32:37", "poem.title": "Tin Wedding Whistle", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20328": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20328, "poem.id": 20328, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:32:42", "poem.title": "The Terrible People", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20329": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20329, "poem.id": 20329, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:32:46", "poem.title": "Introspective Reflection", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20330": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20330, "poem.id": 20330, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:32:48", "poem.title": "The Purist", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20331": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20331, "poem.id": 20331, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:32:52", "poem.title": "The Sniffle", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20332": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20332, "poem.id": 20332, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:32:58", "poem.title": "The Perfect Husband", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20333": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20333, "poem.id": 20333, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:33:02", "poem.title": "Oh To Be Odd!", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20334": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20334, "poem.id": 20334, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:33:05", "poem.title": "No Doctor's Today, Thank You", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20335": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20335, "poem.id": 20335, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:33:10", "poem.title": "One From One Leaves Two", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20336": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20336, "poem.id": 20336, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:33:14", "poem.title": "What's The Use?", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20337": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20337, "poem.id": 20337, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:33:18", "poem.title": "To A Small Boy Standing On My Shoes While I Am Wearing Them", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20338": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20338, "poem.id": 20338, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:33:24", "poem.title": "The Catsup Bottle", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20339": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20339, "poem.id": 20339, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:33:29", "poem.title": "Just Keep Quiet And Nobody Will Notice", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20340": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20340, "poem.id": 20340, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:33:32", "poem.title": "Further Reflections On Parsley", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20341": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20341, "poem.id": 20341, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:33:37", "poem.title": "Winter Complaint", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20342": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20342, "poem.id": 20342, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:33:41", "poem.title": "Good-By Now Or Pardon My Gauntlet", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20343": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20343, "poem.id": 20343, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:33:43", "poem.title": "The Turtle", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20344": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20344, "poem.id": 20344, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:33:49", "poem.title": "The Duck", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20345": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20345, "poem.id": 20345, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:33:52", "poem.title": "The Fly", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20346": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20346, "poem.id": 20346, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:33:54", "poem.title": "Look What You Did, Christopher!", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20347": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20347, "poem.id": 20347, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:33:59", "poem.title": "The People Upstairs", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20348": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20348, "poem.id": 20348, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:34:01", "poem.title": "My Dream", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20349": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20349, "poem.id": 20349, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:34:07", "poem.title": "Very Like A Whale", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20350": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20350, "poem.id": 20350, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:34:11", "poem.title": "What Almost Every Woman Knows Sooner Or Later", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20351": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20351, "poem.id": 20351, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:34:14", "poem.title": "à Bas Ben Adhem", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20352": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20352, "poem.id": 20352, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:34:20", "poem.title": "The Hippopotamus", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20353": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20353, "poem.id": 20353, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:34:25", "poem.title": "The Dog", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20354": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20354, "poem.id": 20354, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:34:31", "poem.title": "A Tale Of The Thirteenth Floor", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "The hands of the clock were reaching highIn an old midtown hotel;I name no name, but its sordid fameIs table talk in hell.I name no name, but hell's own flameIllumes the lobby garish,A gilded snare just off Times SquareFor the maidens of the parish.The revolving door swept the grimy floorLike a crinoline grotesque,And a lowly bum from an ancient slumCrept furtively past the desk.His footsteps sift into the liftAs a knife in the sheath is slipped,Stealthy and swift into the liftAs a vampire into a crypt.Old Maxie, the elevator boy,Was reading an ode by Shelley,But he dropped the ode as it were a toadWhen the gun jammed into his belly.There came a whisper as soft as mudIn the bed of an old canal:\"Take me up to the suite of Pinball Pete,The rat who betrayed my gal.\"The lift doth rise with groans and sighsLike a duchess for the waltz,Then in middle shaft, like a duchess daft,It changes its mind and halts.The bum bites lip as the landlocked shipDoth neither fall nor rise,But Maxie the elevator boyRegards him with burning eyes.\"First, to explore the thirteenth floor,\"Says Maxie, \"would be wise.\"Quoth the bum, \"There is moss on your double cross,I have been this way before,I have cased the joint at every point,And there is no thirteenth floor.The architect he skipped directFrom twelve unto fourteen,There is twelve below and fourteen above,And nothing in between,For the vermin who dwell in this hotelCould never abide thirteen.\"Said Max, \"Thirteen, that floor obscene,Is hidden from human sight;But once a year it doth appear,On this Walpurgis Night.Ere you peril your soul in murderer's role,Heed those who sinned of yore;The path they trod led away from God,And onto the thirteenth floor,Where those they slew, a grisly crew,Reproach them forevermore.\"We are higher than twelve and below fourteen,\"Said Maxie to the bum,\"And the sickening draft that taints the shaftIs a whiff of kingdom come.The sickening draft that taints the shaftBlows through the devil's door!\"And he squashed the latch like a fungus patch,And revealed the thirteenth floor.It was cheap cigars like lurid scarsThat glowed in the rancid gloom,The murk was a-boil with fusel oilAnd the reek of stale perfume.And round and round there dragged and woundA loathsome conga chain,The square and the hep in slow lock step,The slayer and the slain.(For the souls of the victims ascend on high,But their bodies below remain.)The clean souls fly to their home in the sky,But their bodies remain belowTo pursue the Cain who each has slainAnd harry him to and fro.When life is extinct each corpse is linkedTo its gibbering murderer,As a chicken is bound with wire aroundThe neck of a killer cur.Handcuffed to Hate come Doctor Waite(He tastes the poison now),And Ruth and Judd and a head of bloodWith horns upon its brow.Up sashays Nan with her feathery fanFrom Floradora bright;She never hung for Caesar YoungBut she's dancing with him tonight.Here's the bulging hip and the foam-flecked lipOf the mad dog, Vincent Coll,And over there that ill-met pair,Becker and Rosenthal,Here's Legs and Dutch and a dozen suchOf braggart bullies and brutes,And each one bends 'neath the weight of friendsWho are wearing concrete suits.Now the damned make way for the double-damnedWho emerge with shuffling paceFrom the nightmare zone of persons unknown,With neither name nor face.And poor Dot King to one doth cling,Joined in a ghastly jig,While Elwell doth jape at a goblin shapeAnd tickle it with his wig.See Rothstein pass like breath on a glass,The original Black Sox kid;He riffles the pack, riding piggybackOn the killer whose name he hid.And smeared like brine on a slavering swine,Starr Faithful, once so fair,Drawn from the sea to her debauchee,With the salt sand in her hair.And still they come, and from the bumThe icy sweat doth spray;His white lips scream as in a dream,\"For God's sake, let's away!If ever I meet with Pinball PeteI will not seek his gore,Lest a treadmill grim I must trudge with himOn the hideous thirteenth floor.\"\"For you I rejoice,\" said Maxie's voice,\"And I bid you go in peace,But I am late for a dancing dateThat nevermore will cease.So remember, friend, as your way you wend,That it would have happened to you,But I turned the heat on Pinball Pete;You see - I had a daughter, too!\"The bum reached out and he tried to shout,But the door in his face was slammed,And silent as stone he rode down aloneFrom the floor of the double-damned.", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20355": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20355, "poem.id": 20355, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:34:38", "poem.title": "Two Dogs Have I", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "For years we've had a little dog,Last year we acquired a big dog;He wasn't big when we got him,He was littler than the dog we had.We thought our little dog would love him,Would help him to become a trig dog,But the new little dog got bigger,And the old little dog got mad.Now the big dog loves the little dog,But the little dog hates the big dog,The little dog is eleven years old,And the big dog only one;The little dog calls him Schweinhund,The little dog calls him Pig-dog,She grumbles broken cursesAs she dreams in the August sun.The big dog's teeth are terrible,But he wouldn't bite the little dog;The little dog wants to grind his bones,But the little dog has no teeth;The big dog is acrobatic,The little dog is a brittle dog;She leaps to grip his jugular,And passes underneath.The big dog clings to the little dogLike glue and cement and mortar;The little dog is his own true love;But the big dog is to herLike a scarlet rag to a Longhorn,Or a suitcase to a porter;The day he sat on the hornetI distinctly heard her purr.Well, how can you blame the little dog,Who was once the household darling?He romps like a young Adonis,She droops like an old mustache;No wonder she steals his corner,No wonder she comes out snarling,No wonder she calls him CochonAnd even Espèce de vache.Yet once I wanted a sandwich,Either caviar or cucumber,When the sun had not yet risenAnd the moon had not yet sank;As I tiptoed through the hallwayThe big dog lay in slumber,And the little dog slept by the big dog,And her head was on his flank.", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20356": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20356, "poem.id": 20356, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:34:44", "poem.title": "I Do, I Will, I Have", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20357": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20357, "poem.id": 20357, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:34:51", "poem.title": "More About People", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20358": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20358, "poem.id": 20358, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:34:57", "poem.title": "Family Court", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20359": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20359, "poem.id": 20359, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:35:02", "poem.title": "The Boy Who Laughed At Santa Claus", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20360": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20360, "poem.id": 20360, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:35:08", "poem.title": "Old Men", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20361": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20361, "poem.id": 20361, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:35:12", "poem.title": "Listen...", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20362": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20362, "poem.id": 20362, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:35:14", "poem.title": "Crossing The Border", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20363": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20363, "poem.id": 20363, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:35:21", "poem.title": "Everybody Tells Me Everything", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20364": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20364, "poem.id": 20364, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:35:23", "poem.title": "Biological Reflection", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20365": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20365, "poem.id": 20365, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:35:30", "poem.title": "Come On In, The Senility Is Fine", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20366": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20366, "poem.id": 20366, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:35:34", "poem.title": "Columbus", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20367": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20367, "poem.id": 20367, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:35:38", "poem.title": "The Tale Of Custard The Dragon", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "Belinda lived in a little white house, With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse, And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon, And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon. Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink, And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink, And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard, But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard. Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth, And spikes on top of him and scales underneath, Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose, And realio, trulio, daggers on his toes. Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears, And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs, Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage, But Custard cried for a nice safe cage. Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful, Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival, They all sat laughing in the little red wagon At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon. Belinda giggled till she shook the house, And Blink said Week! , which is giggling for a mouse, Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age, When Custard cried for a nice safe cage. Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound, And Mustard growled, and they all looked around. Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda, For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda. Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right, And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright, His beard was black, one leg was wood; It was clear that the pirate meant no good. Belinda paled, and she cried, Help! Help! But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp, Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household, And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed. But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine, Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon, With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm. The pirate gaped at Belinda's dragon, And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon, He fired two bullets but they didn't hit, And Custard gobbled him, every bit. Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him, No one mourned for his pirate victim Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate Around the dragon that ate the pyrate. But presently up spoke little dog Mustard,I'd been twice as brave if I hadn't been flustered.And up spoke Ink and up spoke Blink,We'd have been three times as brave, we think,And Custard said, I quite agreeThat everybody is braver than me.Belinda still lives in her little white house, With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse, And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon, And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon. Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears, And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs, Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage, But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20368": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20368, "poem.id": 20368, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:35:40", "poem.title": "I Didn'T Go To Church Today", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20369": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20369, "poem.id": 20369, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:35:46", "poem.title": "A Caution To Everybody", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20370": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20370, "poem.id": 20370, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:35:50", "poem.title": "First Child ... Second Child", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20371": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20371, "poem.id": 20371, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:35:55", "poem.title": "Children's Party", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20372": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20372, "poem.id": 20372, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:35:57", "poem.title": "To My Valentine", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20373": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20373, "poem.id": 20373, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:36:02", "poem.title": "A Drink With Something In It", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20374": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20374, "poem.id": 20374, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:36:05", "poem.title": "Bankers Are Just Like Anybody Else, Except Richer", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "This is a song to celebrate banks,Because they are full of money and you go into them and all you hear is clinks and clanks,Or maybe a sound like the wind in the trees on the hills,Which is the rustling of the thousand dollar bills.Most bankers dwell in marble halls,Which they get to dwell in because they encourage deposits and discourage withdrawals,And particularly because they all observe one rule which woe betides the banker who fails to heed it,Which is you must never lend any money to anybody unless they don't need it.I know you, you cautious conservative banks!If people are worried about their rent it is your duty to deny them the loan of one nickel, yes, even one copper engraving of the martyred son of the late Nancy Hanks;Yes, if they request fifty dollars to pay for a baby you must look at them like Tarzan looking at an uppity ape in the jungle,And tell them what do they think a bank is, anyhow, they had better go get the money from their wife's aunt or ungle.But suppose people come in and they have a million and they want another million to pile on top of it,Why, you brim with the milk of human kindness and you urge them to accept every drop of it,And you lend them the million so then they have two million and this gives them the idea that they would be better off with four,So they already have two million as security so you have no hesitation in lending them two more,And all the vice-presidents nod their heads in rhythm,And the only question asked is do the borrowers want the money sent or do they want to take it withm.Because I think they deserve our appreciation and thanks, the jackasses who go around saying that health and happi- ness are everything and money isn't essential,Because as soon as they have to borrow some unimportant money to maintain their health and happiness they starve to death so they can't go around any more sneering at good old money, which is nothing short of providential.", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20375": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20375, "poem.id": 20375, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:36:08", "poem.title": "Common Cold", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20376": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20376, "poem.id": 20376, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:36:12", "poem.title": "A Lady Who Thinks She Is Thirty", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20377": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20377, "poem.id": 20377, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:36:17", "poem.title": "Celery", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20378": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20378, "poem.id": 20378, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:36:21", "poem.title": "Fleas", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20379": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20379, "poem.id": 20379, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:36:26", "poem.title": "A Word To Husbands", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20380": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20380, "poem.id": 20380, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:36:30", "poem.title": "Always Marry An April Girl", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" }, "20381": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20381, "poem.id": 20381, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:36:36", "poem.title": "Adventures Of Isabel", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ogden Nash" } } }, "23": { "poet.id": 23, "poet.ts": "2018-02-28 20:40:51", "poet.title": "Khalil Gibran", "poet.poet_x_poem_id": { "868": { "poet_x_poem.id": 868, "poem.id": 868, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:48:07", "poem.title": "The Greater Self", "poem.date": "7/6/2015", "poem.content": "This came to pass. After the coronation of Nufsibaal King of Byblus, he retired to his bed-chamber—the very room which the three hermit-magicians of the mountains had built for him. He took off his crown and his royal raiment, and stood in the centre of the room thinking of himself, now the all-powerful ruler of Byblus.Suddenly he turned; and he saw stepping out of the silver mirror which his mother had given him, a naked man. The king was startled, and he cried out to the man, \"What would you?\"And the naked man answered, \"Naught but this: Why have they crowned you king?\"And the king answered, \"Because I am the noblest man in the land.\"Then the naked man said, \"If you were still more noble, you would not be king.\"And the king said, \"Because I am the mightiest man in the land they crowned me.\"And the naked man said, \"If you were mightier yet, you would not be king.\"Then the king said, \"Because I am the wisest man they crowned me king.\"And the naked man said, \"If you were still wiser you would not choose to be king.\"Then the king fell to the floor and wept bitterly.The naked man looked down upon him. Then he took up the crown and with tenderness replaced it upon the king's bent head.And the naked man, gazing lovingly upon the king, entered into the mirror.And the king roused, and straightway he looked into the mirror. And he saw there but himself crowned.", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "869": { "poet_x_poem.id": 869, "poem.id": 869, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:48:13", "poem.title": "Give Me The Flute", "poem.date": "4/17/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "870": { "poet_x_poem.id": 870, "poem.id": 870, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:48:18", "poem.title": "On Friendship", "poem.date": "12/9/2014", "poem.content": "Your friend is your needs answered.He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving.And he is your board and your fireside.For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace.When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the 'nay' in your own mind, nor do you withhold the 'ay.'And when he is silent your heart ceases not to listen to his heart;For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unacclaimed.When you part from your friend, you grieve not;For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain.And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit.For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught.And let your best be for your friend.If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also.For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill?Seek him always with hours to live.For it is his to fill your need, but not your emptiness.And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures.For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "871": { "poet_x_poem.id": 871, "poem.id": 871, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:48:22", "poem.title": "The Two Hermits", "poem.date": "3/23/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "872": { "poet_x_poem.id": 872, "poem.id": 872, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:48:26", "poem.title": "The Scarecrow", "poem.date": "3/23/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "873": { "poet_x_poem.id": 873, "poem.id": 873, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:48:32", "poem.title": "The Hymn Of Man", "poem.date": "3/23/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "874": { "poet_x_poem.id": 874, "poem.id": 874, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:48:37", "poem.title": "The Madman - His Parables And Poems", "poem.date": "3/23/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "875": { "poet_x_poem.id": 875, "poem.id": 875, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:48:41", "poem.title": "On Giving And Taking", "poem.date": "3/23/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "876": { "poet_x_poem.id": 876, "poem.id": 876, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:48:45", "poem.title": "The Wise Dog", "poem.date": "3/23/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "877": { "poet_x_poem.id": 877, "poem.id": 877, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:48:49", "poem.title": "The Sleep-Walkers", "poem.date": "3/23/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "878": { "poet_x_poem.id": 878, "poem.id": 878, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:48:52", "poem.title": "Song Of Man Xxv", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "879": { "poet_x_poem.id": 879, "poem.id": 879, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:48:57", "poem.title": "Love Chapter Ii", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "880": { "poet_x_poem.id": 880, "poem.id": 880, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:49:03", "poem.title": "Song Of Fortune Vi", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "881": { "poet_x_poem.id": 881, "poem.id": 881, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:49:10", "poem.title": "Song Of The Rain Vii", "poem.date": "3/23/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "882": { "poet_x_poem.id": 882, "poem.id": 882, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:49:15", "poem.title": "Work Chapter Vii", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "883": { "poet_x_poem.id": 883, "poem.id": 883, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:49:22", "poem.title": "The Coming Of The Ship", "poem.date": "7/8/2009", "poem.content": "Almustafa, the chosen and the beloved, who was a dawn onto his own day, had waited twelve years in the city of Orphalese for his ship that was to return and bear him back to the isle of his birth. And in the twelfth year, on the seventh day of Ielool, the month of reaping, he climbed the hill without the city walls and looked seaward; and he beheld the ship coming with the mist. Then the gates of his heart were flung open, and his joy flew far over the sea. And he closed his eyes and prayed in the silences of his soul. But as he descended the hill, a sadness came upon him, and he thought in his heart: How shall I go in peace and without sorrow? Nay, not without a wound in the spirit shall I leave this city. Long were the days of pain I have spent within its walls, and long were the nights of aloneness; and who can depart from his pain and his aloneness without regret? Too many fragments of the spirit have I scatterd in these streets, and too many are the children of my longing that walk naked among these hills, and I cannot withdraw from them without a bruden and an ache. It is not a garment I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands. Nor is it a thought I leave behind me, but a heart made sweet with hunger and with thirst. Yet I cannot tarry longer. The sea that calls all things unto her calls me, and I must embark. For to stay, though the hours burn in the night, is to freeze and crystallize and be bound in a mould. Fain would I take with me all that is here. But how shall I? A voice cannot carry the tongue and the lips that give it wings. Alone must it seek the ether. And alone and without his nest shall the eagle fly across the sun. Now when he reached the foot of the hill, he turned again towards the sea, and he saw his ship approaching the harbour, and upon her prow the mariners, the men of his own land. And his soul cried out to them, and he said: Sons of my ancient mother, you riders of the tides, How often have you sailed in my dreams. And now you come in my awakening, which is my deeper dream. Ready am I to go, and my eagerness with sails full set awaits the wind. Only another breath will I breathe in this still air, only another loving look cast backward,Then I shall stand among you, a seafarer among seafarers.And you, vast sea, sleepless mother,Who alone are peace and freedom to the river and the stream,Only another winding will this stream make, only another murmur in this glade,And then shall I come to you, a boundless drop to a boundless ocean.And as he walked he saw from afar men and women leaving their fields and their vineyards and hastening towards the city gates. And he heard their voices calling his name, and shouting from the field to field telling one another of the coming of the ship. And he said to himself: Shall the day of parting be the day of gathering? And shall it be said that my eve was in truth my dawn? And what shall I give unto him who has left his plough in midfurrow, or to him who has stopped the wheel of his winepress? Shall my heart become a tree heavy-laden with fruit that I may gather and give unto them? And shall my desires flow like a fountain that I may fill their cups? Am I a harp that the hand of the mighty may touch me, or a flute that his breath may pass through me? A seeker of silences am I, and what treasure have I found in silences that I may dispense with confidence? If this is my day of harvest, in what fields have I sowed the seed, and in what unremembered seasons? If this indeed be the hour in which I lift up my lantern, it is not my flame that shall burn therein. Empty and dark shall I raise my lantern,And the guardian of the night shall fill it with oil and he shall light it also.These things he said in words. But much in his heart remained unsaid. For he himself could not speak his deeper secret. And when he entered into the city all the people came to meet him, and they were crying out to him as with one voice. And the elders of the city stood forth and said: Go not yet away from us. A noontide have you been in our twilight, and your youth has given us dreams to dream. No stranger are you among us, nor a guest, but our son and our dearly beloved. Suffer not yet our eyes to hunger for your face. And the priests and the priestesses said unto him: Let not the waves of the sea separate us now, and the years you have spent in our midst become a memory. You have walked among us a spirit, and your shadow has been a light upon our facs. Much have we loved you. But speechless was our love, and with veils has it been veiled. Yet now it cries aloud unto you, and would stand revealed before you. And ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation. And others came also and entreated him. But he answered them not. He only bent his head; and those who stood near saw his tears falling upon his breast. And he and the people proceeded towards the great square before the temple. And there came out of the sanctuary a woman whose name was Almitra. And she was a seeress. And he looked upon her with exceeding tenderness, for it was she who had first sought and believed in him when he had been but a day in their city. And she hailed him, saying: Prophet of God, in quest for the uttermost, long have you searched the distances for your ship. And now your ship has come, and you must needs go. Deep is your longing for the land of your memories and the dwelling place of your greater desires; and our love would not bind you nor our needs hold you. Yet this we ask ere you leave us, that you speak to us and give us of your truth. And we will give it unto our children, and they unto their children, and it shall not perish. In your aloneness you have watched with our days, and in your wakefulness you have listened to the weeping and the laughter of our sleep. Now therefore disclose us to ourselves, and tell us all that has been shown you of that which is between birth and death. And he answered,People of Orphalese, of what can I speak save of that which is even now moving your souls?", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "884": { "poet_x_poem.id": 884, "poem.id": 884, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:49:25", "poem.title": "The House Of Fortune Iii", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "885": { "poet_x_poem.id": 885, "poem.id": 885, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:49:30", "poem.title": "The Poet Viii", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "886": { "poet_x_poem.id": 886, "poem.id": 886, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:49:35", "poem.title": "The Palace And The Hut Xxix", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "887": { "poet_x_poem.id": 887, "poem.id": 887, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:49:42", "poem.title": "The Farewell Xxviii", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "888": { "poet_x_poem.id": 888, "poem.id": 888, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:49:45", "poem.title": "The City Of The Dead Xx", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "889": { "poet_x_poem.id": 889, "poem.id": 889, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:49:50", "poem.title": "Religion Xxvi", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "890": { "poet_x_poem.id": 890, "poem.id": 890, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:49:54", "poem.title": "Two Infants Ii", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "891": { "poet_x_poem.id": 891, "poem.id": 891, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:49:56", "poem.title": "The Widow And Her Son Xxi", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "892": { "poet_x_poem.id": 892, "poem.id": 892, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:50:00", "poem.title": "My Friend", "poem.date": "3/23/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "893": { "poet_x_poem.id": 893, "poem.id": 893, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:50:06", "poem.title": "Love Is A Magic Ray", "poem.date": "3/23/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "894": { "poet_x_poem.id": 894, "poem.id": 894, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:50:11", "poem.title": "Talking Xx", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "895": { "poet_x_poem.id": 895, "poem.id": 895, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:50:17", "poem.title": "Chapter 9 - The Seven Selves", "poem.date": "3/23/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "896": { "poet_x_poem.id": 896, "poem.id": 896, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:50:19", "poem.title": "The Playground Of Life Xix", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "897": { "poet_x_poem.id": 897, "poem.id": 897, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:50:22", "poem.title": "Song Of The Wave Xvii", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "898": { "poet_x_poem.id": 898, "poem.id": 898, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:50:29", "poem.title": "The Creation I", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "899": { "poet_x_poem.id": 899, "poem.id": 899, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:50:35", "poem.title": "On Religion", "poem.date": "3/23/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "900": { "poet_x_poem.id": 900, "poem.id": 900, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:50:42", "poem.title": "War", "poem.date": "3/24/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "901": { "poet_x_poem.id": 901, "poem.id": 901, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:50:49", "poem.title": "Two Wishes Xi", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "902": { "poet_x_poem.id": 902, "poem.id": 902, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:50:51", "poem.title": "Peace Xviii", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "903": { "poet_x_poem.id": 903, "poem.id": 903, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:50:58", "poem.title": "Vision X", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "904": { "poet_x_poem.id": 904, "poem.id": 904, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:51:04", "poem.title": "Reason And Passion Xv", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "905": { "poet_x_poem.id": 905, "poem.id": 905, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:51:06", "poem.title": "Houses Chapter Ix", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "906": { "poet_x_poem.id": 906, "poem.id": 906, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:51:10", "poem.title": "Prayer Xxiii", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "907": { "poet_x_poem.id": 907, "poem.id": 907, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:51:13", "poem.title": "Teaching Xviii", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20422": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20422, "poem.id": 20422, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:36:41", "poem.title": "The Criminal V", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20423": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20423, "poem.id": 20423, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:36:44", "poem.title": "Laws Xiii", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20424": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20424, "poem.id": 20424, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:36:49", "poem.title": "Self-Knowledge Xvii", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20425": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20425, "poem.id": 20425, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:36:51", "poem.title": "Song Of The Soul Xxii", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20426": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20426, "poem.id": 20426, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:36:54", "poem.title": "Yesterday And Today Xii", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20427": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20427, "poem.id": 20427, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:36:58", "poem.title": "Time Xxi", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20428": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20428, "poem.id": 20428, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:37:05", "poem.title": "Song Of Love Xxiv", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20429": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20429, "poem.id": 20429, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:37:08", "poem.title": "Love One Another", "poem.date": "3/23/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20430": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20430, "poem.id": 20430, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:37:13", "poem.title": "Dead Are My People", "poem.date": "9/5/2013", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20431": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20431, "poem.id": 20431, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:37:19", "poem.title": "Pain", "poem.date": "7/8/2009", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20432": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20432, "poem.id": 20432, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:37:24", "poem.title": "Pleasure Xxiv", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20433": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20433, "poem.id": 20433, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:37:30", "poem.title": "Song Of The Flower Xxiii", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20434": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20434, "poem.id": 20434, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:37:37", "poem.title": "Your Children", "poem.date": "3/24/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20435": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20435, "poem.id": 20435, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:37:39", "poem.title": "Let These Be Your Desires", "poem.date": "3/23/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20436": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20436, "poem.id": 20436, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:37:44", "poem.title": "God", "poem.date": "3/23/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20437": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20437, "poem.id": 20437, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:37:46", "poem.title": "Leave Me, My Blamer Xiii", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20438": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20438, "poem.id": 20438, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:37:53", "poem.title": "On Death", "poem.date": "3/23/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20439": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20439, "poem.id": 20439, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:37:59", "poem.title": "The Life Of Love Xvi", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20440": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20440, "poem.id": 20440, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:38:04", "poem.title": "Eating And Drinking Chapter Vi", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20441": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20441, "poem.id": 20441, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:38:09", "poem.title": "Buying And Selling Chapter Xi", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20442": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20442, "poem.id": 20442, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:38:16", "poem.title": "Giving Chapter V", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "Then said a rich man, \"Speak to us of Giving.\" And he answered: You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give. For what are your possessions but things you keep and guard for fear you may need them tomorrow? And tomorrow, what shall tomorrow bring to the overprudent dog burying bones in the trackless sand as he follows the pilgrims to the holy city? And what is fear of need but need itself? Is not dread of thirst when your well is full, thirst that is unquenchable? There are those who give little of the much which they have - and they give it for recognition and their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome. And there are those who have little and give it all. These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is never empty. There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward. And there are those who give with pain, and that pain is their baptism. And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue; They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space. Though the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth. It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give unasked, through understanding; And to the open-handed the search for one who shall receive is joy greater than giving And is there aught you would withhold? All you have shall some day be given; Therefore give now, that the season of giving may be yours and not your inheritors'. You often say, \"I would give, but only to the deserving.\" The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture. They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish. Surely he who is worthy to receive his days and his nights is worthy of all else from you. And he who has deserved to drink from the ocean of life deserves to fill his cup from your little stream. And what desert greater shall there be than that which lies in the courage and the confidence, nay the charity, of receiving? And who are you that men should rend their bosom and unveil their pride, that you may see their worth naked and their pride unabashed? See first that you yourself deserve to be a giver, and an instrument of giving. For in truth it is life that gives unto life - while you, who deem yourself a giver, are but a witness. And you receivers - and you are all receivers - assume no weight of gratitude, lest you lay a yoke upon yourself and upon him who gives. Rather rise together with the giver on his gifts as on wings; For to be overmindful of your debt, is to doubt his generosity who has the free-hearted earth for mother, and God for father.", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20443": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20443, "poem.id": 20443, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:38:18", "poem.title": "Marriage", "poem.date": "7/8/2009", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20444": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20444, "poem.id": 20444, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:38:25", "poem.title": "Clothes Chapter X", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20445": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20445, "poem.id": 20445, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:38:32", "poem.title": "Love", "poem.date": "7/8/2009", "poem.content": "Then said Almitra, 'Speak to us of Love.' And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said: When love beckons to you follow him, Though his ways are hard and steep. And when his wings enfold you yield to him, Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you. And when he speaks to you believe in him, Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden. For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning. Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth. Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself. He threshes you to make you naked. He sifts you to free you from your husks. He grinds you to whiteness. He kneads you until you are pliant; And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast. All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart. But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure, Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor, Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears. Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself. Love possesses not nor would it be possessed; For love is sufficient unto love. When you love you should not say, 'God is in my heart,' but rather, I am in the heart of God.' And think not you can direct the course of love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course. Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself. But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires: To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. To know the pain of too much tenderness. To be wounded by your own understanding of love; And to bleed willingly and joyfully. To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving; To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy; To return home at eventide with gratitude; And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20446": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20446, "poem.id": 20446, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:38:34", "poem.title": "Crime And Punishment Chapter Xii", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "Then one of the judges of the city stood forth and said, \"Speak to us of Crime and Punishment.\" And he answered saying: It is when your spirit goes wandering upon the wind, That you, alone and unguarded, commit a wrong unto others and therefore unto yourself. And for that wrong committed must you knock and wait a while unheeded at the gate of the blessed. Like the ocean is your god-self; It remains for ever undefiled. And like the ether it lifts but the winged. Even like the sun is your god-self; It knows not the ways of the mole nor seeks it the holes of the serpent. But your god-self does not dwell alone in your being. Much in you is still man, and much in you is not yet man, But a shapeless pigmy that walks asleep in the mist searching for its own awakening. And of the man in you would I now speak. For it is he and not your god-self nor the pigmy in the mist, that knows crime and the punishment of crime. Oftentimes have I heard you speak of one who commits a wrong as though he were not one of you, but a stranger unto you and an intruder upon your world. But I say that even as the holy and the righteous cannot rise beyond the highest which is in each one of you, So the wicked and the weak cannot fall lower than the lowest which is in you also. And as a single leaf turns not yellow but with the silent knowledge of the whole tree, So the wrong-doer cannot do wrong without the hidden will of you all. Like a procession you walk together towards your god-self. You are the way and the wayfarers. And when one of you falls down he falls for those behind him, a caution against the stumbling stone. Ay, and he falls for those ahead of him, who though faster and surer of foot, yet removed not the stumbling stone. And this also, though the word lie heavy upon your hearts: The murdered is not unaccountable for his own murder, And the robbed is not blameless in being robbed. The righteous is not innocent of the deeds of the wicked, And the white-handed is not clean in the doings of the felon. Yea, the guilty is oftentimes the victim of the injured, And still more often the condemned is the burden-bearer for the guiltless and unblamed. You cannot separate the just from the unjust and the good from the wicked; For they stand together before the face of the sun even as the black thread and the white are woven together. And when the black thread breaks, the weaver shall look into the whole cloth, and he shall examine the loom also. If any of you would bring judgment the unfaithful wife, Let him also weight the heart of her husband in scales, and measure his soul with measurements. And let him who would lash the offender look unto the spirit of the offended. And if any of you would punish in the name of righteousness and lay the ax unto the evil tree, let him see to its roots; And verily he will find the roots of the good and the bad, the fruitful and the fruitless, all entwined together in the silent heart of the earth. And you judges who would be just, What judgment pronounce you upon him who though honest in the flesh yet is a thief in spirit? What penalty lay you upon him who slays in the flesh yet is himself slain in the spirit? And how prosecute you him who in action is a deceiver and an oppressor, Yet who also is aggrieved and outraged? And how shall you punish those whose remorse is already greater than their misdeeds? Is not remorse the justice which is administered by that very law which you would fain serve? Yet you cannot lay remorse upon the innocent nor lift it from the heart of the guilty. Unbidden shall it call in the night, that men may wake and gaze upon themselves. And you who would understand justice, how shall you unless you look upon all deeds in the fullness of light? Only then shall you know that the erect and the fallen are but one man standing in twilight between the night of his pigmy-self and the day of his god-self, And that the corner-stone of the temple is not higher than the lowest stone in its foundation.", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20447": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20447, "poem.id": 20447, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:38:41", "poem.title": "A Visit From Wisdom", "poem.date": "3/23/2010", "poem.content": "In the stillness of night Wisdom came and stoodBy my bed. She gazed upon me like a tender motherAnd wiped away my tears, and said : 'I have heardThe cry of your spirit and I am come to comfort it.Open your heart to me and I shall fill it with light.Ask of me and I shall show you the way of truth.'And I said : 'Who am I, Wisdom, and how cameI to this frightening place? What manner of thingsAre these mighty hopes and these many books andStrange patterns ? What are these thoughts that passAs doves in flight? And these words composed byDesire and sung by delight, what are they? What areThese conclusions, grievous and joyous, that embrace My spirit and envelop my heart? And thoseEyes which look at me seeing into my depths andFleeing from my sorrows ? And those voices mourning My days and chanting my littleness, what are they ?'What is this youth that plays with my desiresAnd mocks at my longings, forgetful of yesterday'sDeeds, rejoicing in paltry things of the moment,Scornful of the morrow's coming?'What is this world that leads me whither I knowNot, standing with me in despising? And this earthThat opens wide its mouth to swallow bodies andLets evil things to dwell on its breast? What is thisCreature that is satisfied with the love of fortune,Whilst beyond its union is the pit? Who seeks Life'sKiss whilst Death does smite him, and brings thePleasure of a minute with a year of repentance, andGives himself to slumber the while dreams call him?What is he who flows with the rivers of folly to theSea of darkness? O Wisdom, what manner of thingsAre these?'And she answered, saying :'You would see, human creature, this worldThrough the eyes of a god. And you would seek toKnow the secrets of the hereafter with the thinkingOf men. Yet in truth is this the height of folly.'Go you to the wild places and you shall findThere the bee above the flowers and behold the eagleSwooping down on his prey. Go you into your neighbor's House and see then the child blinking at theFirelight and his mother busied at her householdTasks. Be you like the bee and spend not the days ofSpring looking on the eagle's doing. Be as the childAnd rejoice in the firelight and heed not your Mother's affairs. All that you see with your eyes was And is for your sake.'The many books and the strange patterns andBeautiful thoughts are the shades of those spiritsThat came ere you were come. The words that youDo weave are a bond between you and your brothers. The conclusions, grievous and joyous, are theSeeds that the past did scatter in the field of theSpirit to be reaped by the future. That youth whoPlays with your desires is he who will open the doorOf your heart to let enter the light. This earth withThe ever open mouth is the savior of your spirit fromThe body's slavery. This world which walks withYou is your heart; and your heart is all that youThink that world. This creature whom you see asIgnorant and small is the same who has come fromGod's side to learn pity through sadness, and knowledgeBy way of darkness.'Then Wisdom put her hand on my burning browAnd said:'Go then forward and do not tarry, for beforeWwalks Perfection. Go, and have not fear of thornsOn the path, for they deem naught lawful save Corrupted blood.'", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20448": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20448, "poem.id": 20448, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:38:48", "poem.title": "A Poet's Voice Xv", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "Part OneThe power of charity sows deep in my heart, and I reap and gather the wheat in bundles and give them to the hungry. My soul gives life to the grapevine and I press its bunches and give the juice to the thirsty. Heaven fills my lamp with oil and I place it at my window to direct the stranger through the dark. I do all these things because I live in them; and if destiny should tie my hands and prevent me from so doing, then death would be my only desire. For I am a poet, and if I cannot give, I shall refuse to receive. Humanity rages like a tempest, but I sigh in silence for I know the storm must pass away while a sigh goes to God. Human kinds cling to earthly things, but I seek ever to embrace the torch of love so it will purify me by its fire and sear inhumanity from my heart. Substantial things deaden a man without suffering; love awakens him with enlivening pains. Humans are divided into different clans and tribes, and belong to countries and towns. But I find myself a stranger to all communities and belong to no settlement. The universe is my country and the human family is my tribe. Men are weak, and it is sad that they divide amongst themselves. The world is narrow and it is unwise to cleave it into kingdoms, empires, and provinces. Human kinds unite themselves one to destroy the temples of the soul, and they join hands to build edifices for earthly bodies. I stand alone listening to the voice of hope in my deep self saying, \"As love enlivens a man's heart with pain, so ignorance teaches him the way of knowledge.\" Pain and ignorance lead to great joy and knowledge because the Supreme Being has created nothing vain under the sun. Part TwoI have a yearning for my beautiful country, and I love its people because of their misery. But if my people rose, stimulated by plunder and motivated by what they call \"patriotic spirit\" to murder, and invaded my neighbor's country, then upon the committing of any human atrocity I would hate my people and my country. I sing the praise of my birthplace and long to see the home of my children; but if the people in that home refused to shelter and feed the needy wayfarer, I would convert my praise into anger and my longing to forgetfulness. My inner voice would say, \"The house that does not comfort the need is worthy of naught by destruction.\" I love my native village with some of my love for my country; and I love my country with part of my love for the earth, all of which is my country; and I love the earth will all of myself because it is the haven of humanity, the manifest spirit of God. Humanity is the spirit of the Supreme Being on earth, and that humanity is standing amidst ruins, hiding its nakedness behind tattered rags, shedding tears upon hollow cheeks, and calling for its children with pitiful voice. But the children are busy singing their clan's anthem; they are busy sharpening the swords and cannot hear the cry of their mothers. Humanity appeals to its people but they listen not. Were one to listen, and console a mother by wiping her tears, other would say, \"He is weak, affected by sentiment.\" Humanity is the spirit of the Supreme Being on earth, and that Supreme Being preaches love and good-will. But the people ridicule such teachings. The Nazarene Jesus listened, and crucifixion was his lot; Socrates heard the voice and followed it, and he too fell victim in body. The followers of The Nazarene and Socrates are the followers of Deity, and since people will not kill them, they deride them, saying, \"Ridicule is more bitter than killing.\" Jerusalem could not kill The Nazarene, nor Athens Socrates; they are living yet and shall live eternally. Ridicule cannot triumph over the followers of Deity. They live and grow forever. Part ThreeThou art my brother because you are a human, and we both are sons of one Holy Spirit; we are equal and made of the same earth. You are here as my companion along the path of life, and my aid in understanding the meaning of hidden Truth. You are a human, and, that fact sufficing, I love you as a brother. You may speak of me as you choose, for Tomorrow shall take you away and will use your talk as evidence for his judgment, and you shall receive justice. You may deprive me of whatever I possess, for my greed instigated the amassing of wealth and you are entitled to my lot if it will satisfy you. You may do unto me whatever you wish, but you shall not be able to touch my Truth. You may shed my blood and burn my body, but you cannot kill or hurt my spirit. You may tie my hands with chains and my feet with shackles, and put me in the dark prison, but who shall not enslave my thinking, for it is free, like the breeze in the spacious sky. You are my brother and I love you. I love you worshipping in your church, kneeling in your temple, and praying in your mosque. You and I and all are children of one religion, for the varied paths of religion are but the fingers of the loving hand of the Supreme Being, extended to all, offering completeness of spirit to all, anxious to receive all. I love you for your Truth, derived from your knowledge; that Truth which I cannot see because of my ignorance. But I respect it as a divine thing, for it is the deed of the spirit. Your Truth shall meet my Truth in the coming world and blend together like the fragrance of flowers and becoming one whole and eternal Truth, perpetuating and living in the eternity of Love and Beauty. I love you because you are weak before the strong oppressor, and poor before the greedy rich. For these reasons I shed tears and comfort you; and from behind my tears I see you embraced in the arms of Justice, smiling and forgiving your persecutors. You are my brother and I love you. Part FourYou are my brother, but why are you quarreling with me? Why do you invade my country and try to subjugate me for the sake of pleasing those who are seeking glory and authority? Why do you leave your wife and children and follow Death to the distant land for the sake of those who buy glory with your blood, and high honor with your mother's tears? Is it an honor for a man to kill his brother man? If you deem it an honor, let it be an act of worship, and erect a temple to Cain who slew his brother Abel. Is self-preservation the first law of Nature? Why, then, does Greed urge you to self-sacrifice in order only to achieve his aim in hurting your brothers? Beware, my brother, of the leader who says, \"Love of existence obliges us to deprive the people of their rights!\" I say unto you but this: protecting others' rights is the noblest and most beautiful human act; if my existence requires that I kill others, then death is more honorable to me, and if I cannot find someone to kill me for the protection of my honor, I will not hesitate to take my life by my own hands for the sake of Eternity before Eternity comes. Selfishness, my brother, is the cause of blind superiority, and superiority creates clanship, and clanship creates authority which leads to discord and subjugation. The soul believes in the power of knowledge and justice over dark ignorance; it denies the authority that supplies the swords to defend and strengthen ignorance and oppression - that authority which destroyed Babylon and shook the foundation of Jerusalem and left Rome in ruins. It is that which made people call criminals great mean; made writers respect their names; made historians relate the stories of their inhumanity in manner of praise. The only authority I obey is the knowledge of guarding and acquiescing in the Natural Law of Justice. What justice does authority display when it kills the killer? When it imprisons the robber? When it descends on a neighborhood country and slays its people? What does justice think of the authority under which a killer punishes the one who kills, and a thief sentences the one who steals? You are my brother, and I love you; and Love is justice with its full intensity and dignity. If justice did not support my love for you, regardless of your tribe and community, I would be a deceiver concealing the ugliness of selfishness behind the outer garment of pure love. ConclusionMy soul is my friend who consoles me in misery and distress of life. He who does not befriend his soul is an enemy of humanity, and he who does not find human guidance within himself will perish desperately. Life emerges from within, and derives not from environs. I came to say a word and I shall say it now. But if death prevents its uttering, it will be said tomorrow, for tomorrow never leaves a secret in the book of eternity.I came to live in the glory of love and the light of beauty, which are the reflections of God. I am here living, and the people are unable to exile me from the domain of life for they know I will live in death. If they pluck my eyes I will hearken to the murmers of love and the songs of beauty.If they close my ears I will enjoy the touch of the breeze mixed with the incebse of love and the fragrance of beauty.If they place me in a vacuum, I will live together with my soul, the child of love and beauty.I came here to be for all and with all, and what I do today in my solitude will be echoed by tomorrow to the people.What I say now with one heart will be said tomorrow by many hearts", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20449": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20449, "poem.id": 20449, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:38:53", "poem.title": "Good And Evil Xxii", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "And one of the elders of the city said, \"Speak to us of Good and Evil.\" And he answered: Of the good in you I can speak, but not of the evil. For what is evil but good tortured by its own hunger and thirst? Verily when good is hungry it seeks food even in dark caves, and when it thirsts, it drinks even of dead waters. You are good when you are one with yourself. Yet when you are not one with yourself you are not evil. For a divided house is not a den of thieves; it is only a divided house. And a ship without rudder may wander aimlessly among perilous isles yet sink not to the bottom. You are good when you strive to give of yourself. Yet you are not evil when you seek gain for yourself. For when you strive for gain you are but a root that clings to the earth and sucks at her breast. Surely the fruit cannot say to the root, \"Be like me, ripe and full and ever giving of your abundance.\" For to the fruit giving is a need, as receiving is a need to the root. You are good when you are fully awake in your speech, Yet you are not evil when you sleep while your tongue staggers without purpose. And even stumbling speech may strengthen a weak tongue. You are good when you walk to your goal firmly and with bold steps. Yet you are not evil when you go thither limping. Even those who limp go not backward. But you who are strong and swift, see that you do not limp before the lame, deeming it kindness. You are good in countless ways, and you are not evil when you are not good, You are only loitering and sluggard. Pity that the stags cannot teach swiftness to the turtles. In your longing for your giant self lies your goodness: and that longing is in all of you. But in some of you that longing is a torrent rushing with might to the sea, carrying the secrets of the hillsides and the songs of the forest. And in others it is a flat stream that loses itself in angles and bends and lingers before it reaches the shore. But let not him who longs much say to him who longs little, \"Wherefore are you slow and halting?\" For the truly good ask not the naked, \"Where is your garment?\" nor the houseless, \"What has befallen your house?\"", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20450": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20450, "poem.id": 20450, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:38:57", "poem.title": "Laughter And Tears Ix", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "As the Sun withdrew his rays from the garden, and the moon threw cushioned beams upon the flowers, I sat under the trees pondering upon the phenomena of the atmosphere, looking through the branches at the strewn stars which glittered like chips of silver upon a blue carpet; and I could hear from a distance the agitated murmur of the rivulet singing its way briskly into the valley. When the birds took shelter among the boughs, and the flowers folded their petals, and tremendous silence descended, I heard a rustle of feet though the grass. I took heed and saw a young couple approaching my arbor. The say under a tree where I could see them without being seen. After he looked about in every direction, I heard the young man saying, \"Sit by me, my beloved, and listen to my heart; smile, for your happiness is a symbol of our future; be merry, for the sparkling days rejoice with us. \"My soul is warning me of the doubt in your heart, for doubt in love is a sin. \"Soon you will be the owner of this vast land, lighted by this beautiful moon; soon you will be the mistress of my palace, and all the servants and maids will obey your commands. \"Smile, my beloved, like the gold smiles from my father's coffers. \"My heart refuses to deny you its secret. Twelve months of comfort and travel await us; for a year we will spend my father's gold at the blue lakes of Switzerland, and viewing the edifices of Italy and Egypt, and resting under the Holy Cedars of Lebanon; you will meet the princesses who will envy you for your jewels and clothes. \"All these things I will do for you; will you be satisfied?\" In a little while I saw them walking and stepping on flowers as the rich step upon the hearts of the poor. As they disappeared from my sight, I commenced to make comparison between love and money, and to analyze their position in the heart. Money! The source of insincere love; the spring of false light and fortune; the well of poisoned water; the desperation of old age! I was still wandering in the vast desert of contemplation when a forlorn and specter-like couple passed by me and sat on the grass; a young man and a young woman who had left their farming shacks in the nearby fields for this cool and solitary place. After a few moments of complete silence, I heard the following words uttered with sighs from weather-bitten lips, \"Shed not tears, my beloved; love that opens our eyes and enslaves our hearts can give us the blessing of patience. Be consoled in our delay our delay, for we have taken an oath and entered Love's shrine; for our love will ever grow in adversity; for it is in Love's name that we are suffering the obstacles of poverty and the sharpness of misery and the emptiness of separation. I shall attack these hardships until I triumph and place in your hands a strength that will help over all things to complete the journey of life. \"Love - which is God - will consider our sighs and tears as incense burned at His altar and He will reward us with fortitude. Good-bye, my beloved; I must leave before the heartening moon vanishes.\" A pure voice, combined of the consuming flame of love, and the hopeless bitterness of longing and the resolved sweetness of patience, said, \"Good-bye, my beloved.\" They separated, and the elegy to their union was smothered by the wails of my crying heart. I looked upon slumbering Nature, and with deep reflection discovered the reality of a vast and infinite thing -- something no power could demand, influence acquire, nor riches purchase. Nor could it be effaced by the tears of time or deadened by sorrow; a thing which cannot be discovered by the blue lakes of Switzerland or the beautiful edifices of Italy. It is something that gathers strength with patience, grows despite obstacles, warms in winter, flourishes in spring, casts a breeze in summer, and bears fruit in autumn -- I found Love.", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20451": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20451, "poem.id": 20451, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:39:02", "poem.title": "Before The Throne Of Beauty Xxvi", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "One heavy day I ran away from the grim face of society and the dizzying clamor of the city and directed my weary step to the spacious alley. I pursued the beckoning course of the rivulet and the musical sounds of the birds until I reached a lonely spot where the flowing branches of the trees prevented the sun from the touching the earth. I stood there, and it was entertaining to my soul - my thirsty soul who had seen naught but the mirage of life instead of its sweetness. I was engrossed deeply in thought and my spirits were sailing the firmament when a hour, wearing a sprig of grapevine that covered part of her naked body, and a wreath of poppies about her golden hair, suddenly appeared to me. As she she realized my astonishment, she greeted me saying, 'Fear me not; I am the Nymph of the Jungle.' 'How can beauty like yours be committed to live in this place? Please tell me who your are, and whence you come? ' I asked. She sat gracefully on the green grass and responded, 'I am the symbol of nature! I am the ever virgin your forefathers worshipped, and to my honor they erected shrines and temples at Baalbek and Jbeil.' And I dared say, 'But those temples and shrines were laid waste and the bones of my adoring ancestors became a part of the earth; nothing was left to commemorate their goddess save a pitiful few and the forgotten pages in the book of history.' She replied, 'Some goddesses live in the lives of their worshippers and die in their deaths, while some live an eternal and infinite life. My life is sustained by the world of beauty which you will see where ever you rest your eyes, and this beauty is nature itself; it is the beginning of the shepherds joy among the hills, and a villagers happiness in the fields, and the pleasure of the awe filled tribes between the mountains and the plains. This Beauty promotes the wise into the throne the truth.' Then I said, 'Beauty is a terrible power! ' And she retorted, 'Human beings fear all things, even yourselves. You fear heaven, the source of spiritual peace; you fear nature, the haven of rest and tranquility; you fear the God of goodness and accuse him of anger, while he is full of love and mercy.' After a deep silence, mingled with sweet dreams, I asked, 'Speak to me of that beauty which the people interpret and define, each one according to his own conception; I have seen her honored and worshipped in different ways and manners.' She answered, 'Beauty is that which attracts your soul, and that which loves to give and not to receive. When you meet Beauty, you feel that the hands deep within your inner self are stretched forth to bring her into the domain of your heart. It is the magnificence combined of sorrow and joy; it is the Unseen which you see, and the Vague which you understand, and the Mute which you hear - it is the Holy of Holies that begins in yourself and ends vastly beyond your earthly imagination.' Then the Nymph of the Jungle approached me and laid her scented hands upon my eyes. And as she withdrew, I found me alone in the valley. When I returned to the city, whose turbulence no longer vexed me, I repeated her words: 'Beauty is that which attracts your soul, and that which loves to give and not to receive.'", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20452": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20452, "poem.id": 20452, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:39:06", "poem.title": "Death Xxvii", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20453": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20453, "poem.id": 20453, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:39:11", "poem.title": "The Beauty Of Death Xiv", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "Part One - The CallingLet me sleep, for my soul is intoxicated with love and Let me rest, for my spirit has had its bounty of days and nights; Light the candles and burn the incense around my bed, and Scatter leaves of jasmine and roses over my body; Embalm my hair with frankincense and sprinkle my feet with perfume, And read what the hand of Death has written on my forehead. Let me rest in the arms of Slumber, for my open eyes are tired; Let the silver-stringed lyre quiver and soothe my spirit; Weave from the harp and lute a veil around my withering heart. Sing of the past as you behold the dawn of hope in my eyes, for It's magic meaning is a soft bed upon which my heart rests. Dry your tears, my friends, and raise your heads as the flowers Raise their crowns to greet the dawn. Look at the bride of Death standing like a column of light Between my bed and the infinite; Hold your breath and listen with me to the beckoning rustle of Her white wings. Come close and bid me farewell; touch my eyes with smiling lips. Let the children grasp my hands with soft and rosy fingers; Let the ages place their veined hands upon my head and bless me; Let the virgins come close and see the shadow of God in my eyes, And hear the echo of His will racing with my breath. Part Two - The AscendingI have passed a mountain peak and my soul is soaring in the Firmament of complete and unbound freedom; I am far, far away, my companions, and the clouds are Hiding the hills from my eyes. The valleys are becoming flooded with an ocean of silence, and the Hands of oblivion are engulfing the roads and the houses; The prairies and fields are disappearing behind a white specter That looks like the spring cloud, yellow as the candlelight And red as the twilight. The songs of the waves and the hymns of the streams Are scattered, and the voices of the throngs reduced to silence; And I can hear naught but the music of Eternity In exact harmony with the spirit's desires. I am cloaked in full whiteness; I am in comfort; I am in peace. Part Three - The RemainsUnwrap me from this white linen shroud and clothe me With leaves of jasmine and lilies; Take my body from the ivory casket and let it rest Upon pillows of orange blossoms. Lament me not, but sing songs of youth and joy; Shed not tears upon me, but sing of harvest and the winepress; Utter no sigh of agony, but draw upon my face with your Finger the symbol of Love and Joy. Disturb not the air's tranquility with chanting and requiems, But let your hearts sing with me the song of Eternal Life; Mourn me not with apparel of black, But dress in color and rejoice with me; Talk not of my departure with sighs in your hearts; close Your eyes and you will see me with you forevermore. Place me upon clusters of leaves and Carry my upon your friendly shoulders and Walk slowly to the deserted forest. Take me not to the crowded burying ground lest my slumber Be disrupted by the rattling of bones and skulls. Carry me to the cypress woods and dig my grave where violets And poppies grow not in the other's shadow; Let my grave be deep so that the flood will not Carry my bones to the open valley; Let my grace be wide, so that the twilight shadows Will come and sit by me. Take from me all earthly raiment and place me deep in my Mother Earth; and place me with care upon my mother's breast. Cover me with soft earth, and let each handful be mixed With seeds of jasmine, lilies and myrtle; and when they Grow above me, and thrive on my body's element they will Breathe the fragrance of my heart into space; And reveal even to the sun the secret of my peace; And sail with the breeze and comfort the wayfarer. Leave me then, friends - leave me and depart on mute feet, As the silence walks in the deserted valley; Leave me to God and disperse yourselves slowly, as the almond And apple blossoms disperse under the vibration of Nisan's breeze. Go back to the joy of your dwellings and you will find there That which Death cannot remove from you and me. Leave with place, for what you see here is far away in meaning From the earthly world. Leave me.", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20454": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20454, "poem.id": 20454, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:39:18", "poem.title": "Freedom Xiv", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "And an orator said, \"Speak to us of Freedom.\" And he answered: At the city gate and by your fireside I have seen you prostrate yourself and worship your own freedom, Even as slaves humble themselves before a tyrant and praise him though he slays them. Ay, in the grove of the temple and in the shadow of the citadel I have seen the freest among you wear their freedom as a yoke and a handcuff. And my heart bled within me; for you can only be free when even the desire of seeking freedom becomes a harness to you, and when you cease to speak of freedom as a goal and a fulfillment. You shall be free indeed when your days are not without a care nor your nights without a want and a grief, But rather when these things girdle your life and yet you rise above them naked and unbound. And how shall you rise beyond your days and nights unless you break the chains which you at the dawn of your understanding have fastened around your noon hour? In truth that which you call freedom is the strongest of these chains, though its links glitter in the sun and dazzle the eyes. And what is it but fragments of your own self you would discard that you may become free? If it is an unjust law you would abolish, that law was written with your own hand upon your own forehead. You cannot erase it by burning your law books nor by washing the foreheads of your judges, though you pour the sea upon them. And if it is a despot you would dethrone, see first that his throne erected within you is destroyed. For how can a tyrant rule the free and the proud, but for a tyranny in their own freedom and a shame in their won pride? And if it is a care you would cast off, that care has been chosen by you rather than imposed upon you. And if it is a fear you would dispel, the seat of that fear is in your heart and not in the hand of the feared. Verily all things move within your being in constant half embrace, the desired and the dreaded, the repugnant and the cherished, the pursued and that which you would escape. These things move within you as lights and shadows in pairs that cling. And when the shadow fades and is no more, the light that lingers becomes a shadow to another light. And thus your freedom when it loses its fetters becomes itself the fetter of a greater freedom.", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20455": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20455, "poem.id": 20455, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:39:20", "poem.title": "Joy And Sorrow Chapter Viii", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20456": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20456, "poem.id": 20456, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:39:23", "poem.title": "A Poet's Death Is His Life Iv", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "The dark wings of night enfolded the city upon which Nature had spread a pure white garment of snow; and men deserted the streets for their houses in search of warmth, while the north wind probed in contemplation of laying waste the gardens. There in the suburb stood an old hut heavily laden with snow and on the verge of falling. In a dark recess of that hovel was a poor bed in which a dying youth was lying, staring at the dim light of his oil lamp, made to flicker by the entering winds. He a man in the spring of life who foresaw fully that the peaceful hour of freeing himself from the clutches of life was fast nearing. He was awaiting Death's visit gratefully, and upon his pale face appeared the dawn of hope; and on his lops a sorrowful smile; and in his eyes forgiveness. He was poet perishing from hunger in the city of living rich. He was placed in the earthly world to enliven the heart of man with his beautiful and profound sayings. He as noble soul, sent by the Goddess of Understanding to soothe and make gentle the human spirit. But alas! He gladly bade the cold earth farewell without receiving a smile from its strange occupants. He was breathing his last and had no one at his bedside save the oil lamp, his only companion, and some parchments upon which he had inscribed his heart's feeling. As he salvaged the remnants of his withering strength he lifted his hands heavenward; he moved his eyes hopelessly, as if wanting to penetrate the ceiling in order to see the stars from behind the veil clouds. And he said, \"Come, oh beautiful Death; my soul is longing for you. Come close to me and unfasten the irons life, for I am weary of dragging them. Come, oh sweet Death, and deliver me from my neighbors who looked upon me as a stranger because I interpret to them the language of the angels. Hurry, oh peaceful Death, and carry me from these multitudes who left me in the dark corner of oblivion because I do not bleed the weak as they do. Come, oh gentle Death, and enfold me under your white wings, for my fellowmen are not in want of me. Embrace me, oh Death, full of love and mercy; let your lips touch my lips which never tasted a mother's kiss, not touched a sister's cheeks, not caresses a sweetheart's fingertips. Come and take me, by beloved Death.\" Then, at the bedside of the dying poet appeared an angel who possessed a supernatural and divine beauty, holding in her hand a wreath of lilies. She embraced him and closed his eyes so he could see no more, except with the eye of his spirit. She impressed a deep and long and gently withdrawn kiss that left and eternal smile of fulfillment upon his lips. Then the hovel became empty and nothing was lest save parchments and papers which the poet had strewn with bitter futility. Hundreds of years later, when the people of the city arose from the diseases slumber of ignorance and saw the dawn of knowledge, they erected a monument in the most beautiful garden of the city and celebrated a feast every year in honor of that poet, whose writings had freed them. Oh, how cruel is man's ignorance!", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20457": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20457, "poem.id": 20457, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:39:30", "poem.title": "Beauty Xxv", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "And a poet said, 'Speak to us of Beauty.' Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her unless she herself be your way and your guide? And how shall you speak of her except she be the weaver of your speech? The aggrieved and the injured say, 'Beauty is kind and gentle. Like a young mother half-shy of her own glory she walks among us.' And the passionate say, 'Nay, beauty is a thing of might and dread. Like the tempest she shakes the earth beneath us and the sky above us.' The tired and the weary say, 'beauty is of soft whisperings. She speaks in our spirit. Her voice yields to our silences like a faint light that quivers in fear of the shadow.' But the restless say, 'We have heard her shouting among the mountains, And with her cries came the sound of hoofs, and the beating of wings and the roaring of lions.' At night the watchmen of the city say, 'Beauty shall rise with the dawn from the east.' And at noontide the toilers and the wayfarers say, 'we have seen her leaning over the earth from the windows of the sunset.' In winter say the snow-bound, 'She shall come with the spring leaping upon the hills.' And in the summer heat the reapers say, 'We have seen her dancing with the autumn leaves, and we saw a drift of snow in her hair.' All these things have you said of beauty. Yet in truth you spoke not of her but of needs unsatisfied, And beauty is not a need but an ecstasy. It is not a mouth thirsting nor an empty hand stretched forth, But rather a heart enflamed and a soul enchanted. It is not the image you would see nor the song you would hear, But rather an image you see though you close your eyes and a song you hear though you shut your ears. It is not the sap within the furrowed bark, nor a wing attached to a claw, But rather a garden forever in bloom and a flock of angels for ever in flight. People of Orphalese, beauty is life when life unveils her holy face. But you are life and you are the veil. Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror. But you are eternity and you are the mirror.", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20458": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20458, "poem.id": 20458, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:39:33", "poem.title": "Friendship Ixx", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20459": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20459, "poem.id": 20459, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:39:39", "poem.title": "A Tear And A Smile", "poem.date": "3/23/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20460": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20460, "poem.id": 20460, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:39:44", "poem.title": "Children", "poem.date": "7/8/2009", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" }, "20461": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20461, "poem.id": 20461, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:39:47", "poem.title": "On Pain", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Khalil Gibran" } } }, "24": { "poet.id": 24, "poet.ts": "2018-02-28 20:41:18", "poet.title": "Billy Collins", "poet.poet_x_poem_id": { "908": { "poet_x_poem.id": 908, "poem.id": 908, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:51:15", "poem.title": "Writing In The Afterlife", "poem.date": "5/14/2015", "poem.content": "I imagined the atmosphere would be clear,shot with pristine light,not this sulphurous haze,the air ionized as before a thunderstorm.Many have pictured a river here,but no one mentioned all the boats,their benches crowded with naked passengers,each bent over a writing tablet.I knew I would not always be a childwith a model train and a model tunnel,and I knew I would not live forever,jumping all day through the hoop of myself.I had heard about the journey to the other sideand the clink of the final coinin the leather purse of the man holding the oar,but how could anyone have guessedthat as soon as we arrivedwe would be asked to describe this placeand to include as much detail as possible—not just the water, he insists,rather the oily, fathomless, rat-happy water,not simply the shackles, but the rusty,iron, ankle-shredding shackles—and that our next assignment would beto jot down, off the tops of our heads,our thoughts and feelings about being dead,not really an assignment,the man rotating the oar keeps telling us—think of it more as an exercise, he groans,think of writing as a process,a never-ending, infernal process,and now the boats have become jammed together,bow against stern, stern locked to bow,and not a thing is moving, only our diligent pens.", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "909": { "poet_x_poem.id": 909, "poem.id": 909, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:51:18", "poem.title": "Some Days", "poem.date": "11/3/2015", "poem.content": "Some days I put the people in their places at the table,bend their legs at the knees,if they come with that feature,and fix them into the tiny wooden chairs.All afternoon they face one another,the man in the brown suit,the woman in the blue dress,perfectly motionless, perfectly behaved.But other days, I am the onewho is lifted up by the ribs, then lowered into the dining room of a dollhouseto sit with the others at the long table.Very funny,but how would you like itif you never knew from one day to the next if you were going to spend itstriding around like a vivid god,your shoulders in the clouds, or sitting down there amidst the wallpaper,staring straight ahead with your little plastic face?", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "910": { "poet_x_poem.id": 910, "poem.id": 910, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:51:25", "poem.title": "Workshop", "poem.date": "4/14/2015", "poem.content": "I might as well begin by saying how much I like the title. It gets me right away because I'm in a workshop now so immediately the poem has my attention, like the Ancient Mariner grabbing me by the sleeve. And I like the first couple of stanzas, the way they establish this mode of self-pointing that runs through the whole poem and tells us that words are food thrown down on the ground for other words to eat. I can almost taste the tail of the snake in its own mouth, if you know what I mean. But what I'm not sure about is the voice, which sounds in places very casual, very blue jeans, but other times seems standoffish, professorial in the worst sense of the word like the poem is blowing pipe smoke in my face. But maybe that's just what it wants to do. What I did find engaging were the middle stanzas, especially the fourth one. I like the image of clouds flying like lozenges which gives me a very clear picture. And I really like how this drawbridge operator just appears out of the blue with his feet up on the iron railing and his fishing pole jigging—I like jigging— a hook in the slow industrial canal below. I love slow industrial canal below. All those l's. Maybe it's just me, but the next stanza is where I start to have a problem. I mean how can the evening bump into the stars? And what's an obbligato of snow? Also, I roam the decaffeinated streets. At that point I'm lost. I need help. The other thing that throws me off, and maybe this is just me, is the way the scene keeps shifting around. First, we're in this big aerodrome and the speaker is inspecting a row of dirigibles, which makes me think this could be a dream. Then he takes us into his garden, the part with the dahlias and the coiling hose, though that's nice, the coiling hose, but then I'm not sure where we're supposed to be. The rain and the mint green light, that makes it feel outdoors, but what about this wallpaper? Or is it a kind of indoor cemetery? There's something about death going on here. In fact, I start to wonder if what we have here is really two poems, or three, or four, or possibly none. But then there's that last stanza, my favorite. This is where the poem wins me back, especially the lines spoken in the voice of the mouse. I mean we've all seen these images in cartoons before, but I still love the details he uses when he's describing where he lives. The perfect little arch of an entrance in the baseboard, the bed made out of a curled-back sardine can, the spool of thread for a table. I start thinking about how hard the mouse had to work night after night collecting all these things while the people in the house were fast asleep, and that gives me a very strong feeling, a very powerful sense of something. But I don't know if anyone else was feeling that. Maybe that was just me. Maybe that's just the way I read it.", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "911": { "poet_x_poem.id": 911, "poem.id": 911, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:51:31", "poem.title": "Morning", "poem.date": "12/7/2015", "poem.content": "Why do we bother with the rest of the day,the swale of the afternoon,the sudden dip into evening,then night with his notorious perfumes,his many-pointed stars?This is the best—throwing off the light covers,feet on the cold floor,and buzzing around the house on espresso—maybe a splash of water on the face,a palmful of vitamins—but mostly buzzing around the house on espresso,dictionary and atlas open on the rug,the typewriter waiting for the key of the head,a cello on the radio,and, if necessary, the windows—trees fifty, a hundred years oldout there,heavy clouds on the wayand the lawn steaming like a horsein the early morning.", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "912": { "poet_x_poem.id": 912, "poem.id": 912, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:51:37", "poem.title": "Silence", "poem.date": "4/24/2015", "poem.content": "There is the sudden silence of the crowdabove a player not moving on the field,and the silence of the orchid.The silence of the falling vasebefore it strikes the floor,the silence of the belt when it is not striking the child.The stillness of the cup and the water in it,the silence of the moonand the quiet of the day far from the roar of the sun.The silence when I hold you to my chest,the silence of the window above us,and the silence when you rise and turn away.And there is the silence of this morningwhich I have broken with my pen,a silence that had piled up all nightlike snow falling in the darkness of the house—the silence before I wrote a wordand the poorer silence now.", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "913": { "poet_x_poem.id": 913, "poem.id": 913, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:51:39", "poem.title": "The Death of Allegory", "poem.date": "9/18/2015", "poem.content": "I am wondering what became of all those tall abstractionsthat used to pose, robed and statuesque, in paintingsand parade about on the pages of the Renaissancedisplaying their capital letters like license plates.Truth cantering on a powerful horse,Chastity, eyes downcast, fluttering with veils.Each one was marble come to life, a thought in a coat,Courtesy bowing with one hand always extended,Villainy sharpening an instrument behind a wall,Reason with her crown and Constancy alert behind a helm.They are all retired now, consigned to a Florida for tropes.Justice is there standing by an open refrigerator.Valor lies in bed listening to the rain.Even Death has nothing to do but mend his cloak and hood,and all their props are locked away in a warehouse,hourglasses, globes, blindfolds and shackles.Even if you called them back, there are no places leftfor them to go, no Garden of Mirth or Bower of Bliss.The Valley of Forgiveness is lined with condominiumsand chain saws are howling in the Forest of Despair.Here on the table near the window is a vase of peoniesand next to it black binoculars and a money clip,exactly the kind of thing we now prefer,objects that sit quietly on a line in lower case,themselves and nothing more, a wheelbarrow,an empty mailbox, a razor blade resting in a glass ashtray.As for the others, the great ideas on horsebackand the long-haired virtues in embroidered gowns,it looks as though they have traveled downthat road you see on the final page of storybooks,the one that winds up a green hillside and disappearsinto an unseen valley where everyone must be fast asleep.", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "914": { "poet_x_poem.id": 914, "poem.id": 914, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:51:44", "poem.title": "The First Night", "poem.date": "4/8/2015", "poem.content": "Before I opened you, Jiménez,it never occurred to me that day and nightwould continue to circle each other in the ring of death,but now you have me wonderingif there will also be a sun and a moonand will the dead gather to watch them rise and setthen repair, each soul alone,to some ghastly equivalent of a bed.Or will the first night be the only night,a darkness for which we have no other name?How feeble our vocabulary in the face of death,How impossible to write it down.This is where language will stop,the horse we have ridden all our livesrearing up at the edge of a dizzying cliff.The word that was in the beginningand the word that was made flesh—those and all the other words will cease.Even now, reading you on this trellised porch,how can I describe a sun that will shine after death?But it is enough to frighten meinto paying more attention to the world's day-moon,to sunlight bright on wateror fragmented in a grove of trees,and to look more closely here at these small leaves,these sentinel thorns,whose employment it is to guard the rose.", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "915": { "poet_x_poem.id": 915, "poem.id": 915, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:51:48", "poem.title": "Night Golf", "poem.date": "3/9/2015", "poem.content": "I remember the night I discovered,lying in bed in the dark,that a few imagined holes of golfworked much better than a thousand sheep,that the local links,not the cloudy pasture with its easy fence,was the greener path to sleep.How soothing to stroll the shadowy fairways,to skirt the moon-blanched bunkersand hear the night owl in the woods.Who cared about the scorewhen the club swung with the ease of airand I glided from shot to shotover the mown and rolling ground,alone and drowsy with my weightless bag?Eighteen small cups punched into thebristling grass,eighteen flags limp on their sticksin the silent, windless dark,but in the bedroom with its luminous clockand propped-open windows,I got only as far as the seventh holebefore I drifted easily away -the difficult seventh, 'The Tester' they called it,where, just as on the earlier holes,I tapped in, dreamily, for birdie.", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "916": { "poet_x_poem.id": 916, "poem.id": 916, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:51:50", "poem.title": "Man in Space", "poem.date": "6/23/2015", "poem.content": "All you have to do is listen to the way a mansometimes talks to his wife at a table of peopleand notice how intent he is on making his pointeven though her lower lip is beginning to quiver,and you will know why the women in sciencefiction movies who inhabit a planet of their ownare not pictured making a salad or reading a magazinewhen the men from earth arrive in their rocket,why they are always standing in a semicirclewith their arms folded, their bare legs set apart,their breasts protected by hard metal disks.", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "917": { "poet_x_poem.id": 917, "poem.id": 917, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:51:54", "poem.title": "The Lanyard", "poem.date": "5/11/2015", "poem.content": "The other day as I was ricocheting slowlyoff the blue walls of this roombouncing from typewriter to pianofrom bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,I found myself in the 'L' section of the dictionarywhere my eyes fell upon the word, Lanyard. No cookie nibbled by a French novelistcould send one more suddenly into the past.A past where I sat at a workbenchat a camp by a deep Adirondack lake learning how to braid thin plastic strips into a lanyard. A gift for my mother.I had never seen anyone use a lanyard. Or wear one, if that's what you did with them. But that did not keep me from crossing strand over strand again and again until I had made a boxy, red and white lanyard for my mother. She gave me life and milk from her breasts, and I gave her a lanyard She nursed me in many a sick room, lifted teaspoons of medicine to my lips, set cold facecloths on my foreheadthen led me out into the airy lightand taught me to walk and swim and I in turn presented her with a lanyard. 'Here are thousands of meals' she said, 'and here is clothing and a good education.' 'And here is your lanyard,' I replied,'which I made with a little help from a counselor.' 'Here is a breathing body and a beating heart, strong legs, bones and teeth and two clear eyes to read the world.' she whispered.'And here,' I said, 'is the lanyard I made at camp.''And here,' I wish to say to her now, 'is a smaller gift. Not the archaic truth, that you can never repay your mother, but the rueful admission that when she took the two-toned lanyard from my hands,I was as sure as a boy could be that this useless worthless thing I wove out of boredom would be enough to make us even.'", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "918": { "poet_x_poem.id": 918, "poem.id": 918, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:51:56", "poem.title": "Christmas Sparrow", "poem.date": "12/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "919": { "poet_x_poem.id": 919, "poem.id": 919, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:52:00", "poem.title": "The Names", "poem.date": "10/5/2011", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "920": { "poet_x_poem.id": 920, "poem.id": 920, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:52:04", "poem.title": "Study In Orange And White", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "921": { "poet_x_poem.id": 921, "poem.id": 921, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:52:09", "poem.title": "The Iron Bridge", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "922": { "poet_x_poem.id": 922, "poem.id": 922, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:52:14", "poem.title": "Tomes", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "923": { "poet_x_poem.id": 923, "poem.id": 923, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:52:20", "poem.title": "The Only Day In Existence", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "924": { "poet_x_poem.id": 924, "poem.id": 924, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:52:26", "poem.title": "The Best Cigarette", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "925": { "poet_x_poem.id": 925, "poem.id": 925, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:52:28", "poem.title": "Thesaurus", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "926": { "poet_x_poem.id": 926, "poem.id": 926, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:52:32", "poem.title": "Pinup", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "927": { "poet_x_poem.id": 927, "poem.id": 927, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:52:38", "poem.title": "Nightclub", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "928": { "poet_x_poem.id": 928, "poem.id": 928, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:52:41", "poem.title": "Today", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "929": { "poet_x_poem.id": 929, "poem.id": 929, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:52:45", "poem.title": "Walking Across The Atlantic", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "930": { "poet_x_poem.id": 930, "poem.id": 930, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:52:48", "poem.title": "Reading An Anthology Of Chinese Poems Of The Sung Dynasty, I Pause To Admire The Length And Clarity Of Their Titles", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "931": { "poet_x_poem.id": 931, "poem.id": 931, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:52:51", "poem.title": "Snow Day", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "932": { "poet_x_poem.id": 932, "poem.id": 932, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:52:57", "poem.title": "Neither Snow", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "933": { "poet_x_poem.id": 933, "poem.id": 933, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:53:02", "poem.title": "Dear Reader", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "934": { "poet_x_poem.id": 934, "poem.id": 934, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:53:06", "poem.title": "For Bartleby The Scrivener", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "935": { "poet_x_poem.id": 935, "poem.id": 935, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:53:10", "poem.title": "Man Listening To Disc", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "This is not bad --ambling along 44th Streetwith Sonny Rollins for company,his music flowing through the soft calipersof these earphones,as if he were right beside meon this clear day in March,the pavement sparkling with sunlight,pigeons fluttering off the curb,nodding over a profusion of bread crumbs.In fact, I would saymy delight at being suffusedwith phrases from his saxophone --some like honey, some like vinegar --is surpassed only by my gratitudeto Tommy Potter for taking the timeto join us on this breezy afternoonwith his most unwieldy bassand to the esteemed Arthur Taylorwho is somehow managing to navigatethis crowd with his cumbersome drums.And I bow deeply to Thelonious Monkfor figuring out a wayto motorize -- or whatever -- his huge pianoso he could be with us today.This music is loud yet so confidential.I cannot help feeling even morelike the center of the universethan usual as I walk along to a rapidlittle version of \"The Way You Look Tonight,\"and all I can say to my fellow pedestrians,to the woman in the white sweater,the man in the tan raincoat and the heavy glasses,who mistake themselves for the center of the universe --all I can say is watch your step,because the five of us, instruments and all,are about to angle overto the south side of the streetand then, in our own tightly knit way,turn the corner at Sixth Avenue.And if any of you are curiousabout where this aggregation,this whole battery-powered crew,is headed, let us just saythat the real center of the universe,the only true point of view,is full of hope that he,the hub of the cosmoswith his hair blown sideways,will eventually make it all the way downtown.", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "936": { "poet_x_poem.id": 936, "poem.id": 936, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:53:16", "poem.title": "Consolation", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "937": { "poet_x_poem.id": 937, "poem.id": 937, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:53:20", "poem.title": "The First Dream", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "938": { "poet_x_poem.id": 938, "poem.id": 938, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:53:24", "poem.title": "Nostalgia", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "Remember the 1340's? We were doing a dance called the Catapult.You always wore brown, the color craze of the decade,and I was draped in one of those capes that were popular,the ones with unicorns and pomegranates in needlework.Everyone would pause for beer and onions in the afternoon,and at night we would play a game called \"Find the Cow.\"Everything was hand-lettered then, not like today.Where has the summer of 1572 gone? Brocade and sonnetmarathons were the rage. We used to dress up in the flagsof rival baronies and conquer one another in cold rooms of stone.Out on the dance floor we were all doing the Strugglewhile your sister practiced the Daphne all alone in her room.We borrowed the jargon of farriers for our slang.These days language seems transparent a badly broken code.The 1790's will never come again. Childhood was big.People would take walks to the very tops of hillsand write down what they saw in their journals without speaking.Our collars were high and our hats were extremely soft.We would surprise each other with alphabets made of twigs.It was a wonderful time to be alive, or even dead.I am very fond of the period between 1815 and 1821.Europe trembled while we sat still for our portraits.And I would love to return to 1901 if only for a moment,time enough to wind up a music box and do a few dance steps,or shoot me back to 1922 or 1941, or at least let merecapture the serenity of last month when we pickedberries and glided through afternoons in a canoe.Even this morning would be an improvement over the present.I was in the garden then, surrounded by the hum of beesand the Latin names of flowers, watching the early lightflash off the slanted windows of the greenhouseand silver the limbs on the rows of dark hemlocks.As usual, I was thinking about the moments of the past,letting my memory rush over them like waterrushing over the stones on the bottom of a stream.I was even thinking a little about the future, that placewhere people are doing a dance we cannot imagine,a dance whose name we can only guess.", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "939": { "poet_x_poem.id": 939, "poem.id": 939, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:53:29", "poem.title": "Fishing On The Susquehanna In July", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "940": { "poet_x_poem.id": 940, "poem.id": 940, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:53:33", "poem.title": "The Art Of Drowning", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "941": { "poet_x_poem.id": 941, "poem.id": 941, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:53:37", "poem.title": "Shoveling Snow With Buddha", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wokyou would never see him doing such a thing,tossing the dry snow over a mountainof his bare, round shoulder,his hair tied in a knot,a model of concentration.Sitting is more his speed, if that is the wordfor what he does, or does not do.Even the season is wrong for him.In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid? Is this not implied by his serene expression,that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe? But here we are, working our way down the driveway,one shovelful at a time.We toss the light powder into the clear air.We feel the cold mist on our faces.And with every heave we disappearand become lost to each otherin these sudden clouds of our own making,these fountain-bursts of snow.This is so much better than a sermon in church,I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.This is the true religion, the religion of snow,and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,I say, but he is too busy to hear me.He has thrown himself into shoveling snowas if it were the purpose of existence,as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear drivewayyou could back the car down easilyand drive off into the vanities of the worldwith a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.All morning long we work side by side,me with my commentaryand he inside his generous pocket of silence,until the hour is nearly noonand the snow is piled high all around us; then, I hear him speak.After this, he asks,can we go inside and play cards? Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milkand bring cups of hot chocolate to the tablewhile you shuffle the deck.and our boots stand dripping by the door.Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyesand leaning for a moment on his shovelbefore he drives the thin blade againdeep into the glittering white snow.", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "942": { "poet_x_poem.id": 942, "poem.id": 942, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:53:43", "poem.title": "Marginalia", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "Sometimes the notes are ferocious,skirmishes against the authorraging along the borders of every pagein tiny black script.If I could just get my hands on you,Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien,they seem to say,I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head.Other comments are more offhand, dismissive -'Nonsense.' 'Please! ' 'HA! ! ' -that kind of thing.I remember once looking up from my reading,my thumb as a bookmark,trying to imagine what the person must look likewhy wrote 'Don't be a ninny'alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson.Students are more modestneeding to leave only their splayed footprintsalong the shore of the page.One scrawls 'Metaphor' next to a stanza of Eliot's.Another notes the presence of 'Irony'fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal.Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers,Hands cupped around their mouths.'Absolutely,' they shoutto Duns Scotus and James Baldwin.'Yes.' 'Bull's-eye.' 'My man! 'Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation pointsrain down along the sidelines.And if you have managed to graduate from collegewithout ever having written 'Man vs. Nature'in a margin, perhaps nowis the time to take one step forward.We have all seized the white perimeter as our ownand reached for a pen if only to showwe did not just laze in an armchair turning pages; we pressed a thought into the wayside,planted an impression along the verge.Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoriajotted along the borders of the Gospelsbrief asides about the pains of copying,a bird signing near their window,or the sunlight that illuminated their page-anonymous men catching a ride into the futureon a vessel more lasting than themselves.And you have not read Joshua Reynolds,they say, until you have read himenwreathed with Blake's furious scribbling.Yet the one I think of most often,the one that dangles from me like a locket,was written in the copy of Catcher in the RyeI borrowed from the local libraryone slow, hot summer.I was just beginning high school then,reading books on a davenport in my parents' living room,and I cannot tell youhow vastly my loneliness was deepened,how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed,when I found on one pageA few greasy looking smearsand next to them, written in soft pencil-by a beautiful girl, I could tell,whom I would never meet-'Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love.'", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "943": { "poet_x_poem.id": 943, "poem.id": 943, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:53:46", "poem.title": "Embrace", "poem.date": "2/13/2007", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "944": { "poet_x_poem.id": 944, "poem.id": 944, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:53:48", "poem.title": "Candle Hat", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "945": { "poet_x_poem.id": 945, "poem.id": 945, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:53:51", "poem.title": "By A Swimming Pool Outside Syracusa", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "946": { "poet_x_poem.id": 946, "poem.id": 946, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:53:53", "poem.title": "Madmen", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "947": { "poet_x_poem.id": 947, "poem.id": 947, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:53:57", "poem.title": "I Go Back To The House For A Book", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "20502": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20502, "poem.id": 20502, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:39:52", "poem.title": "Invention", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "20503": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20503, "poem.id": 20503, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:39:54", "poem.title": "I Chop Some Parsley While Listening To Art Blakey's Version Of \"Three Blind Mice\"", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "20504": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20504, "poem.id": 20504, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:39:57", "poem.title": "Japan", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "20505": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20505, "poem.id": 20505, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:40:03", "poem.title": "Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes", "poem.date": "1/7/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "20506": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20506, "poem.id": 20506, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:40:07", "poem.title": "Flames", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "20507": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20507, "poem.id": 20507, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:40:10", "poem.title": "Child Development", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "20508": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20508, "poem.id": 20508, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:40:13", "poem.title": "I Ask You", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "20509": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20509, "poem.id": 20509, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:40:19", "poem.title": "Litany", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "20510": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20510, "poem.id": 20510, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:40:24", "poem.title": "On Turning Ten", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "20511": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20511, "poem.id": 20511, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:40:27", "poem.title": "Introduction To Poetry", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "20512": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20512, "poem.id": 20512, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:40:34", "poem.title": "Another Reason Why I Don'T Keep A Gun In The House", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" }, "20513": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20513, "poem.id": 20513, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:40:38", "poem.title": "Forgetfulness", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Billy Collins" } } }, "25": { "poet.id": 25, "poet.ts": "2018-02-28 20:41:50", "poet.title": "Percy Bysshe Shelley", "poet.poet_x_poem_id": { "948": { "poet_x_poem.id": 948, "poem.id": 948, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:54:02", "poem.title": "from Laon and Cythna; or The Revolution of the Golden City", "poem.date": "2/5/2016", "poem.content": "To Mary — — 1. So now my summer task is ended, Mary, And I return to thee, mine own heart's home; As to his Queen some victor Knight of Faëry, Earning bright spoils for her inchanted dome; Nor thou disdain, that ere my fame become A star among the stars of mortal night, If it indeed may cleave its natal gloom, Its doubtful promise thus I would uniteWith thy beloved name, thou Child of love and light. 2. The toil which stole from thee so many an hour Is ended,—and the fruit is at thy feet! No longer where the woods to frame a bower With interlaced branches mix and meet, Or where with sound like many voices sweet, Water-falls leap among wild islands green, Which framed for my lone boat a lone retreat Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall I be seen:But beside thee, where still my heart has ever been. 3. Thoughts of great deeds were mine, dear Friend, when first The clouds which wrap this world from youth did pass. I do remember well the hour which burst My spirit's sleep: a fresh May-dawn it was, When I walked forth upon the glittering grass, And wept, I knew not why; until there rose From the near school-room, voices, that, alas! Were but one echo from a world of woes—The harsh and grating strife of tyrants and of foes. 4. And then I clasped my hands and looked around— —But none was near to mock my streaming eyes, Which poured their warm drops on the sunny ground— So without shame, I spake:—'I will be wise, And just, and free, and mild, if in me lies Such power, for I grow weary to behold The selfish and the strong still tyrannise Without reproach or check.' I then controuledMy tears, my heart grew calm, and I was meek and bold. 5. And from that hour did I with earnest thought Heap knowledge from forbidden mines of lore, Yet nothing that my tyrants knew or taught I cared to learn, but from that secret store Wrought linked armour for my soul, before It might walk forth to war among mankind; Thus power and hope were strengthened more and more Within me, till there came upon my mindA sense of loneliness, a thirst with which I pined. 6. Alas, that love should be a blight and snare To those who seek all sympathies in one!— Such once I sought in vain; then black despair, The shadow of a starless night, was thrown Over the world in which I moved alone:— Yet never found I one not false to me, Hard hearts, and cold, like weights of icy stone Which crushed and withered mine, that could not beAught but a lifeless clog, until revived by thee. 7. Thou Friend, whose presence on my wintry heart Fell, like bright Spring upon some herbless plain; How beautiful and calm and free thou wert In thy young wisdom, when the mortal chain Of Custom thou didst burst and rend in twain, And walked as free as light the clouds among, Which many an envious slave then breathed in vain From his dim dungeon, and my spirit sprungTo meet thee from the woes which had begirt it long. 8. No more alone through the world's wilderness, Although I trod the paths of high intent, I journeyed now: no more companionless, Where solitude is like despair, I went.— There is the wisdom of a stern content When Poverty can blight the just and good, When Infamy dares mock the innocent, And cherished friends turn with the multitudeTo trample: this was ours, and we unshaken stood! 9. Now has descended a serener hour, And with inconstant fortune, friends return; Though suffering leaves the knowledge and the power Which says:—Let scorn be not repaid with scorn. And from thy side two gentle babes are born To fill our home with smiles, and thus are we Most fortunate beneath life's beaming morn; And these delights, and thou, have been to meThe parents of the Song I consecrate to thee. 10. Is it, that now my inexperienced fingers But strike the prelude of a loftier strain? Or, must the lyre on which my spirit lingers Soon pause in silence, ne'er to sound again, Though it might shake the Anarch Custom's reign, And charm the minds of men to Truth's own sway Holier than was Amphion's? I would fain Reply in hope—but I am worn away,And Death and Love are yet contending for their prey. 11. And what art thou? I know, but dare not speak: Time may interpret to his silent years. Yet in the paleness of thy thoughtful cheek, And in the light thine ample forehead wears, And in thy sweetest smiles, and in thy tears, And in thy gentle speech, a prophecy Is whispered, to subdue my fondest fears: And through thine eyes, even in thy soul I seeA lamp of vestal fire burning internally. 12. They say that thou wert lovely from thy birth, Of glorious parents, thou aspiring Child. I wonder not—for One then left this earth Whose life was like a setting planet mild Which clothed thee in the radiance undefiled Of its departing glory; still her fame Shines on thee, through the tempests dark and wild Which shake these latter days; and thou canst claimThe shelter, from thy Sire, of an immortal name. 13. One voice came forth from many a mighty spirit, Which was the echo of three thousand years; And the tumultuous world stood mute to hear it, As some lone man who in a desart hears The music of his home:—unwonted fears Fell on the pale oppressors of our race, And Faith, and Custom, and low-thoughted cares, Like thunder-stricken dragons, for a spaceLeft the torn human heart, their food and dwelling-place. 14. Truth's deathless voice pauses among mankind! If there must be no response to my cry— If men must rise and stamp with fury blind On his pure name who loves them,—thou and I, Sweet Friend! can look from our tranquillity Like lamps into the world's tempestuous night,— Two tranquil stars, while clouds are passing by Which wrap them from the foundering seaman's sight,That burn from year to year with unextinguished light.", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "949": { "poet_x_poem.id": 949, "poem.id": 949, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:54:05", "poem.title": "The Retrospect: Cwm Elan, 1812", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "950": { "poet_x_poem.id": 950, "poem.id": 950, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:54:11", "poem.title": "Dark Spirit of the Desart Rude", "poem.date": "6/26/2015", "poem.content": "Dark Spirit of the desart rudeThat o'er this awful solitude,Each tangled and untrodden wood,Each dark and silent glen below,Where sunlight's gleamings never glow,Whilst jetty, musical and still,In darkness speeds the mountain rill;That o'er yon broken peaks sublime,Wild shapes that mock the scythe of time,And the pure Ellan's foamy course, Wavest thy wand of magic force;Art thou yon sooty and fearful fowlThat flaps its wing o'er the leafless oakThat o'er the dismal scene doth scowlAnd mocketh music with its croak?I've sought thee where day's beams decayOn the peak of the lonely hill,I've sought thee where they melt awayBy the wave of the pebbly rill;I've strained to catch thy murky form Bestride the rapid and gloomy storm;Thy red and sullen eyeball's glareHas shot, in a dream, thro' the midnight airBut never did thy shape expressSuch an emphatic gloominess.And where art thou, O thing of gloom? ...On Nature's unreviving tombWhere sapless, blasted and aloneShe mourns her blooming centuries gone!- From the fresh sod the Violets peep, The buds have burst their frozen sleep,Whilst every green and peopled treeIs alive with Earth's sweet melody.But thou alone art here,Thou desolate Oak, whose scathed headFor ages has never trembled,Whose giant trunk dead lichens bindMoaningly sighing in the wind,With huge loose rocks beneath thee spread,Thou, Thou alone art here! Remote from every living thing,Tree, shrub or grass or flower,Thou seemest of this spot the KingAnd with a regal powerSuck like that race all sap awayAnd yet upon the spoil decay.", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "951": { "poet_x_poem.id": 951, "poem.id": 951, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:54:13", "poem.title": "To Sophia (Miss Stacey)", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "952": { "poet_x_poem.id": 952, "poem.id": 952, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:54:17", "poem.title": "To The Lord Chancellor", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "953": { "poet_x_poem.id": 953, "poem.id": 953, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:54:21", "poem.title": "The Rude Wind Is Singing", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "954": { "poet_x_poem.id": 954, "poem.id": 954, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:54:26", "poem.title": "To Harriet -- It Is Not Blasphemy To Hope That Heaven", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "955": { "poet_x_poem.id": 955, "poem.id": 955, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:54:31", "poem.title": "The Viewless And Invisible Consequence", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "956": { "poet_x_poem.id": 956, "poem.id": 956, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:54:36", "poem.title": "To Harriet", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "957": { "poet_x_poem.id": 957, "poem.id": 957, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:54:38", "poem.title": "To Emilia Viviani", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "958": { "poet_x_poem.id": 958, "poem.id": 958, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:54:44", "poem.title": "The Wandering Jew's Soliloquy", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "959": { "poet_x_poem.id": 959, "poem.id": 959, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:54:48", "poem.title": "To Mary", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "960": { "poet_x_poem.id": 960, "poem.id": 960, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:54:52", "poem.title": "To-- I Fear Thy Kisses, Gentle Maiden", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "961": { "poet_x_poem.id": 961, "poem.id": 961, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:54:55", "poem.title": "To Constantia", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "962": { "poet_x_poem.id": 962, "poem.id": 962, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:55:00", "poem.title": "To Mary Who Died In This Opinion", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "963": { "poet_x_poem.id": 963, "poem.id": 963, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:55:06", "poem.title": "The Tower Of Famine", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "964": { "poet_x_poem.id": 964, "poem.id": 964, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:55:09", "poem.title": "The Zucca", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "965": { "poet_x_poem.id": 965, "poem.id": 965, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:55:11", "poem.title": "To Edward Williams", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "966": { "poet_x_poem.id": 966, "poem.id": 966, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:55:16", "poem.title": "The Sepulchre Of Memory", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "967": { "poet_x_poem.id": 967, "poem.id": 967, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:55:22", "poem.title": "The Pine Forest Of The Cascine Near Pisa", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "968": { "poet_x_poem.id": 968, "poem.id": 968, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:55:28", "poem.title": "The Spectral Horseman", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "969": { "poet_x_poem.id": 969, "poem.id": 969, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:55:33", "poem.title": "To Ireland", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "970": { "poet_x_poem.id": 970, "poem.id": 970, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:55:38", "poem.title": "To Mary Shelley", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "971": { "poet_x_poem.id": 971, "poem.id": 971, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:55:45", "poem.title": "To Mary ----", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "972": { "poet_x_poem.id": 972, "poem.id": 972, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:55:48", "poem.title": "To Constantia, Singing", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "973": { "poet_x_poem.id": 973, "poem.id": 973, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:55:53", "poem.title": "To Italy", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "974": { "poet_x_poem.id": 974, "poem.id": 974, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:55:57", "poem.title": "To-- One Word Is Too Often Profaned", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "975": { "poet_x_poem.id": 975, "poem.id": 975, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:56:01", "poem.title": "To-- Oh! There Are Spirits Of The Air", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "976": { "poet_x_poem.id": 976, "poem.id": 976, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:56:03", "poem.title": "To Ianthe", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "977": { "poet_x_poem.id": 977, "poem.id": 977, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:56:08", "poem.title": "The Sunset", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "978": { "poet_x_poem.id": 978, "poem.id": 978, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:56:13", "poem.title": "To Jane: The Recollection", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "979": { "poet_x_poem.id": 979, "poem.id": 979, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:56:16", "poem.title": "The Woodman And The Nightingale", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "980": { "poet_x_poem.id": 980, "poem.id": 980, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:56:20", "poem.title": "To Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "981": { "poet_x_poem.id": 981, "poem.id": 981, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:56:25", "poem.title": "To Death", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "982": { "poet_x_poem.id": 982, "poem.id": 982, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:56:33", "poem.title": "The World's Wanderers", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "983": { "poet_x_poem.id": 983, "poem.id": 983, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:56:40", "poem.title": "The Past", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "984": { "poet_x_poem.id": 984, "poem.id": 984, "poem.ts": "2018-02-28 05:33:42", "poem.title": "Unrisen Splendour Of The Brightest Sun", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "" }, "985": { "poet_x_poem.id": 985, "poem.id": 985, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:57:32", "poem.title": "The Solitary", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "986": { "poet_x_poem.id": 986, "poem.id": 986, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:57:40", "poem.title": "Ugolino", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "987": { "poet_x_poem.id": 987, "poem.id": 987, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:57:45", "poem.title": "To Jane: The Keen Stars Were Twinkling", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20553": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20553, "poem.id": 20553, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:40:42", "poem.title": "The Sensitive Plant", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20554": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20554, "poem.id": 20554, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:40:46", "poem.title": "To William Shelley", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20555": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20555, "poem.id": 20555, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:40:56", "poem.title": "To The Republicans Of North America", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20556": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20556, "poem.id": 20556, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:41:02", "poem.title": "To A Star", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20558": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20558, "poem.id": 20558, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:41:04", "poem.title": "To William Shelley. Thy Little Footsteps On The Sands", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20559": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20559, "poem.id": 20559, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:41:07", "poem.title": "The First Canzone Of The Convito", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20560": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20560, "poem.id": 20560, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:41:13", "poem.title": "Stanza From A Translation Of The Marseillaise Hymn", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20561": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20561, "poem.id": 20561, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:41:18", "poem.title": "Fragment: To The People Of England", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20562": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20562, "poem.id": 20562, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:41:20", "poem.title": "Lines -- Far, Far Away, O Ye", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20563": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20563, "poem.id": 20563, "poem.ts": "2018-02-28 20:41:22", "poem.title": "I Stood Upon A Heaven-Cleaving Turret", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "" }, "20564": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20564, "poem.id": 20564, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:42:01", "poem.title": "Stanza, Written At Bracknell", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20565": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20565, "poem.id": 20565, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:42:06", "poem.title": "Fragments Supposed To Be Parts Of Otho", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20566": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20566, "poem.id": 20566, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:42:10", "poem.title": "Methought I Was A Billow In The Crowd", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20567": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20567, "poem.id": 20567, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:42:15", "poem.title": "To William Shelley.", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20568": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20568, "poem.id": 20568, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:42:22", "poem.title": "Song. To [harriet]", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20569": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20569, "poem.id": 20569, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:42:34", "poem.title": "Lines To A Reviewer", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20570": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20570, "poem.id": 20570, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:42:38", "poem.title": "Sonnet : From The Italian Of Cavalcanti", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20571": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20571, "poem.id": 20571, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:42:43", "poem.title": "Homer's Hymn To Venus", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20572": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20572, "poem.id": 20572, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:42:47", "poem.title": "Epigram Iii: Spirit Of Plato", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20573": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20573, "poem.id": 20573, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:42:57", "poem.title": "Fragments Written For Hellas", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20574": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20574, "poem.id": 20574, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:43:03", "poem.title": "Song. Translated From The German", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20575": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20575, "poem.id": 20575, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:43:06", "poem.title": "Matilda Gathering Flowers", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20576": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20576, "poem.id": 20576, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:43:12", "poem.title": "Fragment: Yes! All Is Past", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20577": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20577, "poem.id": 20577, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:43:14", "poem.title": "The Birth Place Of Pleasure", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20578": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20578, "poem.id": 20578, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:43:20", "poem.title": "The False Laurel And The True", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20579": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20579, "poem.id": 20579, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:43:25", "poem.title": "Sonnet : From The Italian Of Dante", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20580": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20580, "poem.id": 20580, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:43:31", "poem.title": "To-Morrow", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20581": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20581, "poem.id": 20581, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:43:38", "poem.title": "Fragment: Igniculus Desiderii", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20582": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20582, "poem.id": 20582, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:43:42", "poem.title": "Song From The Wandering Jew", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20583": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20583, "poem.id": 20583, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:43:49", "poem.title": "The Aziola", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20584": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20584, "poem.id": 20584, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:43:54", "poem.title": "Song. Come Harriet! Sweet Is The Hour", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20585": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20585, "poem.id": 20585, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:44:00", "poem.title": "Lines To A Critic", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20586": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20586, "poem.id": 20586, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:44:10", "poem.title": "Melody To A Scene Of Former Times", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20587": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20587, "poem.id": 20587, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:44:15", "poem.title": "Epithalamium : Another Version", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20588": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20588, "poem.id": 20588, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:44:19", "poem.title": "Fragment, Or The Triumph Of Conscience", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20589": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20589, "poem.id": 20589, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:44:21", "poem.title": "Lines: That Time Is Dead For Ever, Child!", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20590": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20590, "poem.id": 20590, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:44:26", "poem.title": "Sonnet : To A Balloon Laden With Knowledge", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20591": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20591, "poem.id": 20591, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:44:29", "poem.title": "St. Irvyne's Tower", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20592": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20592, "poem.id": 20592, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:44:32", "poem.title": "Fragment: Omens", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20593": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20593, "poem.id": 20593, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:44:37", "poem.title": "Fragment: Milton's Spirit", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20594": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20594, "poem.id": 20594, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:44:43", "poem.title": "Fragment From The Wandering Jew", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20595": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20595, "poem.id": 20595, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:44:48", "poem.title": "Stanza", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20596": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20596, "poem.id": 20596, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:44:52", "poem.title": "Stanzas. -- April, 1814", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20597": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20597, "poem.id": 20597, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:44:55", "poem.title": "Fragment: My Head Is Wild With Weeping", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20598": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20598, "poem.id": 20598, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:44:58", "poem.title": "Fragment: Great Spirit", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20599": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20599, "poem.id": 20599, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:45:04", "poem.title": "The Fugitives", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20600": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20600, "poem.id": 20600, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:45:08", "poem.title": "Fiordispina", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20601": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20601, "poem.id": 20601, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:45:10", "poem.title": "Epigram Ii: Kissing Helena", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20602": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20602, "poem.id": 20602, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:45:15", "poem.title": "Fragment: What Men Gain Fairly", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20603": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20603, "poem.id": 20603, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:45:19", "poem.title": "The Boat On The Serchio", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20604": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20604, "poem.id": 20604, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:45:22", "poem.title": "Song. To -- [harriet]", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20605": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20605, "poem.id": 20605, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:45:27", "poem.title": "Song. Cold, Cold Is The Blast When December Is Howling", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20606": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20606, "poem.id": 20606, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:45:30", "poem.title": "Epigram Iv: Circumstance", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20607": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20607, "poem.id": 20607, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:45:35", "poem.title": "Fragment: There Is A Warm And Gentle Atmosphere", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20608": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20608, "poem.id": 20608, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:45:41", "poem.title": "Fragment: To A Friend Released From Prison", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20609": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20609, "poem.id": 20609, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:45:46", "poem.title": "Marenghi", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20610": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20610, "poem.id": 20610, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:45:51", "poem.title": "From Vergil's Fourth Georgic", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20611": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20611, "poem.id": 20611, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:45:57", "poem.title": "Sonnet: England In 1819", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20612": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20612, "poem.id": 20612, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:45:59", "poem.title": "Liberty", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20613": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20613, "poem.id": 20613, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:46:04", "poem.title": "Fragment: The Lake's Margin", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20614": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20614, "poem.id": 20614, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:46:05", "poem.title": "Fragment: Follow To The Deep Wood's Weeds", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20615": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20615, "poem.id": 20615, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:46:12", "poem.title": "Fragment Of The Elegy On The Death Of Bion", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20616": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20616, "poem.id": 20616, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:46:18", "poem.title": "Fragment: A Gentle Story Of Two Lovers Young", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20617": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20617, "poem.id": 20617, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:46:25", "poem.title": "Epipsychidion: Passages Of The Poem, Or Connected Therewith", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20618": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20618, "poem.id": 20618, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:46:27", "poem.title": "The Isle", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20619": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20619, "poem.id": 20619, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:46:30", "poem.title": "Fragment: Such Hope, As Is The Sick Despair Of Good", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20620": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20620, "poem.id": 20620, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:46:34", "poem.title": "Epithalamium", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20621": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20621, "poem.id": 20621, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:46:38", "poem.title": "Sonnet -- Ye Hasten To The Grave!", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20622": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20622, "poem.id": 20622, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:46:45", "poem.title": "The Deserts Of Dim Sleep", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20623": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20623, "poem.id": 20623, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:46:47", "poem.title": "Epigram I: To Stella", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20624": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20624, "poem.id": 20624, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:46:49", "poem.title": "When A Lover Clasps His Fairest", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20625": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20625, "poem.id": 20625, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:46:52", "poem.title": "Fragment: To Byron", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20626": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20626, "poem.id": 20626, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:46:57", "poem.title": "From The Original Draft Of The Poem To William Shelley", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20627": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20627, "poem.id": 20627, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:47:01", "poem.title": "The Drowned Lover", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20628": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20628, "poem.id": 20628, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:47:06", "poem.title": "May The Limner", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20629": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20629, "poem.id": 20629, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:47:10", "poem.title": "On The Dark Height Of Jura", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20630": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20630, "poem.id": 20630, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:47:14", "poem.title": "Dirge For The Year", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20631": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20631, "poem.id": 20631, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:47:17", "poem.title": "Sonnet : On Launching Some Bottles Filled With Knowledge Into The Bristol Channel", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20632": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20632, "poem.id": 20632, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:47:24", "poem.title": "From Vergil's Tenth Eclogue", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20633": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20633, "poem.id": 20633, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:47:30", "poem.title": "Fragment: To One Singing", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20634": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20634, "poem.id": 20634, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:47:34", "poem.title": "The Death Knell Is Ringing", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20635": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20635, "poem.id": 20635, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:47:39", "poem.title": "Fragment: Ye Gentle Visitations Of Calm Thought", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20636": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20636, "poem.id": 20636, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:47:43", "poem.title": "Buona Notte", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20637": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20637, "poem.id": 20637, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:47:49", "poem.title": "Fragments Of An Unfinished Drama", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20638": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20638, "poem.id": 20638, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:47:52", "poem.title": "Song. Translated From The Italian", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20639": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20639, "poem.id": 20639, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:47:59", "poem.title": "Song. Sorrow", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20640": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20640, "poem.id": 20640, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:48:03", "poem.title": "Fragment Of A Sonnet : To Harriet", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20641": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20641, "poem.id": 20641, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:48:07", "poem.title": "Homer's Hymn To Castor And Pollux", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20642": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20642, "poem.id": 20642, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:48:12", "poem.title": "Sonnet To Byron", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20643": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20643, "poem.id": 20643, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:48:17", "poem.title": "Written At Bracknell", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20644": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20644, "poem.id": 20644, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:48:22", "poem.title": "Fragment: Sufficient Unto The Day", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20645": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20645, "poem.id": 20645, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:48:25", "poem.title": "Lines Written On Hearing The News Of The Death Of Napoleon", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20646": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20646, "poem.id": 20646, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:48:29", "poem.title": "Fromthe Arabic: An Imitation", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20647": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20647, "poem.id": 20647, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:48:32", "poem.title": "To-- Yet Look On Me", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20648": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20648, "poem.id": 20648, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:48:38", "poem.title": "From The Greek Of Moschus", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20649": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20649, "poem.id": 20649, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:48:45", "poem.title": "From The Greek Of Moschus : Pan Loved His Neighbour Echo", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20650": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20650, "poem.id": 20650, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:48:50", "poem.title": "Fragment Of A Sonnet. Farewell To North Devon", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20651": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20651, "poem.id": 20651, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:48:56", "poem.title": "Fragment : What Mary Is When She A Little Smiles", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20652": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20652, "poem.id": 20652, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:49:03", "poem.title": "The Cenci : A Tragedy In Five Acts", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20653": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20653, "poem.id": 20653, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:49:06", "poem.title": "Mighty Eagle", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20654": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20654, "poem.id": 20654, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:49:11", "poem.title": "Queen Mab: Part Vii.", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20655": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20655, "poem.id": 20655, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:49:18", "poem.title": "Sister Rosa: A Ballad", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20656": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20656, "poem.id": 20656, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:49:24", "poem.title": "Fragment Of A Satire On Satire", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20657": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20657, "poem.id": 20657, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:49:28", "poem.title": "Homer's Hymn To The Sun", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20658": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20658, "poem.id": 20658, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:49:32", "poem.title": "Queen Mab: Part V.", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20659": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20659, "poem.id": 20659, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:49:37", "poem.title": "On A Fete At Carlton House: Fragment", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20660": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20660, "poem.id": 20660, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:49:42", "poem.title": "Life Rounded With Sleep", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20661": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20661, "poem.id": 20661, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:49:45", "poem.title": "The Magnetic Lady To Her Patient", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20662": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20662, "poem.id": 20662, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:49:49", "poem.title": "Verses On A Cat", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20663": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20663, "poem.id": 20663, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:49:54", "poem.title": "Evening. To Harriet", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20664": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20664, "poem.id": 20664, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:50:01", "poem.title": "Ode To Naples", "poem.date": "5/8/2011", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20665": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20665, "poem.id": 20665, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:50:05", "poem.title": "To The Nile", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20666": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20666, "poem.id": 20666, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:50:09", "poem.title": "Marianne's Dream", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20667": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20667, "poem.id": 20667, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:50:15", "poem.title": "Saint Edmond's Eve", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20668": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20668, "poem.id": 20668, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:50:20", "poem.title": "On An Icicle That Clung To The Grass Of A Grave", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20669": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20669, "poem.id": 20669, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:50:22", "poem.title": "On Robert Emmet's Grave", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20670": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20670, "poem.id": 20670, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:50:28", "poem.title": "Fragment: The Vine-Shroud", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20671": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20671, "poem.id": 20671, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:50:33", "poem.title": "Lines Written During The Castlereagh Administration", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20672": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20672, "poem.id": 20672, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:50:36", "poem.title": "Fragment: Wedded Souls", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20673": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20673, "poem.id": 20673, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:50:39", "poem.title": "Stanzas Written In Dejection, Near Naples", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20674": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20674, "poem.id": 20674, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:50:44", "poem.title": "Song. -- Fierce Roars The Midnight Storm", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20675": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20675, "poem.id": 20675, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:50:49", "poem.title": "To The Mind Of Man", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20676": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20676, "poem.id": 20676, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:50:52", "poem.title": "Epitaph", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20677": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20677, "poem.id": 20677, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:50:57", "poem.title": "I Would Not Be A King", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20678": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20678, "poem.id": 20678, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:51:00", "poem.title": "Rome And Nature", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20679": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20679, "poem.id": 20679, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:51:05", "poem.title": "Wine Of The Fairies", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20680": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20680, "poem.id": 20680, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:51:11", "poem.title": "Song For 'Tasso'", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20681": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20681, "poem.id": 20681, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:51:15", "poem.title": "Sonnet: Political Greatness", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20682": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20682, "poem.id": 20682, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:51:21", "poem.title": "I Faint, I Perish With My Love!", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20683": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20683, "poem.id": 20683, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:51:22", "poem.title": "Ginevra", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20684": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20684, "poem.id": 20684, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:51:27", "poem.title": "Orpheus", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20685": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20685, "poem.id": 20685, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:51:32", "poem.title": "Fragment: Is It That In Some Brighter Sphere", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20686": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20686, "poem.id": 20686, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:51:37", "poem.title": "Fragment: Home", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20687": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20687, "poem.id": 20687, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:51:44", "poem.title": "Zephyrus The Awakener", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20688": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20688, "poem.id": 20688, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:51:48", "poem.title": "Prince Athanase", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20689": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20689, "poem.id": 20689, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:51:53", "poem.title": "Revenge", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20690": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20690, "poem.id": 20690, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:51:59", "poem.title": "To The Moonbeam", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20691": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20691, "poem.id": 20691, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:52:01", "poem.title": "Poetical Essay", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20692": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20692, "poem.id": 20692, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:52:06", "poem.title": "Otho", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20693": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20693, "poem.id": 20693, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:52:08", "poem.title": "The Devil's Walk. A Ballad", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20694": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20694, "poem.id": 20694, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:52:11", "poem.title": "Homer's Hymn To Minerva", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20695": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20695, "poem.id": 20695, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:52:17", "poem.title": "Fragment: Love The Universe To-Day", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20696": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20696, "poem.id": 20696, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:52:19", "poem.title": "Bigotry's Victim", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20697": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20697, "poem.id": 20697, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:52:25", "poem.title": "Fragment: Amor Aeternus", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20698": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20698, "poem.id": 20698, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:52:27", "poem.title": "Letter To Maria Gisborne", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20699": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20699, "poem.id": 20699, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:52:32", "poem.title": "Evening: Ponte Al Mare, Pisa", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20700": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20700, "poem.id": 20700, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:52:35", "poem.title": "Queen Mab: Part Ix.", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20701": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20701, "poem.id": 20701, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:52:41", "poem.title": "Hymn Of Apollo", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20702": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20702, "poem.id": 20702, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:52:46", "poem.title": "The Cyclops", "poem.date": "5/8/2011", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy 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"poem.title": "Ghasta Or, The Avenging Demon!!!", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20708": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20708, "poem.id": 20708, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:53:11", "poem.title": "Fragment Of A Ghost Story", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20709": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20709, "poem.id": 20709, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:53:17", "poem.title": "On Keats, Who Desired That On His Tomb Should Be Inscribed--", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20710": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20710, "poem.id": 20710, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:53:21", "poem.title": "Sonnet: Lift Not The Painted Veil Which Those Who Live", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20711": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20711, "poem.id": 20711, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:53:25", "poem.title": "Homer's Hymn To The Moon", "poem.date": 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20754, "poem.id": 20754, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:56:29", "poem.title": "A Serpent-Face", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20755": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20755, "poem.id": 20755, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:56:31", "poem.title": "In Horologium", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20756": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20756, "poem.id": 20756, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:56:37", "poem.title": "Passage Of The Apennines", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20757": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20757, "poem.id": 20757, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:56:41", "poem.title": "Lines: The Cold Earth Slept Below", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20758": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20758, "poem.id": 20758, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:56:44", "poem.title": "Song: Rarely, Rarely, Comest Thou", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20759": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20759, "poem.id": 20759, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:56:50", "poem.title": "To Coleridge", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20760": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20760, "poem.id": 20760, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:56:56", "poem.title": "From The Arabic, An Imitation", "poem.date": "1/4/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20761": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20761, "poem.id": 20761, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:57:03", "poem.title": "Lines", "poem.date": "1/4/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20762": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20762, "poem.id": 20762, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:57:07", "poem.title": "Song", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20763": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20763, "poem.id": 20763, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:57:09", "poem.title": "Rosalind And 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"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:57:30", "poem.title": "From \"Adonais,\" 49-52", "poem.date": "1/20/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20769": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20769, "poem.id": 20769, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:57:35", "poem.title": "To ----", "poem.date": "1/4/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20770": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20770, "poem.id": 20770, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:57:39", "poem.title": "The Triumph Of Life", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20771": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20771, "poem.id": 20771, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:57:42", "poem.title": "Queen Mab: Part Vi (Excerpts)", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20772": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20772, "poem.id": 20772, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:57:44", "poem.title": "A Tale Of Society As It Is: From Facts, 1811", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20773": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20773, "poem.id": 20773, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:57:47", "poem.title": "Epipsychidion (Excerpt)", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20774": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20774, "poem.id": 20774, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:57:51", "poem.title": "Mont Blanc: Lines Written In The Vale Of Chamouni", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20775": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20775, "poem.id": 20775, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:57:56", "poem.title": "An Allegory", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20776": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20776, "poem.id": 20776, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:58:02", "poem.title": "The Witch Of Atlas", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20777": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20777, "poem.id": 20777, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:58:07", "poem.title": "Mutability - Ii.", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20778": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20778, "poem.id": 20778, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:58:09", "poem.title": "One Sung Of Thee Who Left The Tale Untold", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20779": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20779, "poem.id": 20779, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:58:16", "poem.title": "Hymn Of Pan", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20780": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20780, "poem.id": 20780, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:58:22", "poem.title": "Lift Not The Painted Veil Which Those Who Live", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20781": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20781, "poem.id": 20781, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:58:29", "poem.title": "Song Of Proserpine While Gathering Flowers On The Plain Of Enna", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20782": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20782, "poem.id": 20782, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:58:32", "poem.title": "The Question", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20783": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20783, "poem.id": 20783, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:58:39", "poem.title": "A New National Anthem", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20784": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20784, "poem.id": 20784, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:58:45", "poem.title": "A Hate-Song", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20785": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20785, "poem.id": 20785, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:58:48", "poem.title": "Chorus From Hellas", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20786": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20786, "poem.id": 20786, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:58:54", "poem.title": "To Wordsworth", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20787": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20787, "poem.id": 20787, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:58:58", "poem.title": "The Waning Moon", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20788": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20788, "poem.id": 20788, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:59:01", "poem.title": "The Invitation", "poem.date": "1/4/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20789": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20789, "poem.id": 20789, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:59:05", "poem.title": "Invocation", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20790": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20790, "poem.id": 20790, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:59:07", "poem.title": "Feelings Of A Republican On The Fall Of Bonaparte", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20791": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20791, "poem.id": 20791, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:59:14", "poem.title": "The Fitful Alternations Of The Rain", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20792": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20792, "poem.id": 20792, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:59:20", "poem.title": "Alas! This Is Not What I Thought Life Was", "poem.date": "5/7/2011", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20793": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20793, "poem.id": 20793, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:59:25", "poem.title": "Despair", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20794": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20794, "poem.id": 20794, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:59:29", "poem.title": "A Roman's Chamber", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20795": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20795, "poem.id": 20795, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:59:35", "poem.title": "Remorse", "poem.date": "1/4/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20796": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20796, "poem.id": 20796, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:59:38", "poem.title": "Night", "poem.date": "1/4/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20797": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20797, "poem.id": 20797, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:59:40", "poem.title": "The Mask Of Anarchy", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20798": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20798, "poem.id": 20798, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:59:43", "poem.title": "Hymn To Intellectual Beauty", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20799": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20799, "poem.id": 20799, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:59:46", "poem.title": "Time Long Past", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20800": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20800, "poem.id": 20800, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:59:51", "poem.title": "One Word Is Too Often Profaned", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20801": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20801, "poem.id": 20801, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:59:54", "poem.title": "Death Is Here And Death Is There", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20802": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20802, "poem.id": 20802, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:59:58", "poem.title": "Fragment: \"To The Moon\"", "poem.date": "1/20/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20803": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20803, "poem.id": 20803, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 07:59:59", "poem.title": "The Moon", "poem.date": "1/4/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20804": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20804, "poem.id": 20804, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:00:02", "poem.title": "Eyes : A Fragment", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20805": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20805, "poem.id": 20805, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:00:07", "poem.title": "Asia: From Prometheus Unbound", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20806": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20806, "poem.id": 20806, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:00:10", "poem.title": "On Death", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20807": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20807, "poem.id": 20807, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:00:15", "poem.title": "Prometheus Unbound: Act I (Excerpt)", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20808": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20808, "poem.id": 20808, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:00:20", "poem.title": "To The Moon", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20809": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20809, "poem.id": 20809, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:00:26", "poem.title": "Archy's Song From Charles The First (A Widow Bird Sate Mourning For Her Love)", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20810": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20810, "poem.id": 20810, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:00:32", "poem.title": "And Like A Dying Lady, Lean And Pale", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20811": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20811, "poem.id": 20811, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:00:34", "poem.title": "To Night", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20812": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20812, "poem.id": 20812, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:00:37", "poem.title": "Time", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20813": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20813, "poem.id": 20813, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:00:40", "poem.title": "A Fragment: To Music", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20814": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20814, "poem.id": 20814, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:00:43", "poem.title": "A Summer Evening Churchyard, Lechlade, Gloucestershire", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20815": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20815, "poem.id": 20815, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:00:48", "poem.title": "A Dirge", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20816": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20816, "poem.id": 20816, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:00:52", "poem.title": "Autumn: A Dirge", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20817": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20817, "poem.id": 20817, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:00:57", "poem.title": "Art Thou Pale For Weariness", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20818": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20818, "poem.id": 20818, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:01:01", "poem.title": "An Exhortation", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20819": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20819, "poem.id": 20819, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:01:03", "poem.title": "England In 1819", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20820": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20820, "poem.id": 20820, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:01:09", "poem.title": "Alastor: Or, The Spirit Of Solitude", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "Earth, Ocean, Air, belovèd brotherhood!If our great Mother has imbued my soulWith aught of natural piety to feelYour love, and recompense the boon with mine;If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and even,With sunset and its gorgeous ministers,And solemn midnight's tingling silentness;If Autumn's hollow sighs in the sere wood,And Winter robing with pure snow and crownsOf starry ice the gray grass and bare boughs; If Spring's voluptuous pantings when she breathesHer first sweet kisses,--have been dear to me;If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beastI consciously have injured, but still lovedAnd cherished these my kindred; then forgiveThis boast, belovèd brethren, and withdrawNo portion of your wonted favor now!Mother of this unfathomable world!Favor my solemn song, for I have loved Thee ever, and thee only; I have watched Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps,And my heart ever gazes on the depthOf thy deep mysteries. I have made my bedIn charnels and on coffins, where black deathKeeps record of the trophies won from thee,Hoping to still these obstinate questioningsOf thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost,Thy messenger, to render up the taleOf what we are. In lone and silent hours,When night makes a weird sound of its own stillness, Like an inspired and desperate alchemistStaking his very life on some dark hope,Have I mixed awful talk and asking looksWith my most innocent love, until strange tears,Uniting with those breathless kisses, madeSuch magic as compels the charmèd nightTo render up thy charge; and, though ne'er yetThou hast unveiled thy inmost sanctuary,Enough from incommunicable dream,And twilight phantasms, and deep noonday thought, Has shone within me, that serenely nowAnd moveless, as a long-forgotten lyreSuspended in the solitary domeOf some mysterious and deserted fane,I wait thy breath, Great Parent, that my strainMay modulate with murmurs of the air,And motions of the forests and the sea,And voice of living beings, and woven hymnsOf night and day, and the deep heart of man.There was a Poet whose untimely tomb No human hands with pious reverence reared,But the charmed eddies of autumnal windsBuilt o'er his mouldering bones a pyramidOf mouldering leaves in the waste wilderness:A lovely youth,--no mourning maiden deckedWith weeping flowers, or votive cypress wreath,The lone couch of his everlasting sleep:Gentle, and brave, and generous,--no lorn bardBreathed o'er his dark fate one melodious sigh:He lived, he died, he sung in solitude. Strangers have wept to hear his passionate notes,And virgins, as unknown he passed, have pinedAnd wasted for fond love of his wild eyes.The fire of those soft orbs has ceased to burn,And Silence, too enamoured of that voice,Locks its mute music in her rugged cell.By solemn vision and bright silver dreamHis infancy was nurtured. Every sightAnd sound from the vast earth and ambient airSent to his heart its choicest impulses. The fountains of divine philosophyFled not his thirsting lips, and all of great,Or good, or lovely, which the sacred pastIn truth or fable consecrates, he feltAnd knew. When early youth had passed, he leftHis cold fireside and alienated homeTo seek strange truths in undiscovered lands.Many a wide waste and tangled wildernessHas lured his fearless steps; and he has boughtWith his sweet voice and eyes, from savage men, His rest and food. Nature's most secret stepsHe like her shadow has pursued, where'erThe red volcano overcanopiesIts fields of snow and pinnacles of iceWith burning smoke, or where bitumen lakesOn black bare pointed islets ever beatWith sluggish surge, or where the secret caves,Rugged and dark, winding among the springsOf fire and poison, inaccessibleTo avarice or pride, their starry domes Of diamond and of gold expand aboveNumberless and immeasurable halls,Frequent with crystal column, and clear shrinesOf pearl, and thrones radiant with chrysolite.Nor had that scene of ampler majestyThan gems or gold, the varying roof of heavenAnd the green earth, lost in his heart its claimsTo love and wonder; he would linger longIn lonesome vales, making the wild his home,Until the doves and squirrels would partake From his innocuous band his bloodless food,Lured by the gentle meaning of his looks,And the wild antelope, that starts whene'erThe dry leaf rustles in the brake, suspendHer timid steps, to gaze upon a formMore graceful than her own.His wandering step,Obedient to high thoughts, has visitedThe awful ruins of the days of old:Athens, and Tyre, and Balbec, and the wasteWhere stood Jerusalem, the fallen towersOf Babylon, the eternal pyramids,Memphis and Thebes, and whatsoe'er of strange,Sculptured on alabaster obeliskOr jasper tomb or mutilated sphinx,Dark Æthiopia in her desert hillsConceals. Among the ruined temples there,Stupendous columns, and wild imagesOf more than man, where marble daemons watchThe Zodiac's brazen mystery, and dead menHang their mute thoughts on the mute walls around, He lingered, poring on memorialsOf the world's youth: through the long burning dayGazed on those speechless shapes; nor, when the moonFilled the mysterious halls with floating shadesSuspended he that task, but ever gazedAnd gazed, till meaning on his vacant mindFlashed like strong inspiration, and he sawThe thrilling secrets of the birth of time.Meanwhile an Arab maiden brought his food,Her daily portion, from her father's tent, And spread her matting for his couch, and stoleFrom duties and repose to tend his steps,Enamoured, yet not daring for deep aweTo speak her love, and watched his nightly sleep,Sleepless herself, to gaze upon his lipsParted in slumber, whence the regular breathOf innocent dreams arose; then, when red mornMade paler the pale moon, to her cold homeWildered, and wan, and panting, she returned.The Poet, wandering on, through Arabie, And Persia, and the wild Carmanian waste,And o'er the aërial mountains which pour downIndus and Oxus from their icy caves,In joy and exultation held his way;Till in the vale of Cashmire, far withinIts loneliest dell, where odorous plants entwineBeneath the hollow rocks a natural bower,Beside a sparkling rivulet he stretchedHis languid limbs. A vision on his sleepThere came, a dream of hopes that never yet Had flushed his cheek. He dreamed a veilèd maidSate near him, talking in low solemn tones.Her voice was like the voice of his own soulHeard in the calm of thought; its music long,Like woven sounds of streams and breezes, heldHis inmost sense suspended in its webOf many-colored woof and shifting hues.Knowledge and truth and virtue were her theme,And lofty hopes of divine liberty,Thoughts the most dear to him, and poesy, Herself a poet. Soon the solemn moodOf her pure mind kindled through all her frameA permeating fire; wild numbers thenShe raised, with voice stifled in tremulous sobsSubdued by its own pathos; her fair handsWere bare alone, sweeping from some strange harpStrange symphony, and in their branching veinsThe eloquent blood told an ineffable tale.The beating of her heart was heard to fillThe pauses of her music, and her breath Tumultuously accorded with those fitsOf intermitted song. Sudden she rose,As if her heart impatiently enduredIts bursting burden; at the sound he turned,And saw by the warm light of their own lifeHer glowing limbs beneath the sinuous veilOf woven wind, her outspread arms now bare,Her dark locks floating in the breath of night,Her beamy bending eyes, her parted lipsOutstretched, and pale, and quivering eagerly. His strong heart sunk and sickened with excessOf love. He reared his shuddering limbs, and quelledHis gasping breath, and spread his arms to meetHer panting bosom:--she drew back awhile,Then, yielding to the irresistible joy,With frantic gesture and short breathless cryFolded his frame in her dissolving arms.Now blackness veiled his dizzy eyes, and nightInvolved and swallowed up the vision; sleep,Like a dark flood suspended in its course, Rolled back its impulse on his vacant brain.Roused by the shock, he started from his trance--The cold white light of morning, the blue moonLow in the west, the clear and garish hills,The distinct valley and the vacant woods,Spread round him where he stood. Whither have fledThe hues of heaven that canopied his bowerOf yesternight? The sounds that soothed his sleep,The mystery and the majesty of Earth,The joy, the exultation? His wan eyes Gaze on the empty scene as vacantlyAs ocean's moon looks on the moon in heaven.The spirit of sweet human love has sentA vision to the sleep of him who spurnedHer choicest gifts. He eagerly pursuesBeyond the realms of dream that fleeting shade;He overleaps the bounds. Alas! alas!Were limbs and breath and being intertwinedThus treacherously? Lost, lost, forever lostIn the wide pathless desert of dim sleep, That beautiful shape! Does the dark gate of deathConduct to thy mysterious paradise,O Sleep? Does the bright arch of rainbow cloudsAnd pendent mountains seen in the calm lakeLead only to a black and watery depth,While death's blue vault with loathliest vapors hung,Where every shade which the foul grave exhalesHides its dead eye from the detested day,Conducts, O Sleep, to thy delightful realms?This doubt with sudden tide flowed on his heart; The insatiate hope which it awakened stungHis brain even like despair.While daylight heldThe sky, the Poet kept mute conferenceWith his still soul. At night the passion came,Like the fierce fiend of a distempered dream,And shook him from his rest, and led him forthInto the darkness. As an eagle, graspedIn folds of the green serpent, feels her breastBurn with the poison, and precipitatesThrough night and day, tempest, and calm, and cloud, Frantic with dizzying anguish, her blind flightO'er the wide aëry wilderness: thus drivenBy the bright shadow of that lovely dream,Beneath the cold glare of the desolate night,Through tangled swamps and deep precipitous dells,Startling with careless step the moon-light snake,He fled. Red morning dawned upon his flight,Shedding the mockery of its vital huesUpon his cheek of death. He wandered onTill vast Aornos seen from Petra's steep Hung o'er the low horizon like a cloud;Through Balk, and where the desolated tombsOf Parthian kings scatter to every windTheir wasting dust, wildly he wandered on,Day after day, a weary waste of hours,Bearing within his life the brooding careThat ever fed on its decaying flame.And now his limbs were lean; his scattered hair,Sered by the autumn of strange suffering,Sung dirges in the wind; his listless hand Hung like dead bone within its withered skin;Life, and the lustre that consumed it, shone,As in a furnace burning secretly,From his dark eyes alone. The cottagers,Who ministered with human charityHis human wants, beheld with wondering aweTheir fleeting visitant. The mountaineer,Encountering on some dizzy precipiceThat spectral form, deemed that the Spirit of Wind,With lightning eyes, and eager breath, and feet Disturbing not the drifted snow, had pausedIn its career; the infant would concealHis troubled visage in his mother's robeIn terror at the glare of those wild eyes,To remember their strange light in many a dreamOf after times; but youthful maidens, taughtBy nature, would interpret half the woeThat wasted him, would call him with false namesBrother and friend, would press his pallid handAt parting, and watch, dim through tears, the path Of his departure from their father's door.At length upon the lone Chorasmian shoreHe paused, a wide and melancholy wasteOf putrid marshes. A strong impulse urgedHis steps to the sea-shore. A swan was there,Beside a sluggish stream among the reeds.It rose as he approached, and, with strong wingsScaling the upward sky, bent its bright courseHigh over the immeasurable main.His eyes pursued its flight:--'Thou hast a home, Beautiful bird! thou voyagest to thine home,Where thy sweet mate will twine her downy neckWith thine, and welcome thy return with eyesBright in the lustre of their own fond joy.And what am I that I should linger here,With voice far sweeter than thy dying notes,Spirit more vast than thine, frame more attunedTo beauty, wasting these surpassing powersIn the deaf air, to the blind earth, and heavenThat echoes not my thoughts?' A gloomy smile Of desperate hope wrinkled his quivering lips.For sleep, he knew, kept most relentlesslyIts precious charge, and silent death exposed,Faithless perhaps as sleep, a shadowy lure,With doubtful smile mocking its own strange charms.Startled by his own thoughts, he looked around.There was no fair fiend near him, not a sightOr sound of awe but in his own deep mind.A little shallop floating near the shoreCaught the impatient wandering of his gaze. It had been long abandoned, for its sidesGaped wide with many a rift, and its frail jointsSwayed with the undulations of the tide.A restless impulse urged him to embarkAnd meet lone Death on the drear ocean's waste;For well he knew that mighty Shadow lovesThe slimy caverns of the populous deep.The day was fair and sunny; sea and skyDrank its inspiring radiance, and the windSwept strongly from the shore, blackening the waves. Following his eager soul, the wandererLeaped in the boat; he spread his cloak aloftOn the bare mast, and took his lonely seat,And felt the boat speed o'er the tranquil seaLike a torn cloud before the hurricane.As one that in a silver vision floatsObedient to the sweep of odorous windsUpon resplendent clouds, so rapidlyAlong the dark and ruffled waters fledThe straining boat. A whirlwind swept it on, With fierce gusts and precipitating force,Through the white ridges of the chafèd sea.The waves arose. Higher and higher stillTheir fierce necks writhed beneath the tempest's scourgeLike serpents struggling in a vulture's grasp.Calm and rejoicing in the fearful warOf wave ruining on wave, and blast on blastDescending, and black flood on whirlpool drivenWith dark obliterating course, he sate:As if their genii were the ministers Appointed to conduct him to the lightOf those belovèd eyes, the Poet sate,Holding the steady helm. Evening came on;The beams of sunset hung their rainbow huesHigh 'mid the shifting domes of sheeted sprayThat canopied his path o'er the waste deep;Twilight, ascending slowly from the east,Entwined in duskier wreaths her braided locksO'er the fair front and radiant eyes of Day;Night followed, clad with stars. On every side More horribly the multitudinous streamsOf ocean's mountainous waste to mutual warRushed in dark tumult thundering, as to mockThe calm and spangled sky. The little boatStill fled before the storm; still fled, like foamDown the steep cataract of a wintry river;Now pausing on the edge of the riven wave;Now leaving far behind the bursting massThat fell, convulsing ocean; safely fled--As if that frail and wasted human form Had been an elemental god.At midnightThe moon arose; and lo! the ethereal cliffsOf Caucasus, whose icy summits shoneAmong the stars like sunlight, and aroundWhose caverned base the whirlpools and the wavesBursting and eddying irresistiblyRage and resound forever.--Who shall save?--The boat fled on,--the boiling torrent drove,--The crags closed round with black and jagged arms,The shattered mountain overhung the sea, And faster still, beyond all human speed,Suspended on the sweep of the smooth wave,The little boat was driven. A cavern thereYawned, and amid its slant and winding depthsIngulfed the rushing sea. The boat fled onWith unrelaxing speed.--'Vision and Love!'The Poet cried aloud, 'I have beheldThe path of thy departure. Sleep and deathShall not divide us long.'The boat pursuedThe windings of the cavern. Daylight shone At length upon that gloomy river's flow;Now, where the fiercest war among the wavesIs calm, on the unfathomable streamThe boat moved slowly. Where the mountain, riven,Exposed those black depths to the azure sky,Ere yet the flood's enormous volume fellEven to the base of Caucasus, with soundThat shook the everlasting rocks, the massFilled with one whirlpool all that ample chasm;Stair above stair the eddying waters rose, Circling immeasurably fast, and lavedWith alternating dash the gnarlèd rootsOf mighty trees, that stretched their giant armsIn darkness over it. I' the midst was left,Reflecting yet distorting every cloud,A pool of treacherous and tremendous calm.Seized by the sway of the ascending stream,With dizzy swiftness, round and round and round,Ridge after ridge the straining boat arose,Till on the verge of the extremest curve, Where through an opening of the rocky bankThe waters overflow, and a smooth spotOf glassy quiet 'mid those battling tidesIs left, the boat paused shuddering.--Shall it sinkDown the abyss? Shall the reverting stressOf that resistless gulf embosom it?Now shall it fall?--A wandering stream of windBreathed from the west, has caught the expanded sail,And, lo! with gentle motion between banksOf mossy slope, and on a placid stream, Beneath a woven grove, it sails, and, hark!The ghastly torrent mingles its far roarWith the breeze murmuring in the musical woods.Where the embowering trees recede, and leaveA little space of green expanse, the coveIs closed by meeting banks, whose yellow flowersForever gaze on their own drooping eyes,Reflected in the crystal calm. The waveOf the boat's motion marred their pensive task,Which naught but vagrant bird, or wanton wind, Or falling spear-grass, or their own decayHad e'er disturbed before. The Poet longedTo deck with their bright hues his withered hair,But on his heart its solitude returned,And he forbore. Not the strong impulse hidIn those flushed cheeks, bent eyes, and shadowy frame,Had yet performed its ministry; it hungUpon his life, as lightning in a cloudGleams, hovering ere it vanish, ere the floodsOf night close over it.The noonday sun Now shone upon the forest, one vast massOf mingling shade, whose brown magnificenceA narrow vale embosoms. There, huge caves,Scooped in the dark base of their aëry rocks,Mocking its moans, respond and roar forever.The meeting boughs and implicated leavesWove twilight o'er the Poet's path, as, ledBy love, or dream, or god, or mightier Death,He sought in Nature's dearest haunt some bank,Her cradle and his sepulchre. More dark And dark the shades accumulate. The oak,Expanding its immense and knotty arms,Embraces the light beech. The pyramidsOf the tall cedar overarching frameMost solemn domes within, and far below,Like clouds suspended in an emerald sky,The ash and the acacia floating hangTremulous and pale. Like restless serpents, clothedIn rainbow and in fire, the parasites,Starred with ten thousand blossoms, flow around The gray trunks, and, as gamesome infants' eyes,With gentle meanings, and most innocent wiles,Fold their beams round the hearts of those that love,These twine their tendrils with the wedded boughs,Uniting their close union; the woven leavesMake network of the dark blue light of dayAnd the night's noontide clearness, mutableAs shapes in the weird clouds. Soft mossy lawnsBeneath these canopies extend their swells,Fragrant with perfumed herbs, and eyed with blooms Minute yet beautiful. One darkest glenSends from its woods of musk-rose twined with jasmineA soul-dissolving odor to inviteTo some more lovely mystery. Through the dellSilence and Twilight here, twin-sisters, keepTheir noonday watch, and sail among the shades,Like vaporous shapes half-seen; beyond, a well,Dark, gleaming, and of most translucent wave,Images all the woven boughs above,And each depending leaf, and every speck Of azure sky darting between their chasms;Nor aught else in the liquid mirror lavesIts portraiture, but some inconstant star,Between one foliaged lattice twinkling fair,Or painted bird, sleeping beneath the moon,Or gorgeous insect floating motionless,Unconscious of the day, ere yet his wingsHave spread their glories to the gaze of noon.Hither the Poet came. His eyes beheldTheir own wan light through the reflected lines Of his thin hair, distinct in the dark depthOf that still fountain; as the human heart,Gazing in dreams over the gloomy grave,Sees its own treacherous likeness there. He heardThe motion of the leaves--the grass that sprungStartled and glanced and trembled even to feelAn unaccustomed presence--and the soundOf the sweet brook that from the secret springsOf that dark fountain rose. A Spirit seemedTo stand beside him--clothed in no bright robes Of shadowy silver or enshrining light,Borrowed from aught the visible world affordsOf grace, or majesty, or mystery;But undulating woods, and silent well,And leaping rivulet, and evening gloomNow deepening the dark shades, for speech assuming,Held commune with him, as if he and itWere all that was; only--when his regardWas raised by intense pensiveness--two eyes,Two starry eyes, hung in the gloom of thought, And seemed with their serene and azure smilesTo beckon him.Obedient to the lightThat shone within his soul, he went, pursuingThe windings of the dell. The rivulet,Wanton and wild, through many a green ravineBeneath the forest flowed. Sometimes it fellAmong the moss with hollow harmonyDark and profound. Now on the polished stonesIt danced, like childhood laughing as it went;Then, through the plain in tranquil wanderings crept, Reflecting every herb and drooping budThat overhung its quietness.--'O stream!Whose source is inaccessibly profound,Whither do thy mysterious waters tend?Thou imagest my life. Thy darksome stillness,Thy dazzling waves, thy loud and hollow gulfs,Thy searchless fountain and invisible course,Have each their type in me; and the wide skyAnd measureless ocean may declare as soonWhat oozy cavern or what wandering cloud Contains thy waters, as the universeTell where these living thoughts reside, when stretchedUpon thy flowers my bloodless limbs shall wasteI' the passing wind!'Beside the grassy shoreOf the small stream he went; he did impressOn the green moss his tremulous step, that caughtStrong shuddering from his burning limbs. As oneRoused by some joyous madness from the couchOf fever, he did move; yet not like himForgetful of the grave, where, when the flame Of his frail exultation shall be spent,He must descend. With rapid steps he wentBeneath the shade of trees, beside the flowOf the wild babbling rivulet; and nowThe forest's solemn canopies were changedFor the uniform and lightsome evening sky.Gray rocks did peep from the spare moss, and stemmedThe struggling brook; tall spires of windlestraeThrew their thin shadows down the rugged slope,And nought but gnarlèd roots of ancient pines Branchless and blasted, clenched with grasping rootsThe unwilling soil. A gradual change was hereYet ghastly. For, as fast years flow away,The smooth brow gathers, and the hair grows thinAnd white, and where irradiate dewy eyesHad shone, gleam stony orbs:--so from his stepsBright flowers departed, and the beautiful shadeOf the green groves, with all their odorous windsAnd musical motions. Calm he still pursuedThe stream, that with a larger volume now Rolled through the labyrinthine dell; and thereFretted a path through its descending curvesWith its wintry speed. On every side now roseRocks, which, in unimaginable forms,Lifted their black and barren pinnaclesIn the light of evening, and its precipiceObscuring the ravine, disclosed above,'Mid toppling stones, black gulfs and yawning caves,Whose windings gave ten thousand various tonguesTo the loud stream. Lo! where the pass expands Its stony jaws, the abrupt mountain breaks,And seems with its accumulated cragsTo overhang the world; for wide expandBeneath the wan stars and descending moonIslanded seas, blue mountains, mighty streams,Dim tracts and vast, robed in the lustrous gloomOf leaden-colored even, and fiery hillsMingling their flames with twilight, on the vergeOf the remote horizon. The near scene,In naked and severe simplicity, Made contrast with the universe. A pine,Rock-rooted, stretched athwart the vacancyIts swinging boughs, to each inconstant blastYielding one only response at each pauseIn most familiar cadence, with the howl,The thunder and the hiss of homeless streamsMingling its solemn song, whilst the broad riverFoaming and hurrying o'er its rugged path,Fell into that immeasurable void,Scattering its waters to the passing winds. Yet the gray precipice and solemn pineAnd torrent were not all;--one silent nookWas there. Even on the edge of that vast mountain,Upheld by knotty roots and fallen rocks,It overlooked in its serenityThe dark earth and the bending vault of stars.It was a tranquil spot that seemed to smileEven in the lap of horror. Ivy claspedThe fissured stones with its entwining arms,And did embower with leaves forever green And berries dark the smooth and even spaceOf its inviolated floor; and hereThe children of the autumnal whirlwind boreIn wanton sport those bright leaves whose decay,Red, yellow, or ethereally pale,Rivals the pride of summer. 'T is the hauntOf every gentle wind whose breath can teachThe wilds to love tranquillity. One step,One human step alone, has ever brokenThe stillness of its solitude; one voice Alone inspired its echoes;--even that voiceWhich hither came, floating among the winds,And led the loveliest among human formsTo make their wild haunts the depositoryOf all the grace and beauty that enduedIts motions, render up its majesty,Scatter its music on the unfeeling storm,And to the damp leaves and blue cavern mould,Nurses of rainbow flowers and branching moss,Commit the colors of that varying cheek, That snowy breast, those dark and drooping eyes.The dim and hornèd moon hung low, and pouredA sea of lustre on the horizon's vergeThat overflowed its mountains. Yellow mistFilled the unbounded atmosphere, and drankWan moonlight even to fulness; not a starShone, not a sound was heard; the very winds,Danger's grim playmates, on that precipiceSlept, clasped in his embrace.--O storm of death,Whose sightless speed divides this sullen night! And thou, colossal Skeleton, that, stillGuiding its irresistible careerIn thy devastating omnipotence,Art king of this frail world! from the red fieldOf slaughter, from the reeking hospital,The patriot's sacred couch, the snowy bedOf innocence, the scaffold and the throne,A mighty voice invokes thee! Ruin callsHis brother Death! A rare and regal preyHe hath prepared, prowling around the world; Glutted with which thou mayst repose, and menGo to their graves like flowers or creeping worms,Nor ever more offer at thy dark shrineThe unheeded tribute of a broken heart.When on the threshold of the green recessThe wanderer's footsteps fell, he knew that deathWas on him. Yet a little, ere it fled,Did he resign his high and holy soulTo images of the majestic past,That paused within his passive being now, Like winds that bear sweet music, when they breatheThrough some dim latticed chamber. He did placeHis pale lean hand upon the rugged trunkOf the old pine; upon an ivied stoneReclined his languid head; his limbs did rest,Diffused and motionless, on the smooth brinkOf that obscurest chasm;--and thus he lay,Surrendering to their final impulsesThe hovering powers of life. Hope and Despair,The torturers, slept; no mortal pain or fear Marred his repose; the influxes of senseAnd his own being, unalloyed by pain,Yet feebler and more feeble, calmly fedThe stream of thought, till he lay breathing thereAt peace, and faintly smiling. His last sightWas the great moon, which o'er the western lineOf the wide world her mighty horn suspended,With whose dun beams inwoven darkness seemedTo mingle. Now upon the jagged hillsIt rests; and still as the divided frame Of the vast meteor sunk, the Poet's blood,That ever beat in mystic sympathyWith Nature's ebb and flow, grew feebler still;And when two lessening points of light aloneGleamed through the darkness, the alternate gaspOf his faint respiration scarce did stirThe stagnate night:--till the minutest rayWas quenched, the pulse yet lingered in his heart.It paused--it fluttered. But when heaven remainedUtterly black, the murky shades involved An image silent, cold, and motionless,As their own voiceless earth and vacant air.Even as a vapor fed with golden beamsThat ministered on sunlight, ere the westEclipses it, was now that wondrous frame--No sense, no motion, no divinity--A fragile lute, on whose harmonious stringsThe breath of heaven did wander--a bright streamOnce fed with many-voicèd waves--a dreamOf youth, which night and time have quenched forever-- Still, dark, and dry, and unremembered now.Oh, for Medea's wondrous alchemy,Which wheresoe'er it fell made the earth gleamWith bright flowers, and the wintry boughs exhaleFrom vernal blooms fresh fragrance! Oh, that God,Profuse of poisons, would concede the chaliceWhich but one living man has drained, who now,Vessel of deathless wrath, a slave that feelsNo proud exemption in the blighting curseHe bears, over the world wanders forever, Lone as incarnate death! Oh, that the dreamOf dark magician in his visioned cave,Raking the cinders of a crucibleFor life and power, even when his feeble handShakes in its last decay, were the true lawOf this so lovely world! But thou art fled,Like some frail exhalation, which the dawnRobes in its golden beams,--ah! thou hast fled!The brave, the gentle and the beautiful,The child of grace and genius. Heartless things Are done and said i' the world, and many wormsAnd beasts and men live on, and mighty EarthFrom sea and mountain, city and wilderness,In vesper low or joyous orison,Lifts still its solemn voice:--but thou art fled--Thou canst no longer know or love the shapesOf this phantasmal scene, who have to theeBeen purest ministers, who are, alas!Now thou art not! Upon those pallid lipsSo sweet even in their silence, on those eyes That image sleep in death, upon that formYet safe from the worm's outrage, let no tearBe shed--not even in thought. Nor, when those huesAre gone, and those divinest lineaments,Worn by the senseless wind, shall live aloneIn the frail pauses of this simple strain,Let not high verse, mourning the memoryOf that which is no more, or painting's woeOr sculpture, speak in feeble imageryTheir own cold powers. Art and eloquence, And all the shows o' the world, are frail and vainTo weep a loss that turns their lights to shade.It is a woe \"too deep for tears,\" when allIs reft at once, when some surpassing Spirit,Whose light adorned the world around it, leavesThose who remain behind, not sobs or groans,The passionate tumult of a clinging hope;But pale despair and cold tranquillity,Nature's vast frame, the web of human things,Birth and the grave, that are not as they were.", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20821": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20821, "poem.id": 20821, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:01:12", "poem.title": "When The Lamp Is Shattered", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20822": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20822, "poem.id": 20822, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:01:15", "poem.title": "A Bridal Song", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20823": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20823, "poem.id": 20823, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:01:16", "poem.title": "The Indian Serenade", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20824": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20824, "poem.id": 20824, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:01:19", "poem.title": "Bereavement", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20825": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20825, "poem.id": 20825, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:01:26", "poem.title": "To A Skylark", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from Heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heartIn 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 daylightThou 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 clearUntil 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 cloudThe 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 seeAs from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wroughtTo sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hourWith music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hueAmong 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 givesMakes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers, All that ever wasJoyous, 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 wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal Or triumphal chaunt 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 flowThe world should listen then, as I am listening now!", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20826": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20826, "poem.id": 20826, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:01:28", "poem.title": "A Dialogue", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "DEATH:For my dagger is bathed in the blood of the brave,I come, care-worn tenant of life, from the grave,Where Innocence sleeps 'neath the peace-giving sod,And the good cease to tremble at Tyranny's nod;I offer a calm habitation to thee,--Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with me?My mansion is damp, cold silence is there,But it lulls in oblivion the fiends of despair;Not a groan of regret, not a sigh, not a breath,Dares dispute with grim Silence the empire of Death.I offer a calm habitation to thee,--Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with me?MORTAL:Mine eyelids are heavy; my soul seeks repose,It longs in thy cells to embosom its woes,It longs in thy cells to deposit its load, Where no longer the scorpions of Perfidy goad,--Where the phantoms of Prejudice vanish away,And Bigotry's bloodhounds lose scent of their prey.Yet tell me, dark Death, when thine empire is o'er,What awaits on Futurity's mist-covered shore? DEATH:Cease, cease, wayward Mortal! I dare not unveilThe shadows that float o'er Eternity's vale;Nought waits for the good but a spirit of Love,That will hail their blest advent to regions above.For Love, Mortal, gleams through the gloom of my sway, And the shades which surround me fly fast at its ray.Hast thou loved?--Then depart from these regions of hate,And in slumber with me blunt the arrows of fate.I offer a calm habitation to thee.--Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with me? MORTAL:Oh! sweet is thy slumber! oh! sweet is the rayWhich after thy night introduces the day;How concealed, how persuasive, self-interest’s breath,Though it floats to mine ear from the bosom of Death!I hoped that I quite was forgotten by all,Yet a lingering friend might be grieved at my fall,And duty forbids, though I languish to die,When departure might heave Virtue’s breast with a sigh.O Death! O my friend! snatch this form to thy shrine,And I fear, dear destroyer, I shall not repine.", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20827": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20827, "poem.id": 20827, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:01:35", "poem.title": "Music, When Soft Voices Die", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20828": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20828, "poem.id": 20828, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:01:41", "poem.title": "The Cloud", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams;I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams.From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one,When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun.I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under,And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast;And all the night 'tis my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the blast.Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers, Lightning, my pilot, sits;In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, It struggles and howls at fits;Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, This pilot is guiding me,Lured by the love of the genii that move In the depths of the purple sea;Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Over the lakes and the plains,Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, The Spirit he loves remains;And I all the while bask in Heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains.The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes, And his burning plumes outspread,Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, When the morning star shines dead;As on the jag of a mountain crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings,An eagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings.And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardors of rest and of love,And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of Heaven above,With wings folded I rest, on mine aery nest, As still as a brooding dove.That orbed maiden with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the Moon,Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, By the midnight breezes strewn;And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, Which only the angels hear,May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, The stars peep behind her and peer;And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, Like a swarm of golden bees,When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, Are each paved with the moon and these.I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone, And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl;The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent sea,Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,-- The mountains its columns be.The triumphal arch through which I march With hurricane, fire, and snow,When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million-colored bow;The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, While the moist Earth was laughing below.I am the daughter of Earth and Water, And the nursling of the Sky;I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die.For after the rain when with never a stain The pavilion of Heaven is bare,And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams Build up the blue dome of air,I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain,Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again.", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20829": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20829, "poem.id": 20829, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:01:45", "poem.title": "Adonais", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "I weep for Adonais -he is dead!O, weep for Adonais! though our tearsThaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!And thou, sad Hour, selected from all yearsTo mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers,And teach them thine own sorrow, say: \"With meDied Adonais; till the Future daresForget the Past, his fate and fame shall beAn echo and a light unto eternity!\"Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay,When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which fliesIn darkness? where was lorn UraniaWhen Adonais died? With veiled eyes,Mid listening Echoes, in her ParadiseShe sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath,Rekindled all the fading melodiesWith which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath,He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death.O, weep for Adonais -he is dead!Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep!Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bedThy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keepLike his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep;For he is gone, where all things wise and fairDescend; -oh, dream not that the amorous DeepWill yet restore him to the vital air;Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair.Most musical of mourners, weep again!Lament anew, Urania! -He died,Who was the Sire of an immortal strain,Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's pride,The priest, the slave, and the liberticideTrampled and mocked with many a loathed riteOf lust and blood; he went, unterrified,Into the gulf of death; but his clear SpriteYet reigns o'er earth; the third among the sons of light.Most musical of mourners, weep anew!Not all to that bright station dared to climb;And happier they their happiness who knew,Whose tapers yet burn through that night of timeIn which suns perished; others more sublime,Struck by the envious wrath of man or god,Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime;And some yet live, treading the thorny roadWhich leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's serene abode.But now, thy youngest, dearest one, has perished - The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew,Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished,And fed with true-love tears, instead of dew;Most musical of mourners, weep anew!Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last,The bloom, whose petals nipped before they blewDied on the promise of the fruit, is waste;The broken lily lies -the storm is overpast.To that high Capital, where kingly DeathKeeps his pale court in beauty and decay,He came; and bought, with price of purest breath,A grave among the eternal. -Come away!Haste, while the vault of blue Italian dayIs yet his fitting charnel-roof! while stillHe lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay;Awake him not! surely he takes his fillOf deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill.He will awake no more, oh, never more! - Within the twilight chamber spreads apaceThe shadow of white Death, and at the doorInvisible Corruption waits to traceHis extreme way to her dim dwelling-place;The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and aweSoothe her pale rage, nor dares she to defaceSo fair a prey, till darkness, and the lawOf change, shall o'er his sleep the mortal curtain draw.O, weep for Adonais! -The quick Dreams,The passion-winged Ministers of thought,Who were his flocks, whom near the living streamsOf his young spirit he fed, and whom he taughtThe love which was its music, wander not, - Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain,But droop there, whence they sprung; and mourn their lotRound the cold heart, where, after their sweet pain,They ne'er will gather strength, or find a home again.And one with trembling hands clasps his cold head,And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries,\"Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead;See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes,Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there liesA tear some Dream has loosened from his brain.\"Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise!She knew not 'twas her own; as with no stainShe faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain.One from a lucid urn of starry dewWashed his light limbs as if embalming them;Another clipped her profuse locks, and threwThe wreath upon him, like an anadem,Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem;Another in her wilful grief would breakHer bow and winged reeds, as if to stemA greater loss with one which was more weak;And dull the barbed fire against his frozen cheek.Another Splendour on his mouth alit,That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the breathWhich gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit,And pass into the panting heart beneathWith lightning and with music: the damp deathQuenched its caress upon his icy lips;And, as a dying meteor stains a wreathOf moonlight vapour, which the cold night clips,It flushed through his pale limbs, and passed to its eclipse.And others came... Desires and Adorations,Winged Persuasions and veiled Destinies,Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering IncarnationsOf hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies;And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs,And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleamOf her own dying smile instead of eyes,Came in slow pomp; -the moving pomp might seemLike pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream.All he had loved, and moulded into thought,From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound,Lamented Adonais. Morning soughtHer eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound,Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground,Dimmed the aereal eyes that kindle day;Afar the melancholy thunder moaned,Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay,And the wild Winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay.Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains,And feeds her grief with his remembered lay,And will no more reply to winds or fountains,Or amorous birds perched on the young green spray,Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing day;Since she can mimic not his lips, more dearThan those for whose disdain she pined awayInto a shadow of all sounds: -a drearMurmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear.Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw downHer kindling buds, as if she Autumn were,Or they dead leaves; since her delight is flown,For whom should she have waked the sullen year?To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dearNor to himself Narcissus, as to bothThou, Adonais: wan they stand and sereAmid the faint companions of their youth,With dew all turned to tears; odour, to sighing ruth.Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingaleMourns not her mate with such melodious pain;Not so the eagle, who like thee could scaleHeaven, and could nourish in the sun's domainHer mighty youth with morning, doth complain,Soaring and screaming round her empty nest,As Albion wails for thee: the curse of CainLight on his head who pierced thy innocent breast,And scared the angel soul that was its earthly guest!Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone,But grief returns with the revolving year;The airs and streams renew their joyous tone;The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear;Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Season's bier;The amorous birds now pair in every brake,And build their mossy homes in field and brere;And the green lizard, and the golden snake,Like unimprisoned flames, out of their trance awake.Through wood and stream and field and hill and OceanA quickening life from the Earth's heart has burstAs it has ever done, with change and motion,From the great morning of the world when firstGod dawned on Chaos; in its stream immersed,The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer light;All baser things pant with life's sacred thirst;Diffuse themselves; and spend in love's delightThe beauty and the joy of their renewed might.The leprous corpse, touched by this spirit tender,Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath;Like incarnations of the stars, when splendourIs changed to fragrance, they illumine deathAnd mock the merry worm that wakes beneath;Nought we know, dies. Shall that alone which knowsBe as a sword consumed before the sheathBy sightless lightning? -the intense atom glowsA moment, then is quenched in a most cold repose.Alas! that all we loved of him should be,But for our grief, as if it had not been,And grief itself be mortal! Woe is me!Whence are we, and why are we? of what sceneThe actors or spectators? Great and meanMeet massed in death, who lends what life must borrow.As long as skies are blue, and fields are green,Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow,Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow.He will awake no more, oh, never more!\"Wake thou,\" cried Misery, \"childless Mother, riseOut of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart's core,A wound more fierce than his with tears and sighs.\"And all the Dreams that watched Urania's eyes,And all the Echoes whom their sister's songHad held in holy silence, cried: \"Arise!\"Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory stung,From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendour sprung.She rose like an autumnal Night, that springsOur of the East, and follows wild and drearThe golden Day, which, on eternal wings,Even as a ghost abandoning a bier,Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and fearSo struck, so roused, so rapt Urania;So saddened round her like an atmosphereOf stormy mist; so swept her on her wayEven to the mournful place where Adonais lay.Our of her secret Paradise she sped,Through camps and cities rough with stone, and steel,And human hearts, which to her aery treadYielding not, wounded the invisiblePalms of her tender feet where'er they fell:And barbed tongues, and thoughts more sharp than they,Rent the soft Form they never could repel,Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of May,Paved with eternal flowers that undeserving way.In the death-chamber for a moment Death,Shamed by the presence of that living Might,Blushed to annihilation, and the breathRevisited those lips, and Life's pale lightFlashed through those limbs, so late her dear delight.\"Leave me not wild and drear and comfortless,As silent lightning leaves the starless night!Leave me not!\" cried Urania: her distressRoused Death: Death rose and smiled, and met her vain caress.\"'Stay yet awhile! speak to me once again;Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live;And in my heartless breast and burning brainThat word, that kiss, shall all thoughts else survive,With food of saddest memory kept alive,Now thou art dead, as if it were a partOf thee, my Adonais! I would giveAll that I am to be as thou now art!But I am chained to Time, and cannot thence depart!\"O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert,Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of menToo soon, and with weak hands though mighty heartDare the unpastured dragon in his den?Defenceless as thou wert, oh, where was thenWisdom the mirrored shield, or scorn the spear?Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, whenThy spirit should have filled its crescent sphere,The monsters of life's waste had fled from thee like deer.\"The herded wolves, bold only to pursue;The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the dead;The vultures to the conqueror's banner trueWho feed where Desolation first has fed,And whose wings rain contagion; -how they fled,When, like Apollo, from his golden bowThe Pythian of the age one arrow spedAnd smiled! -The spoilers tempt no second blow,They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them lying low.\"The sun comes forth, and many reptiles spawn;He sets, and each ephemeral insect thenIs gathered into death without a dawn,And the immortal stars awake again;So is it in the world of living men:A godlike mind soars forth, in its delightMaking earth bare and veiling heaven, and whenIt sinks, the swarms that dimmed or shared its lightLeave to its kindred lamps the spirit's awful night.\"Thus ceased she: and the mountain shepherds came,Their garlands sere, their magic mantles rent;The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fameOver his living head like Heaven is bent,An early but enduring monument,Came, veiling all the lightnings of his songIn sorrow; from her wilds Irene sentThe sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong,And Love taught Grief to fall like music from his tongue.Midst others of less note, came one frail Form,A phantom among men; companionlessAs the last cloud of an expiring stormWhose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess,Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness,Actaeon-like, and now he fled astrayWith feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness,And his own thoughts, along that rugged way,Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey.A pardlike Spirit beautiful and swift - A Love in desolation masked; -a PowerGirt round with weakness; -it can scarce upliftThe weight of the superincumbent hour;It is a dying lamp, a falling shower,A breaking billow; -even whilst we speakIs it not broken? On the withering flowerThe killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheekThe life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break.His head was bound with pansies overblown,And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue;And a light spear topped with a cypress cone,Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grewYet dripping with the forest's noonday dew,Vibrated, as the ever-beating heartShook the weak hand that grasped it; of that crewHe came the last, neglected and apart;A herd-abandoned deer struck by the hunter's dart.All stood aloof, and at his partial moanSmiled through their tears; well knew that gentle bandWho in another's fate now wept his own,As in the accents of an unknown landHe sung new sorrow; sad Urania scannedThe Stranger's mien, and murmured: \"Who art thou?\"He answered not, but with a sudden handMade bare his branded and ensanguined brow,Which was like Cain's or Christ's -oh! that it should be so!What softer voice is hushed over the dead?Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown?What form leans sadly o'er the white death-bed,In mockery of monumental stone,The heavy heart heaving without a moan?If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise,Taught, soothed, loved, honoured the departed one,Let me not vex, with inharmonious sighs,The silence of that heart's accepted sacrifice.Our Adonais has drunk poison -oh!What deaf and viperous murderer could crownLife's early cup with such a draught of woe?The nameless worm would now itself disown:It felt, yet could escape, the magic toneWhose prelude held all envy, hate, and wrong,But what was howling in one breast alone,Silent with expectation of the song,Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung.Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame!Live! fear no heavier chastisement from me,Thou noteless blot on a remembered name!But be thyself, and know thyself to be!And ever at thy season be thou freeTo spill the venom when thy fangs o'erflow:Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to thee;Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow,And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt -as now.Nor let us weep that our delight is fledFar from these carrion kites that scream below;He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead;Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now - Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flowBack to the burning fountain whence it came,A portion of the Eternal, which must glowThrough time and change, unquenchably the same,Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth of shame.Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep - He hath awakened from the dream of life - 'Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keepWith phantoms an unprofitable strife,And in mad trance, strike with our spirit's knifeInvulnerable nothings. -We decayLike corpses in a charnel; fear and griefConvulse us and consume us day by day,And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.He has outsoared the shadow of our night;Envy and calumny and hate and pain,And that unrest which men miscall delight,Can touch him not and torture not again;From the contagion of the world's slow stainHe is secure, and now can never mournA heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain;Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn,With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.He lives, he wakes -'tis Death is dead, not he;Mourn not for Adonais. -Thou young Dawn,Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from theeThe spirit thou lamentest is not gone;Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan!Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou AirWhich like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst thrownO'er the abandoned Earth, now leave it bareEven to the joyous stars which smile on its despair!He is made one with Nature: there is heardHis voice in all her music, from the moanOf thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird;He is a presence to be felt and knownIn darkness and in light, from herb and stone,Spreading itself where'er that Power may moveWhich has withdrawn his being to its own;Which wields the world with never-wearied love,Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above.He is a portion of the lovelinessWhich once he made more lovely: he doth bearHis part, while the one Spirit's plastic stressSweeps through the dull dense world, compelling thereAll new successions to the forms they wear;Torturing th' unwilling dross that checks its flightTo its own likeness, as each mass may bear;And bursting in its beauty and its mightFrom trees and beasts and men into the Heavens' light.The splendours of the firmament of timeMay be eclipsed, but are extinguished not;Like stars to their appointed height they climb,And death is a low mist which cannot blotThe brightness it may veil. When lofty thoughtLifts a young heart above its mortal lair,And love and life contend in it, for whatShall be its earthly doom, the dead live thereAnd move like winds of light on dark and stormy air.The inheritors of unfulfilled renownRose from their thrones, built beyond mortal thought,Far in the Unapparent. ChattertonRose pale, -his solemn agony had notYet faded from him; Sidney, as he foughtAnd as he fell and as he lived and lovedSublimely mild, a Spirit without spot,Arose; and Lucan, by his death approved:Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing reproved.And many more, whose names on Earth are dark,But whose transmitted effluence cannot dieSo long as fire outlives the parent spark,Rose, robed in dazzling immortality.\"Thou art become as one of us,\" they cry,\"It was for thee yon kingless sphere has longSwung blind in unascended majesty,Silent alone amid an Heaven of Song.Assume thy winged throne, thou Vesper of our throng!\"Who mourns for Adonais? Oh, come forth,Fond wretch! and know thyself and him aright.Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous Earth;As from a centre, dart thy spirit's lightBeyond all worlds, until its spacious mightSatiate the void circumference: then shrinkEven to a point within our day and night;And keep thy heart light lest it make thee sinkWhen hope has kindled hope, and lured thee to the brink.Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre,Oh, not of him, but of our joy: 'tis noughtThat ages, empires, and religions thereLie buried in the ravage they have wrought;For such as he can lend, -they borrow notGlory from those who made the world their prey;And he is gathered to the kings of thoughtWho waged contention with their time's decay,And of the past are all that cannot pass away.Go thou to Rome, -at once the Paradise,The grave, the city, and the wilderness;And where its wrecks like shattered mountains rise,And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses dressThe bones of Desolation's nakednessPass, till the spirit of the spot shall leadThy footsteps to a slope of green accessWhere, like an infant's smile, over the deadA light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread;And grey walls moulder round, on which dull TimeFeeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand;And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime,Pavilioning the dust of him who plannedThis refuge for his memory, doth standLike flame transformed to marble; and beneath,A field is spread, on which a newer bandHave pitched in Heaven's smile their camp of death,Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished breath.Here pause: these graves are all too young as yetTo have outgrown the sorrow which consignedIts charge to each; and if the seal is set,Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind,Break it not thou! too surely shalt thou findThine own well full, if thou returnest home,Of tears and gall. From the world's bitter windSeek shelter in the shadow of the tomb.What Adonais is, why fear we to become?The One remains, the many change and pass;Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shadows fly;Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass,Stains the white radiance of Eternity,Until Death tramples it to fragments. -Die,If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek!Follow where all is fled! -Rome's azure sky,Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weakThe glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak.Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my Heart?Thy hopes are gone before: from all things hereThey have departed; thou shouldst now depart!A light is passed from the revolving year,And man, and woman; and what still is dearAttracts to crush, repels to make thee wither.The soft sky smiles, -the low wind whispers near:'Tis Adonais calls! oh, hasten thither,No more let Life divide what Death can join together.That Light whose smile kindles the Universe,That Beauty in which all things work and move,That Benediction which the eclipsing CurseOf birth can quench not, that sustaining LoveWhich through the web of being blindly woveBy man and beast and earth and air and sea,Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors ofThe fire for which all thirst, now beams on me,Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality.The breath whose might I have invoked in songDescends on me; my spirit's bark is drivenFar from the shore, far from the trembling throngWhose sails were never to the tempest given;The massy earth and sphered skies are riven!I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar;Whilst, burning through the inmost veil of Heaven,The soul of Adonais, like a star,Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are.", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20830": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20830, "poem.id": 20830, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:01:50", "poem.title": "I Arise From Dreams Of Thee", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20831": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20831, "poem.id": 20831, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:01:54", "poem.title": "To The Men Of England", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20832": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20832, "poem.id": 20832, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:01:56", "poem.title": "Mutability", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20833": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20833, "poem.id": 20833, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:02:00", "poem.title": "Ode To The West Wind", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "IO wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves deadAre driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,Who chariotest to their dark wintry bedThe winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,Each like a corpse within its grave, untilThine azure sister of the Spring shall blowHer clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)With living hues and odors plain and hill:Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hear!IIThou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,Angels of rain and lightning: there are spreadOn the blue surface of thine aery surge,Like the bright hair uplifted from the headOf some fierce Maenad, even from the dim vergeOf the horizon to the zenith's height,The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirgeOf the dying year, to which this closing nightWill be the dome of a vast sepulchre,Vaulted with all thy congregated mightOf vapors, from whose solid atmosphereBlack rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh, hear!IIIThou who didst waken from his summer dreamsThe blue Mediterranean, where he lay,Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,And saw in sleep old palaces and towersQuivering within the wave's intenser day,All overgrown with azure moss and flowersSo sweet, the sense faints picturing them! ThouFor whose path the Atlantic's level powersCleave themselves into chasms, while far belowThe sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wearThe sapless foliage of the ocean, knowThy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,And tremble and despoil themselves: oh, hear!IVIf I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;A wave to pant beneath thy power, and shareThe impulse of thy strength, only less freeThan thou, O uncontrollable! If evenI were as in my boyhood, and could beThe comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speedScarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have strivenAs thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowedOne too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.VMake me thy lyre, even as the forest is:What if my leaves are falling like its own!The tumult of thy mighty harmoniesWill take from both a deep, autumnal tone,Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!Drive my dead thoughts over the universeLike withered leaves to quicken a new birth!And, by the incantation of this verse,Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearthAshes and sparks, my words among mankind!Be through my lips to unawakened earthThe trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20834": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20834, "poem.id": 20834, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:02:03", "poem.title": "A Lament", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20835": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20835, "poem.id": 20835, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:02:07", "poem.title": "Good-Night", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20836": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20836, "poem.id": 20836, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:02:10", "poem.title": "Love's Philosophy", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" }, "20837": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20837, "poem.id": 20837, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:02:17", "poem.title": "Ozymandias", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley" } } }, "26": { "poet.id": 26, "poet.ts": "2018-02-28 20:43:46", "poet.title": "Henry Wadsworth Longfello", "poet.poet_x_poem_id": { "988": { "poet_x_poem.id": 988, "poem.id": 988, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:57:48", "poem.title": "Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. Interlude V.", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "989": { "poet_x_poem.id": 989, "poem.id": 989, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:57:52", "poem.title": "Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. Interlude Vi.", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "990": { "poet_x_poem.id": 990, "poem.id": 990, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:57:56", "poem.title": "Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. Prelude; The Wayside Inn", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "991": { "poet_x_poem.id": 991, "poem.id": 991, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:58:00", "poem.title": "Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. Interlude Ii.", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "992": { "poet_x_poem.id": 992, "poem.id": 992, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:58:10", "poem.title": "Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga Of King Olaf Iii. -- Thora Of Rimol", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "993": { "poet_x_poem.id": 993, "poem.id": 993, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:58:14", "poem.title": "Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga Of King Olaf Ix. -- Thangbrand The Priest", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "994": { "poet_x_poem.id": 994, "poem.id": 994, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:58:17", "poem.title": "Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga Of King Olaf V. -- The Skerry Of Shrieks", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "995": { "poet_x_poem.id": 995, "poem.id": 995, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:58:22", "poem.title": "Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga Of King Olaf Viii. -- Gudrun", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "996": { "poet_x_poem.id": 996, "poem.id": 996, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:58:25", "poem.title": "Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga Of King Olaf X. -- Raud The Strong", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "997": { "poet_x_poem.id": 997, "poem.id": 997, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:58:30", "poem.title": "Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga Of King Olaf Xi. -- Bishop Sigurd At Salten Fiord", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "998": { "poet_x_poem.id": 998, "poem.id": 998, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:58:32", "poem.title": "Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga Of King Olaf Xii. -- King Olaf's Christmas", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "999": { "poet_x_poem.id": 999, "poem.id": 999, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:58:35", "poem.title": "Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga Of King Olaf Xix. -- King Olaf's War-Horns", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "1000": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1000, "poem.id": 1000, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:58:38", "poem.title": "Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga Of King Olaf Xx. -- Einar Tamberskelver", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "1001": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1001, "poem.id": 1001, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:58:43", "poem.title": "Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. 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Purgatorio, Ii.)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20918": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20918, "poem.id": 20918, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:05:05", "poem.title": "The Song Of Hiawatha Xvi: Pau-Puk-Keewis", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20919": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20919, "poem.id": 20919, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:05:11", "poem.title": "The Song Of Hiawatha Xvii: The Hunting Of Pau-Puk Keewis", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20920": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20920, "poem.id": 20920, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:05:15", "poem.title": "Ultima Thule: The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20921": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20921, "poem.id": 20921, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:05:20", "poem.title": "The Brook And The Wave. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Third)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20922": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20922, "poem.id": 20922, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:05:24", "poem.title": "The Brook. (From The Spanish)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20923": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20923, "poem.id": 20923, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:05:28", "poem.title": "Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. The Poet's Tale; Charlemagne", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20924": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20924, "poem.id": 20924, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:05:32", "poem.title": "The Four Princesses At Wilna. A Photograph", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20925": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20925, "poem.id": 20925, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:05:36", "poem.title": "Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga Of King Olaf I. -- The Challenge Of Thor", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20926": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20926, "poem.id": 20926, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:05:39", "poem.title": "Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. The Landlord's Tale; The Rhyme Of Sir Christopher", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20927": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20927, "poem.id": 20927, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:05:44", "poem.title": "Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. Interlude Iv.", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20928": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20928, "poem.id": 20928, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:05:46", "poem.title": "The Fugitive. (Tartar Song, From The Prose Version Of Chodzko)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20929": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20929, "poem.id": 20929, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:05:50", "poem.title": "Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. The Spanish Jew's Second Tale; Scanderbeg", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20930": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20930, "poem.id": 20930, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:05:52", "poem.title": "The Burial Of The Poet", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20931": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20931, "poem.id": 20931, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:05:58", "poem.title": "The Dead. (From The German Of Stockmann)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20932": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20932, "poem.id": 20932, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:06:01", "poem.title": "The Demoniac Of Gadara", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20933": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20933, "poem.id": 20933, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:06:08", "poem.title": "The Old Bridge At Florence", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20934": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20934, "poem.id": 20934, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:06:11", "poem.title": "The Chamber Over The Gate", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20935": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20935, "poem.id": 20935, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:06:15", "poem.title": "The Artist. (Sonnet I.)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20936": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20936, "poem.id": 20936, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:06:18", "poem.title": "The Bells Of San Blas", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20937": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20937, "poem.id": 20937, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:06:24", "poem.title": "Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 2. Interlude Vi.", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20938": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20938, "poem.id": 20938, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:06:28", "poem.title": "The Bird And The Ship. (From The German Of Müller)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20939": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20939, "poem.id": 20939, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:06:34", "poem.title": "The Castle-Builder. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Third)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20940": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20940, "poem.id": 20940, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:06:40", "poem.title": "The Golden Legend: Iv. The Road To Hirschau", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20941": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20941, "poem.id": 20941, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:06:47", "poem.title": "The Sermon Of St. Francis. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Fourth)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20942": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20942, "poem.id": 20942, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:06:50", "poem.title": "Today We Make The Poet's Words Our Own", "poem.date": "3/10/2015", "poem.content": "To-day we make the poet's words our own, And utter them in plaintive undertone; Nor to the living only be they said, But to the other living called the dead, Whose dear, paternal images appear Not wrapped in gloom, but robed in sunshine here; Whose simple lives, complete and without flaw, Were part and parcel of great Nature's law; Who said not to their Lord, as if afraid, \"Here is thy talent in a napkin laid,' But labored in their sphere, as men who live In the delight that work alone can give. Peace be to them; eternal peace and rest, And the fulfilment of the great behest: \"Ye have been faithful over a few things, Over ten cities shall ye reign as kings.\"", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20943": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20943, "poem.id": 20943, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:06:52", "poem.title": "The Song Of Hiawatha Xx: The Famine", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20944": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20944, "poem.id": 20944, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:06:55", "poem.title": "The Song Of Hiawatha Xiii: Blessing The Cornfields", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20945": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20945, "poem.id": 20945, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:06:57", "poem.title": "The Song Of Hiawatha Xiv: Picture-Writing", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20946": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20946, "poem.id": 20946, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:07:02", "poem.title": "The Golden Legend: Prologue & 1.", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20947": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20947, "poem.id": 20947, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:07:07", "poem.title": "The Descent Of The Muses", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20948": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20948, "poem.id": 20948, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:07:13", "poem.title": "Ultima Thule: Robert Burns", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20949": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20949, "poem.id": 20949, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:07:15", "poem.title": "Ultima Thule: The Poet And His Songs", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20950": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20950, "poem.id": 20950, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:07:21", "poem.title": "The Cumberland", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20951": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20951, "poem.id": 20951, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:07:26", "poem.title": "Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Sicilian's Tale; King Robert Of Sicily", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20952": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20952, "poem.id": 20952, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:07:28", "poem.title": "The Dwarves", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20953": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20953, "poem.id": 20953, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:07:33", "poem.title": "The Phantom Ship. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The First)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20954": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20954, "poem.id": 20954, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:07:38", "poem.title": "Suspiria", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20955": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20955, "poem.id": 20955, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:07:41", "poem.title": "Tales Of A Wayside Inn : The Theologian's Tale; The Legend Beautiful", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20956": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20956, "poem.id": 20956, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:07:49", "poem.title": "Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. Interlude I.", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20957": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20957, "poem.id": 20957, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:07:56", "poem.title": "Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. The Theologian's Tale; Elizabeth", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20958": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20958, "poem.id": 20958, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:08:02", "poem.title": "The Goblet Of Life", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20959": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20959, "poem.id": 20959, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:08:07", "poem.title": "The Song Of Hiawatha Vi: Hiawatha's Friends", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20960": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20960, "poem.id": 20960, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:08:13", "poem.title": "The Song Of Hiawatha Vii: Hiawatha's Sailing", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20961": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20961, "poem.id": 20961, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:08:19", "poem.title": "The Republic", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20962": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20962, "poem.id": 20962, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:08:25", "poem.title": "The Happiest Land. (From The German)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20963": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20963, "poem.id": 20963, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:08:30", "poem.title": "The Song Of Hiawatha Iv: Hiawatha And Mudjekeewis", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20964": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20964, "poem.id": 20964, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:08:35", "poem.title": "The Song Of Hiawatha Xix: The Ghosts", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20965": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20965, "poem.id": 20965, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:08:38", "poem.title": "The Song Of Hiawatha Xv: Hiawatha's Lamentation", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20966": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20966, "poem.id": 20966, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:08:44", "poem.title": "The Song Of Hiawatha V: Hiawatha's Fasting", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20967": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20967, "poem.id": 20967, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:08:49", "poem.title": "The Children Of The Lord's Supper. (From The Swedish Of Bishop Tegner)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20968": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20968, "poem.id": 20968, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:08:55", "poem.title": "The Broken Oar", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20969": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20969, "poem.id": 20969, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:08:57", "poem.title": "The Angler's Song", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20970": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20970, "poem.id": 20970, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:09:03", "poem.title": "The Slave In The Dismal Swamp", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20971": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20971, "poem.id": 20971, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:09:08", "poem.title": "The Nature Of Love. (From The Italian)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20972": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20972, "poem.id": 20972, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:09:15", "poem.title": "The Castle By The Sea. (From The German Of Uhland)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20973": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20973, "poem.id": 20973, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:09:17", "poem.title": "The Quadroon Girl", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20974": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20974, "poem.id": 20974, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:09:19", "poem.title": "The Song Of Hiawatha Ix: Hiawatha And The Pearl-Feather", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20975": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20975, "poem.id": 20975, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:09:23", "poem.title": "The Ropewalk. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The First)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20976": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20976, "poem.id": 20976, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:09:26", "poem.title": "The Song Of Hiawatha Ii: The Four Winds", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20977": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20977, "poem.id": 20977, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:09:31", "poem.title": "The Song Of Hiawatha X: Hiawatha's Wooing", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20978": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20978, "poem.id": 20978, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:09:37", "poem.title": "The Song Of Hiawatha Xi: Hiawatha's Wedding-Feast", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20979": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20979, "poem.id": 20979, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:09:40", "poem.title": "The Song Of Hiawatha Xii: The Son Of The Evening Star", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20980": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20980, "poem.id": 20980, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:09:44", "poem.title": "Thangbrand The Priest", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20981": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20981, "poem.id": 20981, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:09:51", "poem.title": "The Norman Baron", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20982": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20982, "poem.id": 20982, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:09:54", "poem.title": "The Slave Singing At Midnight", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20983": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20983, "poem.id": 20983, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:09:59", "poem.title": "Thanksgiving", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20984": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20984, "poem.id": 20984, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:10:05", "poem.title": "The Song Of Hiawatha Viii: Hiawatha's Fishing", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20985": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20985, "poem.id": 20985, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:10:10", "poem.title": "The Death Of Kwasind", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20986": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20986, "poem.id": 20986, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:10:17", "poem.title": "The Galaxy", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20987": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20987, "poem.id": 20987, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:10:20", "poem.title": "The Occultation Of Orion", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20988": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20988, "poem.id": 20988, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:10:26", "poem.title": "Tegner's Drapa", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20989": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20989, "poem.id": 20989, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:10:31", "poem.title": "The Image Of God (From The Spanish Of Francisco De Aldana)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20990": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20990, "poem.id": 20990, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:10:38", "poem.title": "The Building Of The Ship", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20991": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20991, "poem.id": 20991, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:10:41", "poem.title": "The Sea Diver", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20992": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20992, "poem.id": 20992, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:10:46", "poem.title": "Ultima Thule: The Windmill", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20993": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20993, "poem.id": 20993, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:10:53", "poem.title": "Ultima Thule: Old St. David's At Radnor", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20994": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20994, "poem.id": 20994, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:10:59", "poem.title": "The Poets", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "20995": { "poet_x_poem.id": 20995, "poem.id": 20995, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:11:02", "poem.title": "The Sea Hath Its Pearls. 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Flight The Fourth)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21025": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21025, "poem.id": 21025, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:13:23", "poem.title": "Two Sonnets From The Spanish Of Francisco De Medrano", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21026": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21026, "poem.id": 21026, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:13:30", "poem.title": "Ultima Thule: From My Arm-Chair", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21027": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21027, "poem.id": 21027, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:13:34", "poem.title": "Ultima Thule: Jugurtha", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21028": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21028, "poem.id": 21028, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:13:36", "poem.title": "The Hanging Of The Crane", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21029": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21029, "poem.id": 21029, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:13:40", "poem.title": "The Lunatic Girl", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21030": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21030, "poem.id": 21030, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:13:43", "poem.title": "The Hemlock Tree. 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On Mrs. Kemble's Readings From Shakespeare", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21043": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21043, "poem.id": 21043, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:14:41", "poem.title": "The Courtship Of Miles Standish", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21044": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21044, "poem.id": 21044, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:14:47", "poem.title": "Ultima Thule: My Cathedral", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21045": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21045, "poem.id": 21045, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:14:53", "poem.title": "Voices Of The Night : Flowers", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21046": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21046, "poem.id": 21046, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:14:58", "poem.title": "The Terrestrial Paradise. (From Dante. Purgatorio, Xxviii.)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21047": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21047, "poem.id": 21047, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:15:04", "poem.title": "The Skeleton In Armor", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21048": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21048, "poem.id": 21048, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:15:08", "poem.title": "Victor Galbraith. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The First)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21049": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21049, "poem.id": 21049, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:15:11", "poem.title": "Virgil's First Eclogue", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21050": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21050, "poem.id": 21050, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:15:16", "poem.title": "Vittoria Colonna", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21051": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21051, "poem.id": 21051, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:15:18", "poem.title": "To My Brooklet. (From The French Of Ducis)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21052": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21052, "poem.id": 21052, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:15:22", "poem.title": "The Grave. From The Anglo-Saxon", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21053": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21053, "poem.id": 21053, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:15:25", "poem.title": "To The Stork. (Armenian Popular Song, From The Prose Version Of Alishan)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21054": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21054, "poem.id": 21054, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:15:29", "poem.title": "The Soul's Complaint Against The Body. (From The Anglo-Saxon)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21055": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21055, "poem.id": 21055, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:15:33", "poem.title": "The Ladder Of St. Augustine. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The First)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21056": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21056, "poem.id": 21056, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:15:40", "poem.title": "The Evening Star", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21057": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21057, "poem.id": 21057, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:15:43", "poem.title": "To Italy. (From Filicaja)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21058": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21058, "poem.id": 21058, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:15:48", "poem.title": "Voices Of The Night : Prelude", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21059": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21059, "poem.id": 21059, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:15:54", "poem.title": "Pegasus in Pound", "poem.date": "12/10/2015", "poem.content": "Once into a quiet village,Without haste and without heed,In the golden prime of morning,Strayed the poet's wingéd steed. It was Autumn, and incessantPiped the quails from shocks and sheaves,And, like living coals, the applesBurned among the withering leaves. Loud the clamorous bell was ringingFrom its belfry gaunt and grim;'T was the daily call to labor,Not a triumph meant for him. Not the less he saw the landscape,In its gleaming vapor veiled;Not the less he breathed the odorsThat the dying leaves exhaled. Thus, upon the village common,By the school-boys he was found;And the wise men, in their wisdom,Put him straightway into pound. Then the sombre village crier,Ringing loud his brazen bell,Wandered down the street proclaimingThere was an estray to sell. And the curious country people,Rich and poor, and young and old,Came in haste to see this wondrousWingéd steed, with mane of gold. Thus the day passed, and the eveningFell, with vapors cold and dim;But it brought no food nor shelter,Brought no straw nor stall, for him. Patiently, and still expectant,Looked he through the wooden bars,Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape,Saw the tranquil, patient stars; Till at length the bell at midnightSounded from its dark abode,And, from out a neighboring farm-yardLoud the cock Alectryon crowed. Then, with nostrils wide distended,Breaking from his iron chain,And unfolding far his pinions,To those stars he soared again. On the morrow, when the villageWoke to all its toil and care,Lo! the strange steed had departed,And they knew not when nor where. But they found, upon the greenswardWhere his struggling hoofs had trod,Pure and bright, a fountain flowingFrom the hoof-marks in the sod. From that hour, the fount unfailingGladdens the whole region round,Strengthening all who drink its waters,While it soothes them with its sound.", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21060": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21060, "poem.id": 21060, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:16:00", "poem.title": "To-Morrow (From The Spanish Of Lope De Vega)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21061": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21061, "poem.id": 21061, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:16:02", "poem.title": "Ultima Thule: Elegiac", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21062": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21062, "poem.id": 21062, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:16:07", "poem.title": "Songo River. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Fourth)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21063": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21063, "poem.id": 21063, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:16:09", "poem.title": "Song. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Fifth)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21064": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21064, "poem.id": 21064, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:16:15", "poem.title": "Ultima Thule: Night", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21065": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21065, "poem.id": 21065, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:16:21", "poem.title": "Voices Of The Night : Footsteps Of Angels", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21066": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21066, "poem.id": 21066, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:16:26", "poem.title": "The Masque Of Pandora", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21067": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21067, "poem.id": 21067, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:16:30", "poem.title": "Earlier Poems : Burial Of The Minnisink", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21068": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21068, "poem.id": 21068, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:16:36", "poem.title": "Spring. (From The French Of Charles D'Orleans. Xv. Century)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21069": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21069, "poem.id": 21069, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:16:39", "poem.title": "To The River Yvette. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Fifth)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21070": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21070, "poem.id": 21070, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:16:41", "poem.title": "To Cardinal Richelieu. (From Malherbe)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21071": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21071, "poem.id": 21071, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:16:44", "poem.title": "Jeckoyva", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21072": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21072, "poem.id": 21072, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:16:48", "poem.title": "Sunrise On The Hills", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21073": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21073, "poem.id": 21073, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:16:52", "poem.title": "Voices Of The Night : The Reaper And The Flowers", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21074": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21074, "poem.id": 21074, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:16:57", "poem.title": "Flower-De-Luce: Divina Commedia", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21075": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21075, "poem.id": 21075, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:17:03", "poem.title": "Voices Of The Night : Hymn To The Night", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21076": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21076, "poem.id": 21076, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:17:08", "poem.title": "Rondel. (From The Duke Of Orleans)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21077": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21077, "poem.id": 21077, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:17:11", "poem.title": "Song Of The Silent Land. (From The German Of Salis)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21078": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21078, "poem.id": 21078, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:17:18", "poem.title": "Italian Scenery", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21079": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21079, "poem.id": 21079, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:17:23", "poem.title": "Flower-De-Luce: The Bells Of Lynn. Heard At Nahant", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21080": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21080, "poem.id": 21080, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:17:31", "poem.title": "The Hunting Of Pau-Puk Keewis", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21081": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21081, "poem.id": 21081, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:17:36", "poem.title": "Santa Teresa's Bookmark. (From The Spanish Of Santa Teresa)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21082": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21082, "poem.id": 21082, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:17:43", "poem.title": "St. John's, Cambridge", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21083": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21083, "poem.id": 21083, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:17:47", "poem.title": "By The Seaside : Sir Humphrey Gilbert", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21084": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21084, "poem.id": 21084, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:17:50", "poem.title": "To The River Rhone", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21085": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21085, "poem.id": 21085, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:17:55", "poem.title": "Rondel. (From Froissart)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21086": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21086, "poem.id": 21086, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:18:02", "poem.title": "Prometheus, Or, The Poet's Forethought. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The First)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21087": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21087, "poem.id": 21087, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:18:08", "poem.title": "Elliot's Oak", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21088": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21088, "poem.id": 21088, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:18:15", "poem.title": "Flower-De-Luce: Giotto's Tower", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21089": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21089, "poem.id": 21089, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:18:21", "poem.title": "Flower-De-Luce: Hawthorne", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21090": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21090, "poem.id": 21090, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:18:25", "poem.title": "Walter Von Der Vogel Weid", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21091": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21091, "poem.id": 21091, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:18:31", "poem.title": "Flower-De-Luce: The Wind Over The Chimney", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21092": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21092, "poem.id": 21092, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:18:33", "poem.title": "In The Harbour: The Poet's Calendar", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21093": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21093, "poem.id": 21093, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:18:40", "poem.title": "Discoverer Of The North Cape. A Leaf From King Alfred's Orosius. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The First)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21094": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21094, "poem.id": 21094, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:18:47", "poem.title": "Flower-De-Luce: Christmas Bells", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21095": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21095, "poem.id": 21095, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:18:54", "poem.title": "The Venetian Gondolier", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21096": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21096, "poem.id": 21096, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:19:01", "poem.title": "Delia. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Fifth)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21097": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21097, "poem.id": 21097, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:19:06", "poem.title": "In The Harbour: To The Avon", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21098": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21098, "poem.id": 21098, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:19:09", "poem.title": "Castles In Spain. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Fifth)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21099": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21099, "poem.id": 21099, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:19:13", "poem.title": "Death Of Archbishop Turpin. (From The French)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21100": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21100, "poem.id": 21100, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:19:16", "poem.title": "In The Harbour: Prelude", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21101": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21101, "poem.id": 21101, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:19:22", "poem.title": "Monte Cassino. Terra Di Lavoro. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Fourth)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21102": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21102, "poem.id": 21102, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:19:28", "poem.title": "On The Terrace Of The Aigalades. (From The French Of Méry)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21103": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21103, "poem.id": 21103, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:19:33", "poem.title": "Flower-De-Luce: The Bridge Of Cloud", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21104": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21104, "poem.id": 21104, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:19:40", "poem.title": "Parker Cleveland. Written On Revisiting Brunswick In The Summer Of 1875", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21105": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21105, "poem.id": 21105, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:19:44", "poem.title": "By The Fireside : Gaspar Becerra", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21106": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21106, "poem.id": 21106, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:19:51", "poem.title": "Evangeline: Part The First. V.", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21107": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21107, "poem.id": 21107, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:19:54", "poem.title": "Earlier Poems : Hymn Of The Moravian Nuns Of Bethlehem", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21108": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21108, "poem.id": 21108, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:19:56", "poem.title": "The Challenge Of Thor", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21109": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21109, "poem.id": 21109, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:20:02", "poem.title": "Inscription On The Shanklin Fountain", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21110": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21110, "poem.id": 21110, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:20:07", "poem.title": "Poetic Aphorisms. (From The Sinngedichte Of Friedrich Von Logau)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21111": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21111, "poem.id": 21111, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:20:12", "poem.title": "Evangeline: Part The Second. Ii.", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21112": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21112, "poem.id": 21112, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:20:19", "poem.title": "Renouveau. (From The French)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21113": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21113, "poem.id": 21113, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:20:25", "poem.title": "From The Spanish Cancioneros", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21114": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21114, "poem.id": 21114, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:20:27", "poem.title": "In The Harbour: Sundown", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21115": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21115, "poem.id": 21115, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:20:33", "poem.title": "The Wave. (From The German Of Tiedge)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21116": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21116, "poem.id": 21116, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:20:37", "poem.title": "Evangeline: Part The First. Ii.", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21117": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21117, "poem.id": 21117, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:20:42", "poem.title": "King Christian, A National Song Of Denmark. (From The Danish Of Johannes Evald)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21118": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21118, "poem.id": 21118, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:20:47", "poem.title": "Ovid In Exile, At Tomis, In Bessarabia, Near The Mouths Of The Danube", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21119": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21119, "poem.id": 21119, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:20:50", "poem.title": "Cantos From Dante's Paradiso", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21120": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21120, "poem.id": 21120, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:20:53", "poem.title": "By The Fireside : King Witlaf's Drinking-Horn", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21121": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21121, "poem.id": 21121, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:20:55", "poem.title": "By The Fireside : Tegner's Death (Tegner's Drapa)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21122": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21122, "poem.id": 21122, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:21:02", "poem.title": "Song Of The Bell. 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(From The German Of Müller)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21134": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21134, "poem.id": 21134, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:21:53", "poem.title": "The Song Of Hiawatha Xxii: Hiawatha's Departure", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21135": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21135, "poem.id": 21135, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:21:59", "poem.title": "Enceladus. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Second)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21136": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21136, "poem.id": 21136, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:22:04", "poem.title": "In The Harbour: The Wine Of Jurançon. 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(From Dante. 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Flight The Fifth)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21313": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21313, "poem.id": 21313, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:35:17", "poem.title": "The Reaper And The Flowers", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21314": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21314, "poem.id": 21314, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:35:22", "poem.title": "Hiawatha's Wooing", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21315": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21315, "poem.id": 21315, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:35:24", "poem.title": "Tide Rises, The Tide Falls, The", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21316": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21316, "poem.id": 21316, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:35:29", "poem.title": "By The Seaside : The Secret Of The Sea", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21317": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21317, "poem.id": 21317, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:35:35", "poem.title": "There Was A Little Girl", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21318": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21318, "poem.id": 21318, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:35:38", "poem.title": "Hiawatha's Childhood", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21319": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21319, "poem.id": 21319, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:35:42", "poem.title": "Woods In Winter", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21320": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21320, "poem.id": 21320, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:35:46", "poem.title": "Birds Of Passage", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21321": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21321, "poem.id": 21321, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:35:51", "poem.title": "Village Blacksmith, The", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21322": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21322, "poem.id": 21322, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:35:54", "poem.title": "Endymion", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21323": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21323, "poem.id": 21323, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:35:57", "poem.title": "Belfry Of Bruges, The", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21324": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21324, "poem.id": 21324, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:36:05", "poem.title": "Dante", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21325": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21325, "poem.id": 21325, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:36:13", "poem.title": "Rain In Summer", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21326": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21326, "poem.id": 21326, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:36:18", "poem.title": "Moonlight", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21327": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21327, "poem.id": 21327, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:36:23", "poem.title": "Hymn To The Night", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21328": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21328, "poem.id": 21328, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:36:28", "poem.title": "The Wreck Of The Hesperus", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21329": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21329, "poem.id": 21329, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:36:30", "poem.title": "Excelsior", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21330": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21330, "poem.id": 21330, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:36:32", "poem.title": "Daylight And Moonlight", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21331": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21331, "poem.id": 21331, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:36:37", "poem.title": "Flowers", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21332": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21332, "poem.id": 21332, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:36:41", "poem.title": "Evening Star, The", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21333": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21333, "poem.id": 21333, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:36:45", "poem.title": "A Day Of Sunshine. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Second)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21334": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21334, "poem.id": 21334, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:36:53", "poem.title": "My Lost Youth", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21335": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21335, "poem.id": 21335, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:37:00", "poem.title": "A Song Of Savoy", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21336": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21336, "poem.id": 21336, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:37:05", "poem.title": "The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21337": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21337, "poem.id": 21337, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:37:11", "poem.title": "Memories", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21338": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21338, "poem.id": 21338, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:37:16", "poem.title": "Belisarius", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21339": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21339, "poem.id": 21339, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:37:21", "poem.title": "Snow-Flakes. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Second)", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21340": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21340, "poem.id": 21340, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:37:25", "poem.title": "The Three Kings", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21341": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21341, "poem.id": 21341, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:37:28", "poem.title": "Day Is Done, The", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21342": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21342, "poem.id": 21342, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:37:35", "poem.title": "Arsenal At Springfield, The", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21343": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21343, "poem.id": 21343, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:37:40", "poem.title": "A Summer Day By The Sea", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21344": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21344, "poem.id": 21344, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:37:45", "poem.title": "Paul Revere's Ride (The Landlord's Tale)", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21345": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21345, "poem.id": 21345, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:37:50", "poem.title": "Beleaguered City, The", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21346": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21346, "poem.id": 21346, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:37:53", "poem.title": "Hiawatha's Fishing", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21347": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21347, "poem.id": 21347, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:37:59", "poem.title": "Loss And Gain", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21348": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21348, "poem.id": 21348, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:38:04", "poem.title": "A Nameless Grave", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21349": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21349, "poem.id": 21349, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:38:09", "poem.title": "Evangeline: A Tale Of Acadie", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring oceanSpeaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath itLeaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsmanWhere is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,--Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of OctoberSeize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the oceanNaught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre. Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.PART THE FIRSTIIn the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-PreLay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number.Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gatesOpened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfieldsSpreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northwardBlomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountainsSea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty AtlanticLooked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descendedThere, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of hemlock,Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projectingOver the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunsetLighted the village street and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtlesScarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the goldenFlax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doorsMingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens,Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the childrenPaused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them.Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens,Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome.Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sankDown to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfrySoftly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the villageColumns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending,Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment.Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers,--Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free fromFear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics.Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows;But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of their owners;There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance. Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas,Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pre,Dwelt on his goodly acres: and with him, directing his household,Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters;Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes;White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves.Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside,Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows.When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontideFlagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden,Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turretSprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssopSprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal,Wearing her Norman cap and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings,Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom,Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.But a celestial brightness--a more ethereal beauty--Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music. Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmerStood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shadySycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it.Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpathLed through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow.Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse,Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside,Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary.Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grownBucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses.Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farm-yard,There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows;There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio,Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsameVoice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each oneFar o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase,Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft.There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmatesMurmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezesNumberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation. Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-PreLived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household.Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal,Fixed his eyes upon her as the saint of his deepest devotion;Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment!Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended,And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps,Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron;Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village,Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whisperedHurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music.But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome;Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith,Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men;For, since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations,Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people.Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from earliest childhoodGrew up together as brother and sister; and Father Felician,Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their lettersOut of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song.But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed,Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith.There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold himTake in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything,Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cart-wheelLay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders.Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darknessBursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice,Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows,And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes,Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel.Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle,Down the hillside hounding, they glided away o'er the meadow.Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters,Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallowBrings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings;Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow!Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children.He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning,Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action.She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman.\"Sunshine of Saint Eulalie\" was she called; for that was the sunshineWhich, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with applesShe, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance,Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children.IINow had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer,And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters.Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound,Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands,Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of SeptemberWrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel.All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement.Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honeyTill the hives overflowed; and the Indian bunters assertedCold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes.Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season,Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints!Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscapeLay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood.Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the oceanWas for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended.Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards,Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons,All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sunLooked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him;While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow,Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forestFlashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels. Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness.Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descendingBrought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead.Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other,And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening.Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer,Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar,Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection.Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside,Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog,Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct,Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superblyWaving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers;Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector,When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled.Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes,Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor.Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks,While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles,Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson,Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms.Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their uddersUnto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadenceInto the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended.Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard, Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness;Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors,Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent. In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmerSat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreathsStruggled together like foes in a burning city. Behind him,Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic,Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness.Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chairLaughed in the flickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresserCaught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine.Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas,Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before himSang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards.Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated,Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her.Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle,While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe,Followed the old man's songs and united the fragments together.As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases,Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar,So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked. Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted,Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges.Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith,And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him.\"Welcome!\" the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused of the threshold.\"Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come, take thy place on the settleClose by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee;Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco;Never so much thyself art thou as when through the curlingSmoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face gleamsRound and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes.\"Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith,Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside:--\"Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad!Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled withGloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them.Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe.\"Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him,And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued:--\"Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchorsRide in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us.What their design may be is unknown; but all are commandedOn the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandateWill be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas! in the mean timeMany surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people.\"Then made answer the farmer:--\"Perhaps some friendlier purposeBrings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in EnglandBy untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted,And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children.\"\"Not so thinketh the folk in the village,\" said, warmly, the blacksmith,Shaking his head, as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued:--\"Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor Port Royal.Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts,Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow.Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds;Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the mower.\"Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer:--\"Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields,Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean,Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon.Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrowFall on this house and hearth; for this is the night of the contract.Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the villageStrongly have built them and well; and, breaking the glebe round about them,Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth.Rene Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn.Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children?\"As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover's,Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken,And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered.IIIBent like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean,Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public;Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hungOver his shoulders; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn bowsSat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal.Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundredChildren's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick.Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive,Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English.Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion,Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike.He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children;For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest,And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses,And of the white Letiche, the ghost of a child who unchristenedDied, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children;And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable,And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell,And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes,With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village.Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith,Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand,\"Father Leblanc,\" he exclaimed, \"thou hast heard the talk in the village,And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand.\"Then with modest demeanor made answer the notary public,--\"Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser;And what their errand may be I know not better than others.Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intentionBrings them here, for we are at peace; and why then molest us?\"\"God's name!\" shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith;\"Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore?Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest!\"But, without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public,--\"Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justiceTriumphs; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me,When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal.\"This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved to repeat itWhen his neighbors complained that any injustice was done them.\"Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember,Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of JusticeStood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand,And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presidedOver the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people.Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance,Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them.But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted;Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mightyRuled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's palaceThat a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a suspicionFell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household.She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold,Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice.As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended,Lo! o'er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunderSmote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left handDown on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance,And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie,Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven.\"Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmithStood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language;All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vaporsFreeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter. Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table,Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewedNut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand-Pre;While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn,Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties,Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle.Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed,And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin.Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the tableThree times the old man's fee in solid pieces of silver;And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom,Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare.Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed,While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside,Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner.Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old menLaughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuver,Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-rowMeanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure,Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon riseOver the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows.Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels. Thus was the evening passed. Anon the bell from the belfryRang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightwayRose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the household.Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the door-stepLingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness.Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone,And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer.Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed.Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness,Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden.Silent she passed the hall, and entered the door of her chamber.Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-pressAmple and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully foldedLinen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven.This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage,Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife.Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlightStreamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of the maidenSwelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean.Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood withNaked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber!Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard,Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow.Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadnessPassed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlightFlitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment.And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon passForth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps,As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar!IVPleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pre.Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas,Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor.Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous laborKnocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning.Now from the country around, from the farms and neighboring hamlets,Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants.Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young folkMade the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows,Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward,Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway.Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced.Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the house-doorsSat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together.Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted;For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together,All things were held in common, and what one had was another's.Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant:For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father;Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladnessFell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it. Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard,Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal.There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated;There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith.Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives,Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats.Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-whiteHair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face of the fiddlerGlowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers.Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle,Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de Dunkerque,And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music.Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dancesUnder the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows;Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them.Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter!Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith! So passed the morning away. And lo! with a summons sonorousSounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat.Thronged erelong was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard,Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstonesGarlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest.Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among themEntered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangorEchoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement,--Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portalClosed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers.Then uprose their commander, and spoke from the steps of the altar,Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission.\"You are convened this day,\" he said, \"by his Majesty's orders.Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his kindness,Let your own hearts reply! To my natural make and my temperPainful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous.Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch;Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kindsForfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from this provinceBe transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell thereEver as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people!Prisoners now I declare you; for such is his Majesty's pleasure!\"As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer,Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstonesBeats down the farmer's corn in the field and shatters his windows,Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs,Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures;So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker.Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then roseLouder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger,And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door-way.Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecationsRang through the house of prayer; and high o'er the heads of the othersRose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith,As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows.Flushed was his face and distorted with passion; and wildly he shouted,--\"Down with the tyrants of England! we never have sworn them allegiance!Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests!\"More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldierSmote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement. In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention,Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father FelicianEntered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar.Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silenceAll that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people;Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournfulSpake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes.\"What is this that ye do, my children? what madness has seized you?Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and taught you,Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another!Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations?Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness?This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profaneitThus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred?Lo! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon you!See! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion!Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, 'O Father, forgive them!'Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us,Let us repeat it now, and say, 'O Father, forgive them!'\"Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his peopleSank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak,While they repeated his prayer, and said, \"O Father, forgive them!\" Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the altar.Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest and the people responded,Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the Ave MariaSang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion translated,Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven. Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sidesWandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children.Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right handShielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending,Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, and roofed eachPeasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows.Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table;There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild-flowers;There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from the dairy;And, at the head of the board, the great arm-chair of the farmer.Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunsetThrew the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial meadows.Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen,And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended,--Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience!Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the village,Cheering with looks and words the mournful hearts of the women,As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed,Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children.Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vaporsVeiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai.Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded. Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered.All was silent within; and in vain at the door and the windowsStood she, and listened and looked, till, overcome by emotion,\"Gabriel!\" cried she aloud with tremulous voice; but no answerCame from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living.Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father.Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board was the supper untasted,Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of terror.Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber.In the dead of the night she heard the disconsolate rain fallLoud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window.Keenly the lightning flashed; and the voice of the echoing thunderTold her that God was in heaven, and governed the world he created!Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of Heaven;Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered tillmorning.VFour times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth dayCheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house.Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession,Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women,Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore,Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings,Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland.Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen,While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings. Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beachPiled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants.All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply;All day long the wains came laboring down from the village.Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting,Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard.Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doorsOpened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy processionFollowed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers.Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country,Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn,So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descendedDown from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters.Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices,Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:--\"Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible fountain!Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!\"Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the waysideJoined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above themMingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed. Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence,Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,--Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession approached her,And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion.Team then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him,Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and whispered,--\"Gabriel! be of good cheer! for if we love one anotherNothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen!\"Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly paused, for her fatherSaw she slowly advancing. Alas! how changed was his aspect!Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his footstepHeavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his bosom.But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him,Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not.Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession. There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking.Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusionWives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their childrenLeft on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father.Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilightDeepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent oceanFled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beachCovered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed.Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons,Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle,All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them,Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers.Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leavingInland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures;Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders;Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,--Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid.Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded,Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows. But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled,Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest.Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered,Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children.Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish,Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering,Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore.Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father,And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man,Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion,E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken.Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him,Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake notBut, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light.\"Benedicite!\" murmured the priest, in tones of compassion.More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accentsFaltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold,Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow.Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden,Raising his tearful eyes to the silent stars that above themMoved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals.Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence. Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-redMoon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizonTitan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow,Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together.Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village,Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead.Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame wereThrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr.Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting,Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-topsStarted the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled. These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard.Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish,\"We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pre!\"Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards,Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattleCame on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted.Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampmentsFar in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska,When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind,Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river.Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horsesBroke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows. Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maidenGazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them;And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion,Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the sea-shoreMotionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed.Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maidenKnelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror.Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom.Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber;And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her.Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her,Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion.Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape,Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her,And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses.Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people,--\"Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier seasonBrings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile,Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard.\"Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the sea-side,Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches,But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pre.And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow,Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation,Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges.'T was the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean,With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward.Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking;And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor,Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village inruins.PART THE SECONDIMany a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand-Pre,When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed,Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile.Exile without an end, and without an example in story.Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed;Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from the northeastStrikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks of Newfoundland.Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city,From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savannas,--From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the Father of WatersSeizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean,Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of the mammoth.Friends they sought and homes; and many, despairing, heart-broken,Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside.Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the churchyards.Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered,Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things.Fair was she and young; but, alas! before her extended,Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathwayMarked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suffered before her,Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned,As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is marked byCamp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine.Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished;As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine,Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descendedInto the east again, from whence it late had arisen.Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within her,Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit,She would commence again her endless search and endeavor;Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tombstones,Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosomHe was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him.Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper,Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward.Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known him,But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten.\"Gabriel Lajeunesse!\" they said; yes! we have seen him.He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies;Coureurs-des-Bois are they, and famous hunters and trappers.\"\"Gabriel Lajeunesse!\" said others; \"O yes! we have seen him.He is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana.\"Then would they say, \"Dear child! why dream and wait for him longer?Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel? othersWho have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal?Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who has loved theeMany a tedious year; come, give him thy hand and be happy!Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine's tresses.\"Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, \"I cannot!Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere.For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway,Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness.\"Thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor,Said, with a smile, \"O daughter! thy God thus speaketh within thee!Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted;If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returningBack to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment;That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.Patience; accomplish thy labor; accomplish thy work of affection!Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike.Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the heart is made godlike,Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven!\"Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline labored and waited.Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean,But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, \"Despair not?\"Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discomfortBleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence.Let me essay, O Muse! to follow the wanderer's footsteps;--Not through each devious path, each changeful year of existence;But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course through the valley:Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its waterHere and there, in some open space, and at intervals only;Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms that conceal it,Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur;Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches an outlet.IIIt was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful River,Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the Wabash,Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi,Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen.It was a band of exiles: a raft, as it were, from the shipwreckedNation, scattered along the coast, now floating together,Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune;Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hearsay,Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred farmersOn the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas.With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father Felician.Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness sombre with forests,Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river;Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders.Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plumelikeCotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the current,Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-barsLay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their margin,Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded.Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river,Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens,Stood the houses of planters, with negro-cabins and dove-cots.They were approaching the region where reigns perpetual summer,Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and citron,Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward.They, too, swerved from their course; and, entering the Bayou of Plaquemine,Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters,Which, like a network of steel, extended in every direction.Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the cypressMet in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid-airWaved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals.Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by the heronsHome to their roasts in the cedar-trees returning at sunset,Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter.Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the water,Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining the arches,Down through whose broken vaults it fell as through chinks in a ruin.Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things around them;And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder and sadness,--Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be compassed.As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the prairies,Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa,So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil,Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has attained it.But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, that faintlyFloated before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the moonlight.It was the thought of her brain that assumed the shape of a phantom.Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wandered before her,And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and nearer. Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the oarsmen,And, as a signal sound, if others like them peradventureSailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on his bugle.Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast rang,Breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues to the forest.Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the music.Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance,Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches;But not a voice replied; no answer came from the darkness;And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.Then Evangeline slept; but the boatmen rowed through the midnight,Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian boat-songs,Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers,While through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of the desert,Far off,--indistinct,--as of wave or wind in the forest,Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim alligator. Thus ere another noon they emerged from the shades; and before themLay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya.Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulationsMade by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotusLifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen.Faint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia blossoms,And with the heat of noon; and numberless sylvan islands,Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming hedges of roses,Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber.Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were suspended.Under the boughs of Wachita willows, that grew by the margin,Safely their boat was moored; and scattered about on the greensward,Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered.Over them vast and high extended the cope of a cedar.Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the grapevineHung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jacob,On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending,Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blossom to blossom.Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered beneath it.Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening heavenLighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial. Nearer, ever nearer, among the numberless islands,Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water,Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers.Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver.At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and careworn.Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sadnessSomewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written.Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless,Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow.Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island,But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of palmettos,So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the willows,All undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, were the sleepers,Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering maiden.Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the prairie.After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance,As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maidenSaid with a sigh to the friendly priest, \"O Father Felician!Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders.Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition?Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit?\"Then, with a blush, she added, \"Alas for my credulous fancy!Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning.\"But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he answered,--\"Daughter, thy words are not idle; nor are they to me without meaning.Feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats on the surfaceIs as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden.Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions.Gabriel truly is near thee; for not far away to the southward,On the banks of the Teche, are the towns of St. Maur and St. Martin.There the long-wandering bride shall be given again to her bridegroom,There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his sheepfold.Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit-trees;Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavensBending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest.They who dwell there have named it the Eden of Louisiana.\" With these words of cheer they arose and continued their journey.Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizonLike a magician extended his golden wand o'er the landscape;Twinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forestSeemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver,Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless water.Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness.Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feelingGlowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around her.Then from a neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers,Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water,Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music,That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen.Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soaring to madnessSeemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes.Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation;Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision,As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-topsShakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches.With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with emotion,Slowly they entered the Teche, where it flows through the green Opelousas,And, through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland,Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighboring dwelling;--Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle.IIINear to the bank of the river, o'ershadowed by oaks, from whose branchesGarlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted,Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at Yule-tide,Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman. A gardenGirded it round about with a belt of luxuriant blossoms,Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself was of timbersHewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted together.Large and low was the roof; and on slender columns supported,Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spacious veranda,Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended around it.At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the garden,Stationed the dove-cots were, as love's perpetual symbol,Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions of rivals.Silence reigned o'er the place. The line of shadow and sunshineRan near the tops of the trees; but the house itself was in shadow,And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly expandingInto the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke rose.In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a pathwayThrough the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless prairie,Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending.Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvasHanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the tropics,Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grapevines. Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie,Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups,Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin.Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish sombreroGazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master.Round about him were numberless herds of kine, that were grazingQuietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapory freshnessThat uprose from the river, and spread itself over the landscape.Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expandingFully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resoundedWildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the evening.Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattleRose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean.Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o'er the prairie,And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the distance.Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate of the gardenSaw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to meet him.Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and forwardRushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder;When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil the blacksmith.Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden.There in an arbor of roses with endless question and answerGave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly embraces,Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and thoughtful.Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not; and now dark doubts and misgivingsStole o'er the maiden's heart; and Basil, somewhat embarrassed,Broke the silence and said, \"If you came by the Atchafalaya,How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel's boat on the bayous?\"Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a shade passed.Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous accent,\"Gone? is Gabriel gone?\" and, concealing her face on his shoulder,All her o'erburdened heart gave way, and she wept and lamented.Then the good Basil said,--and his voice grew blithe as he said it,--\"Be of good cheer, my child; it is only to-day he departed.Foolish boy! he has left me alone with my herds and my horses.Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his spiritCould no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence.Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever,Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles,He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens,Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent himUnto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the Spaniards.Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Mountains,Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver.Therefore be of good cheer; we will follow the fugitive lover;He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are against him.Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the morningWe will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison.\" Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the river,Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the fiddler.Long under Basil's roof had he lived like a god on Olympus,Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals.Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle.\"Long live Michael,\" they cried, \"our brave Acadian minstrel!\"As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession; and straightwayFather Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old manKindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured,Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips,Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters.Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the cidevant blacksmith,All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal demeanor;Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the climate,And of the prairie; whose numberless herds were his who would take them;Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewise.Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the breezy veranda,Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of BasilWaited his late return; and they rested and feasted together. Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended.All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with silver,Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars; but within doors,Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmering lamplight.Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herdsmanPoured forth his heart and his wine together in endless profusion.Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches tobacco,Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they listened:--\"Welcome once more, my friends, who long have been friendless and homeless,Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the old one!Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers;Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer.Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel through the water.All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom; and grass growsMore in a single night than a whole Canadian summer.Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the prairies;Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of timberWith a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses.After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with harvests,No King George of England shall drive you away from your homesteads,Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and your cattle.\"Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nostrils,While his huge, brown hand came thundering down on the table,So that the guests all started; and Father Felician, astounded,Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff half-way to his nostrils.But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder and gayer:--\"Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever!For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate,Cured by wearing a spider hung round one's neck in a nutshell!\"Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps approachingSounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy veranda.It was the neighboring Creoles and small Acadian planters,Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil the Herdsman.Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbors:Friend clasped friend in his arms; and they who before were as strangers,Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends to each other,Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together.But in the neighboring hall a strain of music, proceedingFrom the accordant strings of Michael's melodious fiddle,Broke up all further speech. Away, like children delighted,All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the maddeningWhirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music,Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering garments. Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the herdsmanSat, conversing together of past and present and future;While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within herOlden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the musicHeard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sadnessCame o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden.Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest,Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the riverFell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight,Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit.Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the gardenPoured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessionsUnto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian.Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night-dews,Hung the heart of the maiden. The ca", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21350": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21350, "poem.id": 21350, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:38:15", "poem.title": "The Rainy Day", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21351": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21351, "poem.id": 21351, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:38:21", "poem.title": "Autumn Within", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21352": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21352, "poem.id": 21352, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:38:26", "poem.title": "Christmas Bells", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21353": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21353, "poem.id": 21353, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:38:32", "poem.title": "The Children's Hour", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21354": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21354, "poem.id": 21354, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:38:37", "poem.title": "Nature", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21355": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21355, "poem.id": 21355, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:38:40", "poem.title": "An April Day", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21356": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21356, "poem.id": 21356, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:38:47", "poem.title": "A Shadow", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21357": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21357, "poem.id": 21357, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:38:51", "poem.title": "Afternoon In February", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21358": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21358, "poem.id": 21358, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:38:56", "poem.title": "The Village Blacksmith", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21359": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21359, "poem.id": 21359, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:38:58", "poem.title": "Aftermath", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21360": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21360, "poem.id": 21360, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:39:04", "poem.title": "Children", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21361": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21361, "poem.id": 21361, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:39:05", "poem.title": "Autumn", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21362": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21362, "poem.id": 21362, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:39:10", "poem.title": "Footsteps Of Angels", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21363": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21363, "poem.id": 21363, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:39:13", "poem.title": "I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day", "poem.date": "1/3/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21364": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21364, "poem.id": 21364, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:39:17", "poem.title": "The Arrow And The Song", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21365": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21365, "poem.id": 21365, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:39:23", "poem.title": "A Gleam Of Sunshine", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "This is the place. Stand still, my steed, Let me review the scene,And summon from the shadowy Past The forms that once have been.The Past and Present here unite Beneath Time's flowing tide,Like footprints hidden by a brook, But seen on either side.Here runs the highway to the town; There the green lane descends,Through which I walked to church with thee, O gentlest of my friends!The shadow of the linden-trees Lay moving on the grass;Between them and the moving boughs, A shadow, thou didst pass.Thy dress was like the lilies, And thy heart as pure as they:One of God's holy messengers Did walk with me that day.I saw the branches of the trees Bend down thy touch to meet,The clover-blossoms in the grass Rise up to kiss thy feet,\"Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, Of earth and folly born!\"Solemnly sang the village choir On that sweet Sabbath morn.Through the closed blinds the golden sun Poured in a dusty beam,Like the celestial ladder seen By Jacob in his dream.And ever and anon, the wind, Sweet-scented with the hay,Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering leaves That on the window lay.Long was the good man's sermon, Yet it seemed not so to me;For he spake of Ruth the beautiful, And still I thought of thee.Long was the prayer he uttered, Yet it seemed not so to me;For in my heart I prayed with him, And still I thought of thee.But now, alas! the place seems changed; Thou art no longer here:Part of the sunshine of the scene With thee did disappear.Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart, Like pine-trees dark and high,Subdue the light of noon, and breathe A low and ceaseless sigh;This memory brightens o'er the past, As when the sun, concealedBehind some cloud that near us hangs Shines on a distant field.", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" }, "21366": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21366, "poem.id": 21366, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:39:26", "poem.title": "A Psalm Of Life", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" } } }, "27": { "poet.id": 27, "poet.ts": "2018-02-28 20:45:22", "poet.title": "Christina Georgina Rosset", "poet.poet_x_poem_id": { "1028": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1028, "poem.id": 1028, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:00:40", "poem.title": "A Riddle", "poem.date": "7/19/2016", "poem.content": "There is one that has a head without an eye,And there's one that has an eye without a head.You may find the answer if you try;And when all is said,Half the answer hangs upon a thread.", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1029": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1029, "poem.id": 1029, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:00:44", "poem.title": "Venus's Looking-Glass", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1030": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1030, "poem.id": 1030, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:00:47", "poem.title": "The Rose With Such A Bonny Blush", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1031": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1031, "poem.id": 1031, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:00:52", "poem.title": "The Offering Of The New Law, The One Oblation Once Offered", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1032": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1032, "poem.id": 1032, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:00:56", "poem.title": "The Peacock Has A Score Of Eyes", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1033": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1033, "poem.id": 1033, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:01:01", "poem.title": "The Rose That Blushes Rosy Red", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1034": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1034, "poem.id": 1034, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:01:06", "poem.title": "Under The Ivy Bush", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1035": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1035, "poem.id": 1035, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:01:10", "poem.title": "On the Wing", "poem.date": "5/20/2015", "poem.content": "Once in a dream (for once I dreamed of you) We stood together in an open field; Above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled,Sporting at ease and courting full in view.When loftier still a broadening darkness flew, Down-swooping, and a ravenous hawk revealed; Too weak to fight, too fond to fly, they yield;So farewell life and love and pleasures new.Then, as their plumes fell fluttering to the ground, Their snow-white plumage flecked with crimson drops, I wept, and thought I turned towards you to weep: But you were gone; while rustling hedgerow topsBent in a wind which bore to me a sound Of far-off piteous bleat of lambs and sheep.", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1036": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1036, "poem.id": 1036, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:01:14", "poem.title": "A Chilly Night", "poem.date": "2/20/2016", "poem.content": "I rose at the dead of night And went to the lattice alone To look for my Mother's ghost Where the ghostly moonlight shone. My friends had failed one by one, Middleaged, young, and old, Till the ghosts were warmer to me Than my friends that had grown cold. I looked and I saw the ghosts Dotting plain and mound: They stood in the blank moonlight But no shadow lay on the ground; They spoke without a voice And they leapt without a sound. I called: ' O my Mother dear, ' — I sobbed: ' O my Mother kind, Make a lonely bed for me And shelter it from the wind: ' Tell the others not to come To see me night or day; But I need not tell my friends To be sure to keep away. ' My Mother raised her eyes, They were blank and could not see; Yet they held me with their stare While they seemed to look at me. She opened her mouth and spoke, I could not hear a word While my flesh crept on my bones And every hair was stirred. She knew that I could not hear The message that she told Whether I had long to wait Or soon should sleep in the mould: I saw her toss her shadowless hair And wring her hands in the cold. I strained to catch her words And she strained to make me hear, But never a sound of words Fell on my straining ear. From midnight to the cockcrow I kept my watch in pain While the subtle ghosts grew subtler In the sad night on the wane. From midnight to the cockcrow I watched till all were gone, Some to sleep in the shifting sea And some under turf and stone: Living had failed and dead had failed And I was indeed alone.", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1037": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1037, "poem.id": 1037, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:01:20", "poem.title": "The Love Of Christ Which Passeth Kowledge", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1038": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1038, "poem.id": 1038, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:01:22", "poem.title": "The Peach Tree On The Southern Wall", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1039": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1039, "poem.id": 1039, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:01:26", "poem.title": "The Lily Has An Air", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1040": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1040, "poem.id": 1040, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:01:29", "poem.title": "What Does The Donkey Bray About?", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1041": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1041, "poem.id": 1041, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:01:34", "poem.title": "When The Cows Come Home The Milk Is Coming", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1042": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1042, "poem.id": 1042, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:01:38", "poem.title": "Vanity Of Vanities", "poem.date": "6/27/2015", "poem.content": "Ah, woe is me for pleasure that is vain,Ah, woe is me for glory that is past:Pleasure that bringeth sorrow at the last,Glory that at the last bringeth no gain!So saith the sinking heart; and so againIt shall say till the mighty angel-blastIs blown, making the sun and moon aghast,And showering down the stars like sudden rain.And evermore men shall go fearfully,Bending beneath their weight of heaviness;And ancient men shall lie down wearily,And strong men shall rise up in weariness;Yea, even the young shall answer sighingly,Saying one to another: How vain it is!", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1043": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1043, "poem.id": 1043, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:01:42", "poem.title": "Weary In Well-Doing", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1044": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1044, "poem.id": 1044, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:01:48", "poem.title": "Three Plum Buns", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1045": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1045, "poem.id": 1045, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:01:50", "poem.title": "The Summer Nights Are Short", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1046": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1046, "poem.id": 1046, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:01:56", "poem.title": "Wee Wee Husband", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1047": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1047, "poem.id": 1047, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:02:01", "poem.title": "What Does The Bee Do?", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1048": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1048, "poem.id": 1048, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:02:05", "poem.title": "What Will You Give Me For My Pound?", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1049": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1049, "poem.id": 1049, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:02:08", "poem.title": "There Is But One May In The Year,", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1050": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1050, "poem.id": 1050, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:02:10", "poem.title": "There Is One That Has A Head Without An Eye", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1051": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1051, "poem.id": 1051, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:02:15", "poem.title": "The One Certainty", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1052": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1052, "poem.id": 1052, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:02:22", "poem.title": "Three Little Children", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1053": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1053, "poem.id": 1053, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:02:28", "poem.title": "The Lily Has A Smooth Stalk", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1054": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1054, "poem.id": 1054, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:02:34", "poem.title": "There's Snow On The Fields", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1055": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1055, "poem.id": 1055, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:02:37", "poem.title": "Twilight Night", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1056": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1056, "poem.id": 1056, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:02:43", "poem.title": "Clouds", "poem.date": "4/6/2015", "poem.content": "White sheep, white sheep,On a blue hill,When the wind stops,You all stand still.When the wind blows,You walk away slow.White sheep, white sheep,Where do you go?", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1057": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1057, "poem.id": 1057, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:02:47", "poem.title": "The Wind Has Such A Rainy Sound", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1058": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1058, "poem.id": 1058, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:02:52", "poem.title": "Christmas Eve", "poem.date": "12/14/2015", "poem.content": "CHRISTMAS hath darknessBrighter than the blazing noon,Christmas hath a chillnessWarmer than the heat of June,Christmas hath a beautyLovelier than the world can show:For Christmas bringeth Jesus,Brought for us so low.Earth, strike up your music,Birds that sing and bells that ring;Heaven hath answering musicFor all Angels soon to sing:Earth, put on your whitestBridal robe of spotless snow:For Christmas bringeth Jesus,Brought for us so low.", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1059": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1059, "poem.id": 1059, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:02:58", "poem.title": "Three Seasons", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1060": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1060, "poem.id": 1060, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:03:03", "poem.title": "When A Mounting Skylark Sings", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1061": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1061, "poem.id": 1061, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:03:06", "poem.title": "Twilight Calm", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1062": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1062, "poem.id": 1062, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:03:08", "poem.title": "The World", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1063": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1063, "poem.id": 1063, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:03:12", "poem.title": "When Fishes Set Umbrellas Up", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1064": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1064, "poem.id": 1064, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:03:16", "poem.title": "I loved you first: but afterwards your love", "poem.date": "8/3/2015", "poem.content": "I loved you first: but afterwards your love,Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier songAs drowned the friendly cooings of my dove.Which owes the other most? My love was long,And yours one moment seemed to wax more strong;I loved and guessed at you, you contrued meAnd loved me for what might or might not be—Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong.For verily love knows not ‘mine' or ‘thine';With separate ‘I' and ‘thou' free love has done,For one is both and both are one in love:Rich love knows nought of ‘thine that is not mine';Both have the strength and both the length thereof,Both of us, of the love which makes us one.", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1065": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1065, "poem.id": 1065, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:03:22", "poem.title": "They Desire A Better Country", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1066": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1066, "poem.id": 1066, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:03:25", "poem.title": "The Caterpillar", "poem.date": "12/15/2014", "poem.content": "Brown and furryCaterpillar in a hurry;Take your walkTo the shady leaf or stalk.May no toad spy you,May the little birds pass by you;Spin and die,To live again a butterfly.", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "1067": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1067, "poem.id": 1067, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:03:28", "poem.title": "Under The Rose", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21392": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21392, "poem.id": 21392, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:39:31", "poem.title": "What Are Heavy? Sea-Sand And Sorrow", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21396": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21396, "poem.id": 21396, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:39:36", "poem.title": "What Do The Stars Do", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21400": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21400, "poem.id": 21400, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:39:39", "poem.title": "The Queen Of Hearts", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21401": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21401, "poem.id": 21401, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:39:46", "poem.title": "Twist Me A Crown Of Wind-Flowers", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21408": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21408, "poem.id": 21408, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:39:48", "poem.title": "Introspective", "poem.date": "11/27/2015", "poem.content": "I wish it were over the terrible pain,Pang after pang again and again;First the shattering ruining blow,Then the probing steady and slow.Did I wince? I did not faint:My soul broke but was not bent;Up I stand like a blasted treeBy the shore of the shivering sea.On my boughs neither leaf nor fruit,No sap in my uttermost root,Brooding in an anguish dumbOn the short past and the long to come.Dumb I was when the ruin fell,Dumb I remain and will never tell:O my soul I talk with theeBut not another the sight must see.I did not start when the torture stung,I did not faint when the torture wrung;Let it come tenfold if come it mustBut I will not groan when I bite the dust.", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21409": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21409, "poem.id": 21409, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:39:53", "poem.title": "On The Death Of A Cat", "poem.date": "1/7/2015", "poem.content": "Who shall tell the lady's griefWhen her Cat was past relief?Who shall number the hot tearsShed o'er her, beloved for years?Who shall say the dark dismayWhich her dying caused that day?Come, ye Muses, one and all,Come obedient to my call.Come and mourn, with tuneful breath,Each one for a separate death;And while you in numbers sigh,I will sing her elegy.Of a noble race she came,And Grimalkin was her name.Young and old full many a mouseFelt the prowess of her house:Weak and strong full many a ratCowered beneath her crushing pat:And the birds around the placeShrank from her too close embrace.But one night, reft of her strength,She laid down and died at length:Lay a kitten by her side,In whose life the mother died.Spare her line and lineage,Guard her kitten's tender age,And that kitten's name as wideShall be known as her's that died.And whoever passes byThe poor grave where Puss doth lie,Softly, softly let him tread,Nor disturb her narrow bed.", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21413": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21413, "poem.id": 21413, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:39:58", "poem.title": "The Poor Ghost", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21414": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21414, "poem.id": 21414, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:40:04", "poem.title": "A Testimony", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21415": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21415, "poem.id": 21415, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:40:09", "poem.title": "I Have A Poll Parrot", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21416": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21416, "poem.id": 21416, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:40:16", "poem.title": "The Skylark", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21417": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21417, "poem.id": 21417, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:40:23", "poem.title": "A Ballad Of Boding", "poem.date": "12/12/2014", "poem.content": "There are sleeping dreams and waking dreams;What seems is not always as it seems.I looked out of my window in the sweet new morning,And there I saw three barges of manifold adorningWent sailing toward the East:The first had sails like fire,The next like glittering wire,But sackcloth were the sails of the least;And all the crews made music, and two had spread a feast.The first choir breathed in flutes,And fingered soft guitars;The second won from lutesHarmonious chords and jars,With drums for stormy bars:But the third was all of harpers and scarlet trumpeters;Notes of triumph, thenAn alarm again,As for onset, as for victory, rallies, stirs,Peace at last and glory to the vanquishers.The first barge showed for figurehead a Love with wings;The second showed for figurehead a Worm with stings;The third, a Lily tangled to a Rose which clings.The first bore for freight gold and spice and down;The second bore a sword, a sceptre, and a crown;The third, a heap of earth gone to dust and brown.Winged Love meseemed like Folly in the face;Stinged Worm meseemed loathly in his place;Lily and Rose were flowers of grace.Merry went the revel of the fire-sailed crew,Singing, feasting, dancing to and fro:Pleasures ever changing, ever graceful, ever new;Sighs, but scarce of woe;All the sighingWooed such sweet replying;All the sighing, sweet and low,Used to come and goFor more pleasure, merely so.Yet at intervals some one grew tiredOf everything desired,And sank, I knew not whither, in sorry plight,Out of sight.The second crew seemed everWider-visioned, graver,More distinct of purpose, more sustained of will;With heads erect and proud,And voices sometimes loud;With endless tacking, counter-tacking,All things grasping, all things lacking,It would seem;Ever shifting helm, or sail, or shroud,Drifting on as in a dream.Hoarding to their utmost bent,Feasting to their fill,Yet gnawed by discontent,Envy, hatred, malice, on their road they went.Their freight was not a treasure,Their music not a pleasure;The sword flashed, cleaving through their bands,Sceptre and crown changed hands.The third crew as they wentSeemed mostly different;They toiled in rowing, for to them the wind was contrary,As all the world might see.They labored at the oar,While on their heads they boreThe fiery stress of sunshine more and more.They labored at the oar hand-sore,Till rain went splashing,And spray went dashing,Down on them, and up on them, more and more.Their sails were patched and rent,Their masts were bent,In peril of their lives they worked and went.For them no feast was spread,No soft luxurious bedScented and white,No crown or sceptre hung in sight;In weariness and painfulness,In thirst and sore distress,They rowed and steered from left to rightWith all their might.Their trumpeters and harpers round aboutIncessantly played out,And sometimes they made answer with a shout;But oftener they groaned or wept,And seldom paused to eat, and seldom slept.I wept for pity watching them, but moreI wept heart-soreOnce and again to seeSome weary man plunge overboard, and swimTo Love or Worm ship floating buoyantly:And there all welcomed him.The ships steered each apart and seemed to scorn each other,Yet all the crews were interchangeable;Now one man, now another,—Like bloodless spectres some, some flushed by health,—Changed openly, or changed by stealth,Scaling a slippery side, and scaled it well.The most left Love ship, hauling wealthUp Worm ship's side;While some few hollow-eyedLeft either for the sack-sailed boat;But this, though not remote,Was worst to mount, and whoso left it onceScarce ever came again,But seemed to loathe his erst companions,And wish and work them bane.Then I knew (I know not how) there lurked quicksands full of dread,Rocks and reefs and whirlpools in the water-bed,Whence a waterspoutInstantaneously leaped out,Roaring as it reared its head.Soon I spied a something dim,Many-handed, grim,That went flitting to and fro the first and second ship;It puffed their sails full outWith puffs of smoky breathFrom a smouldering lip,And cleared the waterspoutWhich reeled roaring round aboutThreatening death.With a horny hand it steered,And a horn appearedOn its sneering head uprearedHaughty and highAgainst the blackening lowering sky.With a hoof it swayed the waves;They opened here and there,Till I spied deep ocean gravesFull of skeletonsThat were men and women onceFoul or fair;Full of things that creepAnd fester in the deepAnd never breathe the clean life-nurturing air.The third bark held aloofFrom the Monster with the hoof,Despite his urgent beck,And fraught with guileAbominable his smile;Till I saw him take a flying leap on to that deck.Then full of awe,With these same eyes I sawHis head incredible retract its hornRounding like babe's new born,While silvery phosphorescence playedAbout his dis-horned head.The sneer smoothed from his lip,He beamed blandly on the ship;All winds sank to a moan,All waves to a monotone(For all these seemed his realm),While he laid a strong caressing hand upon the helm.Then a cry well nigh of despairShrieked to heaven, a clamor of desperate prayer.The harpers harped no more,While the trumpeters sounded soreAn alarm to wake the dead from their bed:To the rescue, to the rescue, now or never,To the rescue, O ye living, O ye dead,Or no more help or hope for ever!—The planks strained as though they must part asunder,The masts bent as though they must dip under,And the winds and the waves at lengthGirt up their strength,And the depths were laid bare,And heaven flashed fire and volleyed thunderThrough the rain-choked air,And sea and sky seemed to kissIn the horror and the hissOf the whole world shuddering everywhere.Lo! a Flyer swooping downWith wings to span the globe,And splendor for his robeAnd splendor for his crown.He lighted on the helm with a foot of fire,And spun the Monster overboard:And that monstrous thing abhorred,Gnashing with balked desire,Wriggled like a worm infirmUp the WormOf the loathly figurehead.There he crouched and gnashed;And his head re-horned, and gashedFrom the other's grapple, dripped bloody red.I saw that thing accurstWreak his worstOn the first and second crew:Some with baited hookHe angled for and took,Some dragged overboard in a net he threw,Some he did to deathWith hoof or horn or blasting breath.I heard a voice of wailingWhere the ships went sailing,A sorrowful voice prevailingAbove the sound of the sea,Above the singers' voices,And musical merry noises;All songs had turned to sighing,The light was failing,The day was dying—Ah me,That such a sorrow should be!There was sorrow on the sea and sorrow on the landWhen Love ship went down by the bottomless quicksandTo its grave in the bitter wave.There was sorrow on the sea and sorrow on the landWhen Worm ship went to pieces on the rock-bound strand,And the bitter wave was its grave.But land and sea waxed hoaryIn whiteness of a gloryNever told in storyNor seen by mortal eye,When the third ship crossed the barWhere whirls and breakers are,And steered into the splendors of the sky;That third bark and that leastWhich had never seemed to feast,Yet kept high festival above sun and moon and star.", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21418": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21418, "poem.id": 21418, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:40:27", "poem.title": "I Am A King", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21419": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21419, "poem.id": 21419, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:40:31", "poem.title": "Hear What The Mournful Linnets Say", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21420": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21420, "poem.id": 21420, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:40:34", "poem.title": "I Planted A Hand", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21421": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21421, "poem.id": 21421, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:40:41", "poem.title": "Where Innocent Bright-Eyed Daisies Are", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21422": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21422, "poem.id": 21422, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:40:46", "poem.title": "Bitter For Sweet", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21423": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21423, "poem.id": 21423, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:40:51", "poem.title": "My Baby Has A Father And A Mother", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21424": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21424, "poem.id": 21424, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:40:54", "poem.title": "I Dreamt I Caught A Little Owl", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21425": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21425, "poem.id": 21425, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:40:58", "poem.title": "I Caught A Little Ladybird", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21426": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21426, "poem.id": 21426, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:41:03", "poem.title": "Hop-O'-My-Thumb And Little Jack Horner", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21427": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21427, "poem.id": 21427, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:41:06", "poem.title": "If The Sun Could Tell Us Half", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21428": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21428, "poem.id": 21428, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:41:08", "poem.title": "My Baby Has A Mottled Fist", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21429": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21429, "poem.id": 21429, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:41:12", "poem.title": "Heartsease In My Garden Bed", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21430": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21430, "poem.id": 21430, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:41:17", "poem.title": "Let Me Go", "poem.date": "3/9/2015", "poem.content": "When I come to the end of the roadAnd the sun has set for meI want no rites in a gloom filled roomWhy cry for a soul set free?Miss me a little, but not for longAnd not with your head bowed lowRemember the love that once we sharedMiss me, but let me go.For this is a journey we all must takeAnd each must go alone.It's all part of the master planA step on the road to home.When you are lonely and sick at heartGo the friends we know.Laugh at all the things we used to doMiss me, but let me go.When I am dead my dearestSing no sad songs for mePlant thou no roses at my headNor shady cypress treeBe the green grass above meWith showers and dewdrops wetAnd if thou wilt rememberAnd if thou wilt, forget.I shall not see the shadows,I shall not fear the rain;I shall not hear the nightingaleSing on as if in pain;And dreaming through the twilightThat doth not rise nor set,Haply I may remember,And haply may forget.", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21431": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21431, "poem.id": 21431, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:41:24", "poem.title": "Minnie And Mattie", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21432": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21432, "poem.id": 21432, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:41:26", "poem.title": "A White Hen Sitting", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21433": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21433, "poem.id": 21433, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:41:31", "poem.title": "Lie A-Bed", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21434": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21434, "poem.id": 21434, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:41:37", "poem.title": "Minnie Bakes Oaten Cakes", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21435": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21435, "poem.id": 21435, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:41:39", "poem.title": "If All Were Rain And Never Sun", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21436": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21436, "poem.id": 21436, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:41:46", "poem.title": "Lord Jesus, Who Would Think That I Am Thine?", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21437": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21437, "poem.id": 21437, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:41:50", "poem.title": "I Dug And Dug Amongst The Snow", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21438": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21438, "poem.id": 21438, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:41:55", "poem.title": "Mother Shake The Cherry-Tree", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21439": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21439, "poem.id": 21439, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:42:01", "poem.title": "Oh, Fair To See", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21440": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21440, "poem.id": 21440, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:42:05", "poem.title": "A Ring Posy", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21441": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21441, "poem.id": 21441, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:42:13", "poem.title": "Baby Cry", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21442": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21442, "poem.id": 21442, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:42:18", "poem.title": "Bird Or Beast?", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21443": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21443, "poem.id": 21443, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:42:22", "poem.title": "A Toadstool Comes Up In A Night", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21444": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21444, "poem.id": 21444, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:42:27", "poem.title": "I Have A Little Husband", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21445": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21445, "poem.id": 21445, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:42:29", "poem.title": "An October Garden", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21446": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21446, "poem.id": 21446, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:42:34", "poem.title": "Bird Raptures", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21447": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21447, "poem.id": 21447, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:42:38", "poem.title": "I Have But One Rose In The World", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21448": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21448, "poem.id": 21448, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:42:41", "poem.title": "My Dream", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21449": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21449, "poem.id": 21449, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:42:43", "poem.title": "In The Meadow - What In The Meadow?", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21450": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21450, "poem.id": 21450, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:42:48", "poem.title": "A Ring Upon Her Finger", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21451": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21451, "poem.id": 21451, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:42:54", "poem.title": "Brownie, Brownie, Let Down Your Milk", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21452": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21452, "poem.id": 21452, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:43:00", "poem.title": "Maiden May", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21453": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21453, "poem.id": 21453, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:43:05", "poem.title": "My Friend", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21454": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21454, "poem.id": 21454, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:43:11", "poem.title": "Hope Is Like A Harebell Trembling From Its Birth", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21455": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21455, "poem.id": 21455, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:43:17", "poem.title": "Our Little Baby Fell Asleep", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21456": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21456, "poem.id": 21456, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:43:20", "poem.title": "Mother Country", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21457": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21457, "poem.id": 21457, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:43:24", "poem.title": "Margaret Has A Milking-Pail", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21458": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21458, "poem.id": 21458, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:43:27", "poem.title": "None Other Lamb", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21459": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21459, "poem.id": 21459, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:43:32", "poem.title": "Advent", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21460": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21460, "poem.id": 21460, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:43:36", "poem.title": "Blind From My Birth", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21461": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21461, "poem.id": 21461, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:43:40", "poem.title": "All The Bells Were Ringing", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21462": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21462, "poem.id": 21462, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:43:46", "poem.title": "The Dear Old Woman In The Lane", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21463": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21463, "poem.id": 21463, "poem.ts": 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L.", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21526": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21526, "poem.id": 21526, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:48:41", "poem.title": "Summer", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21527": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21527, "poem.id": 21527, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:48:43", "poem.title": "Fata Morgana", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21528": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21528, "poem.id": 21528, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:48:50", "poem.title": "Easter Even", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21529": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21529, "poem.id": 21529, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:48:53", "poem.title": "Life And Death", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21530": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21530, "poem.id": 21530, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:49:00", "poem.title": "Give Me Holly", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21531": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21531, "poem.id": 21531, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:49:03", "poem.title": "Kookoorookoo! 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Georgina Rossetti" }, "21611": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21611, "poem.id": 21611, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:54:42", "poem.title": "After Death", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21612": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21612, "poem.id": 21612, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:54:49", "poem.title": "An Echo From Willowood", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21613": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21613, "poem.id": 21613, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:54:53", "poem.title": "Sonnets Are Full Of Love", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21614": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21614, "poem.id": 21614, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:54:56", "poem.title": "An Emerald Is As Green As Grass", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21615": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21615, "poem.id": 21615, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:55:02", "poem.title": "The Prince's Progress (Excerpt)", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21616": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21616, "poem.id": 21616, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:55:08", "poem.title": "A Pause Of Thought", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21617": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21617, "poem.id": 21617, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:55:13", "poem.title": "A Green Cornfield", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21619": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21619, "poem.id": 21619, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:55:18", "poem.title": "The Three Enemies", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21620": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21620, "poem.id": 21620, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:55:23", "poem.title": "Goodbye In Fear, Goodbye In Sorrow,", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21621": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21621, "poem.id": 21621, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:55:26", "poem.title": "A Linnet In A Gilded Cage", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21622": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21622, "poem.id": 21622, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:55:29", "poem.title": "Consider The Lilies Of The Field", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21623": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21623, "poem.id": 21623, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:55:35", "poem.title": "A House Of Cards", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21624": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21624, "poem.id": 21624, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:55:37", "poem.title": "Color", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21625": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21625, "poem.id": 21625, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:55:43", "poem.title": "A Frisky Lamb", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21626": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21626, "poem.id": 21626, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:55:45", "poem.title": "Marvel Of Marvels", "poem.date": "1/4/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21627": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21627, "poem.id": 21627, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:55:51", "poem.title": "A Royal Princess", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21628": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21628, "poem.id": 21628, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:55:56", "poem.title": "A Diamond Or A Coal?", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21629": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21629, "poem.id": 21629, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:55:58", "poem.title": "The Thread Of Life", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21630": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21630, "poem.id": 21630, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:56:02", "poem.title": "A Pin Has A Head, But Has No Hair", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21631": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21631, "poem.id": 21631, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:56:05", "poem.title": "Twice", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21632": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21632, "poem.id": 21632, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:56:08", "poem.title": "Fluttered Wings", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21633": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21633, "poem.id": 21633, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:56:11", "poem.title": "Aloof", "poem.date": "1/4/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21634": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21634, "poem.id": 21634, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:56:15", "poem.title": "Holy Innocents", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21635": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21635, "poem.id": 21635, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:56:18", "poem.title": "In An Artist's Studio", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21636": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21636, "poem.id": 21636, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:56:24", "poem.title": "A Christmas Carol", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21637": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21637, "poem.id": 21637, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:56:28", "poem.title": "From “later Life”", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21638": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21638, "poem.id": 21638, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:56:34", "poem.title": "May", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21639": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21639, "poem.id": 21639, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:56:38", "poem.title": "Is It Well With The Child?", "poem.date": "1/4/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21640": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21640, "poem.id": 21640, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:56:45", "poem.title": "Monna Innominata: A Sonnet Of Sonnets", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21641": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21641, "poem.id": 21641, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:56:51", "poem.title": "In The Bleak Midwinter", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21642": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21642, "poem.id": 21642, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:56:57", "poem.title": "In Progress", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21643": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21643, "poem.id": 21643, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:57:01", "poem.title": "Before The Paling Of The Stars", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21644": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21644, "poem.id": 21644, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:57:06", "poem.title": "A Frog's Fate", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21645": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21645, "poem.id": 21645, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:57:09", "poem.title": "At Home", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21646": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21646, "poem.id": 21646, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:57:12", "poem.title": "A Dream", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21647": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21647, "poem.id": 21647, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:57:17", "poem.title": "De Profundis", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21648": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21648, "poem.id": 21648, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:57:23", "poem.title": "Sappho", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21650": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21650, "poem.id": 21650, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:57:25", "poem.title": "Up-Hill", "poem.date": "1/4/2003", "poem.content": "Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day’s journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend. But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn. Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? They will not keep you standing at that door. Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Of labour you shall find the sum. Will there be beds for me and all who seek? Yea, beds for all who come.", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21653": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21653, "poem.id": 21653, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:57:32", "poem.title": "Rest", "poem.date": "1/4/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21655": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21655, "poem.id": 21655, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:57:36", "poem.title": "The First Day", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21656": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21656, "poem.id": 21656, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:57:38", "poem.title": "Who Shall Deliver Me?", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21657": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21657, "poem.id": 21657, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:57:42", "poem.title": "By The Sea", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21658": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21658, "poem.id": 21658, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:57:48", "poem.title": "Beneath Thy Cross", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21659": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21659, "poem.id": 21659, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:57:53", "poem.title": "Winter: My Secret", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21660": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21660, "poem.id": 21660, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:57:55", "poem.title": "The Convent Threshold", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21661": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21661, "poem.id": 21661, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:58:01", "poem.title": "Maude Clare", "poem.date": "3/16/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21662": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21662, "poem.id": 21662, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:58:03", "poem.title": "Mirage", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21663": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21663, "poem.id": 21663, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:58:06", "poem.title": "Cobwebs", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21664": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21664, "poem.id": 21664, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:58:09", "poem.title": "Cousin Kate", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21665": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21665, "poem.id": 21665, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:58:16", "poem.title": "Spring Quiet", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21666": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21666, "poem.id": 21666, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:58:23", "poem.title": "What Would I Give", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21667": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21667, "poem.id": 21667, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:58:27", "poem.title": "Bride Song", "poem.date": "1/4/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21668": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21668, "poem.id": 21668, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:58:30", "poem.title": "Goblin Market", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21669": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21669, "poem.id": 21669, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:58:37", "poem.title": "Promises Like Pie-Crust", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21670": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21670, "poem.id": 21670, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:58:39", "poem.title": "Silent Noon", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21671": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21671, "poem.id": 21671, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:58:44", "poem.title": "A Baby's Cradle With No Baby In It", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21672": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21672, "poem.id": 21672, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:58:49", "poem.title": "An Apple-Gathering", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21673": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21673, "poem.id": 21673, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:58:55", "poem.title": "Sleeping At Last", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21674": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21674, "poem.id": 21674, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:58:59", "poem.title": "No, Thank You John", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21675": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21675, "poem.id": 21675, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:59:05", "poem.title": "Song", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21676": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21676, "poem.id": 21676, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:59:11", "poem.title": "A Pause", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, 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Eve", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21682": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21682, "poem.id": 21682, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:59:39", "poem.title": "When I Am Dead, My Dearest", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21683": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21683, "poem.id": 21683, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:59:42", "poem.title": "A Birthday", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21684": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21684, "poem.id": 21684, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:59:49", "poem.title": "Dream Land", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21685": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21685, "poem.id": 21685, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:59:52", "poem.title": "Echo", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" }, "21686": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21686, "poem.id": 21686, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:59:53", "poem.title": "Remember", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Christina Georgina Rossetti" } } }, "28": { "poet.id": 28, "poet.ts": "2018-02-28 20:51:14", "poet.title": "Edgar Albert Guest", "poet.poet_x_poem_id": { "1068": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1068, "poem.id": 1068, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:03:34", "poem.title": "The Temple - What Makes It Of Worth", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1069": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1069, "poem.id": 1069, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:03:39", "poem.title": "He's Taken Out His Papers", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1070": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1070, "poem.id": 1070, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:03:45", "poem.title": "What We Need", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1071": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1071, "poem.id": 1071, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:03:48", "poem.title": "The Common Joys", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1072": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1072, "poem.id": 1072, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:03:52", "poem.title": "The Cheat", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1073": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1073, "poem.id": 1073, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:03:55", "poem.title": "Lines For A Flag Raising Ceremony", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "FULL many a flag the breeze has kissed;Through ages long the morning sun Has risen over the early mistThe flags of men to look upon. And some were red against the sky,And some with colors true were gay, And some in shame were born to die,For Flags of hate must pass away. Such symbols fall as men depart,Brief is the reign of arrant might; The vicious and the vile at heart Give way in time before the right.A flag is nothing in itself;It but reflects the lives of men; And they who lived and toiled for pelfWent out as vipers in a den. God cleans the sky from time to timeOf every tyrant flag that flies, And every brazen badge of crimeFalls to the ground and swiftly dies. Proud kings are mouldering in the dust;Proud flags of ages past are gone; Only the symbols of the just Have lived and shall keep living on.So long as we shall serve the truth,So long as honor stamps us fair, Each age shall pass unto its youthOld Glory proudly flying there! But if we fail our splendid past,If we prove faithless, weak and base, That age shall be our banner's last;A fairer flag shall take its place. This flag we fling unto the skiesIs but an emblem of our hearts, And when our love of freedom dies, Our banner with our race departs.Full many a flag the breezes kiss,Full many a flag the sun has known, But none so bright and fair as this;None quite so splendid as our own! This tells the world that we are menWho cling to manhood's ways and truth; It is our soul's great voice and pen,The strength of age, the guide of youth, And it shall ever hold the skySo long as we shall keep our trust;But if our love of right shall die Our Flag shall sink into the dust.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1074": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1074, "poem.id": 1074, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:04:01", "poem.title": "Boy O' Mine", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1075": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1075, "poem.id": 1075, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:04:07", "poem.title": "Folks", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1076": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1076, "poem.id": 1076, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:04:12", "poem.title": "Old-Fashioned Letters", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "Old-fashioned letters! How good they were!And nobody writes them now;Never at all comes in the scrawlOn the written pages which told us allThe news of town and the folks we knew,And what they had done or were going to do.It seems we've forgotten howTo spend an hour with our pen in handTo write in the language we understand.Old-fashioned letters we used to getAnd ponder each fond line o'er;The glad words rolled like running gold,As smoothly their tales of joy they told,And our hearts beat fast with a keen delightAs we read the news they were pleased to writeAnd gathered the love they bore.But few of the letters that come to-dayAre penned to us in the old-time way.Old-fashioned letters that told us allThe tales of the far away;Where they'd been and the folks they'd seen;And better than any fine magazineWas the writing too, for it bore the styleOf a simple heart and a sunny smile,And was pure as the breath of May.Some of them oft were damp with tears,But those were the letters that lived for years.Old-fashioned letters! How good they were!And, oh, how we watched the mails;But nobody writes of the quaint delightsOf the sunny days and the merry nightsOr tells us the things that we yearn to know—That art passed out with the long ago,And lost are the simple tales;Yet we all would happier be, I think,If we'd spend more time with our pen and ink.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1077": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1077, "poem.id": 1077, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:04:18", "poem.title": "The Frosting Dish", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1078": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1078, "poem.id": 1078, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:04:24", "poem.title": "The Fifty-Per-Cent Man", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "He limped into the place one day, a leg and arm were gone, 'Just half a man,' he told the boss, 'right now you look upon. An accident did this to me, 'twere better had I died, It robbed me of efficiency, but left me with my pride.'The boss said kindly unto him: 'This is a busy place,It takes two arms and two good legs to hold our daily pace;It's able-bodied men I need, not crippled men like you.''Don't you suppose,' he answered then, 'there's something I can do?''Could you not find some sheltered nook where I can fill the day,Where I can use my one good arm and earn my weekly pay?Though half of me is stripped away, the other half is proudAnd it will do some useful work if only it's allowed.They've taught me now to use my hand, they've given me a trade, They've said I need not lose my pride and meekly beg for aid, But when the bosses look about they never seem to see A place where they can use a man who's battered up like me.'Oh, better far that charity, and better for the town,It is to help the man to rise whom fate has stricken down.And better for that factory which keeps a job or twoWhere speed and strength are not required, which crippled men can do.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1079": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1079, "poem.id": 1079, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:04:26", "poem.title": "The Best Land", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1080": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1080, "poem.id": 1080, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:04:31", "poem.title": "The Need", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1081": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1081, "poem.id": 1081, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:04:35", "poem.title": "The Brethren", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1082": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1082, "poem.id": 1082, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:04:38", "poem.title": "The Homely Man", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1083": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1083, "poem.id": 1083, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:04:42", "poem.title": "The Family Doctor", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1084": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1084, "poem.id": 1084, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:04:45", "poem.title": "Playing The Game", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1085": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1085, "poem.id": 1085, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:04:48", "poem.title": "Living", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1086": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1086, "poem.id": 1086, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:04:53", "poem.title": "When The Young Are Grown", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1087": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1087, "poem.id": 1087, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:04:59", "poem.title": "Motherhood", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1088": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1088, "poem.id": 1088, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:05:03", "poem.title": "Youth", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1089": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1089, "poem.id": 1089, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:05:05", "poem.title": "Playing For Keeps", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "I've watched him change from his bibs and things, from bonnets known as 'cute,'To little frocks, and later on I saw him don a suit;And though it was of calico, those knickers gave him joy,Until the day we all agreed 'twas time for corduroy.I say I've seen the changes come, it seems with bounds and leaps,But here's another just arrived—he's playing mibs for keeps!The guide posts of his life fly by. The boy that is to-day,To-morrow morning we may wake to find has gone away,And in his place will be a lad we've never known before,Older and wiser in his ways, and filled with new-found lore.Now here's another boy to-day, counting his marble heapsAnd proudly boasting to his dad he's playing mibs for keeps!His mother doesn't like this change. She says it is a shame—That since he plays with larger boys, he's bound to lose the game.But little do I mind his loss; I'm more concerned to knowThe way he acts the times when he must see his marbles go.And oh, I hope he will not be the little boy who weepsToo much when he has failed to win while playing mibs for keeps.Playing for keeps! Another step toward manhood's broad estate!This is what some term growing up, or destiny, or fate.Yet from this game with marbles, played with youngsters on the street,I hope will come a larger boy, too big to lie or cheat,And by these mibs which from his clutch another madly sweeps,I hope he'll learn the game of life which must be played for keeps.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1090": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1090, "poem.id": 1090, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:05:07", "poem.title": "The Newspaper Man", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "Bit of a priest and a bit of sailor,Bit of a doctor and bit of a tailor,Bit of a lawyer, and bit of detective,Bit of a judge, for his work is corrective;Cheering the living and soothing the dying,Risking all things, even dare-devil flying;True to his paper and true to his clan—Just look him over, the newspaper man.Sleep! There are times that he'll do with a little,Work till his nerves and his temper are brittle;Fire cannot daunt him, nor long hours disturb him,Gold cannot buy him and threats cannot curb him;Highbrow or lowbrow, your own speech he'll hand you,Talk as you will to him, he'll understand you;He'll go wherever another man can—That is the way of the newspaper man.Surgeon, if urgent the need be, you'll find him,Ready to help, nor will dizziness blind him;He'll give the ether and never once falter,Say the last rites like a priest at the altar;Gentle and kind with the weak and the weary,Which is proved now and then when his keen eye grows teary;Facing all things in life's curious plan—That is the way of the newspaper man.One night a week may he rest from his labor,One night at home to be father and neighbor;Just a few hours for his own bit of leisure,All the rest's gazing at other men's pleasure,All the rest's toiling, and yet he rejoices,All the world is, and that men do, he voices—Who knows a calling more glorious thanThe day-by-day work of the newspaper man?", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1091": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1091, "poem.id": 1091, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:05:10", "poem.title": "Denial", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1092": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1092, "poem.id": 1092, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:05:14", "poem.title": "The Call", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1093": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1093, "poem.id": 1093, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:05:18", "poem.title": "Somebody Else", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1094": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1094, "poem.id": 1094, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:05:25", "poem.title": "The Grate Fire", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "I'm sorry for a fellow if he cannot look and seeIn a grate fire's friendly flaming all the joys which used to be.If in quiet contemplation of a cheerful ruddy blazeHe sees nothing there recalling all his happy yesterdays,Then his mind is dead to fancy and his life is bleak and bare,And he's doomed to walk the highways that are always thick with care.When the logs are dry as tinder and they crackle with the heat,And the sparks, like merry children, come a-dancing round my feet,In the cold, long nights of autumn I can sit before the blazeAnd watch a panorama born of all my yesterdays.I can leave the present burdens and that moment's bit of woe,And claim once more the gladness of the bygone long ago.There are no absent faces in the grate fire's merry throng;No hands in death are folded, and no lips are stilled to song.All the friends who were are living—like the sparks that fly about;They come romping out to greet me with the same old merry shout,Till it seems to me I'm playing once again on boyhood's stage,Where there's no such thing as sorrow and there's no such thing as age.I can be the care-free schoolboy! I can play the lover, too!I can walk through Maytime orchards with the old sweetheart I knew;I can dream the glad dreams over, greet the old familiar friendsIn a land where there's no parting and the laughter never ends.All the gladness life has given from a grate fire I reclaim,And I'm sorry for the fellow who can only see the flame.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1095": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1095, "poem.id": 1095, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:05:30", "poem.title": "The One In Ten", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1096": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1096, "poem.id": 1096, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:05:33", "poem.title": "The Things They Musn'T Touch", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "Been down to the art museum an' looked at a thousand things,The bodies of ancient mummies an' the treasures of ancient kings,An' some of the walls were lovely, but some of the things weren't much,But all had a rail around 'em, an' all wore a sign 'Don't touch.'Now maybe an art museum needs guards and a warning signAn' the hands of the folks should never paw over its treasures fine;But I noticed the rooms were chilly with all the joys they hold,An' in spite of the lovely pictures, I'd say that the place is cold.An' somehow I got to thinkin' of many a home I knowWhich is kept like an art museum, an' merely a place for show;They haven't railed off their treasures or posted up signs or such,But all of the children know it—there's a lot that they mustn't touch.It's hands off the grand piano, keep out of the finest chair,Stay out of the stylish parlor, don't run on the shiny stair;You may look at the velvet curtains which hang in the stately hall,But always and ever remember, they're not to be touched at all.'Don't touch!' for an art museum, is proper enough, I know,But my children's feet shall scamper wherever they want to go,And I want no rare possessions or a joy which has cost so much,From which I must bar the children and tell them they 'mustn't touch.'", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1097": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1097, "poem.id": 1097, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:05:36", "poem.title": "His Other Chance", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1098": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1098, "poem.id": 1098, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:05:39", "poem.title": "July The Fourth", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "As when a little babe is born the parents cannot guessThe story of the future years, their grief or happiness,So came America to earth, the child of higher things,A nation that should light the way for all men's visionings;A land with but a dream to serve, such was our country then,A prophet to prepare the way of liberty of men!Great was the courage of the past; the tyrant's power was strong,Few spoke the praise of Freedom then, few sang her battle songUntil the bell of liberty rang out upon the mornAnd told the world in Freedom's name a nation had been born.A nation that should lead the way to glorious years to beShould pledge its soul to sacrifice to set all people free.This is the heritage we hold who celebrate today;We are the children of the men who dared to lead the way;We are the sons of men who taught by fine examples trueThe glory they would have us keep, the deeds they'd have us do.They did not serve in selfishness, nor teach us money love,They placed a nation in our charge with Freedom's flag above.I wonder do their spirits know the glory of today? And can they see our banner fly three thousand miles away?And do they know in Freedom's name on foreign soil our sons, Seeking no conquest for themselves, have braved the tyrant's guns?Oh God, fling back heaven's curtains now! Let our forefathers seeThat what was but a dream to them at last has come to' be.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1099": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1099, "poem.id": 1099, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:05:44", "poem.title": "The Silver Stripes", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1100": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1100, "poem.id": 1100, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:05:48", "poem.title": "Hate", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "They say we must not hate, nor fight in hate.I've thought it over many a solemn hour,And cannot mildly view the man or stateThat has no thought, save only to be great;I cannot love the creature drunk with power.I hate the hand that slaughters babes at sea,I hate that will that orders wives to die.And there is something rises up in meWhen brutes run wild in crime and lecheryThat soft adjustments will not satisfy.Men seldom fight the things they do not hate;A vice grows strong on mildly tempered scorn;Rank thrives the weed the gardeners tolerate;You cannot stroke the snake that lies in wait,And change his nature with to-morrow's morn.If roses are to bloom, the weeds must go;Vice be dethroned if virtue is to reign;I Honor and shame together cannot grow,Sin either conquers or we lay it low,Wrong must be hated if the truth remain.I hold that we must fight this war in hateIn bitter hate of blood in fury spilled;Of children, bending over book and slate,Slaughtered to make a Prussian despot great;In hate of mothers pitilessly killed.In hate of liars plotting wars for gain ;In hate of crimes too black for printeds page;In hate of wrongs that mark the tyrant's reign —And crush forever all within his train.Such hate shall be the glory of our age.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1101": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1101, "poem.id": 1101, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:05:53", "poem.title": "The Big Deeds", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1102": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1102, "poem.id": 1102, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:05:58", "poem.title": "The Gold Star", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "The star upon their service flag has changed to gleaming gold;It speaks no more of hope and life, as once it did of old, But splendidly it glistens now for every eye to seeAnd softly whispers: 'Here lived one who died for liberty.'Here once he walked and played and laughed, here oft his smile was known;Within these walls today are kept the toys he used to own.Now I am he who marched away and I am he who fellOf service once I spoke, but now of sacrifice I tell.'No richer home in all this land is there than this I grace,For here was cradled manhood fine; within this humble placeA soldier for the truth was born, and here, beside the door,A mother sits and grieves for him who shall return nomore.''Salute me, stranger, as you pass! I mark a soldier who Gave up the joys of living here, to dare and die for you!This is the home that once he knew, who fought for you and fell;This is a shrine of sacrifice, where faith and courage dwell.'", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1103": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1103, "poem.id": 1103, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:06:03", "poem.title": "Prophecy", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1104": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1104, "poem.id": 1104, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:06:06", "poem.title": "When The Drums Shall Cease To Beat", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1105": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1105, "poem.id": 1105, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:06:11", "poem.title": "Memorial Day", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "The finest tribute we can payUnto our hero dead to-day,Is not a rose wreath, white and red,In memory of the blood they shed;It is to stand beside each mound,Each couch of consecrated ground,And pledge ourselves as warriors trueUnto the work they died to do.Into God's valleys where they lieAt rest, beneath the open sky,Triumphant now o'er every foe,As living tributes let us go.No wreath of rose or immortellesOr spoken word or tolling bellsWill do to-day, unless we giveOur pledge that liberty shall live.Our hearts must be the roses redWe place above our hero dead;To-day beside their graves we mustRenew allegiance to their trust;Must bare our heads and humbly sayWe hold the Flag as dear as they,And stand, as once they stood, to dieTo keep the Stars and Stripes on high.The finest tribute we can payUnto our hero dead to-dayIs not of speech or roses red,But living, throbbing hearts instead,That shall renew the pledge they sealedWith death upon the battlefield:That freedom's flag shall bear no stainAnd free men wear no tyrant's chain.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1106": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1106, "poem.id": 1106, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:06:13", "poem.title": "Heroes", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "1107": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1107, "poem.id": 1107, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:06:18", "poem.title": "Signs", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21727": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21727, "poem.id": 21727, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 08:59:59", "poem.title": "A Fine Sight", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21728": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21728, "poem.id": 21728, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:00:03", "poem.title": "The Fishing Outfit", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "You may talk of stylish raiment, You may boast your broadcloth fine,And the price you gave in payment May be treble that of mine.But there's one suit I'd not trade you Though it's shabby and it's thin,For the garb your tailor made you: That's the tattered, Mud-bespattered Suit that I go fishing in.There's no king in silks and laces And with jewels on his breast,With whom I would alter places. There's no man so richly dressedOr so like a fashion panel That, his luxuries to win,I would swap my shirt of flannel And the rusty, Frayed and dusty Suit that I go fishing in.'Tis an outfit meant for pleasure; It is freedom's raiment, too;It's a garb that I shall treasure Till my time of life is through.Though perhaps it looks the saddest Of all robes for mortal skin,I am proudest and I'm gladdest In that easy, Old and greasy Suit that I go fishing in.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21729": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21729, "poem.id": 21729, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:00:09", "poem.title": "The Summer Children", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21730": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21730, "poem.id": 21730, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:00:14", "poem.title": "When Mother Cooked With Wood", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21731": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21731, "poem.id": 21731, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:00:18", "poem.title": "Yesterday", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21732": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21732, "poem.id": 21732, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:00:22", "poem.title": "The Little Church", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "The little church of Long Ago, where as a boy I satWith mother in the family pew and fumbled with my hat—How I would like to see it now the way I saw it then,The straight-backed pews, the pulpit high, the women and the menDressed stiffly. in their Sunday clothes and solemnly devout,Who closed their eyes when prayers were said and never looked about—That little church of Long Ago, it wasn't grand to see,But even as a little boy it meant a lot to me.The choir loft where father sang comes back to me again;I hear his tenor voice once more the way I heard it whenThe deacons used to pass the plate, and once again I seeThe people fumbling for their coins, as glad as they could beTo drop their quarters on the plate, and I'm a boy once moreWith my two pennies in my fist that mother gave beforeWe left the house, and once again I'm reaching out to tryTo drop them on the plate before the deacon passes by.It seems to me I'm sitting in that high-backed pew, the whileThe minister is preaching in that good old-fashioned style;And though I couldn't understand it all somehow I knowThe Bible was the text book in that church of Long Ago;He didn't preach on politics, but used the word of God,And even now I seem to see the people gravely nod,As though agreeing thoroughly with all he had to say,And then I see them thanking him before they go away.The little church of Long Ago was not a structure huge,It had no hired singers or no other subterfugeTo get the people to attend, 'twas just a simple placeWhere every Sunday we were told about God's saving grace;No men of wealth were gathered there to help it with a gift;The only worldly thing it had—a mortgage hard to lift.And somehow, dreaming here to-day, I wish that I could knowThe joy of once more sitting in that church of Long Ago.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21733": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21733, "poem.id": 21733, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:00:27", "poem.title": "The Little Hurts", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21734": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21734, "poem.id": 21734, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:00:31", "poem.title": "The Truth About Envy", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21735": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21735, "poem.id": 21735, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:00:34", "poem.title": "The Job", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21736": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21736, "poem.id": 21736, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:00:39", "poem.title": "The Lure That Failed", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21737": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21737, "poem.id": 21737, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:00:43", "poem.title": "Another Mouth To Feed", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21738": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21738, "poem.id": 21738, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:00:49", "poem.title": "At Pelletier's", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21739": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21739, "poem.id": 21739, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:00:54", "poem.title": "When Nellie's On The Job", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "The bright spots in my life are when the servant quits the place,Although that grim disturbance brings a frown to Nellie's face;The week between the old girl's' reign and entry of the newIs one that's filled with happiness and comfort through and through.The charm of living's back again—a charm that servants rob—I like the home, I like the meals, when Nellie's on the job.There's something in a servant's ways, however fine they be,That has a cold and distant touch and frets the soul of me.The old home never looks so well, as in that week or twoThat we are servantless and Nell has all the work to do.There is a sense of comfort then that makes my pulses throbAnd home is as it ought to be when Nellie's on the job.Think not that I'd deny her help or grudge the servant's pay;When one departs we try to get another right away;I merely state the simple fact that no such joys I've knownAs in those few brief days at home when we've been left alone.There is a gentleness that seems to soothe this selfish elfAnd, Oh, I like to eat those meals that Nellie gets herself!You cannot buy the gentle touch that mother gives the place;No servant girl can do the work with just the proper grace.And though you hired the queen of cooks to fashion your croquettes,Her meals would not compare with those your loving comrade gets;So, though the maid has quit again, and she is moved to sob,The old home's at its finest now, for Nellie's on the job.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21740": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21740, "poem.id": 21740, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:01:00", "poem.title": "The Home Builders", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21741": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21741, "poem.id": 21741, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:01:06", "poem.title": "The Auto", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21742": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21742, "poem.id": 21742, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:01:10", "poem.title": "The Front Seat", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "When I was but a little lad I always liked to ride,No matter what the rig we had, right by the driver's side.The front seat was the honor place in bob-sleigh, coach or hack,And I manoeuvred to avoid the cushions in the back.We children used to scramble then to share the driver's seat,And long the pout I wore when I was not allowed that treat.Though times have changed and I am old I still confess I raceWith other grown-ups now and then to get my favorite place.The auto with its cushions fine and big and easy springsHas altered in our daily lives innumerable things,But hearts of men are still the same as what they used to be,When surreys were the stylish rigs, or so they seem to me,For every grown-up girl to-day and every grown-up boyStill hungers for the seat in front and scrambles for its joy,And riding by the driver's side still holds the charm it didIn those glad, youthful days gone by when I was just a kid.I hurry, as I used to do, to claim that favorite place,And when a tonneau seat is mine I wear a solemn face.I try to hide the pout I feel, and do my best to smile,But envy of the man in front gnaws at me all the while.I want to be where I can see the road that lies ahead,To watch the trees go flying by and see the country spreadBefore me as we spin along, for there I miss the fearThat seems to grip the soul of me while riding in the rear.And I am not alone in this. To-day I drive a carAnd three glad youngsters madly strive to share the 'seat with Pa.'And older folks that ride with us, I very plainly see,Manoeuvre in their artful ways to sit in front with me;Though all the cushions in the world were piled up in the rear,The child in all of us still longs to watch the engineer.And happier hearts we seem to own when we're allowed to ride,No matter what the car may be, close by the driver's side.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21743": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21743, "poem.id": 21743, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:01:16", "poem.title": "The New Days", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "The old days, the old days, how oft the poets sing,The days of hope at dewy morn, the days of early spring,The days when every mead was fair, and every heart was true,And every maiden wore a smile, and every sky was blueThe days when dreams were golden and every night brought rest,The old, old days of youth and love, the days they say were bestBut I—I sing the new days, the days that lie before,The days of hope and fancy, the days that I adore.The new days, the new days, the selfsame days they are;The selfsame sunshine heralds them, the selfsame evening starShines out to light them on their way unto the Bygone Land,And with the selfsame arch of blue the world to-day is spanned.The new days, the new days, when friends are just as true,And maidens smile upon us all, the way they used to do,Dreams we know are golden dreams, hope springs in every breast;It cheers us in the dewy morn and soothes us when we rest.The new days, the new days, of them I want to sing,The new days with the fancies and the golden dreams they bring;The old days had their pleasures, but likewise have the newThe gardens with their roses and the meadows bright with dew;We love to-day the selfsame way they loved in days of old;The world is bathed in beauty and it isn't growing cold;There's joy for us a-plenty, there are tasks for us to do,And life is worth the living, for the friends we know are true.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21744": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21744, "poem.id": 21744, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:01:23", "poem.title": "The Fisherman", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "Along a stream that raced and ran Through tangled trees and over stones,That long had heard the pipes o' Pan And shared the joys that nature owns,I met a fellow fisherman, Who greeted me in cheerful tones.The lines of care were on his face. I guessed that he had buried dead;Had run for gold full many a race, And kept great problems in his head,But in that gentle resting place No word of wealth or fame he said.He showed me trout that he had caught And praised the larger ones of mine;Told me how that big beauty fought And almost broke his silken line;Spoke of the trees and sky, and thought Them proof of life and power divine.There man to man we talked of trees And birds, as people talk of men;Discussed the busy ways of bees Wondered what lies beyond our ken;Where is the land no mortal sees, And shall we come this way again.'Out here,' he told me, with a smile, 'Away from all the city's sham,The strife for splendor and for style, The ticker and the telegramI come for just a little while To be exactly as I am.'Foes think the bad in him they've guessed And prate about the wrong they scan;Friends that have seen him at his best Believe they know his every plan;I know him better than the rest, I know him as a fisherman.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21745": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21745, "poem.id": 21745, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:01:29", "poem.title": "The Love Of The Game", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "There is too much of sighing, and weaving Of pitiful tales of despair.There is too much of wailing and grieving, And too much of railing at care.There is far too much glorification Of money and pleasure and fame;But I sing the joy of my station, And I sing the love of my game.There is too much of tremble-lip telling Of hurts that have come with the fight.There is too much of pitiful dwelling On plans that have failed to go right.There is too much of envious pining For luxuries others may claim.Too much thought of wining and dining, But I sing the love of my game.There is too much of grim magnifying The troubles that come with the day,There is too much indifferent trying To travel a care-beset way.Too much do men think of gold-getting, Too much have they underwrit shame,Which accounts for the frowning and fretting, But I sing the joy of my game.Let's get back to the work we are doing; Let us reckon its joys and its pain;Let us pause while our tasks we're reviewing, To sum up the cost of each gain.Let us give up our whining and wailing Because of the bruises that maim,And battle the chances of failing As being a part of the game.Let us care more for serving than winning, Let us look at our woes as they are;It is time now that we were beginning To be less afraid of a scar.Let us cease in our glorification Of money and pleasure and fame,And find, whatsoe'er be our station, Our joy in the love of the game.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21746": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21746, "poem.id": 21746, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:01:36", "poem.title": "The Handy Man", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21747": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21747, "poem.id": 21747, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:01:42", "poem.title": "Sue's Got A Baby", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "Sue's got a baby now, an' sheIs like her mother used to be;Her face seems prettier, an' her waysMore settled-like. In these few daysShe's changed completely, an' her smileHas taken on the mother-style.Her voice is sweeter, an' her wordsAre clear as is the song of birds.She still is Sue, but not the same—She's different since the baby came.There is a calm upon her faceThat marks the change that's taken place;It seems as though her eyes now seeThe wonder things that are to be,An' that her gentle hands now ownA gentleness before unknown.Her laughter has a clearer ringThan all the bubbling of a spring,An' in her cheeks love's tender flameGlows brighter since the baby came.I look at her an' I can seeHer mother as she used to be.How sweet she was, an' yet how muchShe sweetened by the magic touchThat made her mother! In her faceIt seemed the angels left a traceOf Heavenly beauty to remainWhere once had been the lines of painAn' with the baby in her armsEnriched her with a thousand charms.Sue's got a baby now an' sheIs prettier than she used to be.A wondrous change has taken place,A softer beauty marks her faceAn' in the warmth of her caressThere seems the touch of holiness,An' all the charms her mother knewHave blossomed once again in Sue.I sit an' watch her an' I claimMy lost joys since her baby came.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21748": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21748, "poem.id": 21748, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:01:45", "poem.title": "Real Swimming", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21749": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21749, "poem.id": 21749, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:01:48", "poem.title": "The Other Fellow", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "Whose luck is better far than ours?The other fellow's.Whose road seems always lined with flowers?The other fellow's.Who is the man who seems to getMost joy in life, with least regret,Who always seems to win his bet?The other fellow.Who fills the place we think we'd like?The other fellow.Whom does good fortune always strike?The other fellow.Whom do we envy, day by day?Who has more time than we to play?Who is it, when we mourn, seems gay?The other fellow.Who seems to miss the thorns we find?The other fellow.Who seems to leave us all behind?The other fellow.Who never seems to feel the woe,The anguish and the pain we know?Who gets the best seats at the show?The other fellow.And yet, my friend, who envies you?The other fellow.Who thinks he gathers only rue?The other fellow.Who sighs because he thinks that heWould infinitely happier he,If he could be like you or me?The other fellow.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21750": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21750, "poem.id": 21750, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:01:53", "poem.title": "The Mother Faith", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "Little mother, life's adventure calls your boy away,Yet he will return to you on some brighter day;Dry your tears and cease to sigh, keep your mother smile,Brave and strong he will come back in a little while.Little mother, heed them not—they who preach despair—You shall have your boy again, brave and oh, so fair!Life has need of him to-day, but with victory won,Safely life shall bring to you once again your son.Little mother, keep the faith: not to death he goes;Share with him the joy of worth that your soldier knows.He is giving to the Flag all that man can give,And if you believe he will, surely he will live.Little mother, through the night of his absence long,Never cease to think of him—brave and well and strong;You shall know his kiss again, you shall see his smile,For your boy shall come to you in a little while.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21751": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21751, "poem.id": 21751, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:01:56", "poem.title": "Rebellion", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21752": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21752, "poem.id": 21752, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:01:59", "poem.title": "Roses And Sunshine", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "Rough is the road I am journeying now, Heavy the burden I'm bearing to-day; But I'm humming a song, as I wander along, And I smile at the roses that nod by the way. Red roses sweet, Blooming there at my feet, Just dripping with honey and perfume and cheer; What a weakling I'd be If I tried not to see The joy and the comfort you bring to us here. Just tramping along o'er the highway of life, Knowing not what's ahead but still doing my best; And I sing as I go, for my soul seems to know In the end I shall come to the valley of rest. With the sun in my face And the roses to grace The roads that I travel, what have I to fear? What a coward I'd be If I tried not to see The roses of hope and the sunshine of cheer.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21753": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21753, "poem.id": 21753, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:02:01", "poem.title": "It's September", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21754": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21754, "poem.id": 21754, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:02:07", "poem.title": "Our Duty To Our Flag", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "Less hate and greed Is what we need And more of service true; More men to love The flag above And keep it first in view. Less boast and brag About the flag, More faith in what it means; More heads erect, More self-respect, Less talk of war machines. The time to fight To keep it bright Is not along the way, Nor 'cross the foam, But here at home Within ourselves - to-day. 'Tis we must love That flag above With all our might and main; For from our hands, Not distant lands, Shall come dishonor's stain. If that flag be Dishonored, we Have done it, not the foe; If it shall fall We first of all Shall be to strike a blow", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21755": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21755, "poem.id": 21755, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:02:11", "poem.title": "The Path That Leads To Home", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21756": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21756, "poem.id": 21756, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:02:16", "poem.title": "Canning Time", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21757": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21757, "poem.id": 21757, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:02:23", "poem.title": "The Boy That Was", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "When the hair about the temples starts to show the signs of gray,And a fellow realizes that he's wandering far awayFrom the pleasures of his boyhood and his youth, and never moreWill know the joy of laughter as he did in days of yore,Oh, it's then he starts to thinking of a stubby little ladWith a face as brown as berries and a soul supremely glad.When a gray-haired dreamer wanders down the lanes of memoryAnd forgets the living present for the time of 'used-to-be,'He takes off his shoes and stockings, and he throws his coat away,And he's free from all restrictions, save the rules of manly play.He may be in richest garments, but bareheaded in the sunHe forgets his proud successes and the riches he has won.Oh, there's not a man alive but that would give his all to beThe stubby little fellow that in dreamland he can see,And the splendors that surround him and the joys about him spreadOnly seem to rise to taunt him with the boyhood that has fled.When the hair about the temples starts to show Time's silver stain,Then the richest man that's living yearns to be a boy again.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21758": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21758, "poem.id": 21758, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:02:27", "poem.title": "Rich", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "Who has a troop of romping youth About his parlour floor,Who nightly hears a round of cheers, When he is at the door,Who is attacked on every side By eager little handsThat reach to tug his grizzled mug, The wealth of earth commands.Who knows the joys of girls and boys, His lads and lassies, too,Who's pounced upon and bounced upon When his day's work is through,Whose trousers know the gentle tug Of some glad little tot,The baby of his crew of love, Is wealthier than a lot.Oh, be he poor and sore distressed And weary with the fight,If with a whoop his healthy troop Run, welcoming at night,And kisses greet him at the end Of all his toiling grim,With what is best in life he's blest And rich men envy him.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21759": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21759, "poem.id": 21759, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:02:31", "poem.title": "Laddies", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21760": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21760, "poem.id": 21760, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:02:35", "poem.title": "The Living Beauties", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21761": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21761, "poem.id": 21761, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:02:38", "poem.title": "The Hunter", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21762": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21762, "poem.id": 21762, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:02:40", "poem.title": "Hard Knocks", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21763": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21763, "poem.id": 21763, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:02:44", "poem.title": "Story Telling", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21764": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21764, "poem.id": 21764, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:02:48", "poem.title": "The Dull Road", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21765": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21765, "poem.id": 21765, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:02:51", "poem.title": "The Man Who Couldn'T Save", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "He spent what he made, or he gave it away,Tried to save money, and would for a day,Started a bank-account time an' again,Got a hundred or so for a nest egg, an' thenSome fellow that needed it more than he did,Who was down on his luck, with a sick wife or kid,Came along an' he wasted no time till he wentAn' drew out the coin that for saving was meant.They say he died poor, and I guess that is so:To pile up a fortune he hadn't a show;He worked all the time and good money he made,Was known as an excellent man at his trade.But he saw too much, heard too much, felt too much hereTo save anything by the end of the year,An' the shabbiest wreck the Lord ever let liveCould get money from him if he had it to give.I've seen him slip dimes to the bums on the streetWho told him they hungered for something to eat,An' though I remarked they were going for drinkHe'd say: 'Mebbe so. But I'd just hate to thinkThat fellow was hungry an' I'd passed him by;I'd rather be fooled twenty times by a lieThan wonder if one of 'em I wouldn't feedHad told me the truth an' was really in need.'Never stinted his family out of a thing:They had everything that his money could bring;Said he'd rather be broke and just know they were glad,Than rich, with them pining an' wishing they hadSome of the pleasures his money would buy;Said he never could look a bank book in the eyeIf he knew it had grown on the pleasures and joysThat he'd robbed from his wife and his girls and his boys.Queer sort of notion he had, I confess,Yet many a rich man on earth is mourned less.All who had known him came back to his sideTo honor his name on the day that he died.Didn't leave much in the bank, it is true,But did leave a fortune in people who knewThe big heart of him, an' I'm willing to swearThat to-day he is one of the richest up there.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21766": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21766, "poem.id": 21766, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:02:57", "poem.title": "At Sugar Camp", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21767": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21767, "poem.id": 21767, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:03:01", "poem.title": "To The Lady In The Electric", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21768": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21768, "poem.id": 21768, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:03:07", "poem.title": "The First Steps", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "Last night I held my arms to youAnd you held yours to mineAnd started out to march to meAs any soldier fine.You lifted up your little feetAnd laughingly advanced;And I stood there and gazed uponYour first wee steps, entranced.You gooed and gurgled as you cameWithout a sign of fear;As though you knew, your journey o'er,I'd greet you with a cheer.And, what is more, you seemed to know,Although you are so small,That I was there, with eager arms,To save you from a fall.Three tiny steps you took, and then,Disaster and dismay!Your over-confidence had ledYour little feet astray.You did not see what we could seeNor fear what us alarms;You stumbled, but ere you could fallI caught you in my arms.You little tyke, in days to comeYou'll bravely walk alone,And you may have to wander pathsWhere dangers lurk unknown.And, Oh, I pray that then, as now,When accidents befallYou'll still remember that I'm nearTo save you from a fall.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21769": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21769, "poem.id": 21769, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:03:12", "poem.title": "Pa Did It!", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21770": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21770, "poem.id": 21770, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:03:16", "poem.title": "The Little Old Man", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21771": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21771, "poem.id": 21771, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:03:23", "poem.title": "The Beauty Places", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21772": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21772, "poem.id": 21772, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:03:26", "poem.title": "My Land", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21773": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21773, "poem.id": 21773, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:03:29", "poem.title": "The Family's Homely Man", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "There never was a family without its homely man,With legs a little longer than the ordinary plan,An' a shock of hair that brush an' comb can't ever straighten out,An' hands that somehow never seem to know what they're about;The one with freckled features and a nose that looks as thoughIt was fashioned by the youngsters from a chunk of mother's dough.You know the man I'm thinking of, the homely one an' plain,That fairly oozes kindness like a rosebush dripping rain.His face is never much to see, but back of it there liesA heap of love and tenderness and judgment, sound and wise.And so I sing the homely man that's sittin' in his chair,And pray that every family will always have him there.For looks don't count for much on earth; it's hearts that wear the gold;An' only that is ugly which is selfish, cruel, cold.The family needs him, Oh, so much; more, maybe, than they know;Folks seldom guess a man's real worth until he has to go,But they will miss a heap of love an' tenderness the dayGod beckons to their homely man, an' he must go away.He's found in every family, it doesn't matter whereThey live or be they rich or poor, the homely man is there.You'll find him sitting quiet-like and sort of drawn apart,As though he felt he shouldn't be where folks are fine an' smart.He likes to hide himself away, a watcher of the fun,An' seldom takes a leading part when any game's begun.But when there's any task to do, like need for extra chairs,I've noticed it's the homely man that always climbs the stairs.And always it's the homely man that happens in to mendThe little toys the youngsters break, for he's the children's friend.And he's the one that sits all night to watch beside the dead,And sends the worn-out sorrowers and broken hearts to bed.The family wouldn't be complete without him night or day,To smooth the little troubles out and drive the cares away.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21774": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21774, "poem.id": 21774, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:03:33", "poem.title": "The Little Velvet Suit", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21775": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21775, "poem.id": 21775, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:03:38", "poem.title": "The Little Army", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21776": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21776, "poem.id": 21776, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:03:40", "poem.title": "The Boy Soldier", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21777": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21777, "poem.id": 21777, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:03:43", "poem.title": "Bribed", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21778": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21778, "poem.id": 21778, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:03:47", "poem.title": "The Flag On The Farm", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "We've raised a flagpole on the farm And flung Old Glory to the sky,And it's another touch of charm That seems to cheer the passer-by,But more than that, no matter where We're laboring in wood and field,We turn and see it in the air, Our promise of a greater yield.It whispers to us all day long, From dawn to dusk: 'Be true, be strong;Who falters now with plow or hoe Gives comfort to his country's foe.'It seems to me I've never tried To do so much about the place,Nor been so slow to come inside, But since I've got the flag to face,Each night when I come home to rest I feel that I must look up thereAnd say: 'Old Flag, I've done my best, To-day I've tried to do my share.'And sometimes, just to catch the breeze, I stop my work, and o'er the treesOld Glory fairly shouts my way: 'You're shirking far too much to-day!'The help have caught the spirit, too; The hired man takes off his capBefore the old red, white and blue, Then to the horses says: 'giddap!'And starting bravely to the field He tells the milkmaid by the door:'We're going to make these acres yield More than they've ever done before.'She smiles to hear his gallant brag, Then drops a curtsy to the flag.And in her eyes there seems to shine A patriotism that is fine.We've raised a flagpole on the farm And flung Old Glory to the sky;We're far removed from war's alarm, But courage here is running high.We're doing things we never dreamed We'd ever find the time to do;Deeds that impossible once seemed Each morning now we hurry through.The flag now waves above our toilAnd sheds its glory on the soil,And boy and man looks up to itAs if to say: 'I'll do my bit!'", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21779": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21779, "poem.id": 21779, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:03:51", "poem.title": "If Only I Were Santa Claus", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "If only I were Santa Claus and you were still a boy, I'd find the chimney to your heart and fill it full of joy ; On Christmas Eve when all was still and you were fast asleep Much like your Santa Claus of old unto your bed I'd creep And in the pack upon my back all shining, bright and new I would have gathered everything to help and comfort you. I'd tiptoe round about your life as Santa round a bed Until with happiness and peace I knew your path was spread.Were there a single line of care upon your kindly face I'd find the cause that marked it there and banish every trace. I'd fill your breast with songs of love, your face I'd deck with smiles And roses red should mark your path for miles and miles and miles;And as I looked into your heart, while you so soundly slept, I'd find the hidden closet where your dearest hopes are kept, The sacred dreams of long ago, the deeds you hoped to do And one and all, before I left, I'd realise for you.No tawdry gift of tinsel cheap would ever I bestow, With joy your eyes should wake to smile, with health your cheeks should glow; I'd search the corners of your heart where all your griefs are stored And in the morning bright you'd find that on them I had poured The oil of consolation sweet and changed their stings to be The hallowed and the precious calm of sainted memory. I'd make of you a happy friend, I'd robe you with content, I'd strew your counterpane with joys that night before I went.And if I found a burden great that you are forced to bear I'd leave the courage in your heart for you to do and dare; I'd give you strength for every deed, I'd steal away your fear,I'd make you brave and bold and strong throughout the coming year.And you should win the goal you seek, and finer goals should gain Nor ever lose one joy you have, but all that's good retain. I'd leave no dream unrealized, no prize you couldn't get, And in my pack I'd take away from you each vain regret.No war should rob you of your peace, no selfish hate should marThe paths of life that you must tread, although you wander far.About you always there would be your loved ones smiling bright,And every hour would bring to you some new and rich delight.I'd fix things so whatever comes you'd have no cause to sigh,Above you always there would be a clear and smiling sky. If only I were Santa Claus and you were still a boy, I'd find the chimney to your heart and fill it full of joy.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21780": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21780, "poem.id": 21780, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:03:58", "poem.title": "The Kick Under The Table", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21781": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21781, "poem.id": 21781, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:04:04", "poem.title": "The Boy And The Flag", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "I want my boy to love his home, His Mother, yes, and me:I want him, wheresoe'er he'll roam, With us in thought to be.I want him to love what is fine, Nor let his standards drag,But, Oh! I want that boy of mine To love his country's flag!I want him when he older grows To love all things of earth;And Oh! I want him, when he knows, To choose the things of worth.I want him to the heights to climb Nor let ambition lag;But, Oh! I want him all the time To love his country's flag.I want my boy to know the best, I want him to be great;I want him in Life's distant West, Prepared for any fate.I want him to be simple, too, Though clever, ne'er to brag,But, Oh! I want him, through and through, To love his country's flag.I want my boy to be a man, And yet, in distant years,I pray that he'll have eyes that can Not quite keep back the tearsWhen, coming from some foreign shore And alien scenes that fag,Borne on its native breeze, once more He sees his country's flag.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21782": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21782, "poem.id": 21782, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:04:08", "poem.title": "The Proof Of Worth", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21783": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21783, "poem.id": 21783, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:04:18", "poem.title": "The Alarm", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21784": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21784, "poem.id": 21784, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:04:23", "poem.title": "A Christmas Greeting", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21785": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21785, "poem.id": 21785, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:04:26", "poem.title": "Ideals", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21786": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21786, "poem.id": 21786, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:04:30", "poem.title": "The Complacent Slacker", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21787": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21787, "poem.id": 21787, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:04:32", "poem.title": "The Temple - What Makes It Of Worth", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21788": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21788, "poem.id": 21788, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:04:38", "poem.title": "Easy Service", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21789": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21789, "poem.id": 21789, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:04:44", "poem.title": "Drafted", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21790": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21790, "poem.id": 21790, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:04:46", "poem.title": "The Girl He Left Behind", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21791": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21791, "poem.id": 21791, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:04:49", "poem.title": "The Wrist Watch Man", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21792": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21792, "poem.id": 21792, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:04:55", "poem.title": "He Who Serves", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "He has not served who gathers gold,Nor has he served, whose life is toldIn selfish battles he has won,Or deeds of skill that he has done;But he has served who now and thenHas helped along his fellow men.The world needs many men today;Red-blooded men along life's way,With cheerful smiles and helping hands,And with the faith that understandsThe beauty of the simple deedWhich serves another's hour of need.Strong men to stand beside the weak,Kind men to hear what others speak;True men to keep our country's lawsAnd guard its honor and its cause;Men who will bravely play life's gameNor ask rewards of gold and fame.Teach me to do the best I canTo help and cheer our fellow man;Teach me to lose my selfish needAnd glory in the larger deedWhich smoothes the road, and lights the dayFor all who chance to come my way.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21793": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21793, "poem.id": 21793, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:05:00", "poem.title": "For Your Boy And Mine", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21794": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21794, "poem.id": 21794, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:05:06", "poem.title": "I See You'Ve Travelled Some", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21795": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21795, "poem.id": 21795, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:05:13", "poem.title": "The New Year", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21796": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21796, "poem.id": 21796, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:05:17", "poem.title": "Taking His Place", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21797": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21797, "poem.id": 21797, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:05:20", "poem.title": "Follow A Famous Father", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21798": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21798, "poem.id": 21798, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:05:24", "poem.title": "Your Country Needs You", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21799": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21799, "poem.id": 21799, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:05:27", "poem.title": "A Patriot", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21800": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21800, "poem.id": 21800, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:05:33", "poem.title": "Envy", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "It's a bigger thing you're doing than the most of us have done;We have lived the days of pleasure; now the gray days have begun,And upon your manly shoulders fall the burdens of the strife;Yours must be the sacrifices of the trial time of life.Oh, I don't know how to say it, but I'll never think of youWithout wishing I were sharing in the work you have to do.I have never known a moment that was fraught with real care,Save the hurts and griefs of sorrow that all mortals have to bear;With the gay and smiling marchers I have tramped on pleasant ways,And have paid with feeble service for the gladness of my days.But to you has come a summons, yours are days of sacrifice,And for all life has of sweetness you must pay a bitter price.Men have fought and died before me, men must fight and die to-day,I have merely taken pleasures for which others had to pay;I have been a man of laughter, there's no path my feet have made,I have merely been a marcher in life's gaudy dress parade.But you wear the garb of service, you have splendid deeds to do,You shall sound the depths of manhood, and my boy, I envy you.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21801": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21801, "poem.id": 21801, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:05:37", "poem.title": "The Unsettled Scores", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21802": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21802, "poem.id": 21802, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:05:40", "poem.title": "Move We Adjourn", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21803": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21803, "poem.id": 21803, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:05:43", "poem.title": "The Waiter At The Camp", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21804": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21804, "poem.id": 21804, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:05:52", "poem.title": "His Room", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "His room is as it used to beBefore he went away,The walls still keep the pennants heBrought home but yesterday.The picture of his baseball teamStill holds its favored spot,And oh, it seems a dreadful dreamThis age of shell and shot!His golf clubs in the corner stand;His tennis racket, too,That once the pressure of his handIn times of laughter knewIs in the place it long has keptFor us to look upon.The room is as it was, exceptThe boy, himself, has gone.The pictures of his girls are here,Still smiling as of yore,And everything that he held dearIs treasured as before.Into his room his mother goesAs usual, day by day,And cares for it, although she knowsOur boy is far away.We keep it as he left it, whenHe bade us all good-bye,Though I confess that, now and then,We view it with a sigh.For never night shall thrill with joyNor day be free from gloomUntil once more our soldier boyShall occupy his room.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21805": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21805, "poem.id": 21805, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:05:57", "poem.title": "The Change", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21806": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21806, "poem.id": 21806, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:06:00", "poem.title": "Good Luck", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21829": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21829, "poem.id": 21829, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:06:04", "poem.title": "The Joy To Be", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21830": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21830, "poem.id": 21830, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:06:07", "poem.title": "Soldierly", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21831": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21831, "poem.id": 21831, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:06:09", "poem.title": "The Lamb Skin", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21832": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21832, "poem.id": 21832, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:06:15", "poem.title": "The Time For Deeds", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21833": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21833, "poem.id": 21833, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:06:18", "poem.title": "The Call To Service", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21834": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21834, "poem.id": 21834, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:06:22", "poem.title": "Kelly Ingram", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21835": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21835, "poem.id": 21835, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:06:25", "poem.title": "So Easy", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21836": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21836, "poem.id": 21836, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:06:30", "poem.title": "Over Here", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21837": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21837, "poem.id": 21837, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:06:35", "poem.title": "The Chip On Your Shoulder", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21838": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21838, "poem.id": 21838, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:06:44", "poem.title": "A Discussion", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "She put her arms about my neck, And whispered low to me: 'I'm thinking daddy, dear, how nice And lovely it would be If only every little girlIn all this wide world through Had daddies that were just as nice And kind and good as you.'And then I took her in my armsAnd held her on my knee And said: 'A nicer, brighter world I'm sure that it would be If only every grown-up man Beneath the skies of blue Were daddy to a little girlAs nice and sweet as you.'", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21839": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21839, "poem.id": 21839, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:06:50", "poem.title": "The Fellowship Of Books", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21840": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21840, "poem.id": 21840, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:06:57", "poem.title": "The Flag", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21841": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21841, "poem.id": 21841, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:07:04", "poem.title": "A Boy At Christmas", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21842": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21842, "poem.id": 21842, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:07:07", "poem.title": "All For The Best", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21843": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21843, "poem.id": 21843, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:07:15", "poem.title": "The Book Of Memory", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21844": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21844, "poem.id": 21844, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:07:19", "poem.title": "Afraid Of His Dad", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "Bill Jones, who goes to school with me,Is the saddest boy I ever see.He's just so 'fraid he runs awayWhen all of us fellows want to play,An' says he dassent stay aboutCoz if his father found it outHe'd wallop him. An' he can't goWith us to see a picture showOn Saturdays, an' it's too bad,But he's afraid to ask his dad.When he gets his report card, heIs just as scared as scared can be,An' once I saw him when he criedBecoz although he'd tried an' triedHis best, the teacher didn't careAn' only marked his spelling fair,An' he told me there'd be a fightWhen his dad saw his card that night.It seems to me it's awful badTo be so frightened of your dad.My Dad ain't that way- I can goAn' tell him everything I know,An' ask him things, an' when he comesBack home at night he says we're chums;An' we go out an' take a walk,An' all the time he lets me talk.I ain't scared to tell him whatI've done to-day that I should not;When I get home I'm always gladTo stay around an' play with Dad.Bill Jones, he says, he wishes heCould have a father just like me,But his dad hasn't time to play,An' so he chases him awayAn' scolds him when he makes a noiseAn' licks him if he breaks his toys.Sometimes Bill says he's got to lieOr else get whipped, an' that is whyIt seems to me it's awful badTo be so frightened of your dad.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21845": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21845, "poem.id": 21845, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:07:23", "poem.title": "Sympathy", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "SympathyOne came to the house with a pretty speech: 'It's all for the best,' said he, And I know that he sought my heart to reach, And I know that he grieved with me. But I was too full of my sorrow then To list to his words or care; Though I've tried I cannot recall again The comfort he gave me there. But another came, and his lips were dumb As he grasped me by the hand, And he stammered: 'Old man, I had to come, Oh, I hope you'll understand.' And ever since then I have felt his hand Clasped tightly in my own, And to-day his silence I understand- My sorrowing he had known.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21846": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21846, "poem.id": 21846, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:07:29", "poem.title": "When We'Re All Alike", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21847": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21847, "poem.id": 21847, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:07:33", "poem.title": "To A Little Girl", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21848": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21848, "poem.id": 21848, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:07:40", "poem.title": "Hope", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21849": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21849, "poem.id": 21849, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:07:47", "poem.title": "A Woman's Ways", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21850": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21850, "poem.id": 21850, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:07:54", "poem.title": "The Toy-Strewn Home", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "Give me the house where the toys are strewn, Where the dolls are asleep in the chairs,Where the building blocks and the toy balloon And the soldiers guard the stairs.Let me step in a house where the tiny cart With the horses rules the floor,And rest comes into my weary heart, For I am at home once more.Give me the house with the toys about, With the battered old train of cars,The box of paints and the books left out, And the ship with her broken spars.Let me step in a house at the close of day That is littered with children's toys,And dwell once more in the haunts of play, With the echoes of by-gone noise.Give me the house where the toys are seen, The house where the children romp,And I'll happier be than man has been 'Neath the gilded dome of pomp.Let me see the litter of bright-eyed play Strewn over the parlor floor,And the joys I knew in a far-off day Will gladden my heart once more.Whoever has lived in a toy-strewn home, Though feeble he be and gray,Will yearn, no matter how far he roam, For the glorious disarrayOf the little home with its littered floor That was his in the by-gone days;And his heart will throb as it throbbed before, When he rests where a baby plays.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21851": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21851, "poem.id": 21851, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:08:00", "poem.title": "Life's Single Standard", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "There are a thousand ways to cheat and a thousand ways to sin;There are ways uncounted to lose the game, but there's only one way to win;And whether you live by the sweat of your brow or in luxury's garb you're dressed,You shall stand at last, when your race is run, to be judged by the single test.Some men lie by the things they make; some lie in the deeds they do;And some play false for a woman's love, and some for a cheer or two;Some rise to fame by the force of skill, grow great by the might of power,Then wreck the temple they toiled to build, in a single, shameful hour.The follies outnumber the virtues good; sin lures in a thousand ways;But slow is the growth of man's character and patience must mark his days;For only those victories shall count, when the work of life is done,Which bear the stamp of an honest man, and by courage and faith were won.There are a thousand ways to fail, but only one way to win!Sham cannot cover the wrong you do nor wash out a single sin,And never shall victory come to you, whatever of skill you do,Save you've done your best in the work of life and unto your best were true.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21852": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21852, "poem.id": 21852, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:08:08", "poem.title": "The Loss Is Not So Great", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21853": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21853, "poem.id": 21853, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:08:13", "poem.title": "Too Big A Price", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21854": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21854, "poem.id": 21854, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:08:21", "poem.title": "The Glory Of Age", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21855": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21855, "poem.id": 21855, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:08:26", "poem.title": "Bedtime", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21856": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21856, "poem.id": 21856, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:08:34", "poem.title": "What We Can Be", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21857": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21857, "poem.id": 21857, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:08:42", "poem.title": "Today", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21858": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21858, "poem.id": 21858, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:08:48", "poem.title": "The Undaunted", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21859": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21859, "poem.id": 21859, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:08:53", "poem.title": "The Three Me's", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21860": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21860, "poem.id": 21860, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:09:06", "poem.title": "The Struggle", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21861": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21861, "poem.id": 21861, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:09:13", "poem.title": "Best Way To Read A Book", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "Best way to read a book I knowIs get a lad of six or so,And curl him up upon my kneeDeep in a big arm chair, where weCan catch the warmth of blazing coals,And then let two contented soulsMelt into one, old age and youth,Sharing adventure's marvelous truth.I read a page, and then we sitAnd talk it over, bit by bit;Just how the pirates looked, and whyThey flung a black flag to the sky.We pass no paragraph withoutFirst knowing what it's all about,And when the author starts a fightWe join the forces that are right.We're deep in Treasure Island, andFrom Spy Glass Hill we've viewed the land;Through thickets dense we've followed JimAnd shared the doubts that came to him.We've heard Cap. Smollett arguing thereWith Long John Silver, gaunt and spare,And mastering our many fearsWe've battled with those buccaneers.Best way to read a book I've foundIs have a little boy aroundAnd take him up upon your knee;Then talk about the tale, till heLives it and feels it, just as you,And shares the great adventure, too.Books have a deep and lasting joyFor him who reads them to his boy.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21862": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21862, "poem.id": 21862, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:09:16", "poem.title": "Wait Till Your Pa Comes Home", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21863": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21863, "poem.id": 21863, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:09:23", "poem.title": "The Joys Of Home", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21864": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21864, "poem.id": 21864, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:09:26", "poem.title": "The Tragedy Of Age", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21865": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21865, "poem.id": 21865, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:09:29", "poem.title": "To A Kindly Critic", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21866": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21866, "poem.id": 21866, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:09:39", "poem.title": "The Plugger", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21867": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21867, "poem.id": 21867, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:09:54", "poem.title": "Gossip", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "A FELLOW can't help hearingHateful things about another,But a fellow can be carefulNot to tell them to his brother.Sit and listen, if you want to,When the spiteful things are said,But don't pass on the scandal,Keep a still tongue in your head.Spread no little tale of evil,Whether right or whether wrong, You may barken unto gossip,But don't send the tale along.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21868": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21868, "poem.id": 21868, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:10:00", "poem.title": "Rather Stay Home", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21869": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21869, "poem.id": 21869, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:10:04", "poem.title": "The Things You Can'T Forget", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21870": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21870, "poem.id": 21870, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:10:08", "poem.title": "The Deeds Of Anger", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21871": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21871, "poem.id": 21871, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:10:16", "poem.title": "The Fun Of Forgiving", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21872": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21872, "poem.id": 21872, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:10:22", "poem.title": "There Will Always Be Something To Do", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "There will always be something to do, my boy; There will always be wrongs to right;There will always be need for a manly breed And men unafraid to fight.There will always be honor to guard, my boy; There will always be hills to climb,And tasks to do, and battles new From now to the end of time.There will always be dangers to face, my boy; There will always be goals to take;Men shall be tried, when the roads divide, And proved by the choice they make.There will always be burdens to bear, my boy; There will always be need to pray;There will always be tears through the future years, As loved ones are borne away.There will always be God to serve, my boy, And always the Flag above;They shall call to you until life is through For courage and strength and love.So these are things that I dream, my boy, And have dreamed since your life began:That whatever befalls, when the old world calls, It shall find you a sturdy man.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21873": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21873, "poem.id": 21873, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:10:29", "poem.title": "The Happy Man", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21874": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21874, "poem.id": 21874, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:10:32", "poem.title": "Practicing Time", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "Always whenever I want to playI've got to practice an hour a day,Get through breakfast an' make my bed,And Mother says: 'Marjorie, run ahead!There's a time for work and a time for fun,So go and get your practicing done.'And Bud, he chuckles and says to me:'Yes, do your practicing, Marjorie.'A brother's an awful tease, you know,And he just says that 'cause I hate it so.They leave me alone in the parlor thereTo play the scales or 'The Maiden's Prayer,'And if I stop, Mother's bound to call,'Marjorie dear, you're not playing at all!Don't waste your time, but keep right on,Or you'll have to stay when the hour is gone.'Or maybe the maid looks in at meAnd says: 'You're not playing, as I can see.Just hustle along- I've got work to doAnd I can't dust the room until you get through.'Then when I've run over the scales and thingsLike 'The Fairies' Dance,' or 'The Mountain Springs,'And my fingers ache and my head is sore,I find I must sit there a half hour more.An hour is terribly long, I say,When you've got to practice and want to play.So slowly at times has the big hand droppedThat I was sure that the clock had stopped,But Mother called down to me: 'Don't forget- A full hour, please. It's not over yet.'Oh, when I get big and have children, too,There's one thing that I will never do- I won't have brothers to tease the girlsAnd make them mad when they pull their curlsAnd laugh at them when they've got to stayAnd practice their music an hour a day;I won't have a maid like the one we've got,That likes to boss you around a lot;And I won't have a clock that can go so slowWhen it's practice time, 'cause I hate it so.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21875": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21875, "poem.id": 21875, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:10:40", "poem.title": "He Should Meet A Mother There", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21876": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21876, "poem.id": 21876, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:10:49", "poem.title": "Fly A Clean Flag", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21877": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21877, "poem.id": 21877, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:10:55", "poem.title": "April Thoughts", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21878": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21878, "poem.id": 21878, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:11:00", "poem.title": "Contentment", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21879": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21879, "poem.id": 21879, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:11:06", "poem.title": "July The Fourth, 1917", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21880": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21880, "poem.id": 21880, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:11:13", "poem.title": "Follow The Flag", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "Aye, we will follow the Flag Wherever she goes, Into the tropic sun, Into the northern snows; Go where the guns ring out Scattering steel and lead, Painting the hills with blood, Strewing the fields with dead. But in each heart must be, And back of each bitter gun, Love for the best in life After the fighting's done. Aye, we will follow the Flag Into benighted lands, Brave in the faith for which, Proudly, our banner stands. Life for her life we'll pay, Blood for her blood we'll give, Fighting, but not to kill, Save that the best shall live. But, when the cannon's roar Dies in a hymn of peace, Justice and truth must reign, Power of the brute must cease. Aye, we will follow the Flag, Gladly her work we'll do, Banishing wrongs of old, Founding the truth anew. What though our guns must speak, What though brave men must die, Ages of truth to come All this shall justify. Men in the charms of peace, Basking in Freedom's sun, Some day shall bless our Flag After our work is done. Aye, we will follow the Flag Wherever she goes, Into the tropic sun, Into the northern snows. Fearlessly, on we'll go Into the cruel strife, Gladly the few shall die, Winning for many, life. Tyranny's wrongs must cease, Brutes must no longer brag, This is our work on earth, So we will follow the Flag.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21881": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21881, "poem.id": 21881, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:11:25", "poem.title": "We Who Stay At Home", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21882": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21882, "poem.id": 21882, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:11:30", "poem.title": "If You And I", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "IF you would smile a little more And I would kinder be, If you would stop to think before You speak of faults you see. If I would show more patience, too, With all with whom I'm hurled, Then I would help and so would you To make a better world.If you would cheer your neighbor moreAnd I'd encourage mine, If you would linger at his door To say his work is fine, And I would stop to help him when His lips in frowns are curled, Both you and I'd be helping then To make a better world.But just as long as you keep stillAnd plod your selfish way, And I rush on, and heedless killThe kind words I could say; While you and I refuse to smileAnd keep our gay flags furled, Someone will grumble all the whileThat it's a gloomy world.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21883": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21883, "poem.id": 21883, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:11:33", "poem.title": "Little Wrangles", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21884": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21884, "poem.id": 21884, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:11:39", "poem.title": "The Little Old-Fashioned Church", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "THE little old-fashioned church, with the pews that were straight-backed and plain,Where the sunbeams to worship came in through the windows that bore not a stain, And the choir was composed of the good folks who toiled week-days in meadow and lane;The little old-fashioned church that stood on the brow of the hill, With its plain, wooden cross on the peak, an emblem of love and good will, Of the Christ who has died for us all — in fancy I gaze at it still.I wish I could go there again and list to the preacher who toldOf the wonderful joys that await us when God calls us into His fold,Who pictured a Heaven unto us as a city with pavements of gold.The little old-fashioned church with never a towering spire, With never a sign of great wealth, and the people who sang in the choir Giving their music for love of the cause and not for the sake of their hire.Perhaps I am wrong or old-fashioned or queer, but the little, gray church on the hill, Where only God's mercy and love were e'er preached, the want in my life seemed to fill, And I don't get the comfort I seek from the church of today with its frill.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21885": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21885, "poem.id": 21885, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:11:47", "poem.title": "At The Cottage", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21886": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21886, "poem.id": 21886, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:11:50", "poem.title": "Some Day", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21887": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21887, "poem.id": 21887, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:11:53", "poem.title": "Don'T You Know", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21888": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21888, "poem.id": 21888, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:11:57", "poem.title": "Under The Roof Where The Laughter Rings", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21889": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21889, "poem.id": 21889, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:12:08", "poem.title": "Contradictin' Joe", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21890": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21890, "poem.id": 21890, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:12:12", "poem.title": "At The Wedding", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21891": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21891, "poem.id": 21891, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:12:18", "poem.title": "Lonely", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21892": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21892, "poem.id": 21892, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:12:20", "poem.title": "The Man Who's Down", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21893": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21893, "poem.id": 21893, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:12:27", "poem.title": "They Don'T", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21894": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21894, "poem.id": 21894, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:12:32", "poem.title": "To The Failures", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21895": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21895, "poem.id": 21895, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:12:37", "poem.title": "A Query —", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21896": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21896, "poem.id": 21896, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:12:42", "poem.title": "To The Men At Home", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21897": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21897, "poem.id": 21897, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:12:48", "poem.title": "Here We Are!", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "Here we are, Britain! the finest and best of us Taking our coats off and rolling our sleeves, Answering the thoughtless that once made a jest of us, Each man a soldier for what he believes. Here we are, tight little island, in unity! Tell us the job that you want us to do! You can depend on us all with impunity. Give us a task and we'll all see it through. Here we are, France! every Yankee born man of us Coming to stand by your side in the fight; Liberty's cause makes a whole-hearted clan of us. Here we are, willing to die for the right. Silently, long from our shores we've admired you, Secretly proud of the pluck you've displayed. Brothers we are of the love that inspired you; Now we are coming, full front, to your aid. Here we are, Allies! make room in your trenches! Shoulder to shoulder we'll share in each drive. Here we are! quitting our lathes and our benches, Bringing our best that our best shall survive. Here we are! Liberty's children, red-blooded, Coming to share in the struggle with you, Ready to die for the Flag that's star-studded; Tell us the work that you want us to do. What is it, fighting or building you're needing? Boring a mountain or bridging a stream, Steel work and real work? Your call we are heeding. Each of us here is a man with a dream. Here we are! tacklers of tough jobs and dangers, Any old post where you put us we'll fit; Coming to serve you as brothers, not strangers; Here we are, Allies! to offer our bit!", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21898": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21898, "poem.id": 21898, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:12:50", "poem.title": "Spoiling Them", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21899": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21899, "poem.id": 21899, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:12:54", "poem.title": "Mothers' Splendid Dreams", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "Mothers dream such splendid dreams when their little babies smile, Dreams of wondrous deeds they'll do in the happy after- while;Every mother of a boy knows that in her arms is curled One who some day will arise splendidly to serve the world.Mothers sing their babes to sleep, weaving through their lullabies Visions of true-hearted men when their sons to man hood rise; Greatness slumbers in the cot that each mother guards with care, And the world she knows will be better for her baby fair.Mothers dream such splendid dreams of the men that are to be In the years that are to come glorious are the things they see ; None so poor and none so frail but looks yonder down life's lane And sees there the splendid heights that her baby will attain.Mothers dream such splendid dreams, that no matter what we do We can never hope to make half their visionings come true; Always, as they look ahead, down the lane of life they see Greater men than yet have been in the men that are to be.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21900": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21900, "poem.id": 21900, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:12:59", "poem.title": "When There's Health In The House", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21901": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21901, "poem.id": 21901, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:13:04", "poem.title": "Keep To The Right", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21902": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21902, "poem.id": 21902, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:13:11", "poem.title": "An Ode To Nellie", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21903": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21903, "poem.id": 21903, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:13:14", "poem.title": "To The Boy", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21904": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21904, "poem.id": 21904, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:13:21", "poem.title": "A Year's New Wish", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21905": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21905, "poem.id": 21905, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:13:27", "poem.title": "Trustful Ma", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21906": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21906, "poem.id": 21906, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:13:34", "poem.title": "The Fight Worth While", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21907": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21907, "poem.id": 21907, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:13:39", "poem.title": "The Songs Of Night", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21908": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21908, "poem.id": 21908, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:13:45", "poem.title": "Unphilosophic", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21909": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21909, "poem.id": 21909, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:13:49", "poem.title": "Bigger Than His Dad", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21910": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21910, "poem.id": 21910, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:13:51", "poem.title": "The Sympathetic Minister", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21911": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21911, "poem.id": 21911, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:13:55", "poem.title": "Back To School", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "It ain' the ringing of the bellwhich calls me back to skule once more;it ain't that i must lurn to spellthat makes my hart so orful soar: it ain't that fracktions i must lurnnor jografy that makes me blew, it 's just becoz today i yurnto do the things i didn't doo.ring out, wild bell! ime on mi wayto skule again, and summer's done — it dussent seem more than a daysince i began to have mi fun. i wouldn't mind this cuming back,it ain't the skule ime kicking on, it's just becoz i missed a stackof fun, and now the summer's gone.i planned to bild a coogie inour yard, where all the kids could meat; the roof was going to be of tin,and we 'd have carpet for our feet; and i was going to organizea brave and daring pirut crew and we 'd take rich men bi surprize —but gee! how fast the summer's flue.and that's the skule bell ringing now,vacashun's slipped away from me; what i acomplisshed anyhowis something more than i can see; i've had some fun, of course, but then,it really seams to beet the dutch how very little i did wheni planned to do so very much.Ah, little boy, you do not knowThe lesson that you teach us all; You with unwilling feet now goTo school at the approach of Fall. We grown-ups soon will hear a bell,Announcing that our course is run, Far more than death we fear to tellThe good deeds that we might have done.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21912": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21912, "poem.id": 21912, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:14:01", "poem.title": "The Man I'M For", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21913": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21913, "poem.id": 21913, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:14:07", "poem.title": "The Furnace Door", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21914": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21914, "poem.id": 21914, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:14:11", "poem.title": "No Use Sighin'", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21915": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21915, "poem.id": 21915, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:14:16", "poem.title": "When We Play The Fool", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21916": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21916, "poem.id": 21916, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:14:23", "poem.title": "His Santa Claus", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21917": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21917, "poem.id": 21917, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:14:31", "poem.title": "War's Homecoming", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21918": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21918, "poem.id": 21918, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:14:36", "poem.title": "The Road Builder", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21919": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21919, "poem.id": 21919, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:14:43", "poem.title": "The Man Of His Word", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21920": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21920, "poem.id": 21920, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:14:47", "poem.title": "Business", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21921": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21921, "poem.id": 21921, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:14:53", "poem.title": "Under A Tree", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21922": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21922, "poem.id": 21922, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:14:57", "poem.title": "Along The Paths O' Glory", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "Along the paths o' glory there are faces new to-day,There are youthful hearts and sturdy that have found the westward way.From the rugged roads o' duty they have turned without a sigh,To mingle with their brothers who were not afraid to die.And they're looking back and smiling at the loved ones left behind,With the Old Flag flying o'er them, and they're calling 'Never mind.'Never mind, oh, gentle mothers, that we shall not come again;Never mind the years of absence, never mind the days of pain,For we've found the paths o' glory where the flags o' freedom fly,And we've learned the things we died for are the truths that never die.Now there's never hurt can harm us, and the years will never fadeThe memory of the soldiers of the legions unafraid.'Along the paths o' glory there are faces new to-day,And the heavenly flags are flying as they march along the way;For the world is safe from hatred; men shall know it at its bestBy the sacrifice and courage of the boys who go to rest.Now they've claimed eternal splendor and they've won eternal youth,And they've joined the gallant legions of the men who served the truth.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21923": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21923, "poem.id": 21923, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:15:03", "poem.title": "The Age Of Ink", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21924": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21924, "poem.id": 21924, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:15:09", "poem.title": "United", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21925": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21925, "poem.id": 21925, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:15:12", "poem.title": "The Better Thing", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21926": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21926, "poem.id": 21926, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:15:17", "poem.title": "What Makes An Artist", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21927": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21927, "poem.id": 21927, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:15:23", "poem.title": "The World And Bud", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21928": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21928, "poem.id": 21928, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:15:28", "poem.title": "Mother Nature", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21929": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21929, "poem.id": 21929, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:15:35", "poem.title": "They'Re Coming Back", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "THEY 'RE coming home Thanksgiving Day,They 're coming back once more,And mother's smiles begin to playThe way they did beforeThe youngsters went away. SomehowShe doesn't seem so old;The lines have faded from her brow,She's sprightly now and bold.And yesterday she sang a songThat took me back to when The youngest merely crept along, And Frank was only ten.They 're coming home Thanksgiving Day,And mother shows it, too;Her hair, somehow, is not so gray,And in her eyes the blueIs clearer than it used to be,And in them there's a light Of love that I was wont to seeWhen courting her at night. She's singing songs again, and inHer voice there 's not a crack, Once more the dimple's in her chin,For they are coming back.They 're coming back, that's all we know,They 're coming back to see The mother of the long ago,They 're coming back to me. And we've put off a thousand woes,And shelved a dozen years;In mother's fading cheek the roseOf June once more appears;The old home seems to thrill once moreThe way it used to, whenThe baby crept along the floorAnd Frank was only ten.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21930": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21930, "poem.id": 21930, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:15:39", "poem.title": "Two Viewpoints", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21931": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21931, "poem.id": 21931, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:15:43", "poem.title": "Jimmy", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "I NEVER knew him, for he never grewUp as so many strong little ones do;Just a year on the earth with his mother, and thenGod came and took Jimmy to heaven again.And 't was years after that when I moved on the streetAnd met Jimmy's mother, so patient and sweet,And through her I got to know Jimmy so well,For morning and evening she 'd stop me to tellAbout Jimmy.His toys were all kept in his little play room,His dolls and his Teddy bear stayed in the gloom;And when Jimmy was two, or would have been, rather,Some soldiers of tin were brought home by his father,And the mother arranged them in battle line, too,A fact that but few of her friends ever knew.In her mind's eye she pictured him sunny and gay,And often ceased work to romp with him and play,Play with Jimmy.In this way I got to know Jimmy myself,Long after his toys had been put on the shelf;He 'd been to school and to college, it seems,And now was the man of his dear mother's dreams.She 'd nursed him through measles and fevers and allThe ailments that everyone has when he's small,She'd lived with him, just as though he had been spared,Played with him, prayed with him, worried and caredFor her Jimmy.Wonderful, too, were the deeds he had done;Never had mother before such a son.Brave? Never youth was so fearless as he;I 'm telling you now what she oft said to me.And clever and witty and patient and kind,With never a fault, but then mothers are blind,And this mother really was telling the truth,For she had watched every step of his youth,Loving Jimmy.The last words she spoke to me now I recall,The doctor had whispered: 'There's no chance at all.'And she knew it, too, but she smiled up at me,'I 'm going,' she muttered, 'my Jimmy to see,I know how he looks, and I know what he'll say,For hasn't he lived with me here every day?Help father to bravely bear up under this,For he will be lonesome, I know how he'll missMe and Jimmy.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21932": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21932, "poem.id": 21932, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:15:48", "poem.title": "Getting Her A Valentine", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21933": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21933, "poem.id": 21933, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:15:51", "poem.title": "Similar", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21934": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21934, "poem.id": 21934, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:15:53", "poem.title": "True", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21935": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21935, "poem.id": 21935, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:15:59", "poem.title": "Lullaby", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21936": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21936, "poem.id": 21936, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:16:06", "poem.title": "The Cut-Down Trousers", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21937": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21937, "poem.id": 21937, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:16:11", "poem.title": "The Path O' Little Children", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21938": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21938, "poem.id": 21938, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:16:16", "poem.title": "Golf Luck", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21939": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21939, "poem.id": 21939, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:16:18", "poem.title": "Thoughts Of A Soldier", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "Since men with life must purchase life And some must die that more may live, Unto the Great Cashier of strife A fine accounting let me give. Perhaps to-morrow I shall stand Before his cage, prepared to buy New splendor for my native land: Oh, God, then bravely let me die! If after I shall fall, shall rise A fairer land than I have known, I shall not grudge my sacrifice, Although I pay the price alone. If still more beautiful to see The Stars and Stripes o'er men shall wave And finer shall my country be, To-morrow let me find my grave. To-night life seems so fair and sweet, Yet tyranny is stalking here, And hate and lust and foul deceit Hang heavy on the atmosphere. Injustice seeks to throttle right, And laughter's stifled to a sigh. If death can take so great a blight From human lives, then let me die. If death must be the cost of life, And freedom's terms are human souls, Into the thickest of the strife Then let me go to pay the tolls. I would enrich my native land, New splendor to her flag I'd give, If where I fall shall freedom stand, And where I die shall freedom live. To-morrow death with me may trade; Let me not quibble o'er the price; But may I, once the bargain's made, With courage meet the sacrifice. If happiness for ages long My little term of life can buy, God, for my country make me strong; To-morrow let me bravely die.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21940": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21940, "poem.id": 21940, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:16:24", "poem.title": "General Pershing", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21941": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21941, "poem.id": 21941, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:16:30", "poem.title": "As It Looks To The Boy", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "His comrades have enlisted, but his mother bids him stay, His soul is sick with coward shame, his head hangs low to-day, His eyes no longer sparkle, and his breast is void of pride And I think that she has lost him though she's kept him at her side. Oh, I'm sorry for the mother, but I'm sorrier for the lad Who must look on life forever as a hopeless dream and sad. He must fancy men are sneering as they see him walk the street, He will feel his cheeks turn crimson as his eyes another's meet; And the boys and girls that knew him as he was but yesterday, Will not seem to smile upon him, in the old familiar way. He will never blame his mother, but when he's alone at night, His thoughts will flock to tell him that he isn't doing right. Oh, I'm sorry for the mother from whose side a boy must go, And the strong desire to keep him that she feels, I think I know, But the boy that she's so fond of has a life to live on earth, And he hungers to be busy with the work that is of worth. He will sicken and grow timid, he'll be flesh without a heart Until death at last shall claim him, if he doesn't do his part. Have you kept him, gentle mother? Has he lost his old-time cheer? Is he silent, sad and sullen? Are his eyes no longer clear? Is he growing weak and flabby who but yesterday was strong? Then a secret grief he's nursing and I'll tell you what is wrong. All his comrades have departed on their country's noblest work, And he hungers to be with them- it is not his wish to shirk.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21942": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21942, "poem.id": 21942, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:16:37", "poem.title": "Answering Age", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21943": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21943, "poem.id": 21943, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:16:39", "poem.title": "Old-Fashioned Folks", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21944": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21944, "poem.id": 21944, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:16:43", "poem.title": "A Friend's Greeting", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21945": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21945, "poem.id": 21945, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:16:48", "poem.title": "The Women Of The Sailors", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "The women of the sailors, unto them, O God, be kind!They never hear the breaking waves, they never hear the wind But that their hearts are anguish-tossed-, and every thought's a fear, For the women of the sailors it's a bitter time of year.The women of the sailors, unto them, O God, be good! 'Tis they who know and understand how frail are steel and wood; 'Tis they who never see the spray upon a rock-bound coast But what they breathe a prayer to Thee for those that love them most.The women of the sailors, unto them, O God, be nigh! They never hear the hurricane but that it means a sigh; They never hear the tempest but that they pray toThee For the safety of their loved ones who are battling with the sea.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21946": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21946, "poem.id": 21946, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:16:54", "poem.title": "Human Failings", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21947": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21947, "poem.id": 21947, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:16:58", "poem.title": "The Naughty Little Fellow", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21948": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21948, "poem.id": 21948, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:17:00", "poem.title": "The Sensible Romance Of Mildred", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21949": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21949, "poem.id": 21949, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:17:03", "poem.title": "Worth While", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21950": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21950, "poem.id": 21950, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:17:05", "poem.title": "A New Year's Song", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "Love and laughter lead you Down the pathways of the year, And may each morning feed you From the golden spoon of cheer; May every eye be shining,And every cheek aglow, And may the silver liningOf the clouds forever show.May peace and plenty find you,May pain and grief depart ;And may you leave behind youThe little cares that smart; May no day be distressful,No night be filled with woe, And may you be successfulWherever you may go.May June bring you her roses,May summer poppies bloom, And may each day that closesBe fragrant with perfume. May you have no regrettingWhen evening is begun, No vain and idle frettingO'er what you might have done.May envy quit your dwellingAnd hatred leave your heart ; May you rejoice in tellingYour brother's better part. May you be glad you're livingHowever dark your way, And find your joy in givingYour service to the day.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21951": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21951, "poem.id": 21951, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:17:11", "poem.title": "A Preference", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21952": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21952, "poem.id": 21952, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:17:18", "poem.title": "Temptation", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21953": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21953, "poem.id": 21953, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:17:23", "poem.title": "The Right To Joy", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21954": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21954, "poem.id": 21954, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:17:30", "poem.title": "The Notion Of Rastus", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "DERE never was a man on earthSo wonderful or clever,Dat ever found a way t' liveOn dis ole world forever.Dere never was a man so rich,Dat didn't have t' goWhen ole man Death came after himAn' crooked his finger, so.An' den dere never was a manSo great, when he was goneBut what dis good ole world of oursJes' kep' a-waggin' on.An' since dis ole world never stopsWhen famous men depart,I' ve come t' de conclusion datWe ain't so awful smart.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21955": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21955, "poem.id": 21955, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:17:32", "poem.title": "Charms", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21956": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21956, "poem.id": 21956, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:17:38", "poem.title": "The Joys Of Earth", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21957": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21957, "poem.id": 21957, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:17:41", "poem.title": "True Philosophy", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21958": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21958, "poem.id": 21958, "poem.ts": "2018-02-28 20:46:31", "poem.title": "The Fight With Self", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "" }, "21959": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21959, "poem.id": 21959, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:18:45", "poem.title": "Mary", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21960": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21960, "poem.id": 21960, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:18:57", "poem.title": "Magazine Girl", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21961": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21961, "poem.id": 21961, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:19:25", "poem.title": "Buckle In", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21962": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21962, "poem.id": 21962, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:19:55", "poem.title": "The Limitations Of Greatness", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21963": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21963, "poem.id": 21963, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:20:00", "poem.title": "Reunited", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "The hours were long with you away,Although I thought I could forget; I banished you and cursed the day That we had ever met.I frowned upon you, and I vowedThat nevermore your charms I 'd seek;I sought new pleasures with the crowd,But I am weak.Temptress I called you, and I sworeNo longer your demands I 'd serve;Freedom I 'd own forevermore,But lost my nerve.And absent, all my love returned,Not for one moment was I free,For you I nightly, daily yearned;Your slave I 'd be.No charm in anything I found,No lustre in the skies of blue,I merely moped my way around,And sighed for you.I must be made of fragile clay,Unsuited for the hero type, For back to you I come today,Old briar pipe.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21964": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21964, "poem.id": 21964, "poem.ts": "2018-02-28 20:46:31", "poem.title": "The Glories Of The Present", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "" }, "21965": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21965, "poem.id": 21965, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:21:05", "poem.title": "The Spendthrift", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21966": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21966, "poem.id": 21966, "poem.ts": "2018-02-28 20:46:31", "poem.title": "The Doubtful To-Morrow", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "" }, "21967": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21967, "poem.id": 21967, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:21:46", "poem.title": "A Vanished Joy", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "When I was but a little lad of six and seven and eight,One joy I knew that has been lost in customs up-to-date,Then Saturday was baking day and Mother used to make,The while I stood about and watched, the Sunday pies and cake;And I was there to have fulfilled a small boy's fondest wish,The glorious privilege of youth- to scrape the frosting dish!On Saturdays I never left to wander far away- I hovered near the kitchen door on Mother's baking day;The fragrant smell of cooking seemed to hold me in its grip,And naught cared I for other sports while there were sweets to sip;I little cared that all my chums had sought the brook to fish;I chose to wait that moment glad when I could scrape the dish.Full many a slice of apple I have lifted from a pieBefore the upper crust went on, escaping Mother's eye;Full many a time my fingers small in artfulness have strayedInto some sweet temptation rare which Mother's hands had made;But eager-eyed and watery-mouthed, I craved the greater boon,When Mother let me clean the dish and lick the frosting spoon.The baking days of old are gone, our children cannot knowThe glorious joys that childhood owned and loved so long ago.New customs change the lives of all and in their heartless wayThey've robbed us of the glad event once known as baking day.The stores provide our every need, yet many a time I wishOur kids could know that bygone thrill and scrape the frosting dish.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21968": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21968, "poem.id": 21968, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:21:49", "poem.title": "The Gold Givers", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21969": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21969, "poem.id": 21969, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:21:53", "poem.title": "The Thumbed Collar", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21970": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21970, "poem.id": 21970, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:21:57", "poem.title": "Play The Man", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21971": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21971, "poem.id": 21971, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:22:02", "poem.title": "Wisdom's Haunts", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21972": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21972, "poem.id": 21972, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:22:08", "poem.title": "Slumberland Time", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "IT is Slumberland time, and the storms have passed by, And the sea is now golden and still, And the big yellow moon has come up in the sky, And the Sandman is home from the hill. The fairy boat waits for my baby to start For the wonderful harbor of dreams, Where there's never a care for the dear little heart And the world is as bright as it seems.It is Slumberland time, and the sighing is done,The hurts of the day are all well, The wee childish troubles all passed with the sun, Now the Sandman is ringing his bell. The big yellow moon lights the way with his beams To the land where my baby shall go, Where the night time's a round of most wonderful dreamsAnd there's never a sorrow to know.It is Slumberland time, and the tears are all dried,And the dream ship is putting to sea, My baby must sail o'er the rest-ocean wideTill the morn brings her safely to me. Toss gently, O Slumberland breezes, her curls, Be kind to her, fairies, I pray, Let never a sad dream be my little girl's Till the sunbeams shall call her to play.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21973": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21973, "poem.id": 21973, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:22:13", "poem.title": "Trouble", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21974": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21974, "poem.id": 21974, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:22:20", "poem.title": "Christmas Greeting", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21975": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21975, "poem.id": 21975, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:22:26", "poem.title": "The Lanes Of Boyhood", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21976": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21976, "poem.id": 21976, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:22:31", "poem.title": "Men And Dreamers", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21977": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21977, "poem.id": 21977, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:22:38", "poem.title": "The Way To Do", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21978": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21978, "poem.id": 21978, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:22:40", "poem.title": "A Little The Best Of It", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21979": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21979, "poem.id": 21979, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:22:43", "poem.title": "His Chance", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21980": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21980, "poem.id": 21980, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:22:47", "poem.title": "The Rewards Of Industry", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21981": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21981, "poem.id": 21981, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:22:50", "poem.title": "Literary Mother", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21982": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21982, "poem.id": 21982, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:22:56", "poem.title": "Somebody Spoke A Cheering Word", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21983": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21983, "poem.id": 21983, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:23:02", "poem.title": "A Fourth Of July Wish", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21984": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21984, "poem.id": 21984, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:23:09", "poem.title": "The Christmas Spirit", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21985": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21985, "poem.id": 21985, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:23:11", "poem.title": "The Change-Worker", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "A feller don't start in to think of himself, an' the part that he's playin' down here,When there's nobody lookin' to him fer support, an' he don't give a thought to next year.His faults don't seem big an' his habits no worse than a whole lot of others he knows,An' he don't seem to care what his neighbors may say, as heedlessly forward he goes.He don't stop to think if it's wrong or it's right; with his speech he is careless or glib,Till the minute the nurse lets him into the room to see what's asleep in the crib.An' then as he looks at that bundle o' red, an' the wee little fingers an' toes,An' he knows it's his flesh an' his blood that is there, an' will be just like him when it grows,It comes in a flash to a feller right then, there is more here than pleasure or pelf,An' the sort of a man his baby will be is the sort of a man he's himself.Then he kisses the mother an' kisses the child, an' goes out determined that heWill endeavor to be just the sort of a man that he's wantin' his baby to be.A feller don't think that it matters so much what he does till a baby arrives;He sows his wild oats an' he has his gay fling an' headlong in pleasure he dives;An' a drink more or less doesn't matter much then, for life is a comedy gay,But the moment a crib is put in the home, an' a baby has come there to stay,He thinks of the things he has done in the past, an' it strikes him as hard as a blow,That the path he has trod in the past is a path that he don't want his baby to go.I ain't much to preach, an' I can't just express in the way that your clever men canThe thoughts that I think, but it seems to me now that when God wants to rescue a manFrom himself an' the follies that harmless appear, but which, under the surface, are grim,He summons the angel of infancy sweet, an' sends down a baby to him.For in that way He opens his eyes to himself, and He gives him the vision to seeThat his duty's to be just the sort of a man that he's wantin' his baby to be.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21986": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21986, "poem.id": 21986, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:23:13", "poem.title": "The Pay Envelope", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21987": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21987, "poem.id": 21987, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:23:20", "poem.title": "Dinner-Time", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21988": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21988, "poem.id": 21988, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:23:26", "poem.title": "A Valentine", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21989": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21989, "poem.id": 21989, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:23:32", "poem.title": "An Old-Fashioned Welcome", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21990": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21990, "poem.id": 21990, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:23:38", "poem.title": "Summer Dreams", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21991": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21991, "poem.id": 21991, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:23:40", "poem.title": "Where's Mamma?", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21992": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21992, "poem.id": 21992, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:23:43", "poem.title": "The Simple Toilers", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21993": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21993, "poem.id": 21993, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:23:45", "poem.title": "The Lonely Fight", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21994": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21994, "poem.id": 21994, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:23:50", "poem.title": "Different", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "I DON'T believe in worry, and it's foolish to despair, And dreading what may happen never lightens any care; I believe in facing trouble, without fretting o'er the cost, But it's altogether different when your little one is lost.Oh, it's altogether different when you think she's gone astray, When she's toddled from the doorway, and you cannot tell which way; When you call and get no answer, and you call and call again You are game, but still you worry—for it's mighty different then.Then the sweat comes on your forehead, and your nerves begin to dance, And the only thing you think of is some dreadful circumstance.You never stop to reason, and you play no hero's part, For terror—trembling terror—is a lodger in your heart.You could face financial ruin without parting with your grin, You could smile to see another take the prize you hoped to win, But you never cease to worry till you find your child again In the cupboard where she's hiding—for it's mighty different then.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21995": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21995, "poem.id": 21995, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:23:56", "poem.title": "The Christmas Gift For Mother", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21996": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21996, "poem.id": 21996, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:23:59", "poem.title": "He Struck Me!", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21997": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21997, "poem.id": 21997, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:24:04", "poem.title": "Fame", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21998": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21998, "poem.id": 21998, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:24:06", "poem.title": "His Rattle He Throws On The Floor", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "21999": { "poet_x_poem.id": 21999, "poem.id": 21999, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:24:09", "poem.title": "Fixing The Shame", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22000": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22000, "poem.id": 22000, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:24:15", "poem.title": "A Scare", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22001": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22001, "poem.id": 22001, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:24:20", "poem.title": "Riches", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22002": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22002, "poem.id": 22002, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:24:25", "poem.title": "The Little Country Bus", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "There's no lock upon your door, And the polish that you wore In the years ago when you were bright and newNow has lost its splendid shine,And your driver's bending spineShows that he's been getting old along with you.You are slipping fast, I see;So indeed, old bus, is he;But you rattle and you bang along the street,And I wonder as you goWhat of joy or what of woeYou'll discover when the limited you meet.Who is coming home once moreTo his father's welcome door?Is it failure or success that he will bring?Is a daughter slipping backFrom the city's cruel trackFor the lullaby that mother used to sing?Is she happy? Is she sad?For I know, old bus, you've hadBoth your passengers a thousand times or more;And old driver, you can't hideJust how many times you've sighedAs you've opened or have shut that shaky door.You have seen them go away,Full of strength and hope and gay,You have seen them start as children fine — and then —When the limited you've met, Both your kindly eyes were wet As you saw them back as women and as men. You have read the tale of life, Read the heartache and the strife, Read the sorrows that we'd better not discuss, Read the joy of splendid things And the pain that failure brings, As you've carried all that's human in your bus.So I wonder as you goWhat you'll find of joy or woeWhen the limited pulls in on time today;What of conquest or defeatWill it be your lot to meetAnd to welcome in your gentle, kindly way.Both your shaky bus and youWith life's toil are nearly through,Soon your soul upon a journey far will roam;And I like to think you'll askGod to let it be your taskTo welcome all the children coming home.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22003": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22003, "poem.id": 22003, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:24:29", "poem.title": "Cornered", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22004": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22004, "poem.id": 22004, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:24:34", "poem.title": "Doughnuts And Cider", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22005": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22005, "poem.id": 22005, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:24:40", "poem.title": "Sunday In The Country", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22006": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22006, "poem.id": 22006, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:24:46", "poem.title": "The Rich Man's Woes", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22007": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22007, "poem.id": 22007, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:24:52", "poem.title": "The Boy Mind", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22008": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22008, "poem.id": 22008, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:24:57", "poem.title": "The Farmer Talks", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22009": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22009, "poem.id": 22009, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:25:05", "poem.title": "The Summer Argument", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22010": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22010, "poem.id": 22010, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:25:07", "poem.title": "Out Of The Day", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22011": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22011, "poem.id": 22011, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:25:13", "poem.title": "The Homecomer's Song", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22012": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22012, "poem.id": 22012, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:25:17", "poem.title": "What To Do", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22013": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22013, "poem.id": 22013, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:25:24", "poem.title": "The Way Of The World", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22014": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22014, "poem.id": 22014, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:25:28", "poem.title": "After A Proposal", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22015": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22015, "poem.id": 22015, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:25:32", "poem.title": "Songs Of Gloom", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22016": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22016, "poem.id": 22016, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:25:38", "poem.title": "Autumn Evenings", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "Apples on the table an' the grate-fire blazin' high,Oh, I'm sure the whole world hasn't any happier man than I;The Mother sittin' mendin' little stockin's, toe an' knee,An' tellin' all that's happened through the busy day to me:Oh, I don't know how to say it, but these cosy autumn nightsSeem to glow with true contentment an' a thousand real delights.The dog sprawled out before me knows that huntin' days are here,'Cause he dreams and seems to whimper that a flock o' quail are near;An' the children playin' checkers till it's time to go to bed,Callin' me to settle questions whether black is beatin' red;Oh, these nights are filled with gladness, an' I puff my pipe an' smile,An' tell myself the struggle an' the work are both worth while.The flames are full o' pictures that keep dancin' to an' fro,Bringin' back the scenes o' gladness o' the happy long ago,An' the whole wide world is silent an' I tell myself just this- That within these walls I cherish, there is all my world there is!Can I keep the love abiding in these hearts so close to me,An' the laughter of these evenings, I shall gain life's victory.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22017": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22017, "poem.id": 22017, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:26:10", "poem.title": "The Cure", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22018": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22018, "poem.id": 22018, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:26:14", "poem.title": "Answering The Usual Questions", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22019": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22019, "poem.id": 22019, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:26:20", "poem.title": "The Value Of A Telephone", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "LAST night we had a hurry call to go to daughter May, Her husband said that Ma and me were wanted right away,An' so, though it was after 12, an' bitter cold outside, We hustled out of bed an' dressed an' took a trolley ride; An' Jim—that is her husband—met us with a gracious bowAn' said to me as we stepped in: 'Well, you're a grandpa now.'An' Ma went flyin' up the stairs, an' Jim an' I stayed down, An' talked about the great event, Jim in his dressin' gown, As comfortable as you please. An' then he sorter smiled An' said: 'An hour or two ago I thought that I'd go wild,The stork was hoverin' above, an' I was all alone, I'll tell you, Dad, I burned the wires of that old telephone.'I telephoned the doctor an' I telephoned the nurse,An' I'm sure the sort of service that I got could not be worse;I telephoned the druggist, an' I 'phoned the neighbors, too,An' then when I was through with them, I telephoned to you.Each minute seemed an hour to me; I thought they'd never come,You bet I was a busy boy. I made the old wires hum.'An' then I laughed an' said to him: 'Why, when your wife was born, We didn't have a telephone the neighbors 'round to warn;They got me out of bed at 1 a. m. an' said to me: 'You'd better get the doctor now, an' get him here at 3.' I had to run four miles that night to bang upon his door, An' then to get the nurse I had to hike about two more.'That isn't all the hikin' that the women made me do; I had to get her mother's folks—the same as she made you; There were no trolley cars back then, at least that late at night; I ran four stitches in my side, and finished ten pounds light;I walked an' did a double trot, a gallop and a pace, An' I didn't even stop to wipe the sweat beads from my face.'An' here you're in your dressin' gown, an' sittin' by the fire, An' everybody's on the job, all summoned by the wire. You haven't even left your house or felt the winter's ChillJust think, my boy, without a 'phone, why, you'd be running still! You'd still be hiking somewhere an' wearing out your shoes, An' pausin' for your second wind—that's how I spread the news!'", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22020": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22020, "poem.id": 22020, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:26:26", "poem.title": "Sacrifices", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22021": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22021, "poem.id": 22021, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:26:32", "poem.title": "The Toiler", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "He swore that he'd be true to her,If she would only marry him; That as his wife, throughout his life She'd never know a moment grim.He vowed that he would toil for her,That she should wear the latest things,He'd robe in furs that form of hersAnd deck her hands with diamond rings.He promised her a motor car,And maids to answer her commands; In water hot, with dish and potHe swore she'd never dip her hands.Oh, fine the promises he made,Oh, vows by which her heart was stirred!And since that time, it's been a crimeThe way he's worked to keep his word.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22022": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22022, "poem.id": 22022, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:26:38", "poem.title": "The Child World", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22023": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22023, "poem.id": 22023, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:26:43", "poem.title": "Tell Him Why", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "When your boy wants to do what he shouldn't—Some foolish or dangerous thing. Or something you wish that he wouldn't,A deed that disaster may bring, That he must not you hasten to tell himAnd threaten him should he defy, With a positive order you quell him, But do you explain to him why?When you want him to do what he should do,When you're eager to have him polite, When its something you know that he could do,Do you train him with reason or fright? You may say that he 'must' or severelyWith him you will deal by and by; You see why it's proper most clearly,But do you explain to him why?A boy's mind is open to reason,A thinking device is his brain; Injustice he's ready to seize on,So why don't you stop to explain? It's perfectly proper to check himWhen you see that in danger he'd fly, But it certainly sure that you'll wreck himUnless you explain to him why.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22024": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22024, "poem.id": 22024, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:26:45", "poem.title": "The Disgrace Of Poverty", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22025": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22025, "poem.id": 22025, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:26:49", "poem.title": "The Gentle Hand Of Women Folks", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22026": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22026, "poem.id": 22026, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:26:52", "poem.title": "Man And Lathe", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22027": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22027, "poem.id": 22027, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:26:54", "poem.title": "Lillian's Reading", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22028": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22028, "poem.id": 22028, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:26:58", "poem.title": "Chums", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22029": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22029, "poem.id": 22029, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:27:03", "poem.title": "Safe Conduct", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22030": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22030, "poem.id": 22030, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:27:09", "poem.title": "Tinkerin' At Home", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "Some folks there be who seem to need excitement fast and furious,An' reckon all the joys that have no thrill in 'em are spurious.Some think that pleasure's only found down where the lights are shining,An' where an orchestra's at work the while the folks are dining.Still others seek it at their play, while some there are who roam,But I am happiest when I am tinkerin' 'round the home.I like to wear my oldest clothes, an' fuss around the yard,An' dig a flower bed now an' then, and pensively regardThe mornin' glories climbin' all along the wooden fence,An' do the little odds an' ends that aren't of consequence.I like to trim the hedges, an' touch up the paint a bit,An' sort of take a homely pride in keepin' all things fit.An' I don't envy rich folks who are sailin' o'er the foamWhen I can spend a day or two in tinkerin' 'round the home.If I were fixed with money, as some other people are,I'd take things mighty easy; I'd not travel very far.I'd jes' wear my oldest trousers an' my flannel shirt, an' stayAn' guard my vine an' fig tree in an old man's tender way.I'd bathe my soul in sunshine every mornin', and I'd bendMy back to pick the roses; Oh, I'd be a watchful friendTo everything around the place, an' in the twilight gloamI'd thank the Lord for lettin' me jes' tinker 'round the home.But since I've got to hustle in the turmoil of the town,An' don't expect I'll ever be allowed to settle downAn' live among the roses an' the tulips an' the phlox,Or spend my time in carin' for the noddin' hollyhocks,I've come to the conclusion that perhaps in Heaven I mayGet a chance to know the pleasures that I'm yearnin' for to-day;An' I'm goin' to ask the good Lord, when I've climbed the golden stair,If he'll kindly let me tinker 'round the home we've got up there.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22031": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22031, "poem.id": 22031, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:27:12", "poem.title": "Found Out", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22032": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22032, "poem.id": 22032, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:27:17", "poem.title": "Our Country", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22033": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22033, "poem.id": 22033, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:27:20", "poem.title": "Pleasure's Signs", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22034": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22034, "poem.id": 22034, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:27:23", "poem.title": "The Wide Outdoors", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22035": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22035, "poem.id": 22035, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:27:28", "poem.title": "The Spoiler", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22036": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22036, "poem.id": 22036, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:27:31", "poem.title": "George Moir Black", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22037": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22037, "poem.id": 22037, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:27:35", "poem.title": "Strange", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22038": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22038, "poem.id": 22038, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:27:38", "poem.title": "The Jedge Of Bowie County", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22039": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22039, "poem.id": 22039, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:27:42", "poem.title": "Song Of The Many", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22040": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22040, "poem.id": 22040, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:27:46", "poem.title": "Down The Lanes Of August", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "DOWN the lanes of August—and the bees upon the wing, All the world's in color now, and all the song birds sing;Never reds will redder be, more golden be the gold, Down the lanes of August, and the summer getting old.Mother Nature's brushes now with paints are dripping wet,Gorgeous is her canvas with the tints we can't forget; Here's a yellow wheat field—purple asters there, Riotous the colors that she's splashing everywhere.Red the cheeks of apples and pink the peaches' bloom, Redolent the breezes with the sweetness of perfume; Everything is beauty crowned by skies of clearest blue, Mother Earth is at her best once more for me and you.Down the lanes of August with her blossoms at our feet, Rich with gold and scarlet, dripping wet with honey sweet.Rich or poor, no matter, here are splendors spread Down the lanes of August, for all who wish to tread.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22041": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22041, "poem.id": 22041, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:27:49", "poem.title": "The Whiners", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22042": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22042, "poem.id": 22042, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:27:55", "poem.title": "Let's Go", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22043": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22043, "poem.id": 22043, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:27:59", "poem.title": "Food, Clothes And Drink", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22044": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22044, "poem.id": 22044, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:28:03", "poem.title": "The Tempters", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22045": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22045, "poem.id": 22045, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:28:06", "poem.title": "The Neighbors", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22046": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22046, "poem.id": 22046, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:28:10", "poem.title": "Welcoming The New Year", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22047": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22047, "poem.id": 22047, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:28:15", "poem.title": "An Apple Tree In France", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22048": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22048, "poem.id": 22048, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:28:22", "poem.title": "Your Caddie And You", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22049": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22049, "poem.id": 22049, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:28:28", "poem.title": "Green Apple Time", "poem.date": "9/2/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22050": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22050, "poem.id": 22050, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:28:33", "poem.title": "Dreading", "poem.date": "9/2/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22051": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22051, "poem.id": 22051, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:28:37", "poem.title": "The Lanes Of Apple Bloom", "poem.date": "9/2/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22052": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22052, "poem.id": 22052, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:28:43", "poem.title": "Warning The Carpenter", "poem.date": "9/2/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22053": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22053, "poem.id": 22053, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:28:48", "poem.title": "Little Marie", "poem.date": "9/2/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22054": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22054, "poem.id": 22054, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:28:53", "poem.title": "Out In The Open", "poem.date": "9/2/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22055": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22055, "poem.id": 22055, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:28:56", "poem.title": "Pixley Folks", "poem.date": "9/2/2014", "poem.content": "SOMETIMES I git to thinkin' o' the days o' youth, an' thenThere comes a-troopin' through my mind th' wimmin folk an' menI used ter know in Pixley, an' I sit with 'em awhile,A-livin' all th' fun we knew before we put on style;A-dancin' all th' dances, th' lancers an' q'drilles,A-goin' to th' buskin' bees an' picnics on th' hills,An' I quite ferget I 'm livin' on a crowded city street,Where I don't know a quarter of th' people that I meet.I settle in my arm chair, an' I light my meerschaum pipe,An' then I 'm back in Pixley with the apples red an' ripe.I 'm makin' eyes at Agnes, which is wrong I must allow,Coz she was married long ago an' has four babies now.An' I 'm pokin' fun at Lydy, who was in for any joke,But she has married wealthy — still out yonder in th' smokeShe is still the laughin' lassie, free from all the haughty airsThat wimmin folk think needful when they marry millionaires.Then I steal a kiss from Nellie, an' I hear her say 'No, no!' Th' way she did a thousand times, but never meant it, though. An' again from church we 're comin', an' th' hour is gettin' late An' we stand awhile a-gabbin', she a-swingin' on th' gate,A-tellin' of her uncles an' her aunts, an' how they were, While all that I was wan tin' was to stay an' talk of her. An' again I 'm gettin' ready jes' to ask her to be mine, An' again she ups an' leaves me, sayin' 'Ed, it's after nine.\"O, I tell you what! It's funny, when I think about it all,An' I kinder get to broodin' an' th' old days I recallWhen there warn't no automobiles, warn't no problem plays an' such,When th' only fault with young folks was they loved t' play too much;When there warn't no style about us, one warn't richer than another,When we didn't think of money, never snubbed a poorer brother;An' to see 'em now with riches, an' ashamed to even sayThat they ever lived in Pixley— Why, my soul is there today!", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22056": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22056, "poem.id": 22056, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:29:03", "poem.title": "Out At Pelletier's", "poem.date": "9/2/2014", "poem.content": "OUT at Pelletier's where the blooded pigeons fly, An' the tony Shetland ponies romp and play, Where the peacock on the fence rail hoots at motors chugging by An' the wolf hounds at the moon (in Russian) bay;Where the poultry sort o' swaggers in its best bluer-ribbon style,An' the hogs wear silver buttons in their ears, It is comfortin' an' soothin' jes' to sit an' rest awhile, For it brushes back at least a dozen years.Out at Pelletier's—where old Monte Mark is king,An' he knows it an' he shows it to 'em all, Whether rompin' in the pasture, or in trappings for the ring,Or whinnyin' to greet you in his stall; An' where Chief, the son of Monte, in a splendid coat of bayShows the heritage of vigor in his veins; It is soothin' an' consolin' to be restin' for a day, An' forget the city's dismal grind for gains.It's a lesson in good breedin'—at the farm o' Pelletier's,It's a lesson in refinement an' in care; An' it sets a thinkin' feller sort o' thinkin' o' the yearsThat are waitin' in the future over there. An' while he's sittin' restin' underneath the walnut tree,He is thinkin' thoughts perhaps he never speaks; What's he goin' to leave behind him when his spirit is set free? Is it money or perfection that he seeks? Is he strivin' here'for dollars or a better human race, Just as Pelletier is doin' with his stock? Would he rather leave a brighter, clearer, smilin' boyish faceThan his name upon a massive building rock? Is he buildin' here for soundness an' for cleanliness of heart?Is he breedin' here for happiness or tears? Oh, it's good for any feller just to take himself apart An' think the thoughts that come at Pelletier's.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22057": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22057, "poem.id": 22057, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:29:07", "poem.title": "Keep Your Dreams", "poem.date": "8/27/2015", "poem.content": "Keep your dreams-they're richer far Than the facts discovered are. Do not seek all things to touch; Do not want to know too much. Growing old, still play the child; Keep some glory undefiled. What if clouds are mist and air? Still see ships sailing there. What would life be if we knew Only those things which are true? If the things of bad and good Were by all men understood. Nature's hills and brooks and springs Would be catalogued as things. Keep your dreams, for in them lies Joy denied to men grown wise. Still build castles in the air! Still see white ships sailing there! Still have something to pursue, Something which you wish you knew.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22058": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22058, "poem.id": 22058, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:29:11", "poem.title": "What Counts", "poem.date": "8/27/2015", "poem.content": "It isn't the money you're making, it isn't the clothes you wear, And it isn't the skill of your good right hand which makes folks really care. It's the smile on your face and the light of your eye and the burdens that you bear.Most any old man can tell you, most any old man at all, Who has lived through all sorts of weather, winter and summer and fall, That riches and fame are shadows that dance on the garden wall.It's how do you live and neighbor, how do you work and play, It's how do you say 'good morning' to the people along the way, And it's how do you face your troubles whenever your skies are gray.It's you, from the dawn to nighttime; you when the day is fair, You when the storm is raging - how do you face despair? It is you that the world discovers, whatever the clothes you wear.You to the end of the journey, kindly and brave and true, The best and the worst of you gleaming in all that you say and do, And the ting that counts isn't money, or glory, or power, but YOU!", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22059": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22059, "poem.id": 22059, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:29:19", "poem.title": "Now And Then", "poem.date": "9/2/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22060": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22060, "poem.id": 22060, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:29:22", "poem.title": "A Personal View Of War", "poem.date": "9/2/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22061": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22061, "poem.id": 22061, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:29:25", "poem.title": "Not Crossing Bridges", "poem.date": "9/2/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22062": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22062, "poem.id": 22062, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:29:30", "poem.title": "The Peaks Of Valor", "poem.date": "9/2/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22063": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22063, "poem.id": 22063, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:29:33", "poem.title": "The Father Of The Man", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22064": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22064, "poem.id": 22064, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:29:38", "poem.title": "The Right Family", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22065": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22065, "poem.id": 22065, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:29:42", "poem.title": "The Peevish Man", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22066": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22066, "poem.id": 22066, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:29:45", "poem.title": "Fishin'-Hunger", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22067": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22067, "poem.id": 22067, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:29:48", "poem.title": "If I Had Youth", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22068": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22068, "poem.id": 22068, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:29:51", "poem.title": "Good Friday", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "O, SAD and solemn holy day,O, bitterest of bitter hours!Behold He staggers on His wayBeneath the cross that saps His powers.O, see, they goad Him with their thongs,And mock Him as He falters there,For us, for us He bears these wrongsAnd goes the crown of thorns to wear.No word of bitterness He speaks,No look of hatred mars His face, The scoffers spit upon His cheeksAnd taunt Him in the market place; And now upon the cross He 's nailed,'I thirst,' He mutters, that is all; But still He is to be assailed,His lips must taste the cup of gall.Once more His lips are seen to move,O, holy sentence uttered there! What more His love could better proveThan these few words borne on the air: 'Father, forgive them,' thus He prayed,And doubt you that His love was true? Still patient, gentle, unafraid,'Forgive, they know not what they do.\"For us the crown of thorns He woreWith patience man has never known; For us the cruel cross He boreWith meekness man has never shown. For us He lived, for us He died,O, sad and solemn holy day, Renouncing self and earthly prideThat we might know the better way.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22069": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22069, "poem.id": 22069, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:29:57", "poem.title": "The Choir At Pixley", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "The choir we had in Pixley wasn't much for looks an' styles, But today if I could hear it I would walk a hundred miles; There warn't a singer in it that could boast she 'd crossed the seas To study with the masters and to learn to make high C's; There warn't no variations, warn't no frills that folks think grand;Warn't no singin' operatic that no one can understand; But jus' plain gospel singin' like the music of the birds, An' the congregation didn't have to strain to catch the words.There were jus' four people in it — Mrs. Tompkins, Mrs. Botts, Arthur Tweedle was the tenor, an' the basso Jeptha Watts. Oh, 't would do you good to hear 'em singin' low 'Abide With Me,' An' 'Jerusalem the Golden' an' 'The City by the Sea.'There was nothin' high-falutin' 'bout the songs they used t' sing, Jus' sweet, humble hymns of praises to the Master an' the King; Jus' sweet, simple strains of music, but my soul they always stirred, An' I liked it better, mebbe, coz I understood each word.An' I mind the day in Pixley when a city woman came To our little church to visit, an' I mind her burnin' shame, When she sneered about the singin' an' she scoffed about the choir, An' I mind the way she snickered an' the way she roused my ire, An' how I up and told her that the music she thought grandWas the music that she paid for an' she couldn't understand ; An' I said the choir ain't singin' now for you, an' never would, But it's singin' for the Master an' I guess He 'd call it good.The little church in Pixley ain't a little church no more,It's took in wealthy people an' its steeples skyward soar;It's got a marble altar an' it's got a tony choirOf singers trained in Europe an' a-singin' now for hire.They 're runnin' now to solos an' they advertise the factThat So and So is goin' t' sing, a large crowd to attract;But I can't say I like it, why it isn't half so goodAs the little choir that used t' sing the songs we understood.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22070": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22070, "poem.id": 22070, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:30:01", "poem.title": "My Proud Pa", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22071": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22071, "poem.id": 22071, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:30:06", "poem.title": "The Lucky Man", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22072": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22072, "poem.id": 22072, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:30:09", "poem.title": "Real Help", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22073": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22073, "poem.id": 22073, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:30:14", "poem.title": "When The Minister Calls", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22074": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22074, "poem.id": 22074, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:30:18", "poem.title": "You And Your Body", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22075": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22075, "poem.id": 22075, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:30:22", "poem.title": "The Killing Place", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22076": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22076, "poem.id": 22076, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:30:26", "poem.title": "Copy Paper", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22077": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22077, "poem.id": 22077, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:30:30", "poem.title": "Mother's Party Dress", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "'Some day,' says Ma, 'I'm goin' to getA party dress all trimmed with jet,An' hire a seamstress in, an' sheIs goin' to fit it right on me;An' then, when I'm invited outTo teas an' socials hereabout,I'll put it on an' look as fineAs all th' women friends of mine.'An' Pa looked up: 'I sold a cow,'Says he, 'go down an' get it now.'An' Ma replied: 'I guess I'll wait,We've other needs that's just as great.The children need some clothes to wear,An' there are shoes we must repair;It ain't important now to getA dress fer me, at least not yet; I really can't afford it.'Ma's talked about that dress fer years;How she'd have appliqued revers;The kind o' trimmin' she would pick;How 't would be made to fit her slick;The kind o' black silk she would choose,The pattern she would like to use.An' I can mind the time when PaGive twenty dollars right to Ma,An' said: 'Now that's enough, I guess,Go buy yourself that party dress.'An' Ma would take th' bills an' smile,An' say: 'I guess I'll wait awhile;Aunt Kitty's poorly now with chills,She needs a doctor and some pills;I'll buy some things fer her, I guess;An' anyhow, about that dress, I really can't afford it.'An' so it's been a-goin' on,Her dress fer other things has gone;Some one in need or some one sickHas always touched her to th' quick;Or else, about th' time 'at sheCould get th' dress, she'd always seeThe children needin' somethin' new;An' she would go an' get it, too.An' when we frowned at her, she'd smileAn' say: 'The dress can wait awhile.'Although her mind is set on laces,Her heart goes out to other places;An' somehow, too, her money goesIn ways that only mother knows.While there are things her children lackShe won't put money on her back;An' that is why she hasn't gotA party dress of silk, an' not Because she can't afford it.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22078": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22078, "poem.id": 22078, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:30:36", "poem.title": "My Word!", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22079": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22079, "poem.id": 22079, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:30:42", "poem.title": "The March O' Man", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22080": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22080, "poem.id": 22080, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:30:45", "poem.title": "His Dog", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22081": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22081, "poem.id": 22081, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:30:51", "poem.title": "The Summer Girl", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22082": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22082, "poem.id": 22082, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:30:56", "poem.title": "The Cure For Weariness", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22083": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22083, "poem.id": 22083, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:31:00", "poem.title": "The Cost Of Praise", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22084": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22084, "poem.id": 22084, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:31:06", "poem.title": "Nothing Unusual", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22085": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22085, "poem.id": 22085, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:31:11", "poem.title": "Winds Of The Morning", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22086": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22086, "poem.id": 22086, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:31:14", "poem.title": "The Painter", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22110": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22110, "poem.id": 22110, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:31:20", "poem.title": "What Home's Intended For", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22111": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22111, "poem.id": 22111, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:31:25", "poem.title": "The Gift Of Play", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22112": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22112, "poem.id": 22112, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:31:31", "poem.title": "The Little Woman", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22113": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22113, "poem.id": 22113, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:31:34", "poem.title": "At Dawn", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22114": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22114, "poem.id": 22114, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:31:39", "poem.title": "The Old Days", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "WHEN I was but a little tad I used to hear my dear old dad Tell friends about the good old days forever gone from him; My dear old kindly gran'dad, too, explained the merry joys he knew, When he was in his twenties, and could dance and run and swim; The burden of their song always was this — the good old bygone days, The days of thirty years ago, when all the world was gay,And folks were always merry then, and men were bigger, better men, And fun was funnier by far than what it is today.When I was young I couldn't see, how such a state of things could be,For I was having fun myself, and plenty of it, too; And not so long ago I told — a sign that I am getting old — About the good old days that once upon a time I knew; I found that like my dear old dad, I thought about the joys I had, And I was sure that times had changed and fun had ceased to be; I often heaved a bitter sigh, and wished and wished for days gone by;The old days were the happy days, or so they seemed to me.But looking back in history, unto the time we call B. C. I find that dads and gran'dads then were living in the past; Old Julius Caesar, who was slain, once sat and sighed and wished in vain Because the joys that once he knew were not allowed to last. Before Noah built his famous ark, I'll bet some ancient patriarch Beneath his vine tree sat and said the days of fun were gone, That times were not as once they were, that joys had vanished from the air,And fun and mirth and merriment somehow had wandered on.And so today I've ceased to talk and ceased to let my thinker walk Away back where the old days are — I've ceased to call them best; I've got the notion that today is just as happy, just as gayAs any yesterday of mine, and just as full of zest. Tomorrow will be just as bright, and just as full of rare delight For those who follow me as were the golden days of yore; And when I hear some croaker say, there's no such thing as fun today,I get his derby, coat and cane and show him to the door.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22115": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22115, "poem.id": 22115, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:31:44", "poem.title": "Roses, Birds And Some Men", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22116": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22116, "poem.id": 22116, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:31:51", "poem.title": "What A Sick Woman Does", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "ACONVALESCIN' woman does the strangest sort o' things, An' it's wonderful the courage that a little new strength brings;O, it's never safe to leave her for an hour or two alone, Or you'll find th' doctor's good work has been quickly overthrown. There's that wife o' mine, I reckon she's a sample of 'em all; She's been mighty sick, I tell you, an' today can scarcely crawl, But I left her jes' this mornin' while I fought potater bugs, An' I got back home an' caught her in the back yard shakin' rugs.I ain't often cross with Nellie, an' I let her have her way,But it made me mad as thunder when I got back home that dayAn' found her doin' labor that'd tax a big man's strength,An' I guess I lost my temper/for I scolded her at length;'Til I seen her tear drops fallin' anVshe said: ' I couldn't standT' see those rugs so dirty, so I took 'em all in hand,An' it ain't hurt me nuther, see I 'm gettin' strong again — 'An' I said: ' Doggone it! Can't ye leave sich work as that fer men? 'Once I had her in a hospittle fer weeks an' weeks an' weeks,An' she wasted most t' nothin', an' th' roses left her cheeks; An' one night I feared I 'd l se her; 't was the turnin' point, I guess, Coz th' next day I remember that th' doctor said: 'Success!' Well, I brought her home an' told her that for two months she must stayA-sitttn' in her rocker an' jes' watch th' kids at play; An' th' first week she was patient, but I mind the way I swore On th' day when I discovered 'at she 'd scrubbed th' kitchen floor.O, you can't keep wimmin quiet an' they ain't a bit like men, They 're hungerin' every minute jes' t' get t' work again; An' you've got t' watch '«m allus, when you know they're weak an' ill, Coz th' minute that yer back is turned they'll labor fit t' kill. Th' house ain't cleaned t' suit 'em an' they seem t' fret an' fume 'Less they 're busy doin' somethin' with a mop or else a broom; An' it ain't no use t' scold 'em an' it ain't no use t' swear, Coz th' next time they will do it jes' the minute you ain't there.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22117": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22117, "poem.id": 22117, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:31:57", "poem.title": "One-Sided Faith", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22118": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22118, "poem.id": 22118, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:32:01", "poem.title": "Tommy Atkins' Way", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22119": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22119, "poem.id": 22119, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:32:07", "poem.title": "For Others—and His Wife", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "HE took off his hat to the woman next door,But he wouldn't do that for his wife;He picked up the handkerchief dropped Jon the floor,But he wouldn't do that for his wife;He ran for a chair when a fair maiden stood,Did everything that a gentleman should,When leaving he helped her get into her hood,But he wouldn't do that for his wife.He offered his arm to the fair Mrs. Brown,But he wouldn't do that for his wife;He gallantly carried her parcels from town,But he wouldn't do that for his wife;He helped her alight from the trolley car then,Didn't stand on the platform to smoke with the men,But sat down beside her. I'll say it againThat he wouldn't do that for his wife.If it 'a proper these little attentions to pay,Then he ought to pay them to his wife; No man is polite, let me venture to say,If he isn't polite to his wife.Fair woman deserves all our courtesies — true,And enough for her no man is able to do,But the man who's a gentleman right through and through,Is a gentleman first to his wife.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22120": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22120, "poem.id": 22120, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:32:13", "poem.title": "The Influence Of Woman", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22121": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22121, "poem.id": 22121, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:32:15", "poem.title": "He Earned His Way", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22122": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22122, "poem.id": 22122, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:32:19", "poem.title": "The Home-Wrecker", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22123": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22123, "poem.id": 22123, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:32:26", "poem.title": "A Real Thriller", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "We were speakin' of excitement, an' the hair upliftin' thrills That sorter dot life's landscape, like the bill board ads. for pills, An' one feller spoke of bein' in a railroad wreck or two An' another one of skatin' on some ice that let him through. Then a meek-faced little brother in the smoker's corner said: 'I'll admit you folks have suffered temporary fear 'an dread, But, tell me, have you ever ridden sixteen miles at night In a livery stable cutter, when the snow was deep an' white An' discovered, when attracted by the lash's singin' cuts That the driver's full of whisky an' the road is full of ruts?'Don't talk to me of terror, 'less you've ridden in a sleighThrough a strange an' barren country, jus' before the break o' dayWhen it's blacker than your derby, an' you're shiverin' with coldAn' the fear that in a minute down a chasm you'll be rolled.I would volplane in a biplane, though I'm not a Wilbur Wright,I would join the crazy Frenchman in his somersaulting flight.I would even scoff at Villa or some other Greaser thug,An' not worry that my body soon would stop a leaden slug.But I'd pass up midnight riding, where a deep ravine abutsWhen the driver's full of whisky an' the road is full of ruts.'I never for one minute doubt that there's a Providence, A wiser power above us, something more than mortal sense; A wisdom that is deeper than the wisdom man has shown,A mercy that is sweeter than we selfish mortals own. That there is a God in Heaven is as sure as sure can be,An' each day that I am living certain proof of it I see. If we'd have it manifested, there's no need to go to schools, Or to scholars or the sages—we may learn it from the fools. One must really be watched over by an eye that never shuts When the driver's full of whisky and the road is full of ruts.'", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22124": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22124, "poem.id": 22124, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:32:33", "poem.title": "The Homes Of Joy", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22125": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22125, "poem.id": 22125, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:32:37", "poem.title": "Off To School", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22126": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22126, "poem.id": 22126, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:32:42", "poem.title": "The Test", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22127": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22127, "poem.id": 22127, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:32:49", "poem.title": "A Place At The Top", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22128": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22128, "poem.id": 22128, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:32:54", "poem.title": "Man's Experience", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22129": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22129, "poem.id": 22129, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:33:00", "poem.title": "Can'T Frighten Them", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22130": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22130, "poem.id": 22130, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:33:04", "poem.title": "The Man I Like", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22131": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22131, "poem.id": 22131, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:33:08", "poem.title": "The Boy's Adventure", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22132": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22132, "poem.id": 22132, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:33:14", "poem.title": "What Father Knows", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22133": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22133, "poem.id": 22133, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:33:19", "poem.title": "Mother's Job", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "I'm just the man to make things right,To mend a sleigh or make a kite,Or wrestle on the floor and playThose rough and tumble games, but say!Just let him get an ache or pain,And start to whimper and complain,And from my side he'll quickly fleeTo clamber on his mother's knee.I'm good enough to be his horseAnd race with him along the course.I'm just the friend he wants each timeThere is a tree he'd like to climb,And I'm the pal he's eager forWhen we approach a candy store;But for his mother straight he makesWhene'er his little stomach aches.He likes, when he is feeling well,The kind of stories that I tell,And I'm his comrade and his chumAnd I must march behind his drum.To me through thick and thin he'll stick,Unless he happens to be sick.In which event, with me he's through- Only his mother then will do.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22134": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22134, "poem.id": 22134, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:33:23", "poem.title": "Old Years And New", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22135": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22135, "poem.id": 22135, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:33:28", "poem.title": "A Suggestion", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "IF you've grumbled through the day Without driving care away, If in spite of all your grouches Troubles on you have kept piling; If regardless of your kicking And your cussing, they're still sticking, Why not switch your tactics, mister, And try smiling? If your frowning will not chase 'em, Why not grin a bit, and face 'em? If your worries seem to like it When your meanness they are riling; If your gloomy disposition Doesn't better your condition, Why not switch your methods, mister, And try smiling? If your constant whining, swearing, Do not better your wayfaring; If you find your foes no kinder After them you've been reviling; If they keep right on assailing, Quite regardless of your wailing, Why not switch your style of warfare And try smiling?", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22136": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22136, "poem.id": 22136, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:33:32", "poem.title": "Loser And Victor", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "He was beaten from the start,Beaten by his doubting heart,And he had a ready earFor the busy tongue of fear,And he had a timid mindUnto fretfulness inclined,Filled with many reasons whyIt was vain for him to try.Given a task he'd shake his head,'Can't do that!' he often said,'Times are hard and none will stay,Listen to the words I say.It is futile now to try,People simply will not buy!'Thus he walked the streets of trade,Both discouraged and afraid.But another kind of manThought this way: 'Perhaps I can!If I will supply the pluck,Fortune may provide the luck.If I have the grit to try,There are people who may buy;Anyhow, I'll not submitTo defeat before I'm hit.'One was beaten from the start,Beaten by his doubting heart,Beaten when he gave his earTo the busy tongue of fear.But another with his chanceSeized the moment to advance,And came happy home at nightJust because he dared to fight.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22137": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22137, "poem.id": 22137, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:33:35", "poem.title": "Ma And The Ouija Board", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "I don't know what it's all about, but Ma says that she wants to knowIf spirits in the other world can really talk to us below.An' Pa says, 'Gosh! there's folks enough on earth to talk to, I should think,Without you pesterin' the folks whose souls have gone across the brink.'But Ma, she wants to find out things an' study on her own accord,An' so a month or two ago she went an' bought a ouija board.It's just a shiny piece of wood, with letters printed here an' there,An' has a little table which you put your fingers on with care,An' then you sit an' whisper low some question that you want to know.Then by an' by the spirit comes an' makes the little table go,An' Ma, she starts to giggle then an' Pa just grumbles out, 'Oh, Lord!I wish you hadn't bought this thing. We didn't need a ouija board.''You're movin' it!' says Ma to Pa. 'I'm not!' says Pa, 'I know it's you;You're makin' it spell things to us that you know very well aren't true.''That isn't so,' says Ma to him, 'but I am certain from the wayThe ouija moves that you're the one who's tellin' it just what to say.''It's just 'lectricity,' says Pa; 'like batteries all men are stored,But anyhow I don't believe we ought to have a ouija board.'One night Ma got it out, an' said, 'Now, Pa, I want you to be fair,Just keep right still an' let your hands rest lightly on the table there.Oh, Ouija, tell me, tell me true, are we to buy another car,An' will we get it very soon?' she asked. 'Oh, tell us from afar.''Don't buy a car,' the letters spelled, 'the price this year you can't afford.'Then Ma got mad, an' since that time she's never used the ouija board.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22138": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22138, "poem.id": 22138, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:33:38", "poem.title": "Christmas Eve", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22139": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22139, "poem.id": 22139, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:33:43", "poem.title": "Dreaming", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22140": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22140, "poem.id": 22140, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:33:50", "poem.title": "The Lilacs", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22141": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22141, "poem.id": 22141, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:33:53", "poem.title": "Real Lessons", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22142": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22142, "poem.id": 22142, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:33:56", "poem.title": "Aw Gee Whiz!", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22143": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22143, "poem.id": 22143, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:34:00", "poem.title": "Beautifying The Flag", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22144": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22144, "poem.id": 22144, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:34:06", "poem.title": "Aunty", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "I'm sorry for a feller if he hasn't any aunt,To let him eat and do the things his mother says he can't.An aunt to come a visitin' or one to go and seeIs just about the finest kind of lady there could be.Of course she's not your mother, an' she hasn't got her ways,But a part that's most important in a feller's life she plays.She is kind an' she is gentle, an' sometimes she's full of fun,An' she's very sympathetic when some dreadful thing you've done.An' she likes to buy you candy, an' she's always gettin' toysThat you wish your Pa would get you, for she hasn't any boys.But sometimes she's over-loving, an' your cheeks turn red with shameWhen she smothers you with kisses, but you like her just the same.One time my father took me to my aunty's, an' he said:'You will stay here till I get you, an' be sure you go to bedWhen your aunty says it's time to, an' be good an' mind her, too,An' when you come home we'll try to have a big surprise for you.'I did as I was told to, an' when Pa came back for meHe said there was a baby at the house for me to see.I've been visitin' at aunty's for a week or two, an' PaHas written that he's comin' soon to take me home to Ma.He says they're gettin' lonely, an' I'm kind o' lonely, too,Coz an aunt is not exactly what your mother is to you.I am hungry now to see her, but I'm wondering to-dayIf Pa's bought another baby in the time I've been away.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22145": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22145, "poem.id": 22145, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:34:11", "poem.title": "When It's Bad To Forget", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "DID you ever meet a brother as you hurried on your way And invite him up to dinner, and his wife; Did you ever keep him standing until he had named the dayWhen you'd meet to talk about your early life? Did you ever say: 'Next Tuesday we'll expect you up to dine,'And repeat it so he'd have no cause to doubt it? Did you ever make him promise to come up and taste your wine, And then forget to tell your wife about it? Did you ever get home feeling just as happy as a bird,Kiss your smiling wife and settle down to tea, And then get a sinking feeling in your insides as you heardThe door bell ring? This has occurred to me. Has a single pork chop lying on a cold and greasy dishEver furiously set your heart to drumming,As your guests arrived that evening in obedience to your wish,And you hadn't told your wife that they were coming?Oh, I do not care for riches, and I do not sigh for fame,And I do not yearn for glory or for power, And I don't care if I never learn to win a billiard gameAt the present rate of 40 cents an hour. With my lot I'd be contented, and I know I'd happy beAnd I'd go my way a bit of music humming, If I only could remember when I ask folks up for teaTo inform my darling wife that they are coming.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22146": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22146, "poem.id": 22146, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:34:17", "poem.title": "The Approach Of Christmas", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22147": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22147, "poem.id": 22147, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:34:20", "poem.title": "The Unknown Friends", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22148": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22148, "poem.id": 22148, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:34:25", "poem.title": "At The Peace Table", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "Who shall sit at the table, then, when the terms of peace are made- The wisest men of the troubled lands in their silver and gold brocade?Yes, they shall gather in solemn state to speak for each living race,But who shall speak for the unseen dead that shall come to the council place?Though you see them not and you hear them not, they shall sit at the table, too;They shall throng the room where the peace is made and know what it is you do;The innocent dead from the sea shall rise to stand at the wise man's side,And over his shoulder a boy shall look- a boy that was crucified.You may guard the doors of that council hall with barriers strong and stout,But the dead unbidden shall enter there, and never you'll shut them out.And the man that died in the open boat, and the babes that suffered worse,Shall sit at the table when peace is made by the side of a martyred nurse.You may see them not, but they'll all be there; when they speak you may fail to hear;You may think that you're making your pacts alone, but their spirits will hover near;And whatever the terms of the peace you make with the tyrant whose hands are red,You must please not only the living here, but must satisfy your dead.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22149": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22149, "poem.id": 22149, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:34:31", "poem.title": "From Laughter To Labor", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "We have wandered afar in our hunting for pleasure, We have scorned the soul's duty to gather up treasure; We have lived for our laughter and toiled for our winning And paid little heed to the soul's simple sinning. But light were the burdens that freighted us then, God and country, to-day let us prove we are men! We have idled and dreamed in life's merriest places, The years have writ little of care in our faces; We have brought up our children, expectant of gladness, And little we've taught them of life and its sadness. For distant and dim seemed the forces of wrong, God and country, to-day let us prove we are strong! We have had our glad years, now the sad years are coming, We have danced to gay tunes, now we march to war's drumming. We have laughed and have loved as we pleasantly toiled, And now we must show that our souls are unspoiled. We must work that our Flag shall in honor still wave, God and country, to-day let us prove we are brave!", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22150": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22150, "poem.id": 22150, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:34:36", "poem.title": "Give Me A Single Day", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22151": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22151, "poem.id": 22151, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:34:38", "poem.title": "The Reason For Work", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22152": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22152, "poem.id": 22152, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:34:43", "poem.title": "Faces", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "I look into the faces of the people passing by, The glad ones and the sad ones, and the lined with misery,And I wonder why the sorrow or the twinkle in the eye; But the pale and weary faces are the ones that trouble me.I saw a face this morning, and time was when it was fair; Youth had brushed it bright with color in the distant long ago,And the goddess of the lovely once had kept a temple there, But the cheeks were pale with grieving and the eyes were dull with woe.Who has done this thing I wondered; what has wrought the ruin here? Why these sunken cheeks and pallid where the roses once were pink?Why has beauty fled her palace; did some vandal hand appear? Did her lover prove unfaithful or her husband take to drink?Once the golden voice of promise whispered sweetly in her ears; She was born to be a garden where the smiles of love might lurk;Now the eyes that shone like jewels are but gateways for her tears, And she takes her place among us, toilers early bound for work.Is it fate that writes so sadly, or the cruelty of man? What foul deed has marred the parchment of a life so fair as this?Who has wrecked this lovely temple and destroyed the Maker's plan, Raining blows on cheeks of beauty God had fashioned just to kiss?Oh, the pale and weary faces of the people that I see Are the ones that seem to haunt me, and I pray to God aboveThat such cruel desolation shall not ever come to be Stamped forever in the future on the faces that I love.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22153": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22153, "poem.id": 22153, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:34:48", "poem.title": "Autumn", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22154": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22154, "poem.id": 22154, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:34:55", "poem.title": "Learn To Smile", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22155": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22155, "poem.id": 22155, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:35:01", "poem.title": "Our Little Needs", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22156": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22156, "poem.id": 22156, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:35:04", "poem.title": "The Discovery Of A Soul", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "_The proof of a man is the danger test_, _That shows him up at his worst or best_. He didn't seem to care for work, he wasn't much at school. His speech was slow and commonplace- you wouldn't call him fool. And yet until the war broke out you'd calmly pass him by, For nothing in his make-up or his way would catch your eye. He seemed indifferent to the world, the kind that doesn't care- That's satisfied with just enough to eat and drink and wear; That doesn't laugh when others do or cry when others weep, But seems to walk the wakeful world half dormant and asleep; Then came the war, and soldiers marched and drums began to roll, And suddenly we realized his body held a soul. We little dreamed how much he loved his Country and her Flag; About the glorious Stars and Stripes we'd never heard him brag. But he was first to volunteer, while brilliant men demurred, He took the oath of loyalty without a faltering word, And then we found that he could talk, for one remembered night, There came a preaching pacifist denouncing men who fight, And he got up in uniform and looked at him and said: 'I wonder if you ever think about our soldiers dead. All that you are to-day you owe some soldier in his grave; If he had been afraid to fight, you still would be a slave.' If he had died a year ago beneath a peaceful sky, Unjust our memory would have been; of him our tongues would lie. We should have missed his splendid worth, we should have called him frail And listed him among the weak and sorry men who fail. But few regrets had marked his end; he would have passed unmourned- Perhaps by those who knew him best, indifferently scorned. But now he stands among us all, eyes bright and shoulders true, A strong defender of the faith; a man with work to do; And if he dies, his name shall find its place on history's scroll; The great chance has revealed to men the splendor of his soul.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22157": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22157, "poem.id": 22157, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:35:11", "poem.title": "Joys Within Reach", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "You needn't be rich to be happy,You needn't be famous to smile; There are joys for the poorest of toilersIf only he'll think them worth while. There are blue skies and sunshine a-plenty,And blossoms for all to behold; And always the bright days outnumberThe dark and the cheerless and cold.Sweet sleep's not a gift of the wealthy,And love's not alone for the great;For men to grow old and successfulIt isn't joy's custom to wait. The poorest of toilers has blessingsHis richer companions may crave; And many a man who has richesGoes sorrowing on to the grave.You'll never be happy tomorrowIf you are not happy today;If you're missing the joys that are presentAnd sighing for joys far away.The rose will not bloom any fairerIn the glorious years that may be; Great riches won't sweeten its fragranceNor help you its beauties to see.Today is the time to make merry,'Tis folly for fortune to wait; You'll not find the skies any bluerIf ever you come to be great.You'll not find your joys any brighter,No matter what fortune you win;Make the most of life's sunshine this minute,Tomorrow's too late to begin.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22158": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22158, "poem.id": 22158, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:35:14", "poem.title": "Mothers And Wives", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22159": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22159, "poem.id": 22159, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:35:20", "poem.title": "Grace At Evening", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "For all the beauties of the day,The innocence of childhood's play,For health and strength and laughter sweet,Dear Lord, our thanks we now repeat.For this our daily gift of foodWe offer now our gratitude,For all the blessings we have knownOur debt of gratefulness we own.Here at the table now we pray,Keep us together down the way;May this, our family circle, beHeld fast by love and unity.Grant, when the shades of night shall fall,Sweet be the dreams of one and all;And when another day shall breakUnto Thy service may we wake.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22160": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22160, "poem.id": 22160, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:35:24", "poem.title": "Compensation", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22161": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22161, "poem.id": 22161, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:35:30", "poem.title": "My Part", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "I may never be a hero, I am past the limit now,There are pencil marks of silver Time has left upon my brow;I shall win no service medals, I shall hear no cannons' roar,I shall never fight a battle higher up than eagles soar,But I hope my children's children may recall my name with prideAs a man who never whimpered when his soul was being tried.For the fighting and the dying for the everlasting truthAre the labors designated for the strongest of our youth,And the man that's nearing forty isn't asked to march away,For there is no place in battle for the head that's turning gray.His test is one of patience till the bitter work is done,He must back his country's leaders till the victory is won.When this bitter time is ended I don't want to have it saidThat I faltered in my courage and I never looked ahead,I don't want it told I added to the burdens and the woe,By preaching dismal doctrines that were cheering to the foe;I want my children's children to respect me and to findThat my soul was out there fighting, though my body stayed behind.When this cruel test is over and the boys come back from FranceI'd not have them say I hindered for a moment their advance;That they found their duty harder than 'twas needful it should beBecause of the complaining of a lot of men like me.Though I'll win no hero's medals and deserve no wild applause,I want to be of service, not a hindrance to the cause.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22162": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22162, "poem.id": 22162, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:35:36", "poem.title": "Reflection", "poem.date": "8/4/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22163": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22163, "poem.id": 22163, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:35:39", "poem.title": "If You Would Please Me", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22164": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22164, "poem.id": 22164, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:35:46", "poem.title": "The Broken Drum", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22165": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22165, "poem.id": 22165, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:35:51", "poem.title": "The Mother On The Sidewalk", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22166": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22166, "poem.id": 22166, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:35:58", "poem.title": "Mother's Day", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "Let every day be Mother's Day!Make roses grow along her way And beauty everywhere.Oh, never let her eyes be wetWith tears of sorrow or regret, And never cease to care!Come, grown up children, and rejoiceThat you can hear your mother's voice!A day for her! For you she gaveLong years of love and service brave; For you her youth was spent.There was no weight of hurt or careToo heavy for her strength to bear; She followed where you went;Her courage and her love sublimeYou could depend on all the time.No day or night she set apartOn which to open wide her heart And welcome you within;There was no hour you would not beFirst in her thought and memory, Though you were black as sin!Though skies were gray or skies were blueNot once has she forgotten you.Let every day be Mother's Day!With love and roses strew her way, And smiles of joy and pride!Come, grown up children, to the kneeWhere long ago you used to be And never turn aside;Oh, never let her eyes grow wetWith tears, because her babes forget.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22167": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22167, "poem.id": 22167, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:36:02", "poem.title": "The Ready Artists", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22168": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22168, "poem.id": 22168, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:36:08", "poem.title": "No Place To Go", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22169": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22169, "poem.id": 22169, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:36:13", "poem.title": "The Finer Thought", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22170": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22170, "poem.id": 22170, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:36:16", "poem.title": "Defeat", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22171": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22171, "poem.id": 22171, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:36:21", "poem.title": "The Peaceful Warriors", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22172": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22172, "poem.id": 22172, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:36:26", "poem.title": "Treasures", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22173": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22173, "poem.id": 22173, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:36:33", "poem.title": "Spring In The Trenches", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22174": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22174, "poem.id": 22174, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:36:37", "poem.title": "The Sorrow Tugs", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22175": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22175, "poem.id": 22175, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:36:42", "poem.title": "As Fall The Leaves", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22176": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22176, "poem.id": 22176, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:36:46", "poem.title": "A Wish", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22177": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22177, "poem.id": 22177, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:36:50", "poem.title": "The Perfect Dinner Table", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22178": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22178, "poem.id": 22178, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:36:56", "poem.title": "We'Ve Had A Letter From The Boy", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "We've had a letter from the boy,And oh, the gladness and the joyIt brought to us! We read it o'erI'd say a dozen times or more.We laughed until the teardrops fellAt all the fun he had to tell.He's in the navy, wearing blue,And everything is all so newThat he can see in youthful styleThe funny things to make us smile.He's working hard! Between the linesWe gather that. The brass he shinesWithout complaining, and the foodHe gets to eat is very crude.And yet he laughs at all his chores.He says the maid who scrubs our floorsWill have to quit when he returnsUnless a better way she learns.'I've got it on the fairer sex,'Says he, 'since I am swabbing decks.''A sailor's life, dear Mom,' writes he,'Is not the life you picked for me.And yet I'm getting fat and strongAnd learning as I go alongThat any life a man can findIs apt to grow to be a grindUnless a fellow has the witTo see the brighter side of it.Don't worry for your sailor son;He sleeps well when his work is done.'We've had a letter from the boy,And oh, the gladness and the joyIt brought to us! T'was good to knowThat he is facing duty so.Between the lines that he had pennedHis mother's bitter fears to end,I saw his manhood glowing bright,And now I know his heart is right.Behind the laughter I could seeMy boy's the man I'd hoped he'd be.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22179": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22179, "poem.id": 22179, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:37:03", "poem.title": "Warriors", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "We all are warriors with sin. Crusading knights,we come to earthWith spotless plumes and shining shields to joustwith foes and prove our worth.The world is but a battlefield where strong andweak men fill the lists,And some make war with humble prayers, andsome with swords and some with fists.And some for pleasure or for peace forsake theirpurposes and goalsAnd barter for the scarlet joys of ease and pomp,their knightly souls.We're all enlisted soldiers here, in service forthe term called lifeAnd each of us in some grim way must bear hisportion of the strife.Temptations everywhere assail. Men do not riseby fearing sin,Nor he who keeps within his tent, unharmed,unscratched, the crown shall win.When wrongs are trampling mortals down andrank injustice stalks about,Real manhood to the battle flies, and dies or putsthe foes to rout.'Tis not the new and shining blade that marksthe soldier of the field,His glory is his broken sword, his pride thescars upon his shield;The crimson stains that sin has left upon hissoul are tongues that speakThe victory of new found strength by one whoyesterday was weak.And meaningless the spotless plume, the shiningblade that goes through lifeAnd quits this naming battlefield without oneevidence of strife.We all are warriors with sin, we all are knightsin life's crusades,And with some form of tyranny, we're sent toearth to measure blades.The courage of the soul must gleam in conflictwith some fearful foe,No man was ever born to life its luxuries aloneto know.And he who brothers with a sin to keep his outwardgarb unsoiledAnd fears to battle with a wrong, shall find hissoul decayed and spoiled.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22180": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22180, "poem.id": 22180, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:37:07", "poem.title": "The Open Fire", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22181": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22181, "poem.id": 22181, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:37:12", "poem.title": "Questions", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22182": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22182, "poem.id": 22182, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:37:18", "poem.title": "The Man To Be", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22183": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22183, "poem.id": 22183, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:37:22", "poem.title": "The Day Of Days", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22184": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22184, "poem.id": 22184, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:37:24", "poem.title": "The Old-Time Family", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "It makes me smile to hear 'em tell each other nowadaysThe burdens they are bearing, with a child or two to raise.Of course the cost of living has gone soaring to the skyAnd our kids are wearing garments that my parents couldn't buy.Now my father wasn't wealthy, but I never heard him squealBecause eight of us were sitting at the table every meal.People fancy. they are martyrs if their children number three,And four or five they reckon makes a large-sized family.A dozen hungry youngsters at a table I have seenAnd their daddy didn't grumble when they licked the platter clean.Oh, I wonder how these mothers and these fathers up-to-dateWould like the job of buying little shoes for seven or eight.We were eight around the table in those happy days back them,Eight that cleaned our plates of pot-pie and then passed them up again;Eight that needed shoes and stockings, eight to wash and put to bed,And with mighty little money in the purse, as I have said,But with all the care we brought them, and through all the days of stress,I never heard my father or my mother wish for less.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22185": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22185, "poem.id": 22185, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:37:29", "poem.title": "Hollyhocks", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22186": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22186, "poem.id": 22186, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:37:35", "poem.title": "Toys", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "I can pass up the lure of a jewel to wear With never the trace of a sigh,The things on a shelf that I'd like for myself I never regret I can't buy.I can go through the town passing store after store Showing things it would please me to own,With never a trace of despair on my face, But I can't let a toy shop alone.I can throttle the love of fine raiment to death And I don't know the craving for rum,But I do know the joy that is born of a toy, And the pleasure that comes with a drumI can reckon the value of money at times, And govern my purse strings with sense,But I fall for a toy for my girl or my boy And never regard the expense.It's seldom I sigh for unlimited gold Or the power of a rich man to buy;My courage is stout when the doing without Is only my duty, but ICurse the shackles of thrift when I gaze at the toys That my kiddies are eager to own,And I'd buy everything that they wish for, by Jing! If their mother would let me alone.There isn't much fun spending coin on myself For neckties and up-to-date lids,But there's pleasure tenfold, in the silver and gold I part with for things for the kids.I can go through the town passing store after store Showing things it would please me to own,But to thrift I am lost; I won't reckon the cost When I'm left in a toy shop alone.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22187": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22187, "poem.id": 22187, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:37:37", "poem.title": "As It Goes", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22188": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22188, "poem.id": 22188, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:37:43", "poem.title": "The Old, Old Story", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "I have no wish to rail at fate, And vow that I'm unfairly treated;I do not give vent to my hate Because at times I am defeated.Life has its ups and downs, I know, But tell me why should people sayWhenever after fish I go: 'You should have been here yesterday'?It is my luck always to strike A day when there is nothing doing,When neither perch, nor bass, nor pike My baited hooks will come a-wooing.Must I a day late always be? When not a nibble comes my wayMust someone always say to me: 'We caught a bunch here yesterday'?I am not prone to discontent, Nor over-zealous now to climb;If victory is not yet meant For me I'll calmly bide my time.But I should like just once to go Out fishing on some lake or bayAnd not have someone mutter: 'Oh, You should have been here yesterday.'", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22189": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22189, "poem.id": 22189, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:37:46", "poem.title": "Just Folks", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22190": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22190, "poem.id": 22190, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:37:48", "poem.title": "A Boost For Modern Methods", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22191": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22191, "poem.id": 22191, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:37:51", "poem.title": "Unimportant Differences", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22192": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22192, "poem.id": 22192, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:37:55", "poem.title": "Grown Up", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22193": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22193, "poem.id": 22193, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:37:58", "poem.title": "A Boy's Tribute", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22194": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22194, "poem.id": 22194, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:38:04", "poem.title": "Childless", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "If certain folks that I know wellShould come to me their woes to tellI'd read the sorrow in their facesAnd I could analyze their cases.I watch some couples day by dayGo madly on their selfish wayForever seeking happinessAnd always finding something less.If she whose face is fair to see,Yet lacks one charm that there should be,Should open wide her heart to-dayI think I know what she would say.She'd tell me that his love seems coldAnd not the love she knew of old;That for the home they've built to shareNo longer does her husband care;That he seems happier awayThan by her side, and every dayThat passes leaves them more apart;And then perhaps her tears would startAnd in a softened voice she'd add:'Sometimes I wonder, if we hadA baby now to love, if heWould find so many faults in me?'And if he came to tell his woeJust what he'd say to me, I know:'There's something dismal in the placeThat always stares me in the face.I love her. She is good and sweetBut still my joy is incomplete.And then it seems to me that sheCan only see the faults in me.I wonder sometimes if we hadA little girl or little lad,If life with all its fret and fussWould then seem so monotonous?'And what I'd say to them I know.I'd bid them straightway forth to goAnd find that child and take him inAnd start the joy of life to win.You foolish, hungry souls, I'd say,You're living in a selfish way.A baby's arms stretched out to youWill give you something real to do.And though God has not sent one downTo you, within this very townSomewhere a little baby liesThat would bring gladness to your eyes.You cannot live this life for goldOr selfish joys. As you grow oldYou'll find that comfort only springsFrom living for the living things.And home must be a barren placeThat never knows a baby's face.Take in a child that needs your care,Give him your name and let him shareYour happiness and you will ownMore joy than you have ever known,And, what is more, you'll come to feelThat you are doing something real.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22195": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22195, "poem.id": 22195, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:38:12", "poem.title": "The Lonely Garden", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "I WONDER what the trees will say,The trees that used to share his play,An' knew him as the little ladWho used to wander with his dad.They've watched him grow from year to yearSince first the good Lord sent him here;This shag-bark hick'ry, many a time,The little fellow tried t' climb;An' never a spring has come but lieHas called upon his favorite tree.I wonder what they all will sayWhen they are told he's marched away.I wonder what the birds will say,I'lie swallow an' the chatterin' jay,The robin an' the kildeer, too.For every one o' them he knew,An' every one o' them knew him,Waited each spring t' tell him allThey'd done and seen since 'way last fall.He was the first to greet 'em hereAn' hoppin' there from limb t' limb,As they returned from year t' year;An' now I wonder what they'll sayWhen they are told he's marched away.I wonder how the roses thereWill get along without his care,An' how the one o' them will faceThe loneliness about th' place,For ev'ry spring an' summer heHas been the chum o' plant an' tree,An' every livin' thing has knownA comradeship that's finer grownBy havin' him from year t' year.Now very soon they'll all be here,An' I'm wonderin' what they'll sayWhen they find out he's marched away.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22196": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22196, "poem.id": 22196, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:38:17", "poem.title": "Christmas, 1918", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22197": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22197, "poem.id": 22197, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:38:21", "poem.title": "The Things They Mustn'T Touch", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22198": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22198, "poem.id": 22198, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:38:28", "poem.title": "The Workman's Dream", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "To-day it's dirt and dust and steam,To-morrow it will be the same,And through it all the soul must dreamAnd try to play a manly game;Dirt, dust and steam and harsh commands,Yet many a soft hand passes byAnd only thinks he understandsThe purpose of my task and why.I've seen men shudder just to seeMe standing at this lathe of mine,And knew somehow they pitied me,But I have never made a whine;For out of all this dirt and dustAnd clang and clamor day by day,Beyond toil's everlasting 'must,'I see my little ones at play.The hissing steam would drive me madIf hissing steam was all I heard;But there's a boy who calls me dadWho daily keeps my courage spurred;And there's a little girl who waitsEach night for all that I may bring,And I'm the guardian of their fates,Which makes this job a wholesome thing.Beyond the dust and dirt and steamI see a college where he'll go;And when I shall fulfill my dream,More than his father he will know;And she shall be a woman fair,Fit for the world to love and trust—I'll give my land a glorious pairOut of this place of dirt and dust.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22199": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22199, "poem.id": 22199, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:38:32", "poem.title": "The Kindly Neighbor", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "I have a kindly neighbor, one who standsBeside my gate and chats with me awhile,Gives me the glory of his radiant smileAnd comes at times to help with willing hands.No station high or rank this man commands,He, too, must trudge, as I, the long day's mile;And yet, devoid of pomp or gaudy style,He has a worth exceeding stocks or lands.To him I go when sorrow's at my door,On him I lean when burdens come my way,Together oft we talk our trials o'erAnd there is warmth in each good-night we say.A kindly neighbor! Wars and strife shall endWhen man has made the man next door his friend.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22200": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22200, "poem.id": 22200, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:38:35", "poem.title": "Service", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22201": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22201, "poem.id": 22201, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:38:42", "poem.title": "A Warm House And A Ruddy Fire", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22202": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22202, "poem.id": 22202, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:38:44", "poem.title": "Unchangeable Mother", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22203": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22203, "poem.id": 22203, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:38:50", "poem.title": "The Harder Part", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22204": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22204, "poem.id": 22204, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:38:53", "poem.title": "Mother And The Baby", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "Mother and the baby! Oh, I know no lovelier pair,For all the dreams of all the world are hovering 'round them there;And be the baby in his cot or nestling in her arms,The picture they present is one with never-fading charms.Mother and the baby—and the mother's eye aglowWith joys that only mothers see and only mothers know!And here is all there is to strife and all there is to fame,And all that men have struggled for since first a baby came.I never see this lovely pair nor hear the mother singThe lullabies of babyhood, but I start wonderingHow much of every man to-day the world thinks wise or braveIs of the songs his mother sang and of the strength she gave.'Just like a mother!' Oh, to be so tender and so true,No man has reached so high a plane with all he's dared to do.And yet, I think she understands, with every step she takesAnd every care that she bestows, it is the man she makes.Mother and the baby! And in fancy I can seeHer life being given gladly to the man that is to be,And from her strength and sacrifice and from her lullabies,She dreams and hopes and nightly prays a strong man shall arise.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22205": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22205, "poem.id": 22205, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:38:58", "poem.title": "The Good Little Boy", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22206": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22206, "poem.id": 22206, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:39:00", "poem.title": "The Dead Return", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22207": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22207, "poem.id": 22207, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:39:05", "poem.title": "Forgotten Boyhood", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "He wears a long and solemn faceAnd drives the children from his place;He doesn't like to hear them shoutOr race and run and romp about,And if they chance to climb his tree,He is as ugly as can be.If in his yard they drive a ball,Which near his pretty flowers should fall,He hides the leather sphere away,Thus hoping to prevent their play.The youngsters worry him a lot,This sorry man who has forgotThat once upon a time, he tooThe self-same mischief used to do.The boyhood he has left behindHas strangely vanished from his mind,And he is old and gray and crossFor having suffered such a loss.He thinks he never had the joyThat is the birthright of a boy.He has forgotten how he ran,Or to a dog's tail tied a can,Broke window panes, and loved to swipeSome neighbor's apples, red and ripe—He thinks that always, day or night,His conduct was exactly right.In boys to-day he cannot seeThe youngster that he used to be,Forgotten is that by-gone day,When he was mischievous as they.Poor man! I'm sorry for your lot.The best of life you have forgot.Could you remember what you were,Unharnessed and untouched by spur,These youngsters that you drive awayWould be your comrades here to-day.Among them you could gayly walkAnd share their laughter and their talk;You could be young and blithe as they,Could you recall your yesterday.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22208": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22208, "poem.id": 22208, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:39:08", "poem.title": "Checking The Day", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "'I had a full day in my purse When I arose, and now it's gone!I wonder if I can rehearse The squandered hours, one by one,And count the minutes as I do The pennies and the dimes I've spent.I've had a day, once bright and new, But, oh, for what few things it went!There were twelve hours when I began, Good hours worth sixty minutes each,Yet some of them so swiftly ran I had no time for thought or speech.Eight of them to my task I gave, Glad that it did not ask for mre.Part of the day I tried to save, But now I cannot say what for.An hour I spent for idle chat, Gossip and scandal I confess;No better off am I for that, Would I had talked a little less.I watched steel workers bolt a beam, What time that cost I don't recall.How very short the minutes seem When they are spent on trifles small.Quite empty is my purse to-night Which held at dawn a twelve-hour day,For all of it has taken flight— Part wisely spent, part thrown away.I did my task and earned its gain, But checking deeds with what they cost,Two missing hours I can't explain, They must be charges as lost.'", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22209": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22209, "poem.id": 22209, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:39:13", "poem.title": "On A Certain Religious Argument", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "Argue it pro and con as you will,And flout each other with words,But the rose will bloom and the summer stillWill bring us the song of birds.How was He born who came to earth,With the Godlight in His eyes?Wrangle and quarrel about His birth,And yet you shall not be wise.And what does it matter? The clover blowsAnd the rose blooms on the tree,And only the God in heaven knowsHow these things come to be.You take the flower though you cannot sayWhy this is red or white,You accept the warmth of the sun by dayAnd the light of the stars by night.You joy in a thousand mysteriesWhich your wisdom can't explain,The green of the grass and the rolling seasAnd the gold of the harvest grain.So why do you bother your heads at all?And why does your faith grow dim?You take the flower on the garden wall,So why will you not take Him?", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22210": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22210, "poem.id": 22210, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:39:17", "poem.title": "The Little Home", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22211": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22211, "poem.id": 22211, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:39:24", "poem.title": "Prayer For The Home", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22212": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22212, "poem.id": 22212, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:39:25", "poem.title": "A Christmas Carol", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22213": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22213, "poem.id": 22213, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:39:30", "poem.title": "The Path To Home", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "THERE'S the mother at the doorway, and the children at the gate,And the little parlor windows with the curtains white and straight.There are shaggy asters blooming in the bed that lines the fence,And the simplest of the blossoms seems of mighty consequence.Oh, there isn't any mansion underneath God's starry domeThat can rest a weary pilgrim like the little place called home.Men have sought for gold and silver; men have dreamed at night of fame;In the heat of youth they've struggled for achievement's honored name;But the selfish crowns are tinsel, and their shining jewels paste,And the wine of pomp and glory soon grows bitter to the taste.For there's never any laughter howsoever far you roam,Like the laughter of the loved ones in the happiness of home.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22214": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22214, "poem.id": 22214, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:39:36", "poem.title": "Bread And Gravy", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22215": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22215, "poem.id": 22215, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:39:43", "poem.title": "The Boy's Ideal", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22216": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22216, "poem.id": 22216, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:39:46", "poem.title": "Loafing", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22217": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22217, "poem.id": 22217, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:39:51", "poem.title": "When Mother Sleeps", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22218": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22218, "poem.id": 22218, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:39:58", "poem.title": "A Patriotic Wish", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22219": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22219, "poem.id": 22219, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:40:02", "poem.title": "Everywhere In America", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22220": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22220, "poem.id": 22220, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:40:06", "poem.title": "Safe At Home", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22221": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22221, "poem.id": 22221, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:40:12", "poem.title": "A Good World", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "IT'S a good old world we're livin' in With all its pain an' sorrow; A world where friends are givin' in To cheer us till tomorrow. A world where folks come forward, when They see our feet are slippin' To help us till we come again To where the honey's drippin'.I reckon that we'd never knowHow kind an' good our friends are If trouble's face should never showOff yonder where the bends are. If sudden-like there never cameA rain to drench a feller We'd miss the friend who made us claimA share of his umbreller.If never came to us a woeThat seemed we couldn't bear it, We'd never positively knowWhich friend would rush to share it. We'd miss a heap of sweetness, too,That we could never borrow, A sweetness no one ever knew,Save it was born of sorrow.This thought old care has driven in,An' grief an' trouble taught me, It's a good old world we're livin' inDespite the woes it's brought me. For had I never shed a tear,Nor known what sorrow's rends are, I never would have learned down hereHow kind an' good my friends are.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22222": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22222, "poem.id": 22222, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:40:16", "poem.title": "The Town Of Nothing-To-Do", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22223": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22223, "poem.id": 22223, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:40:21", "poem.title": "My Job", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22224": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22224, "poem.id": 22224, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:40:26", "poem.title": "The Finest Fellowship", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22225": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22225, "poem.id": 22225, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:40:33", "poem.title": "Old Fashioned Remedies", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22226": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22226, "poem.id": 22226, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:40:37", "poem.title": "Tuckered Out", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22227": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22227, "poem.id": 22227, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:40:44", "poem.title": "Arcady", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22228": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22228, "poem.id": 22228, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:40:49", "poem.title": "Tonsils", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22229": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22229, "poem.id": 22229, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:40:55", "poem.title": "The Old Wooden Tub", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22230": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22230, "poem.id": 22230, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:40:59", "poem.title": "The Family Party", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "I SING the family party that once we used to know, The old time family parties we gave so long ago, When every near-relation and distant cousins, too, The married ones with children, Aunt Mary and Aunt Sue,The grandpas and the grandmas, yes, everyone of kin, The nephews and the neices and some who married in, Came trooping to the old home with laughter and with smile,And had their fun together in the good old-fashioned style.The games we played have vanished and gone beyond recall,But I still can see the donkey that hung upon the wall, And Uncle Ben blindfolded, his arm out like a flail, Trying to find the proper place on which to pin the tail, And I can hear the laughter that rose up like a roar, When Uncle Ben had pinned it upon the parlor door; And I can see the women folks sit on a crock and try To pass a piece of linen thread right through a needle's eye.The old time family parties, when Cousin Will would playThe square piano for us in a real heart-gripping way; And Lil and Tom and Annie would take their turn and sing Those songs which took your fancy and had the proper swing;And when they tired of singing somebody would recite A scene or two from Shakespeare and do the thing up right.Then we 'd all sit down to supper, and I tell you, ifyou please, It wasn't any dinky lunch you juggle on your knees.But a real bang up collation, that's what mother used to say, Of tongue and ham and cold roast beef — it took her 'most a day To prepare that supper for us — there were jellies red and fine, And layer cakes and pound cakes and some cakes of quaint design; Oh, there 's nothing now can beat them though we've put on style and airs,And adopted all the customs that obtain with millionaires, We don't have the fun we used to, nor the joy we used to know, At the old time family parlies in the days of long ago.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22231": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22231, "poem.id": 22231, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:41:04", "poem.title": "His Philosophy", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22232": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22232, "poem.id": 22232, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:41:11", "poem.title": "Little Miss Six O'Clock", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22233": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22233, "poem.id": 22233, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:41:16", "poem.title": "My Plan", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22234": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22234, "poem.id": 22234, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:41:21", "poem.title": "The Evening Prayer", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22235": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22235, "poem.id": 22235, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:41:27", "poem.title": "The Bank Clerk", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22236": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22236, "poem.id": 22236, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:41:34", "poem.title": "Being Dad On Christmas Eve", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22237": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22237, "poem.id": 22237, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:41:40", "poem.title": "The Limit", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22238": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22238, "poem.id": 22238, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:41:47", "poem.title": "Bud Discusses Cleanliness", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22239": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22239, "poem.id": 22239, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:41:55", "poem.title": "The Song Of The Builder", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22240": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22240, "poem.id": 22240, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:42:01", "poem.title": "St. Valentine's Day", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22241": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22241, "poem.id": 22241, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:42:07", "poem.title": "Answering The Grumblers", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22242": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22242, "poem.id": 22242, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:42:16", "poem.title": "The Honor Roll", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22243": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22243, "poem.id": 22243, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:42:21", "poem.title": "A Lullaby", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "THE dream ship is ready, the sea is like goldAnd the fairy prince waits in command; There's a cargo of wonderful dreams in the hold,For the baby that seeks Slumberland. There are fairies in pink and good fairies in white,A watch o'er the baby to keep, Now the silver sails fill with the breeze of the night, All aboard, for the Harbor of Sleep!I pray that no tempest shall ruffle the seaThrough the long night that he is away; And I pray the good captain will bring him to me With a smile at the close of the day. Oh, soft as his breath be the breezes that blow, And gentle the long waves that sweep The wonderful ship that is waiting to go With my babe to the Harbor of Sleep.Softly, so softly, the ship slips awayWith its silver sails catching the breeze, The stars in the sky seem to twinkle and sayOur watch we will keep o'er the seas. And never a tempest shall happen this night,But peace shall slip down on the deep, Safe and sound shall return, with the coming of light,Your babe from the Harbor of Sleep.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22244": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22244, "poem.id": 22244, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:42:24", "poem.title": "The Shattered Dream", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22245": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22245, "poem.id": 22245, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:42:28", "poem.title": "Pretending Not To See", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22246": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22246, "poem.id": 22246, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:42:34", "poem.title": "History Teaches", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "CAESAR did a few things, Horace wrote in style, Good old Plato knew things Very much worth while. Famous Aristotle Had the master's touch; Blow this in your bottle: 'I am not so much.' Con your history's pages,Read the tales of Rome, Then compare the sages' To your feeble dome. All the dead ones study (If you call them such They will teach you, Buddy, You are not so much.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22247": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22247, "poem.id": 22247, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:42:40", "poem.title": "Alone", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22248": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22248, "poem.id": 22248, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:42:46", "poem.title": "A Good Soldier", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22249": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22249, "poem.id": 22249, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:42:53", "poem.title": "Little Master Mischievous", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "Little Master Mischievous, that's the name for you; There's no better title that describes the things you do: Into something all the while where you shouldn't be, Prying into matters that are not for you to see; Little Master Mischievous, order's overthrown If your mother leaves you for a minute all alone. Little Master Mischievous, opening every door, Spilling books and papers round about the parlor floor, Scratching all the tables and marring all the chairs, Climbing where you shouldn't climb and tumbling down the stairs. How'd you get the ink well? We can never guess. Now the rug is ruined; so's your little dress. Little Master Mischievous, in the cookie jar, Who has ever told you where the cookies are? Now your sticky fingers smear the curtains white; You have finger-printed everything in sight. There's no use in scolding; when you smile that way You can rob of terror every word we say. Little Master Mischievous, that's the name for you; There's no better title that describes the things you do: Prying into corners, peering into nooks, Tugging table covers, tearing costly books. Little Master Mischievous, have your roguish way; Time, I know, will stop you, soon enough some day", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22250": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22250, "poem.id": 22250, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:43:00", "poem.title": "My Paw Said So", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22251": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22251, "poem.id": 22251, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:43:03", "poem.title": "About Boys", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22252": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22252, "poem.id": 22252, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:43:10", "poem.title": "Friends", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22253": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22253, "poem.id": 22253, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:43:14", "poem.title": "Songs Of Rejoicing", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22254": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22254, "poem.id": 22254, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:43:21", "poem.title": "Fishing Nooks", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22255": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22255, "poem.id": 22255, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:43:27", "poem.title": "Reward", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22256": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22256, "poem.id": 22256, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:43:30", "poem.title": "The Important Thing", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22257": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22257, "poem.id": 22257, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:43:35", "poem.title": "Curly Locks", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "Curly locks, what do you know of the world,And what do your brown eyes see?Has your baby mind been able to findOne thread of the mystery?Do you know of the sorrow and pain that lieIn the realms that you've never seen?Have you even guessed of the great unrestIn the world where you've never been?Curly locks, what do you know of the worldAnd what do you see in the skies?When you solemnly stare at the world out thereCan you see where the future lies?What wonderful thoughts are you thinking now?Can it be that you really knowThat beyond your youth there are joy and truth,On the way that you soon must go?", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22258": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22258, "poem.id": 22258, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:43:39", "poem.title": "Daddies", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22259": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22259, "poem.id": 22259, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:43:42", "poem.title": "Out Fishin'", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22260": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22260, "poem.id": 22260, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:43:48", "poem.title": "Memory", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22261": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22261, "poem.id": 22261, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:43:55", "poem.title": "To The Humble", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22262": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22262, "poem.id": 22262, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:44:00", "poem.title": "Accomplished Care", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22263": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22263, "poem.id": 22263, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:44:05", "poem.title": "Clinching The Bolt", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22264": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22264, "poem.id": 22264, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:44:07", "poem.title": "Example", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22265": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22265, "poem.id": 22265, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:44:12", "poem.title": "Marjorie", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "The house is as it was when she was here;There's nothing changed at all about the place;The books she loved to read are waiting nearAs if to-morrow they would see her face;Her room remains the way it used to be,Here are the puzzles that she pondered on:Yet since the angels called for MarjorieThe joyous spirit of the home has gone.All things grew lovely underneath her touch,The room was bright because it knew her smile;From her the tiniest trinket gathered much,The cheapest toy became a thing worth while;Yet here are her possessions as they were,No longer joys to set the eyes aglow;To-day, as we, they seem to mourn for her,And share the sadness that is ours to know.Half sobbing now, we put her games away,Because, dumb things, they cannot understandWhy never more shall Marjorie come to play,And we have faith in God at our command.These toys we smiled at once, now start our tears,They seem to wonder why they lie so still,They call her name, and will throughout the years—God, strengthen us to bow unto Thy will.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22266": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22266, "poem.id": 22266, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:44:18", "poem.title": "Bulb Planting Time", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22267": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22267, "poem.id": 22267, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:44:20", "poem.title": "Faith", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22268": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22268, "poem.id": 22268, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:44:23", "poem.title": "The Cookie Jar", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22269": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22269, "poem.id": 22269, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:44:28", "poem.title": "Influence", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22270": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22270, "poem.id": 22270, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:44:31", "poem.title": "A New Year's Plea", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22271": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22271, "poem.id": 22271, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:44:38", "poem.title": "The First Easter", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22272": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22272, "poem.id": 22272, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:44:44", "poem.title": "The Lamb Skin", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22273": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22273, "poem.id": 22273, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:44:50", "poem.title": "No Children!", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22274": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22274, "poem.id": 22274, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:44:54", "poem.title": "Home And The Office", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "Home is the place where the laughter should ring, And man should be found at his best.Let the cares of the day be as great as they may, The night has been fashioned for rest.So leave at the door when the toiling is o'er All the burdens of worktime behind,And just be a dad to your girl or your lad— A dad of the rollicking kind.The office is made for the tasks you must face; It is built for the work you must do;You may sit there and sigh as your cares pile up high, And no one may criticize you;You may worry and fret as you think of your debt, You may grumble when plans go astray,But when it comes night, and you shut your desk tight, Don't carry the burdens away.Keep daytime for toil and the nighttime for play, Work as hard as you choose in the town,But when the day ends, and the darkness descends, Just forget that you're wearing a frown—Go home with a smile! Oh, you'll find it worth while; Go home light of heart and of mind;Go home and be glad that you're loved as a dad, A dad of the fun-loving kind.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22275": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22275, "poem.id": 22275, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:44:58", "poem.title": "The Future", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "'The worst is yet to come:'So wail the doubters glum,But here's the better view;'My best I've yet to do.'The worst some always fear;To-morrow holds no cheer,Yet farther on life's laneAre joys you shall attain.Go forward bravely, then,And play your part as men,For this is ever true:'Our best we've yet to do.'", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22276": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22276, "poem.id": 22276, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:45:02", "poem.title": "The Joys We Miss", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22277": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22277, "poem.id": 22277, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:45:06", "poem.title": "The Tears Expressive", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "Death crossed his threshold yesterdayAnd left the glad voice of his loved one dumb.To him the living now will comeAnd cross his threshold in the self-same wayTo clasp his hand and vainly try to sayWords that shall soothe the heart that's stricken numb.And I shall be among them in that placeSo still and silent, where she used to sing—The glad, sweet spirit that has taken wing—Where shone the radiance of her lovely face,And where she met him oft with fond embrace,I shall step in to share his sorrowing.Beside the staircase that has known her handAnd in the hall her presence made complete,The home her life endowed with memories sweetWhere everything has heard her sweet commandAnd seems to wear her beauty, I shall standWondering just how to greet him when we meet.I dread the very silence of the place,I dread our meeting and the time to speak—Speech seems so vain when sorrow's at the peak!Yet though my words lack soothing power or grace,Perhaps he'll catch their meaning in my faceAnd read the tears which glisten on my cheek.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22278": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22278, "poem.id": 22278, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:45:10", "poem.title": "Just Like A Man", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22279": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22279, "poem.id": 22279, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:45:16", "poem.title": "Until She Died", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22280": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22280, "poem.id": 22280, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:45:24", "poem.title": "Ten Fingered Mice", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22281": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22281, "poem.id": 22281, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:45:26", "poem.title": "The Common Touch", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22282": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22282, "poem.id": 22282, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:45:35", "poem.title": "Little Feet", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22283": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22283, "poem.id": 22283, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:45:39", "poem.title": "Since Jessie Died", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22284": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22284, "poem.id": 22284, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:45:43", "poem.title": "The Crucible Of Life", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "Sunshine and shadow, blue sky and gray,Laughter and tears as we tread on our way;Hearts that are heavy, then hearts that are light,Eyes that are misty and eyes that are bright;Losses and gains in the heat of the strife,Each in proportion to round out his life.Into the crucible, stirred by the years,Go all our hopes and misgivings and fears;Glad days and sad days, our pleasures and pains,Worries and comforts, our losses and gains.Out of the crucible shall there not comeJoy undefiled when we pour off the scum?Out of the sadness and anguish and woe,Out of the travail and burdens we know,Out of the shadow that darkens the way,Out of the failure that tries us to-day,Have you a doubt that contentment will comeWhen you've purified life and discarded the scum?Tinctured with sorrow and flavored with sighs,Moistened with tears that have flowed from your eyes;Perfumed with sweetness of loves that have died,Leavened with failures, with grief sanctified,Sacred and sweet is the joy that must comeFrom the furnace of life when you've poured off the scum.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22285": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22285, "poem.id": 22285, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:45:46", "poem.title": "Constant Beauty", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22286": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22286, "poem.id": 22286, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:45:49", "poem.title": "Departed Friends", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22287": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22287, "poem.id": 22287, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:45:52", "poem.title": "Growing Down", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22288": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22288, "poem.id": 22288, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:46:00", "poem.title": "Manhood's Greeting", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22289": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22289, "poem.id": 22289, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:46:03", "poem.title": "Ma And The Auto", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22290": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22290, "poem.id": 22290, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:46:10", "poem.title": "Greatness", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22291": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22291, "poem.id": 22291, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:46:14", "poem.title": "At The Door", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "He wiped his shoes before his door,But ere he entered he did more;'Twas not enough to cleanse his feetOf dirt they'd gathered in the street;He stood and dusted off his mindAnd left all trace of care behind.'In here I will not take,' said he,'The stains the day has brought to me.'Beyond this door shall never goThe burdens that are mine to know;The day is done, and here I leaveThe petty things that vex and grieve;What clings to me of hate and sinTo them I will not carry in;Only the good shall go with meFor their devoted eyes to see.'I will not burden them with cares,Nor track the home with grim affairs;I will not at my table sitWith soul unclean, and mind unfit;Beyond this door I will not takeThe outward signs of inward ache;I will not take a dreary mindInto this house for them to find.'He wiped his shoes before his door,But paused to do a little more.He dusted off the stains of strife,The mud that's incident to life,The blemishes of careless thought,The traces of the fight he'd fought,The selfish humors and the mean,And when he entered he was clean.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22292": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22292, "poem.id": 22292, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:46:21", "poem.title": "Failures", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22293": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22293, "poem.id": 22293, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:46:25", "poem.title": "The Friendly Greeting", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22294": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22294, "poem.id": 22294, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:46:30", "poem.title": "Reflection", "poem.date": "8/4/2014", "poem.content": "You have given me riches and ease,You have given me joys through the years,I have sat in the shade of your trees,With the song of your birds in my ears.I have drunk of your bountiful wineAnd done as I've chosen to do,But, oh wonderful country of mine,'How little have I done for you!You have given me safe harbor from harm,Untroubled I've slept through the nightsAnd have waked to the new morning's charmAnd claimed as my own its delights.I have taken the finest of fineFrom your orchards and fields where it grew,But, oh wonderful country of mine,How little I've given to you!You have given me a home and a placeWhere in safety my babies may play;Health blooms on each bright dimpled faceAnd laughter is theirs every day.You have guarded from danger the shrineWhere I worship when toiling is through,But, oh wonderful country of mine,How little have I done for you!I have taken your gifts without thought,I have revelled in joys that you gave,That I see now with blood had been bought,The blood of your earlier braves.I have lived without making one signThat the source of my riches I knew,Now, oh wonderful country of mine,I'm here to do something for you!", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22295": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22295, "poem.id": 22295, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:46:35", "poem.title": "Life's Slacker", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22296": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22296, "poem.id": 22296, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:46:42", "poem.title": "As It Is", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22297": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22297, "poem.id": 22297, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:46:46", "poem.title": "The Mother's Question", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "When I was a boy, and it chanced to rain, Mother would always watch for me;She used to stand by the window pane, Worried and troubled as she could be.And this was the question I used to hear,The very minute that I drew near;The words she used, I can't forget:'Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet.'Worried about me was mother dear, As healthy a lad as ever strolledOver a turnpike, far or near, 'Fraid to death that I'd take a cold.Always stood by the window pane,Watching for me in the pouring rain;And her words in my ears are ringing yet:'Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet.'Stockings warmed by the kitchen fire, And slippers ready for me to wear;Seemed that mother would never tire, Giving her boy the best of care,Thinking of him the long day through,In the worried way that all mothers do;Whenever it rained she'd start to fret,Always fearing my feet were wet.And now, whenever it rains, I see A vision of mother in days of yore,Still waiting there to welcome me, As she used to do by the open door.And always I think as I enter thereOf a mother's love and a mother's care;Her words in my ears are ringing yet:'Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet.'", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22298": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22298, "poem.id": 22298, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:46:51", "poem.title": "When Pa Counts", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22299": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22299, "poem.id": 22299, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:46:59", "poem.title": "The Happiest Days", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22300": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22300, "poem.id": 22300, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:47:06", "poem.title": "The Price Of Joy", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22301": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22301, "poem.id": 22301, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:47:11", "poem.title": "Understanding", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "When I was young and frivolous and never stopped to think, When I was always doing wrong, or just upon the brink; When I was just a lad of seven and eight and nine and ten, It seemed to me that every day I got in trouble then, And strangers used to shake their heads and say I was no good,But father always stuck to me — it seems he understood.I used to have to go to him 'most every night and sayThe dreadful things that I had done to worry folks that day.I know I didn't mean to be a turmoil round the place,And with the womenfolks about forever in disgrace ;To do the way they said I should, I tried the best I could,But though they scolded me a lot — my father understood.He never seemed to think it queer that I should risk my bones, Or fight with other boys at times, or pelt a cat with stones; An' when I'd break a window pane, it.used to make him sad, But though the neighbors said I was, he never thought me bad; He never whipped me, as they used to say to me he should; That boys can't always do what's right — it seemed he understood.Now there's that little chap of mine, just full of life and fun, Comes up to me with solemn face to tell the bad he's done.It's natural for any boy to be a roguish elf,He hasn't time to stop and think and figure for himself, And though the womenfolks insist that I should take a hand, They've never been a boy themselves, and they don't understand.Some day I've got to go up there, and make a sad reportAnd tell the Father of us all where I have fallen short; And there will be a lot of wrong I never meant to do, A lot of smudges on my sheet that He will have to view. And little chance for heavenly bliss, up there, will I command, Unless the Father smiles and says: ' My boy, I understand.'", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22302": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22302, "poem.id": 22302, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:47:16", "poem.title": "A Vow", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22303": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22303, "poem.id": 22303, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:47:21", "poem.title": "Challenge", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22304": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22304, "poem.id": 22304, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:47:26", "poem.title": "It's A Boy", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "The doctor leads a busy life, he wages war with death;Long hours he spends to help the one who's fighting hard for breath;He cannot call his time his own, nor share in others' fun,His duties claim him through the night when others' work is done.And yet the doctor seems to be God's messenger of joy,Appointed to announce this news of gladness: 'It's a boy!'In many ways unpleasant is the doctor's round of cares,I should not like to have to bear the burdens that he bears;His eyes must look on horrors grim, unmoved he must remain,Emotion he must master if he hopes to conquer pain;Yet to his lot this duty falls, his voice he must employTo speak to man the happiest phrase that's sounded: 'It's a boy!'I wish 'twere given me to speak a message half so gladAs that the doctor brings unto the fear-distracted dad.I wish that simple words of mine could change the skies to blue,And lift the care from troubled hearts, as those he utters do.I wish that I could banish all the thoughts that man annoy,And cheer him as the doctor does, who whispers: 'It's a boy.'Whoever through the hours of night has stood outside her door,And wondered if she'd smile again; whoe'er has paced the floor,And lived those years of fearful thoughts, and then been swept from woeUp to the topmost height of bliss that's given man to know,Will tell you there's no phrase so sweet, so charged with human joyAs that the doctor brings from God- that message: 'It's a boy!'", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22305": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22305, "poem.id": 22305, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:47:29", "poem.title": "Little Girls", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22306": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22306, "poem.id": 22306, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:47:32", "poem.title": "If Those Who Love Us", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22307": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22307, "poem.id": 22307, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:47:34", "poem.title": "The Benefit Of Trouble", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22308": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22308, "poem.id": 22308, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:47:37", "poem.title": "My Soul And I", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "When winter shuts a fellow in and turns the lock upon his door,There's nothing else for him to do but sit and dream his bygones o'er.And then before an open fire he smokes his pipe, while in the blazeHe seems to see a picture show of all his happy yesterdays.No ordinary film is that which memory throws upon the screen,But one in which his hidden soul comes out and can be plainly seen.Now, I've been dreaming by the grate. I've seen myself the way I am,Stripped bare of affectation's garb and wisdom's pose and folly's sham.I've seen my soul and talked with it, and learned some things I never knew.I walk about the world as one, but I express the wish of two.I've come to see the soul of me is wiser than my selfish mind,For it has safely led me through the tangled paths I've left behind.I should have sold myself for gold when I was young long years ago,But for my soul which whispered then: 'You love your home and garden so,You never could be quite content in palace walls. Once rise to fameAnd you will lose the gentler joys which now so eagerly you claim.I want to walk these lanes with you and keep the comradeship of trees,Let you and I be happy here, nor seek life's gaudy luxuries.'Mine is a curious soul, I guess; it seemed so, smiling in my dreams;It keeps me close to little folks and birds and flowers and running streams,To Mother and her friends and mine; and though no fortune we possess,The years that we have lived and loved have all been rich with happiness.I'm glad the snowdrifts shut me in, for I have had a chance to seeHow fortunate I've been to have that sort of soul to counsel me.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22309": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22309, "poem.id": 22309, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:47:41", "poem.title": "The Responsibility Of Fatherhood", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22310": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22310, "poem.id": 22310, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:47:48", "poem.title": "Lost Opportunities", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "'When I am rich,' he used to say,'A thousand joys I'll give away;I'll walk among the poor I findAnd unto one and all be kind.I'll place a wreath of roses redUpon the bier of all my dead;I'll help the struggling youth to climb;In doing good I'll spend my time;To all in need I'll friendly beThe day that fortune smiles on me.'He never guessed that being kindDepends upon the heart and mindAnd not upon the purse at all;That poor men's gifts, however small,Make light some weary traveler's loadAnd smooth for him his troubled road.He never knew or understoodThe fellowship of doing good.Because he had not much to spareHe thought it vain to give his share.Yet many passed him, day by day,He might have helped along the way.He fancied kindness something whichBelongs entirely to the rich.And so he lived and toiled for gold,Unsympathetic, harsh and cold,Intending all the time to shareThe burdens that his brothers bearWhen he possessed great wealth, and heCould well afford a friend to be.His fortune came, but, oh, too late;The poor about him could not wait.They never guessed and never knewThe things that he had meant to do.Few knew how much he'd planned to giveIf God had only let him live.And when at last his form was cold,All that he'd left on earth was gold.A kindly name is something whichA man must earn before he's rich.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22311": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22311, "poem.id": 22311, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:47:51", "poem.title": "Why I'M Glad", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22312": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22312, "poem.id": 22312, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:47:57", "poem.title": "A Song", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22313": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22313, "poem.id": 22313, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:48:01", "poem.title": "To A Lady Knitting", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22314": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22314, "poem.id": 22314, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:48:04", "poem.title": "The Simple Things", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "I would not be too wise- so very wise That I must sneer at simple songs and creeds,And let the glare of wisdom blind my eyes To humble people and their humble needs.I would not care to climb so high that I Could never hear the children at their play,Could only see the people passing by, And never hear the cheering words they say.I would not know too much- too much to smile At trivial errors of the heart and hand,Nor be too proud to play the friend the while, Nor cease to help and know and understand.I would not care to sit upon a throne, Or build my house upon a mountain-top,Where I must dwell in glory all alone And never friend come in or poor man stop.God grant that I may live upon this earth And face the tasks which every morning bringsAnd never lose the glory and the worth Of humble service and the simple things.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22315": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22315, "poem.id": 22315, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:48:10", "poem.title": "Sticky Fingers", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "Wife says that I should be ashamed To wear such garments as I do, Full many a time has she exclaimed: 'A month ago that suit was new, Now look at all the dreadful stainsThat mar the coat and spoil the vest; It seems to me if you'd take painsYour clothing wouldn't get so messed.'But I am proud of all those stains,I do not care for garments clean, For every shining mark explainsWhere sticky little hands have been; Each smudge is but a symbol ofA roguish youngster's fond caress, A badge of trusting, constant love,A token of real happiness.I may be careless in my way,Perhaps my clothes are a disgrace, But when that baby comes to playAnd holds me in her fond embrace I love her sticky fingers moreThan any tailored suit of mine, And she may thumb my garments o'er,For every spot she leaves is fine.I wish no spotless coat and vest,If baby hands I have to check; It matters not how I am dressed,I want her arms about my neck. Yes, finger-marked my clothes may be,But they are marks I'm proudest of, Let sticky fingers come to meAnd stamp me with their seals of love.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22316": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22316, "poem.id": 22316, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:48:13", "poem.title": "When Mother Made An Angel Cake", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22317": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22317, "poem.id": 22317, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:48:15", "poem.title": "Roses And Gasoline", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22318": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22318, "poem.id": 22318, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:48:22", "poem.title": "The Little Chap", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22319": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22319, "poem.id": 22319, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:48:29", "poem.title": "Thoughts Of A Father", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "We've never seen the Father here, but we have known the Son,The finest type of manhood since the world was first begun.And, summing up the works of God, I write with reverent pen,The greatest is the Son He sent to cheer the lives of men.Through Him we learned the ways of God and found the Father's love;The Son it was who won us back to Him who reigns above.The Lord did not come down himself to prove to men His worth,He sought our worship through the Child He placed upon the earth.How can I best express my life? Wherein does greatness lie?How can I long remembrance win, since I am born to die?Both fame and gold are selfish things; their charms may quickly flee,But I'm the father of a boy who came to speak for me.In him lies all I hope to be; his splendor shall be mine;I shall have done man's greatest work if only he is fine.If some day he shall help the world long after I am dead,In all that men shall say of him my praises shall be said.It matters not what I may win of fleeting gold or fame,My hope of joy depends alone on what my boy shall claim.My story must be told through him, for him I work and plan,Man's greatest duty is to be the father of a man.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22320": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22320, "poem.id": 22320, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:48:35", "poem.title": "The Ballad Of The New Arrival", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22321": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22321, "poem.id": 22321, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:48:40", "poem.title": "If I Were Santa Claus", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22322": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22322, "poem.id": 22322, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:48:43", "poem.title": "Jes' Wonderin'!", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22323": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22323, "poem.id": 22323, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:48:50", "poem.title": "The Time For Brotherhood", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22324": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22324, "poem.id": 22324, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:48:56", "poem.title": "When Ma Wants Something New", "poem.date": "9/2/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22325": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22325, "poem.id": 22325, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:49:01", "poem.title": "On Station Farewells", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "IN parting from a dear old friend for months, perhaps, or years, There's bound to be some bitter sobs, an' generally tears,An' as a rule, the lovin' ones will gather round about The station, softly cry in' while the train is pullin' out; Oh, it's so hard to say good-bye, an' kiss each tender cheek, Coz there's a lump in every throat, an' no one dares to speak. Good-bye is always hard to say to friends you know are true,But ten times harder when the train that waits for them's in view.When comes the time for me to go upon a little trip, I always wait until the last before I pack my grip; An' always try to hide the fact that I am goin' away, An' do my best to keep the folks in cheerful mood an' gay.A railroad station's mighty glum when friends are goin' out, It sorter shakes a fellow's nerve an' fills his heart with doubt;An' so I'd rather say good-bye at home the times we part, An' then sneak on the train alone — it's easier on the heart.There's something 'bout a train that leaves a depot with your friends, That fills your soul with grievin' an' a thrill of sorrow sends All over those who watch it, till it disappears from sight,An' the bravest can't help cryin' when it fades into the night. I love to have them meet me when I 'm comin' home once more, But when I 'm goin' from them, then I kiss them at the door An' wave my hand in partin', as I hurry down the street, An' then sneak on the train alone, an' sink into my seat.Outgoing trains are sad ones — incoming ones are gay, It isn't hard to tell the folks who 're goin' far away; In stations little groups are seen, an' O, so oft, I note A mother tryin' hard to down the lump that's in her throat; It seems she's tied her heart-strings to the train that's waiting there, An' the tug that comes at partin' is far more than she can bear; An' I've come to this conclusion, that whene'er I have to roam, I'll board the train unnoticed, with my 'good-byes' said at home.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22326": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22326, "poem.id": 22326, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:49:03", "poem.title": "The Brave Men", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "HERE'S to the men who laugh In the face of grim despair, Who gather the tares and chaff But sow with a cheerful air. Here's to the smiling men Who, giving, can take a blow, And rise to the fight again When others have laid them low.Here's to the men who grinWhen plans that they build go wrong, And straightway new plans beginWith courage and purpose strong. Here's to the glad, brave menWho, battling, expect a bruise, And rise to the fight againUndaunted by fights they lose.Here's to the men who smile,With faith in the morning light, And bravely await the whileTill victory crowns their fight. Here's to the fighting menThat always need not succeed, To rise to the fight again—The brave in defeat we need.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22330": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22330, "poem.id": 22330, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:49:09", "poem.title": "The Vote Of Thanks", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22331": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22331, "poem.id": 22331, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:49:12", "poem.title": "Living Flowers", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22332": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22332, "poem.id": 22332, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:49:20", "poem.title": "I'Ll Never Be Rich", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "I'LL never be rich. I'm too fond of the joy Of a certain small girl And a certain small boy; And the nights full of fun And the days full of play, And the romp and the run At the end of the day. I'll never be rich. I'm too eager to share In the joys that are near, Too unwilling to care For the thing we call gold, That I'll fill every day Full of strife for the stuff, And not rest by the way. I'll never be rich. There are too many charms That I now can possess When I stretch out my arms; There are too many joys That already I hold That I cannot give up Just to wallow in gold.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22333": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22333, "poem.id": 22333, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:49:27", "poem.title": "Pa And The Monthly Bills", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22334": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22334, "poem.id": 22334, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:49:35", "poem.title": "Pleasing Dad", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "When I was but a little lad, not more than two or three,I noticed in a general way my dad was proud of me.He liked the little ways I had, the simple things I said;Sometimes he gave me words of praise, sometimes he stroked my head;And when I'd done a thing worth while, the thought that made me gladWas always that I'd done my best, and that would please my dad.I can look back to-day and see how proud he used to beWhen I'd come home from school and say they'd recommended me.I didn't understand it then, for school boys never do,But in a vague and general way it seems to me I knewThat father took great pride in me, and wanted me to shine,And that it meant a lot to him when I'd done something fine.Then one day out of school I went, amid the great world's hum,An office boy, and father watched each night to see me come.And I recall how proud he was of me that wondrous dayWhen I could tell him that, unasked, the firm had raised my pay.I still can feel that hug he gave, I understand the joyIt meant to him to learn that men were trusting in his boy.I wonder will it please my dad? How oft the thought occursWhen I am stumbling on the paths, beset with briars and burrs!He isn't here to see me now, alone my race I run,And yet some day I'll go to him and tell him all I've done.And oh I pray that when we meet beyond life's stormy seaThat he may claim the old-time joy of being proud of me.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22335": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22335, "poem.id": 22335, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:49:38", "poem.title": "When An Old Man Gets To Thinking", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22336": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22336, "poem.id": 22336, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:49:44", "poem.title": "A Pat On The Back", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22337": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22337, "poem.id": 22337, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:49:48", "poem.title": "She Powders Her Nose", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22338": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22338, "poem.id": 22338, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:49:54", "poem.title": "His Example", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22339": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22339, "poem.id": 22339, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:49:58", "poem.title": "The Baby's Feet", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22340": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22340, "poem.id": 22340, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:50:02", "poem.title": "The Kindergarten Miss", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22341": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22341, "poem.id": 22341, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:50:04", "poem.title": "Nothing To Laugh At", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "'Taint nothin' to laugh at as I can see!If you'd been stung by a bumble bee,An' your nose wuz swelled an' it smarted, too,You wouldn't want people to laugh at you.If you had a lump that wuz full of fire,Like you'd been touched by a red hot wire,An' your nose spread out like a load of hay,You wouldn't want strangers who come your wayTo ask you to let 'em see the placeAn' laugh at you right before your face.What's funny about it, I'd like to know?It isn't a joke to be hurted so!An' how wuz I ever on earth to tell'At the pretty flower which I stooped to smellIn our backyard wuz the very oneWhich a bee wuz busily working on?An' jus' as I got my nose down there,He lifted his foot an' kicked for fair,An' he planted his stinger right into me,But it's nothin' to laugh at as I can see.I let out a yell an' my Maw came outTo see what the trouble wuz all about.She says from my shriek she wuz sure 'at IHad been struck by a motor car passin' by;But when she found what the matter wuzShe laughed just like ever'body doesAn' she made me stand while she poked aboutTo pull his turrible stinger out.An' my Pa laughed, too, when he looked at me,But it's nothin' to laugh at, as I can see.My Maw put witch hazel on the spotTo take down the swellin' but it has not.It seems to git bigger as time goes byAn' I can't see good out o' this one eye;An' it hurts clean down to my very toesWhenever I've got to blow my nose.An' all I can say is when this gits wellThere ain't any flowers I'll stoop to smell.I'm through disturbin' a bumble bee,But it's nothin' to laugh at, as I can see.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22342": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22342, "poem.id": 22342, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:50:07", "poem.title": "Living Monuments", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22343": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22343, "poem.id": 22343, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:50:11", "poem.title": "The Bright Side", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22344": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22344, "poem.id": 22344, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:50:17", "poem.title": "Dan Mcgann Declares Himself", "poem.date": "9/2/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22345": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22345, "poem.id": 22345, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:50:22", "poem.title": "Why We Fight", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22346": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22346, "poem.id": 22346, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:50:27", "poem.title": "The Things That Make A Soldier Great", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22347": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22347, "poem.id": 22347, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:50:33", "poem.title": "A Father's Wish", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22348": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22348, "poem.id": 22348, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:50:38", "poem.title": "The Blue Flannel Shirt", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22349": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22349, "poem.id": 22349, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:50:44", "poem.title": "Gratitude", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22350": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22350, "poem.id": 22350, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:50:49", "poem.title": "I", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22351": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22351, "poem.id": 22351, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:50:54", "poem.title": "Care-Free Youth", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "The skies are blue and the sun is out and the grass is green and soft And the old charm's back in the apple tree and it calls a boy aloft; And the same low voice that the old don't hear, but the care-free youngsters do, Is calling them to the fields and streams and the joys that once I knew. And if youth be wild desire for play and care is the mark of men, Beneath the skin that Time has tanned I'm a madcap youngster then. Far richer than king with his crown of gold and his heavy weight of care Is the sunburned boy with his stone-bruised feet and his tousled shock of hair; For the king can hear but the cry of hate or the sickly sound of praise, And lost to him are the voices sweet that called in his boyhood days. Far better than ruler, with pomp and power and riches, is it to be The urchin gay in his tattered clothes that is climbing the apple tree. Oh, once I heard all the calls that come to the quick, glad ears of boys, And a certain spot on the river bank told me of its many joys, And certain fields and certain trees were loyal friends to me, And I knew the birds, and I owned a dog, and we both could hear and see. Oh, never from tongues of men have dropped such messages wholly glad As the things that live in the great outdoors once told to a little lad. And I'm sorry for him who cannot hear what the tall trees have to say, Who is deaf to the call of a running stream and the lanes that lead to play. The boy that shins up the faithful elm or sprawls on a river bank Is more richly blessed with the joys of life than any old man of rank. For youth is the golden time of life, and this battered old heart of mine Beats fast to the march of its old-time joys, when the sun begins to shine.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22352": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22352, "poem.id": 22352, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:50:58", "poem.title": "The Home-Town", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22353": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22353, "poem.id": 22353, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:51:05", "poem.title": "Stuck", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22354": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22354, "poem.id": 22354, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:51:11", "poem.title": "A Toast To Happiness", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22355": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22355, "poem.id": 22355, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:51:14", "poem.title": "People Like Him", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22356": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22356, "poem.id": 22356, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:51:18", "poem.title": "I'D Rather Be A Failure", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22357": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22357, "poem.id": 22357, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:51:22", "poem.title": "The True Man", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22358": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22358, "poem.id": 22358, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:51:29", "poem.title": "When Mother's Sewing Buttons On", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22359": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22359, "poem.id": 22359, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:51:32", "poem.title": "He Has Not Lived In Vain", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22360": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22360, "poem.id": 22360, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:51:38", "poem.title": "Carry On", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22361": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22361, "poem.id": 22361, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:51:45", "poem.title": "Memories Of Tomorrow", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22362": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22362, "poem.id": 22362, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:51:48", "poem.title": "My Books And I", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22363": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22363, "poem.id": 22363, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:51:54", "poem.title": "The Scoffer", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "If I had lived in Franklin's time I'm most afraid that I,Beholding him out in the rain, a kite about to fly,And noticing upon its tail the barn door's rusty key,Would, with the scoffers on the street, have chortled in my glee;And with a sneer upon my lips I would have said of Ben,'His belfry must be full of bats. He's raving, boys, again!'I'm glad I didn't live on earth when Fulton had his dream,And told his neighbors marvelous tales of what he'd do with steam,For I'm not sure I'd not have been a member of the throngThat couldn't see how paddle-wheels could shove a boat along.At 'Fulton's Folly' I'd have sneered, as thousands did back then,And called the Clermont's architect the craziest of men.Yet Franklin gave us wonders great and Fulton did the same,And many 'boobs' have left behind an everlasting fame.And dead are all their scoffers now and all their sneers forgotAnd scarce a nickel's worth of good was brought here by the lot.I shudder when I stop to think, had I been living then,I might have been a scoffer, too, and jeered at Bob and Ben.I am afraid to-day to sneer at any fellow's dream.Time was I thought men couldn't fly or sail beneath the stream.I never call a man a boob who toils throughout the nightOn visions that I cannot see, because he may be right.I always think of Franklin's trick, which brought the jeers of men.And to myself I say, 'Who knows but here's another Ben?'", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22364": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22364, "poem.id": 22364, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:51:58", "poem.title": "A Prayer, 1918", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22365": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22365, "poem.id": 22365, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:52:01", "poem.title": "Thec Lanes Of Memory", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22366": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22366, "poem.id": 22366, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:52:05", "poem.title": "Just Half Of That, Please", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "Grandmother says when I pass her the cake:'Just half of that, please.'If I serve her the tenderest portion of steak:'Just half of that, please.'And be the dessert a rice pudding or pie,As I pass Grandma's share she is sure to reply,With the trace of a twinkle to light up her eye:'Just half of that, please.'I've cut down her portions but still she tells me:'Just half of that, please.'Though scarcely a mouthful of food she can see:'Just half of that, please.'If I pass her the chocolates she breaks one in two,There's nothing so small but a smaller will do,And she says, perhaps fearing she's taking from you:'Just half of that, please.'When at last Grandma leaves us the angels will hear:'Just half of that, please.'When with joys for the gentle and brave they appear:'Just half of that, please.'And for fear they may think she is selfish up there,Or is taking what may be a young angel's share,She will say with the loveliest smile she can wear:'Just half of that, please.'", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22367": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22367, "poem.id": 22367, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:52:07", "poem.title": "Winding The Clock", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22368": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22368, "poem.id": 22368, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:52:13", "poem.title": "A Friend [2]", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22369": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22369, "poem.id": 22369, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:52:18", "poem.title": "I Mustn'T Forget", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22370": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22370, "poem.id": 22370, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:52:23", "poem.title": "Baby Feet", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22371": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22371, "poem.id": 22371, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:52:28", "poem.title": "The Scoutmaster", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22372": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22372, "poem.id": 22372, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:52:33", "poem.title": "Sacrifice", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22373": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22373, "poem.id": 22373, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:52:39", "poem.title": "June", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22374": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22374, "poem.id": 22374, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:52:43", "poem.title": "The Price Of Riches", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22375": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22375, "poem.id": 22375, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:52:46", "poem.title": "The Weaver", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22376": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22376, "poem.id": 22376, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:52:48", "poem.title": "A Father's Thoughts", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "Because I am his father, theyExpect me to put grief away;Because I am a man, and roughAnd sometimes short of speech and gruff,The women folks at home believeHis absence doesn't make me grieve;But how I felt, they little know,The day I smiled and let him go.They little know the dreams I hadLong cherished for my sturdy lad;They little guess the wrench it meantThat day when off to war he went;They little know the tears I checkedWhile standing, smiling and erect;They never heard my smothered sighWhen it was time to say good-bye.'What does his father think and say?'The neighbors ask from day to day.'Oh, he's a man,' they answer then.'And you know how it is with men.But little do they ever say,They do not feel the self-same way;He seems indifferent and grimAnd yet he's very proud of him.'Indifferent and grim! Oh, heart,Be brave enough to play the part,Let not the grief in you be shown,Keep all your loneliness unknown,To you the women folks must turnFor comfort when their sorrows burn.You must not at this time revealThe pain and anguish that you feel.Oh, tongue, be silent through the years,And eyes, keep back always the tears,And let them never see or knowMy hidden weight of grief and woe.Though every golden dream I hadWas centered in my little lad,Alone my sorrow I must bear.They must not know how much I care.Though women folks may talk and weep,A man, unseen, his grief must keep,And hide behind his smile and prideThe loneliness that dwells inside.And so, from day to day, I go,Playing the part of man, althoughBeneath the rough outside and grim,I think and dream and pray for him.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22377": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22377, "poem.id": 22377, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:52:54", "poem.title": "The Roads Of Happiness", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22378": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22378, "poem.id": 22378, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:53:02", "poem.title": "There Are No Gods!", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22379": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22379, "poem.id": 22379, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:53:07", "poem.title": "October", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22380": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22380, "poem.id": 22380, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:53:13", "poem.title": "Midnight In The Pantry", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "You can boast your round of pleasures, praise the sound of popping corks,Where the orchestra is playing to the rattle of the forks;And your after-opera dinner you may think superbly fine,But that can't compare, I'm certain, to the joy that's always mineWhen I reach my little dwelling—source, of all sincere delight—And I prowl around the pantry in the waning hours of night.When my business, or my pleasure, has detained me until late,And it's midnight, say, or after, when I reach my own estate,Though I'm weary with my toiling I don't hustle up to bed,For the inner man is hungry and he's anxious to be fed;Then I feel a thrill of glory from my head down to my feetAs I prowl around the pantry after something good to eat.Oft I hear a call above me: 'Goodness gracious, come to bed!'And I know that I've disturbed her by my overeager tread,But I've found a glass of jelly and some bread and butter, too,And a bit of cold fried chicken and I answer: 'When I'm through!'Oh, there's no cafe that better serves my precious appetiteThan the pantry in our kitchen when I get home late at night.You may boast your shining silver, and the linen and the flowers,And the music and the laughter and the lights that hang in showers;You may have your cafe table with its brilliant array,But it doesn't charm yours truly when I'm on my homeward way;For a greater joy awaits me, as I hunger for a bite—Just the joy of pantry-prowling in the middle of the night.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22381": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22381, "poem.id": 22381, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:53:18", "poem.title": "Bud", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "Who is it lives to the full every minute,Gets all the joy and the fun that is in it?Tough as they make 'em, and ready to race,Fit for a battle and fit for a chase,Heedless of buttons on blouses and pants,Laughing at danger and taking a chance,Gladdest, it seems, when he wallows in mud,Who is the rascal? I'll tell you, it's Bud!Who is it wakes with a shout of delight,And comes to our room with a smile that is bright?Who is it springs into bed with a leapAnd thinks it is queer that his dad wants to sleep?Who answers his growling with laughter and triesHis patience by lifting the lids of his eyes?Who jumps in the air and then lands with a thudOn his poor daddy's stomach? I'll tell you, it's Bud!Who is it thinks life is but laughter and playAnd doesn't know care is a part of the day?Who is reckless of stockings and heedless of shoes?Who laughs at a tumble and grins at a bruise?Who climbs over fences and clambers up trees,And scrapes all the skin off his shins and his knees?Who sometimes comes home all bespattered with bloodThat was drawn by a fall? It's that rascal called Bud.Yet, who is it makes all our toiling worth while?Who can cure every ache that we know, by his smile?Who is prince to his mother and king to his dadAnd makes us forget that we ever were sad?Who is center of all that we dream of and plan,Our baby to-day but to-morrow our man?It's that tough little, rough little tyke in the mud,That tousled-haired, fun-loving rascal called Bud!", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22382": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22382, "poem.id": 22382, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:53:22", "poem.title": "A New Baby In The House", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22383": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22383, "poem.id": 22383, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:53:28", "poem.title": "At Breakfast Time", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22384": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22384, "poem.id": 22384, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:53:34", "poem.title": "Forgetful Pa", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22385": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22385, "poem.id": 22385, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:53:38", "poem.title": "The Lonely Old Fellow", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22386": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22386, "poem.id": 22386, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:53:43", "poem.title": "Easter", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22387": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22387, "poem.id": 22387, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:53:50", "poem.title": "The Birth Of Love", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "I REMEMBER the first tiny cry that she gave And my heart felt a thrill that it never had known,And my face which a moment before had been grave With the sunlight of love and of happiness shone; And yet I am sure that I loved her beforeShe uttered the cry that delighted me so, And I vow that the baby that romps on the floor Was a part of my life in the long, long ago.I remember the first gentle kiss I bestowedOn her little pink cheek, and recall that just then That it seemed that my heart with its love overflowed,A love I had known and was winning again; That babe I am sure was no stranger to me,For with her came love that no stranger couldbring, A love that's as deep as the depths of the sea,As fresh and as pure as a cold mountain spring.There she is on the floor with her cheeks all aglow,With her eyes just as bright as the stars in the sky, Has she, do you think, in my heart had to growTo win me to love her? No, no, I reply! I loved her the very first moment she came,And looking back now I am certain also That my heart with the love of her had been aflameIn the wonderful days of the long, long ago.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22388": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22388, "poem.id": 22388, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:53:55", "poem.title": "The Sweetest Soul I Ever Knew", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22389": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22389, "poem.id": 22389, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:53:57", "poem.title": "When Friends Drop In", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22390": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22390, "poem.id": 22390, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:54:06", "poem.title": "Fine", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22391": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22391, "poem.id": 22391, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:54:11", "poem.title": "Becoming A Dad", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "Old women say that men don't knowThe pain through which all mothers go,And maybe that is true, and yetI vow I never shall forgetThe night he came. I suffered, too,Those bleak and dreary long hours through;I paced the floor and mopped my browAnd waited for his glad wee-ow!I went upstairs and then came down,Because I saw the doctor frownAnd knew beyond the slightest doubtHe wished to goodness I'd clear out.I walked into the yard for airAnd back again to hear her there,And met the nurse, as calm as thoughMy world was not in deepest woe,And when I questioned, seeking speechOf consolation that would reachInto my soul and strengthen meFor dreary hours that were to be:'Progressing nicely!' that was allShe said and tip-toed down the hall;'Progressing nicely!' nothing more,And left me there to pace the floor.And once the nurse came out in hasteFor something that had been misplaced,And I that had been growing boldThen felt my blood grow icy cold;And fear's stern chill swept over me.I stood and watched and tried to seeJust what it was she came to get.I haven't learned that secret yet.I half-believe that nurse in whiteWas adding fuel to my frightAnd taking an unholy glee,From time to time, in torturing me.Then silence! To her room I creptAnd was informed the doctor slept!The doctor slept! Oh, vicious thought,While she at death's door bravely foughtAnd suffered untold anguish deep,The doctor lulled himself to sleep.I looked and saw him stretched out flatAnd could have killed the man for that.Then morning broke, and oh, the joy;With dawn there came to us our boy,And in a glorious little whileI went in there and saw her smile!I must have looked a human wreck,My collar wilted at the neck,My hair awry, my features drawnWith all the suffering I had borne.She looked at me and softly said,'If I were you, I'd go to bed.'Hers was the bitterer part, I know;She traveled through the vale of woe,But now when women folks recallThe pain and anguish of it allI answer them in manner sad:'It's no cinch to become a dad.'", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22392": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22392, "poem.id": 22392, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:54:16", "poem.title": "The Call Of The Woods", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22393": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22393, "poem.id": 22393, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:54:21", "poem.title": "A Feller's Hat", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "It's funny 'bout a feller's hat- He can't remember where it's at,Or where he took it off, or when,The time he's wantin' it again.He knows just where he leaves his shoes;His sweater he won't often lose;An' he can find his rubbers, butHe can't tell where his hat is put.A feller's hat gets anywhere.Sometimes he'll find it in a chair,Or on the sideboard, or maybeIt's in the kitchen, just where heGave it a toss beside the sinkWhen he came in to get a drink,An' then forgot- but anyhowHe never knows where it is now.A feller's hat is never whereHe thinks it is when he goes there;It's never any use to lookFor it upon a closet hook,'Cause it is always in some placeIt shouldn't be, to his disgrace,An' he will find it, like as not,Behind some radiator hot.A feller's hat can get awayFrom him most any time of day,So he can't ever find it whenHe wants it to go out again;It hides in corners dark an' grimAn' seems to want to bother him;It disappears from sight somehow- I wish I knew where mine is now.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22394": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22394, "poem.id": 22394, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:54:25", "poem.title": "A Family Row", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22395": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22395, "poem.id": 22395, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:54:29", "poem.title": "A Coming Reunion", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "Jim's made good in the world out there, an' Kate has a man that's true,No better, of course, than she deserves; she's rich, but she's happy, too; Fred is manager, full-fledged now—he's boss of a big concern An' I lose my breath when I think sometimes of the money that he can earn; Clever—the word don't mean enough to tell what they really are, Clever, an' honest an' good an' kind—if you doubt me, ask their Ma.Proud of 'em! Well, I should say we are, an' we have a right to be, Some are proud to have one child, an' I am proud of three! That's all the honor a fellow needs, why Ma an' I often say There isn't a king or a queen on earth as proud as we are today; Three babies off in the world out there, all honest an' kind an' true, That's something to brag of when you are old an' your journey is almost through.We've stretched the table out a bit, the way that it used to be, When we were younger—an' here's Ma's chair, an' there is a place for me; An' there's a chair for our little Kate an' one for the man she wed, An' yonder, just to the left of Ma, is a place for our baby Fred, An' Jim, the eldest, will sit by me—they're comin' Thanksgiving day To sit once more where they used to sit before they went away.They ain't ashamed of the old, old place, an' they ain't ashamed of me, An' they're just as proud of their dear old Ma as ever they used to be; They've got rich friends in the city now, an' there's nothing that's fine they lack, But their hearts still stay with us here at home, and they joy in the comin' back. So we've stretched the table out a bit to the length that it was when they Were youngsters here in the home with us. They're comin' Thanksgiving day.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22396": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22396, "poem.id": 22396, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:54:33", "poem.title": "Revenge", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22397": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22397, "poem.id": 22397, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:54:39", "poem.title": "The Chaplain", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22398": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22398, "poem.id": 22398, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:54:44", "poem.title": "Shut-Ins", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22399": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22399, "poem.id": 22399, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:54:48", "poem.title": "The Worry-Chaser", "poem.date": "9/2/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22400": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22400, "poem.id": 22400, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:54:55", "poem.title": "At The Summer Cottage", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22401": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22401, "poem.id": 22401, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:55:02", "poem.title": "Bread And Jam", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22402": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22402, "poem.id": 22402, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:55:06", "poem.title": "The Bride", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "Little lady at the altar,Vowing by God's book and psalterTo be faithful, fond and trueUnto him who stands by you,Think not that romance is ended,That youth's curtain has descended,And love's pretty play is done;For it's only just begun.Marriage, blushing little lady,Is love's sunny path and shady,Over which two hearts should wander,Of each other growing fonder.As you stroll to each to-morrow,You will come to joy and sorrow,And as faithful man and wifeRead the troubled book of life.Bitter cares will some day find you;Closer, closer they will bind you;If together you will bear them,Cares grow sweet when lovers share them.Love unites two happy mortals,Brings them here to wedlock's portalsAnd then blithely bids them go,Arm in arm, through weal and woe.Little lady, just rememberEvery year has its December,Every rising sun its setting,Every life its time of fretting;And the honeymoon's sweet beautyFinds too soon the clouds of duty;But keep faith, when trouble-tried,And in joy you shall abide.Little lady at the altar,Never let your courage falter,Never stoop to unbelieving,Even when your heart is grieving.To what comes of wintry weatherOr disaster, stand together;Through life's fearful hours of nightLove shall bring you to the light.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22403": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22403, "poem.id": 22403, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:55:10", "poem.title": "The Way To Make Friends", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22404": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22404, "poem.id": 22404, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:55:14", "poem.title": "Mark Twain", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "MARK TWAIN is dead! No, no, that cannot be,Say rather Clemens knows life's mystery,Say rather Clemens has been called above,But Twain still lives for all the world to love.Mark Twain is dead! 'T is false, I'll not believe,For Clemens only will I pause to grieve,But Twain still lives, 't is Clemens passes by,Mark Twain, Mark Twain was never born to die.The hand that held the pen is nerveless now,The chill of death rests coldly on his brow,The voice that made us laugh will speak no more,But Twain still lives to cheer us as before.'T is Clemens who has torn the veil aside,Who knows what is beyond the great divide,'T is Clemens who is gone, who leaves behindMark Twain to cheer and comfort humankind.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22405": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22405, "poem.id": 22405, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:55:23", "poem.title": "The Burden Bearer", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22406": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22406, "poem.id": 22406, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:55:29", "poem.title": "The Comedian", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22407": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22407, "poem.id": 22407, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:55:32", "poem.title": "As We Prayed", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22408": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22408, "poem.id": 22408, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:55:39", "poem.title": "The Soldier On Crutches", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22409": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22409, "poem.id": 22409, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:55:45", "poem.title": "Life's Canvas", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22410": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22410, "poem.id": 22410, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:55:52", "poem.title": "Next Of Kin", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22411": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22411, "poem.id": 22411, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:55:55", "poem.title": "She Mothered Five", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22412": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22412, "poem.id": 22412, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:55:58", "poem.title": "Troubles", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22413": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22413, "poem.id": 22413, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:56:02", "poem.title": "Figure It Out", "poem.date": "8/27/2015", "poem.content": "Figure it out for yourself, my lad,You're all that the greatest of men have had,Two arms, two hands, two legs, two eyes,And a brain to use if you would be wise.With this equipment we all began, So start for the top and say 'I can.'Look them over, the wise and great,They take their food from a common plate,And similar knives and forks they use,With similar laces they tie their shoes,The world considers the brave and smart, But you've all they have when they made their start.You are triumph and come to skill,You can be great if you only will. You're well equipped for what path you choose,You have arms and legs and a brain to use, And the Man who has risen great deeds to doBegan his life with no more than you.You are the handicap you must face,You are the one who must choose your place,You must say where you want to go,How much you will study the truth to know.God has equipped you for life, but He Let's you decide what you want to be.Courage must come from the soul within, The man must furnish the will to win.So figure it out for yourself, my lad.You were born with all that the greatest have had, With your equipment they all beganGet a hold of yourself and say: 'I Can.'", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22414": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22414, "poem.id": 22414, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:56:06", "poem.title": "The Dreams Of Youth", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22415": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22415, "poem.id": 22415, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:56:12", "poem.title": "Duty", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22416": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22416, "poem.id": 22416, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:56:14", "poem.title": "A Patriotic Creed", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22417": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22417, "poem.id": 22417, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:56:20", "poem.title": "Lemon Pie", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22418": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22418, "poem.id": 22418, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:56:27", "poem.title": "On Being Broke", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22419": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22419, "poem.id": 22419, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:56:33", "poem.title": "A Battle Prayer", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22420": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22420, "poem.id": 22420, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:56:39", "poem.title": "Since I Have Done My Best", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "SINCE I have done my best, I doNot fear the outcome; here I standPrepared for judgment when men viewThe labor of my heart and hand.If good, then happy I shall be,If not, contented I'll abide,And though the prize is not for me,My joy shall be in having tried.Since I have done my best, there isNo cause for me to sit and sigh, Although the laurel wreath I miss,My eyes shall smiling be and dry; No vain excuses shall I makeFor failing, and no vain regret, But bravely judgment I shall take,And say: 'A better man I've met.'Since I have done my best, I'll goWhenever God shall summon me, Contented, for right well I knowHowever poor my record be That, having nothing to regret,No shame that I would seek to hide, The Master's praises I shall getFor honest effort when I tried.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22421": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22421, "poem.id": 22421, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:56:45", "poem.title": "A Good Name", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22422": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22422, "poem.id": 22422, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:56:50", "poem.title": "My Religion", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "My religion's lovin' God, who made us, one and all,Who marks, no matter where it be, the humble sparrow's fall;An' my religion's servin' Him the very best I canBy not despisin' anything He made, especially man!It's lovin' sky an' earth an' sun an' birds an' flowers an' trees,But lovin' human beings more than any one of these.I ain't no hand at preachin' an' I can't expound the creeds;I fancy every fellow's faith must satisfy his needsOr he would hunt for something else. An' I can't tell the whyAn' wherefore of the doctrines deep- and what's more I don't try.I reckon when this life is done and we can know His plan,God won't be hard on anyone who's tried to be a man.My religion doesn't hinge on some one rite or word;I hold that any honest prayer a mortal makes is heard;To love a church is well enough, but some get cold with prideAn' quite forget their fellowmen for whom the Saviour died;I fancy he best worships God, when all is said an' done,Who tries to be, from day to day, a friend to everyone.If God can mark the sparrow's fall, I don't believe He'll failTo notice us an' how we act when doubts an' fears assail;I think He'll hold what's in our hearts above what's in our creeds,An' judge all our religion here by our recorded deeds;An' since man is God's greatest work since life on earth began,He'll get to Heaven, I believe, who helps his fellowman.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22423": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22423, "poem.id": 22423, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:56:56", "poem.title": "Consolation", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22424": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22424, "poem.id": 22424, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:57:01", "poem.title": "The Inn-Keeper Makes Excuses", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22425": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22425, "poem.id": 22425, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:57:05", "poem.title": "If This Were All", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22426": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22426, "poem.id": 22426, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:57:09", "poem.title": "What I Call Living", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22427": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22427, "poem.id": 22427, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:57:14", "poem.title": "Life's Tests", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22428": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22428, "poem.id": 22428, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:57:18", "poem.title": "The Song Of Loved Ones", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22429": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22429, "poem.id": 22429, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:57:21", "poem.title": "Life And Hereafter", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "NOT over there do I awaitReward for patience here below,Not over there at Heaven's gateIs all the joy that I shall know;Not for the joys to be am ISeeking the better, truer way,All pleasure's not beyond the sky,For I have my reward each day.I hope for Heaven and all it means,And hope to hear the Master tell, When I have quit these earthly scenes,That I have truly toiled and well; But not alone for that I striveTo keep my soul unspotted here, Honor has joys for all aliveThat are as infinitely dear.What can the great hereafter giveMore precious than my children's love, When I, on earth, shall cease to live,And go to join the realms above? Were there no future, then I sayI still should strive to faithful be, That they would run at close of dayWith loving arms to welcome me.A baby's kiss, a faithful wife,And friends who trust, are not these all Rewards that honor earns in life,Although your hoard of gold be small? And though there were no future, wouldYou still not journey on your way Striving, as ever, to be goodJust for the joys you know today?And so I say, not ' over there,'Do I sit sighing, ' I shall know The perfect bliss, with ne'er a care '—The perfect bliss is here below. Nor do I dream of joys to be,And wail the cares that now are mine, Earth's glories now appeal to me,And this life is almost divine.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22430": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22430, "poem.id": 22430, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:57:29", "poem.title": "For The Living", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22431": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22431, "poem.id": 22431, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:57:34", "poem.title": "When My Ship Comes In", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22432": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22432, "poem.id": 22432, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:57:39", "poem.title": "The Panama Canal", "poem.date": "9/2/2014", "poem.content": "ABOVE it flies the flag we love,Within it is the blood we gave;It stands a part and portion ofThe courage that once freed the slave. The strength that fought for libertyHewed out the rock that barred its way; The men who toiled that it might beWere children of the U. S. A.Within its sides there is no stoneBut what Americans have placed; Above it other flags have flownAnd seen their labors go to waste. To build it other lands have triedAnd have deserted in dismay, But they, who would not be defied,Were children of the U. S. A.Into its massive walls were pouredThe gold that bore the eagle's stamp; Within each foot of it is storedThe grit of Valley Forge's camp. This wedding of divided seas,That is a finished fact today, Stands out among the victoriesThat glorify the U. S. A.No alien land was asked to aid,No foreign friend was leaned upon; This by Americans was madeWhile all the world stood looking on. And molded into every partFrom coast to coast, to last for aye, There are the blood and flesh and heartAnd genius of the U. S. A.Beneath Old Glory this was done,Beneath Old Glory shall it dwell; As long as there are seas'to runThis nation's splendor shall it tell. As long as human hearts shall thrillAnd patriotism men shall sway, This must remain to speak the skillAnd courage of the U. S. A.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22433": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22433, "poem.id": 22433, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:57:45", "poem.title": "When Father Shook The Stove", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22434": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22434, "poem.id": 22434, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:57:49", "poem.title": "The Green Of Michigan", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "I'VE seen the Rockies in the west, I've seen the canyons wild and grim, I've seen the prairies golden dressed, And California's hedges prim. I've seen the Kansas corn fields blow, I've seen them wearing summer's tan; But there's no place on earth can show Such glorious green as Michigan.I've seen the blue of foreign skies,I've seen old England's shady lanes, The famous spots men advertise,The mountains and the rolling plains; But wearily my eyes have turnedFrom scenes that others gayly scan, And secretly my soul has yearnedTo see the green of Michigan.I've traveled in a Pullman carAnd watched the landscape slipping by, But always though I've wandered farTo fairer charms my mind would fly; And when at last the moving scenesSeem painted by some Master Man With all the cool and restful greens,I know I'm back in Michigan.Here Mother Nature never tiresAnd droops her head upon her breast; Beneath the scorching summer firesShe keeps her youth and looks her best. When other states have lost the hueThey had when first the spring began, 'Tis like refreshing drink to viewThe splendid green of Michigan.Go search for charms on foreign shores,Enthuse of wonders, as you roam, I choose the splendors at our doors, I sing the rich delights of home, The trees in garb of glory dressed, The fertile fields that round us span; I sing the charm that thrills me best, The glorious green of Michigan!", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22435": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22435, "poem.id": 22435, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:57:58", "poem.title": "The Departed", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22437": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22437, "poem.id": 22437, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:58:02", "poem.title": "Mrs. Malone And The Censor", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22438": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22438, "poem.id": 22438, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:58:05", "poem.title": "The Average Man", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22439": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22439, "poem.id": 22439, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:58:08", "poem.title": "To An Old Friend", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "When we have lived our little lives and wandered all their byways through,When we've seen all that we shall see and finished all that we must do,When we shall take one backward look off yonder where our journey ends,I pray that you shall be as glad as I shall be that we were friends.Time was we started out to find the treasures and the joys of life;We sought them in the land of gold through many days of bitter strife.When we were young we yearned for fame; in search of joy we went afar,Only to learn how very cold and distant all the strangers are.When we have met all we shall meet and know what destiny has planned,I shall rejoice in that last hour that I have known your friendly hand;I shall go singing down the way off yonder as my sun descendsAs one who's had a happy life, made glorious by the best of friends.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22440": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22440, "poem.id": 22440, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:58:10", "poem.title": "Ambition", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22441": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22441, "poem.id": 22441, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:58:15", "poem.title": "Up To The Ceiling", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22442": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22442, "poem.id": 22442, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:58:21", "poem.title": "All That Matters", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22443": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22443, "poem.id": 22443, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:58:25", "poem.title": "Vacation Time", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "Vacation time! How glad it seemedWhen as a boy I sat and dreamedAbove my school books, of the funThat I should claim when toil was done;And, Oh, how oft my youthful eyeWent wandering with the patch of skyThat drifted by the window panesO'er pleasant fields and dusty lanes,Where I would race and romp and shoutThe very moment school was out.My artful little fingers thenFeigned labor with the ink and pen,But heart and mind were far away,Engaged in some glad bit of play.The last two weeks dragged slowly by;Time hadn't then learned how to fly.It seemed the clock upon the wallFrom hour to hour could only crawl,And when the teacher called my name,Unto my cheeks the crimson came,For I could give no answer clearTo questions that I didn't hear.'Wool gathering, were you?' oft she saidAnd smiled to see me blushing red.Her voice had roused me from a dreamWhere I was fishing in a stream,And, if I now recall it right,Just at the time I had a bite.And now my youngsters dream of playIn just the very selfsame way;And they complain that time is slowAnd that the term will never go.Their little minds with plans are filledFor joyous hours they soon will build,And it is vain for me to say,That have grown old and wise and gray,That time is swift, and joy is brief;They'll put no faith in such belief.To youthful hearts that long for playTime is a laggard on the way.'Twas, Oh, so slow to me back thenEre I had learned the ways of men!", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22444": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22444, "poem.id": 22444, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:58:29", "poem.title": "The Joy Of Getting Back", "poem.date": "9/2/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22446": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22446, "poem.id": 22446, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:58:34", "poem.title": "On Going Home For Christmas", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22447": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22447, "poem.id": 22447, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:58:41", "poem.title": "When A Little Baby Dies", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22448": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22448, "poem.id": 22448, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:58:44", "poem.title": "The Wrist Watch Man", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22449": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22449, "poem.id": 22449, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:58:51", "poem.title": "A Boy And His Dog", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22450": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22450, "poem.id": 22450, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:58:55", "poem.title": "A Baby's Love", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22451": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22451, "poem.id": 22451, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:59:02", "poem.title": "Sittin' On The Porch", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22452": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22452, "poem.id": 22452, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:59:06", "poem.title": "Friendship", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "You can buy, if you've got money, all you need to drink and eat,You can pay for bread and honey, and can keep your palate sweet. But when trouble comes to fret you, and when sorrow comes your way,For the gentle hand of friendship that you need you cannot pay.You can buy with gold and silver things you've got to have to wear, You can purchase all that's needful, when your skiesare bright and fair; But when clouds begin to gather and when trouble rules the day Your money doesn't lure a friend worth while to come your way.For the hand that's warm and gripping and the heart's that tender, too,Are what all men living sigh for when they're sorrowful and blue,For there's nothing that's so soothing and so comforting right thenAs the gladly given friendship of a fellow's fellow men.A hand upon your shoulder and a whispered word of cheer Are the things that keep you going when your trouble time is here; And you'll hate the gold you've gathered and the buildings that you own If you have to bear your troubles and your sorrows all alone.If you've served a golden idol you will get as your reward All the luxuries of living that the coins of gold afford, But you'll be the poorest mortal and the saddest in the end When the clouds of trouble gather—and you're hungry for a friend.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22453": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22453, "poem.id": 22453, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:59:12", "poem.title": "Grandma", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22454": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22454, "poem.id": 22454, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:59:17", "poem.title": "The Monument Of Kindness", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22455": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22455, "poem.id": 22455, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:59:23", "poem.title": "Endurance", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "YOU never hear a woman boastOf her endurance, yet I vowThe tiniest mite o' a woman hasMore courage than a man, somehow.Lor' bless me, when I hear a manA-braggin' how he kep' right onA pluggin', fightin' to'ards his goal,With all his hope of winnin' gone,A-puffin' out his chest with pride,It makes me smile, becoz I knowIf he 'd a woman's cross t' bear,'At he 'd a give up long ago.It 'pears t' me 'at woman isJes' equal parts o' nerve an' grit; There is no task too great fer her,She doesn't know such word as quit. I've seen her when I knew her strengthWas failin' faster every day, Still workin' on without complaint,Findin', in some mysterious way, The power t' overcome her aches,An' all the weariness she knows. Endurance! Not bin' ever yetHas equaled what a woman shows!An' when her back was like t' break,An' man would plumb discouraged be, I've heard a little woman say:'The children need so much from me I've got t' work,' an' then she 'd startWashin' an mendin' little clo'es; An' then sit up till late at nightDarnin' the holes in little hose.It mattered not how sick she wuz,No task o' hers she ever shirked,When man would quit an' go t' bedThat little woman bravely worked.An' so it allus makes me smileT' hear a man git up an' say 'T is wonderful what he endured,An' how he worked from day t' day; An' then t' tell in boastin' styleThe hardships that he underwent, Explainin' how he kep' his nerveAlthough his strength was nearly spent. For when it comes t' downright grit,An' bearin' troubles great an' small, An' winnin' spite of everything,A little woman beats 'em all.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22456": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22456, "poem.id": 22456, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:59:26", "poem.title": "A Choice", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22457": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22457, "poem.id": 22457, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:59:33", "poem.title": "A Father's Tribute", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22458": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22458, "poem.id": 22458, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:59:38", "poem.title": "Old Friends", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "I do not say new friends are not considerate and true, Or that their smiles ain't genuine, but still I'm tellin' you That when a feller's heart is crushed and achin' with the pain, And teardrops come a-splashin' down his cheeks like summer rain, Becoz his grief an' loneliness are more than he can bear, Somehow it's only old friends, then, that really seem to care. The friends who've stuck through thick an' thin, who've known you, good an' bad, Your faults an' virtues, an' have seen the struggles you have had, When they come to you gentle-like an' take your hand an' say: 'Cheer up! we're with you still,' it counts, for that's the old friends' way. The new friends may be fond of you for what you are today; They've only known you rich, perhaps, an' only seen you gay; You can't tell what's attracted them; your station may appeal; Perhaps they smile on you because you're doin' something real; But old friends who have seen you fail, an' also seen you win, Who've loved you either up or down, stuck to you, thick or thin, Who knew you as a budding youth, an' watched you start to climb, Through weal an' woe, still friends of yours an' constant all the time, When trouble comes an' things go wrong, I don't care what you say, They are the friends you'll turn to, for you want the old friends' way. The new friends may be richer, an' more stylish, too, but when Your heart is achin' an' you think your sun won't shine again, It's not the riches of new friends you want, it's not their style, It's not the airs of grandeur then, it's just the old friend's smile, The old hand that has helped before, stretched out once more to you, The old words ringin' in your ears, so sweet an', Oh, so true! The tenderness of folks who know just what your sorrow means, These are the things on which, somehow, your spirit always leans. When grief is poundin' at your breast — the new friends disappear An' to the old ones tried an' true, you turn for aid an' cheer.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22459": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22459, "poem.id": 22459, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:59:42", "poem.title": "Home", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22460": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22460, "poem.id": 22460, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:59:46", "poem.title": "When We Were Kids", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22461": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22461, "poem.id": 22461, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 09:59:53", "poem.title": "Things That Haven'T Been Done Before", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22462": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22462, "poem.id": 22462, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:00:01", "poem.title": "Think Happy Thoughts", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22463": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22463, "poem.id": 22463, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:00:07", "poem.title": "Gardening", "poem.date": "8/25/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22464": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22464, "poem.id": 22464, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:00:10", "poem.title": "Don'T Quit", "poem.date": "3/24/2015", "poem.content": "When things go wrong, as they sometimes will, when the road you're trudging seems all uphill, when the funds are low and the debts are high, and you want to smile but you have to sigh, when care is pressing you down a bit - rest if you must, but don't you quit. Life is queer with its twists and turns. As everyone of us sometimes learns. And many a fellow turns about when he might have won had he stuck it out. Don't give up though the pace seems slow - you may succeed with another blow. Often the goal is nearer than it seems to a faint and faltering man; Often the struggler has given up when he might have captured the victor's cup; and he learned too late when the night came down, how close he was to the golden crown. Success is failure turned inside out - the silver tint of the clouds of doubt, and when you never can tell how close you are, it may be near when it seems afar; so stick to the fight when you're hardest hit - it's when things seem worst, you must not quit.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22466": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22466, "poem.id": 22466, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:00:13", "poem.title": "When Pa Comes Home", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "When Pa comes home, I'm at the door,An' then he grabs me off the floorAn' throws me up an' catches meWhen I come down, an' then, says he:'Well, how'd you get along to-day?An' were you good, an' did you play,An' keep right out of mamma's way?An' how'd you get that awful bumpAbove your eye ? My, what a lump!An' who spilled jelly on your shirt?An' where'd you ever find the dirtThat's on your hands? And my! Oh, my!I guess those eyes have had a cry,They look so red. What was it, pray?What has been happening here to-day?'An' then he drops' his coat an' hatUpon a chair, an' says: 'What's that ?Who knocked that engine on its backAn' stepped upon that piece of track ? 'An' then he takes me on his kneeAn' says: ' What's this that now I see ?Whatever can the matter be?Who strewed those toys upon the floor,An' left those things behind the door?Who upset all those parlor chairsAn' threw those blocks upon the stairs?I guess a cyclone called to-dayWhile I was workin' far away.Who was it worried mamma so?It can't be anyone I know.'An' then I laugh an' say: 'It's me!Me did most ever'thing you see.Me got this bump the time me tripped.An' here is where the jelly slippedRight off my bread upon my shirt,An' when me tumbled down it hurt.That's how me got all over dirt.Me threw those building blocks downstairs,An' me upset the parlor chairs,Coz when you're playin' train you've gotTo move things 'round an awful lot.'An' then my Pa he kisses meAn' bounces me upon his kneeAn' says : 'Well, well, my little lad,What glorious fun you must have had! '", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22468": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22468, "poem.id": 22468, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:00:17", "poem.title": "Do Your All", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "'Do your bit!' How cheap and trite Seems that phrase in such a fight! 'Do your bit!' That cry recall, Change it now to 'Do your all!' Do your all, and then do more; Do what you're best fitted for; Do your utmost, do and give, You have but one life to live. Do your finest, do your best, Don't let up and stop to rest, Don't sit back and idly say: 'I did something yesterday.' Come on! Here's another hour, Give it all you have of power. Here's another day that needs Everybody's share of deeds. 'Do your bit!' of course, but then Do it time and time again; Giving, doing, all should be Up to full capacity. Now's no time to pick and choose, We've a war we must not lose. Be your duty great or small, Do it well and do it all. Do by careful, patient living, Do by cheerful, open giving; Do by serving day by day At whatever post you may; Do by sacrificing pleasure, Do by scorning hours of leisure. Now to God and country give Every minute that you live.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22469": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22469, "poem.id": 22469, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:00:23", "poem.title": "A Prayer", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22470": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22470, "poem.id": 22470, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:00:28", "poem.title": "True Nobility", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22471": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22471, "poem.id": 22471, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:00:36", "poem.title": "Capital Punishment", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22473": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22473, "poem.id": 22473, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:00:40", "poem.title": "Being Brave At Night", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22474": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22474, "poem.id": 22474, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:00:46", "poem.title": "Hard Work", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22478": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22478, "poem.id": 22478, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:00:51", "poem.title": "Father's Chore", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22479": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22479, "poem.id": 22479, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:00:59", "poem.title": "The Real Successes", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22480": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22480, "poem.id": 22480, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:01:05", "poem.title": "Patriotism", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22481": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22481, "poem.id": 22481, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:01:13", "poem.title": "When Sorrow Comes", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22482": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22482, "poem.id": 22482, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:01:19", "poem.title": "What A Baby Costs", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22483": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22483, "poem.id": 22483, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:01:24", "poem.title": "You", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22484": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22484, "poem.id": 22484, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:01:30", "poem.title": "Kindness", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "One never knowsHow far a word of kindness goes;One never seesHow far a smile of friendship flees.Down, through the years,The deed forgotten reappears.One kindly wordThe souls of many here has stirred.Man goes his wayAnd tells with every passing day,Until life's end:'Once unto me he played the friend.'We cannot sayWhat lips are praising us to-day.We cannot tellWhose prayers ask God to guard us well.But kindness livesBeyond the memory of him who gives.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22485": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22485, "poem.id": 22485, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:01:35", "poem.title": "Making The House A Home", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22486": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22486, "poem.id": 22486, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:01:39", "poem.title": "To A Young Man", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22487": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22487, "poem.id": 22487, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:01:46", "poem.title": "September", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22488": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22488, "poem.id": 22488, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:01:51", "poem.title": "God Made This Day For Me", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22489": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22489, "poem.id": 22489, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:01:57", "poem.title": "Good Books", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22490": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22490, "poem.id": 22490, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:02:04", "poem.title": "When Day Is Done", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22491": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22491, "poem.id": 22491, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:02:10", "poem.title": "A Wonderful World", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22492": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22492, "poem.id": 22492, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:02:15", "poem.title": "Life Is What We Make It", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "Life is a jest; Take the delight of it.Laughter is best; Sing through the night of it.Swiftly the tear And the hurt and the ache of itFind us down here; Life must be what we make of it.Life is a song; Dance to the thrill of it.Grief's hours are long, And cold is the chill of it.Joy is man's need; Let us smile for the sake of it.This be our creed: Life must be what we make of it.Life is a soul; The virtue and vice of it,Strife for a goal, And man's strength is the price of it.Your life and mine, The bare bread and the cake of itEnd in this line: Life must be what we make of it.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22493": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22493, "poem.id": 22493, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:02:23", "poem.title": "Our House", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22494": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22494, "poem.id": 22494, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:02:29", "poem.title": "Other's Successes", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22496": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22496, "poem.id": 22496, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:02:32", "poem.title": "Be Cheerful", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22497": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22497, "poem.id": 22497, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:02:39", "poem.title": "After All Is Said And Done", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22498": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22498, "poem.id": 22498, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:02:45", "poem.title": "Can'T", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22499": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22499, "poem.id": 22499, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:02:50", "poem.title": "Mothers' Excuses", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22500": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22500, "poem.id": 22500, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:02:53", "poem.title": "Raisin Pie", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22501": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22501, "poem.id": 22501, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:03:01", "poem.title": "A Friend", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22502": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22502, "poem.id": 22502, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:03:08", "poem.title": "Henry Ford's Offhand Way", "poem.date": "9/2/2014", "poem.content": "Speaking of Henry Ford's purchase of a million dollars' worth of city bonds, Controller Engel said; 'He talked about buying those bonds exactly as I would talk about buying a sack of peanuts.' — News item. There may be some of us who'd stop and scratch our heads awhile Before we'd spend a million of our hardearned little pile; And some of us perhaps might want to ponder on the deal, To see the goods before we'd buy, to know that they were real, I'm sure that I should hesitate and count once more my hoard Before I'd write a check like that, but not so Henry Ford. He merely yawned and stretched a bit, and then said : 'By the way,A million dollars' worth of bonds, I guess, will do today.'And some of us there are who might regret it all our lives If we should do a trick like that and not consult our wives. Before we'd spend a million bones I think we'd hem and hawAnd then decide to wait a day and put it up to Maw. 'm sure I shouldn't spend that much upon my own accord,I'd be afraid of what she'd say, but not so Henry Ford. He just looked through the window at the autumn tints of earth And said: 'Those bonds you spoke about. I'll take a million's worth.'And some of us, perhaps, before we'd part with such a bunch Would make the salesman take us out and blow us off to lunch;We'd have him bowing down to us and tapping at our door, And make him say a dozen times the things he'd said before. I'm sure before he closed with me and captured his reward I'd make him work a month or two, but not so Henry Ford. He merely said, the while he flicked from off his coat a speck: 'Send up a million dollars' worth. I'll write you out a check.'Who knows but what he thought about the song birds on the farm, And looked away as though to see the trees in autumn's charm? Perhaps he saw the pumpkins ripe and fodder in the shock And watched a little feller who was driving home the stock. While the agent's heart was beating he was calm as he could be, But perhaps he saw a little boy with patches on his knee, Years and miles away from business, in the town that gave him birth, Who never dreamed he'd buy of bonds a million dollars' worth.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22503": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22503, "poem.id": 22503, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:03:11", "poem.title": "Sermons We See", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22504": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22504, "poem.id": 22504, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:03:18", "poem.title": "Father", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22506": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22506, "poem.id": 22506, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:03:25", "poem.title": "Father And Son", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22507": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22507, "poem.id": 22507, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:03:31", "poem.title": "The Doctor", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22508": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22508, "poem.id": 22508, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:03:37", "poem.title": "Fishing Reasons", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22509": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22509, "poem.id": 22509, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:03:43", "poem.title": "Laughter", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22510": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22510, "poem.id": 22510, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:03:49", "poem.title": "The Making Of Friends", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22511": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22511, "poem.id": 22511, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:03:52", "poem.title": "The First Rule Of Golf", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22512": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22512, "poem.id": 22512, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:03:55", "poem.title": "My Big Brother", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22513": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22513, "poem.id": 22513, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:04:00", "poem.title": "Golf Pride", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "As a golfer I'm not one who cops the money,I shall always be a member of the dubs;There are times my style is positively funny,I am awkward in my handling of the clubs;I am not a skillful golfer, nor a plucky,But this about myself I proudly sayWhen I win a hole by freaky stroke or lucky,I never claim I played the shot that way.There are times, despite my blundering behavior,When fortune seems to follow at my heels;Now and then I toil supremely in her favor,She lets me pull the rankest sort of steals;She'll give to me the friendliest assistance,I'll jump a ditch at times when I should not,I'll top the ball and get a lot of distanceBut I don't claim that's how I played the shot.I've hooked a ball when just that hook I needed,And wondered how I ever turned the trick;I've thanked my luck for what a friendly tree did,Although my fortune made my rival sick;Sometimes my shots are just as I had planned 'em,The sort of shots which usually I play,But when up to the cup I chance to land 'em,I never claim I played 'em just that way.There's little in my game that will commend me,I'm not a shark who shoots the course in par;I need good fortune often to befriend me,I have my faults and know just what they are;I play golf in a desperate do -or- die way,And into traps and trouble oft I stray;But when by chance the breaks are coming my way,I do not claim I played the shots that way.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22514": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22514, "poem.id": 22514, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:04:06", "poem.title": "The Lay For The Troubled Golfer", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "His eye was wild and his face was taut with anger and hate and rage, And the things he muttered were much too strong for the ink of the printed page. I found him there when the dusk came down, in his golf clothes still was he, And his clubs were strewn around his feet as he told his grief to me: 'I'd an easy five for a seventy-nine — in sight of the golden goal — An easy five and I took an eight — an eight on the eighteenth hole!'I've dreamed my dreams of the `seventy men,' and I've worked year after year, I have vowed I would stand with the chosen few ere the end of my golf career; I've cherished the thought of a seventy score, and the days have come and gone And I've never been close to the golden goal my heart was set upon. But today I stood on the eighteenth tee and counted that score of mine, And my pulses raced with the thrill of joy — I'd a five for seventy-nine!'I can kick the ball from the eighteenth tee and get this hole in five, Bit I took the wood and I tried to cross that ditch with a mighty drive —' Let us end the quotes, it is best for all to imagine his language rich, But he topped that ball, as we often do, and the pill stopped in the ditch. His third was short and his fourth was bad and his fifth was off the line, And he took an eight on the eighteenth hole with a five for a seventy-nine.I gathered his clubs and I took his arm and alone in the locker room I left him sitting upon the bench, a picture of grief and gloom; And the last man came and took his shower and hurried upon his way, But still he sat with his head bowed down like one with a mind astray, And he counted his score card o'er and o'er and muttered this doleful whine: 'I took an eight on the eighteenth hole, with a five for a seventy-nine!'", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22515": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22515, "poem.id": 22515, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:04:13", "poem.title": "Mother", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22516": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22516, "poem.id": 22516, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:04:19", "poem.title": "Effort", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22517": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22517, "poem.id": 22517, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:04:26", "poem.title": "The Joy Of A Dog", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22518": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22518, "poem.id": 22518, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:04:30", "poem.title": "A Lesson From Golf", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "He couldn't use his driver any better on the teeThan the chap that he was licking, who just happened to be me;I could hit them with a brassie just as straight and just as far,But I piled up several sevens while he made a few in par;And he trimmed me to a finish, and I know the reason why:He could keep his temper better when he dubbed a shot than I.His mashie stroke is choppy, without any follow through;I doubt if he will ever, on a short hole, cop a two,But his putts are straight and deadly, and he doesn't even frownWhen he's tried to hole a long one and just fails to get it down.On the fourteenth green I faded; there he put me on the shelf,And it's not to his discredit when I say I licked myself.He never whined or whimpered when a shot of his went wrong;Never kicked about his troubles, but just plodded right along.When he flubbed an easy iron, though I knew that he was vexed,He merely shrugged his shoulders, and then coolly played the next,While I flew into a frenzy over every dub I madeAnd was loud in my complaining at the dismal game I played.Golf is like the game of living; it will show up what you are;If you take your troubles badly you will never play to par.You may be a fine performer when your skies are bright and blueBut disaster is the acid that shall prove the worth of you;So just meet your disappointments with a cheery sort of grin,For the man who keeps his temper is the man that's sure to win.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22519": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22519, "poem.id": 22519, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:04:34", "poem.title": "A Child Of Mine", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22520": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22520, "poem.id": 22520, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:04:39", "poem.title": "Only A Dad", "poem.date": "3/3/2015", "poem.content": "Only a dad, with a tired face,Coming home from the daily race,Bringing little of gold or fame,To show how well he has played the game,But glad in his heart that his own rejoiceTo see him come, and to hear his voice.Only a dad, with a brood of four,One of ten million men or more.Plodding along in the daily strife,Bearing the whips and the scorns of life,With never a whimper of pain or hate,For the sake of those who at home await.Only a dad, neither rich nor proud,Merely one of the surging crowdToiling, striving from day to day,Facing whatever may come his way,Silent, whenever the harsh condemn,And bearing it all for the love of them.Only a dad, but he gives his allTo smooth the way for his children small,Doing, with courage stern and grim,The deeds that his father did for him.This is the line that for him I pen,Only a dad, but the best of men.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22522": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22522, "poem.id": 22522, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:04:45", "poem.title": "My Creed", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22523": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22523, "poem.id": 22523, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:04:49", "poem.title": "The Pup", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22524": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22524, "poem.id": 22524, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:04:56", "poem.title": "A Boy And His Dad", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22525": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22525, "poem.id": 22525, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:04:59", "poem.title": "A Successful Dad", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22526": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22526, "poem.id": 22526, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:05:05", "poem.title": "Success And Failure", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22527": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22527, "poem.id": 22527, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:05:08", "poem.title": "Not A Money Debt", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22528": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22528, "poem.id": 22528, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:05:13", "poem.title": "The Lost Purse", "poem.date": "8/27/2014", "poem.content": "I remember the excitement and the terrible alarmThat worried everybody when William broke his arm;An' how frantic Pa and Ma got only jes' the other dayWhen they couldn't find the baby coz he'd up an' walked away;But I'm sure there's no excitement that our house has ever shookLike the times Ma can't remember where she's put her pocketbook.When the laundry man is standin' at the door an' wants his payMa hurries in to get it, an' the fun starts right away.She hustles to the sideboard, coz she knows exactly whereShe can put her hand right on it, but alas! it isn't there.She tries the parlor table an' she goes upstairs to look,An' once more she can't remember where she put her pocketbook.She tells us that she had it just a half an hour ago,An' now she cannot find it though she's hunted high and low;She's searched the kitchen cupboard an' the bureau drawers upstairs,An' it's not behind the sofa nor beneath the parlor chairs.She makes us kids get busy searching every little nook,An' this time says she's certain that she's lost her pocketbook.She calls Pa at the office an' he laughs I guess, for thenShe always mumbles something 'bout the heartlessness of men.She calls to mind a peddler who came to the kitchen door,An' she's certain from his whiskers an' the shabby clothes he woreAn' his dirty shirt an' collar that he must have been a crook,An' she's positive that feller came and got her pocketbook.But at last she allus finds it in some queer an' funny spot,Where she'd put it in a hurry, an' had somehow clean forgot;An' she heaves a sigh of gladness, an' she says, 'Well, I declare,I would take an oath this minute that I never put it there.'An' we're peaceable an' quiet till next time Ma goes to lookAn' finds she can't remember where she put her pocketbook.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22529": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22529, "poem.id": 22529, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:05:15", "poem.title": "Looking Back", "poem.date": "8/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22530": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22530, "poem.id": 22530, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:05:19", "poem.title": "At The Millennium", "poem.date": "8/4/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22531": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22531, "poem.id": 22531, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:05:23", "poem.title": "Mother's Glasses", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "I've told about the times that Ma can't find her pocketbook, And how we have to hustle round for it to help her look, But there's another care we know that often comes our way, I guess it happens easily a dozen times a day. It starts when first the postman through the door a letter passes, And Ma says: 'Goodness gracious me! Wherever are my glasses?' We hunt 'em on the mantelpiece an' by the kitchen sink, Until Ma says: 'Now, children, stop, an' give me time to think Just when it was I used 'em last an' just exactly where. Yes, now I know - the dining room. I'm sure yu'll find 'em there.' We even look behind the clock, we busy boys n' lasses, Until somebody runs across Ma's missing pair of lasses. We've found 'em in the Bible, an' we've found 'em in the flour, We've found 'em in the sugar bowl, an' once we looked an hour Before we came across 'em in the padding of her chair; An' many a time we've found 'em in the topknot of her hair. It's a search that ruins order an' the home completely wrecks, For there's no place where you may not find poor Ma's elusive specs. But we're mighty glad, I tell you, that the duty's ours to do, An' we hope to hunt those glasses till our time of life is through; It's a little bit of service that is joyous in its thrill, It's a task that calls us daily an' we hope it always will. Rich or poor, the saddest mortals of all the joyless masses Are the ones who have no mother dear to lose her reading glasses.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22532": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22532, "poem.id": 22532, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:05:27", "poem.title": "Selfish", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22533": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22533, "poem.id": 22533, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:05:30", "poem.title": "How Do You Tackle Your Work", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "How do you tackle your work each day? Are you scared of the job you find? Do you grapple the task that comes your way With a confident, easy mind? Do you stand right up to the work ahead Or fearfully pause to view it? Do you start to toil with a sense of dread? Or feel that you're going to do it?You can do as much as you think you can, But you'll never accomplish more; If you're afraid of yourself, young man, There's little for you in store. For failure comes from the inside first, It's there if we only knew it, And you can win, though you face the worst, If you feel that you're going to do it.Success! It's found in the soul of you, And not in the realm of luck! The world will furnish the work to do, But you must provide the pluck. You can do whatever you think you can, It's all in the way you view it. It's all in the start you make, young man: You must feel that you're going to do it.How do you tackle your work each day? With confidence clear, or dread? What to yourself do you stop and say When a new task lies ahead? What is the thought that is in your mind? Is fear ever running through it? If so, just tackle the next you find By thinking you're going to do it. —From 'A Heap o' Linin',' by Edgar A. GuestI tackle my terrible job each day With a fear that is well defined; And I grapple the task that comes my way With no confidence in my mind. I try to evade the work ahead, As I fearfully pause to view it, And I start to toil with a sense of dread, And doubt that I'm going to do it.I can't do as much as I think I can, And I never accomplish more. I am scared to death of myself, old man, As I may have observed before. I've read the proverbs of Charley Schwab, Carnegie, and Marvin Hughitt; But whenever I tackle a difficult job, O gosh! I hate to do it!I try to believe in my vaunted power With that confident kind of bluff, But somebody tells me The Conning Tower Is nothing but awful stuff. And I take up my impotent pen that night, And idly and sadly chew it, As I try to write something merry and bright, And I know that I shall not do it.And that's how I tackle my work each day— With terror and fear and dread— And all I can see is a long array Of empty columns ahead. And those are the thoughts that are in my mind, And that's about all there's to it. As long as there's work, of whatever kind, I'm certain I cannot do it.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22534": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22534, "poem.id": 22534, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:05:34", "poem.title": "Equipment", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22535": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22535, "poem.id": 22535, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:05:38", "poem.title": "A Bear Story", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "There was a bear — his name was Jim,An' children weren't askeered of him,An' he lived in a cave, where heWas confortubbul as could be,An' in that cave, so my Pa said,Jim always kept a stock of breadAn' honey, so that he could treatThe boys an' girls along his street.An' all that Jim could say was 'Woof!'An' give a grunt that went like 'Soof!'An' Pa says when his grunt went offIt sounded jus' like Grandpa's cough,Or like our Jerry when he's madAn' growls at peddler men that's bad.While grown-ups were afraid of Jim,Kids could do anything with him.One day a little boy like meThat had a sister Marjorie,Was walking through the woods, an' theyHeard something 'woofing' down that way,An' they was scared an' stood stock stillAn' wished they had a gun to killWhatever 'twas, but little boysDon't have no guns that make a noise.An' soon the 'woofing' closer grew,An' then a bear came into view,The biggest bear you ever saw —Ma's muff was smaller than his paw.He saw the children an' he said:'I ain't a-goin' to kill you dead;You needn't turn away an' run;I'm only scarin' you for fun.'An' then he stood up just like thoseBig bears in circuses an' shows,An' danced a jig, an' rolled aboutAn' said 'Woof! Woof!' which meant 'Look out!'An' turned a somersault as slickAs any boy can do the trick.Those children had been told of JimAn' they decided it was him.They stroked his nose when they got brave,An' followed him into his cave,An' Jim asked them if they liked honey,They said they did. Said Jim: 'That's funny.I've asked a thousand boys or soThat question, an' not one's said no.'What happened then I cannot say'Cause next I knew 'twas light as day.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22536": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22536, "poem.id": 22536, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:05:41", "poem.title": "Eternal Friendship", "poem.date": "7/14/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22537": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22537, "poem.id": 22537, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:05:47", "poem.title": "Success", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22538": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22538, "poem.id": 22538, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:05:50", "poem.title": "Trouble Brings Friends", "poem.date": "8/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22539": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22539, "poem.id": 22539, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:05:52", "poem.title": "Bravery", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22540": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22540, "poem.id": 22540, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:05:56", "poem.title": "The Gentle Gardener", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22541": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22541, "poem.id": 22541, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:06:07", "poem.title": "Be A Friend", "poem.date": "12/8/2014", "poem.content": "Be a friend. You don't need money;Just a disposition sunny;Just the wish to help anotherGet along some way or other;Just a kindly hand extendedOut to one who's unbefriended;Just the will to give or lend,This will make you someone's friend.Be a friend. You don't need glory.Friendship is a simple story.Pass by trifling errors blindly,Gaze on honest effort kindly,Cheer the youth who's bravely trying,Pity him who's sadly sighing;Just a little labor spendOn the duties of a friend.Be a friend. The pay is bigger(Though not written by a figure)Than is earned by people cleverIn what's merely self-endeavor.You'll have friends instead of neighborsFor the profits of your labors;You'll be richer in the endThan a prince, if you're a friend.", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22542": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22542, "poem.id": 22542, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:06:12", "poem.title": "The Proof Of Worth", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22543": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22543, "poem.id": 22543, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:06:16", "poem.title": "Tomorrow", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22544": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22544, "poem.id": 22544, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:06:23", "poem.title": "Boy And His Stomach", "poem.date": "8/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22545": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22545, "poem.id": 22545, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:06:29", "poem.title": "Drafted", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22546": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22546, "poem.id": 22546, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:06:35", "poem.title": "Courage, Courage, Courage!", "poem.date": "7/11/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22547": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22547, "poem.id": 22547, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:06:42", "poem.title": "Courage", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22548": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22548, "poem.id": 22548, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:06:45", "poem.title": "It Couldn'T Be Done", "poem.date": "1/8/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22549": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22549, "poem.id": 22549, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:06:49", "poem.title": "At Christmas", "poem.date": "7/15/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22550": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22550, "poem.id": 22550, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:06:55", "poem.title": "Compensation", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22551": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22551, "poem.id": 22551, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:07:01", "poem.title": "A Christmas Greeting", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22552": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22552, "poem.id": 22552, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:07:07", "poem.title": "Reflection", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22553": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22553, "poem.id": 22553, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:07:12", "poem.title": "The Alarm", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22554": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22554, "poem.id": 22554, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:07:16", "poem.title": "I See You'Ve Travelled Some", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22555": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22555, "poem.id": 22555, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:07:23", "poem.title": "Move We Adjourn", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22556": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22556, "poem.id": 22556, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:07:32", "poem.title": "Things Work Out", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22557": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22557, "poem.id": 22557, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:07:38", "poem.title": "Grace At Evening", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22558": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22558, "poem.id": 22558, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:07:43", "poem.title": "Fatherhood", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22559": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22559, "poem.id": 22559, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:07:47", "poem.title": "Improvement", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22560": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22560, "poem.id": 22560, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:07:54", "poem.title": "Money", "poem.date": "8/20/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22561": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22561, "poem.id": 22561, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:08:01", "poem.title": "Peace", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22562": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22562, "poem.id": 22562, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:08:05", "poem.title": "If You Would Please Me", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22563": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22563, "poem.id": 22563, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:08:11", "poem.title": "Follow A Famous Father", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22564": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22564, "poem.id": 22564, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:08:14", "poem.title": "Selfishness", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22565": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22565, "poem.id": 22565, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:08:22", "poem.title": "The Kick Under The Table", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22566": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22566, "poem.id": 22566, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:08:26", "poem.title": "Ideals", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22567": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22567, "poem.id": 22567, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:08:30", "poem.title": "Life's Slacker", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22568": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22568, "poem.id": 22568, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:08:36", "poem.title": "Yesterday", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22569": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22569, "poem.id": 22569, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:08:42", "poem.title": "He Who Serves", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22570": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22570, "poem.id": 22570, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:08:46", "poem.title": "Myself", "poem.date": "7/12/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22571": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22571, "poem.id": 22571, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:08:53", "poem.title": "The Little Orphan", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22572": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22572, "poem.id": 22572, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:08:58", "poem.title": "Show Me!", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22573": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22573, "poem.id": 22573, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:09:04", "poem.title": "Father", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22574": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22574, "poem.id": 22574, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:09:08", "poem.title": "Thanksgiving", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22575": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22575, "poem.id": 22575, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:09:13", "poem.title": "A Father's Prayer", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22576": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22576, "poem.id": 22576, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:09:19", "poem.title": "A Toast To The Men", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22577": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22577, "poem.id": 22577, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:09:22", "poem.title": "The Bachelor's Soliloquy", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22578": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22578, "poem.id": 22578, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:09:27", "poem.title": "Hard Luck", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22579": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22579, "poem.id": 22579, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:09:37", "poem.title": "On Quitting", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" }, "22580": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22580, "poem.id": 22580, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:09:43", "poem.title": "See It Through", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Edgar Albert Guest" } } }, "29": { "poet.id": 29, "poet.ts": "2018-02-28 20:53:23", "poet.title": "Robert William Service", "poet.poet_x_poem_id": { "1108": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1108, "poem.id": 1108, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:06:22", "poem.title": "The Argument", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "1109": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1109, "poem.id": 1109, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:06:29", "poem.title": "The Healer", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "1110": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1110, "poem.id": 1110, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:06:32", "poem.title": "Triumph", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "1111": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1111, "poem.id": 1111, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:06:35", "poem.title": "Trixie", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "1112": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1112, "poem.id": 1112, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:06:41", "poem.title": "Rhyme-Smith", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "1113": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1113, "poem.id": 1113, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:06:46", "poem.title": "Lowly Laureate", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "1114": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1114, "poem.id": 1114, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:06:51", "poem.title": "My Favourite Fan", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "1115": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1115, "poem.id": 1115, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:06:56", "poem.title": "Lucindy Jane", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "1116": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1116, "poem.id": 1116, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:07:03", "poem.title": "Our Pote", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "1117": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1117, "poem.id": 1117, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:07:06", "poem.title": "The AlcÁZar", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "1118": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1118, "poem.id": 1118, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:07:11", "poem.title": "Room 4: The Painter Chap", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "1119": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1119, "poem.id": 1119, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:07:16", "poem.title": "Ripeness", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "1120": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1120, "poem.id": 1120, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:07:18", "poem.title": "Room 5: The Concert Singer", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "1121": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1121, "poem.id": 1121, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:07:25", "poem.title": "White-Collar Spaniard", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "1122": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1122, "poem.id": 1122, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:07:31", "poem.title": "Village Don Juan", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "1123": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1123, "poem.id": 1123, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:07:37", "poem.title": "Noctambule", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "1124": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1124, "poem.id": 1124, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:07:41", "poem.title": "Kail Yard Bard", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "1125": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1125, "poem.id": 1125, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:07:44", "poem.title": "The Afflicted", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "1126": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1126, "poem.id": 1126, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:07:50", "poem.title": "Reverence", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "1127": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1127, "poem.id": 1127, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:07:53", "poem.title": "Old Trouper", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "1128": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1128, "poem.id": 1128, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:07:57", "poem.title": "Priscilla", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "1129": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1129, "poem.id": 1129, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:07:59", "poem.title": "My Masters", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "1130": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1130, "poem.id": 1130, 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B.)", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22668": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22668, "poem.id": 22668, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:14:39", "poem.title": "The Man From Cook's", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22669": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22669, "poem.id": 22669, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:14:42", "poem.title": "My Rival", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22670": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22670, "poem.id": 22670, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:14:45", "poem.title": "The Baldness Of Chewed-Ear", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22671": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22671, "poem.id": 22671, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:14:52", "poem.title": "The Leaning Tower", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22672": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22672, "poem.id": 22672, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:14:58", "poem.title": "Room Ghost", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22673": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22673, "poem.id": 22673, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:15:02", "poem.title": "Wheels", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22674": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22674, "poem.id": 22674, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:15:08", "poem.title": "Montreal Maree", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22675": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22675, "poem.id": 22675, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:15:14", "poem.title": "Kelly Of The Legion", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22676": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22676, "poem.id": 22676, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:15:20", "poem.title": "Toledo", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22677": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22677, "poem.id": 22677, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:15:24", "poem.title": "Mistinguette", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22678": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22678, "poem.id": 22678, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:15:30", "poem.title": "In Praise of Alcohol", "poem.date": "6/7/2016", "poem.content": "In Praise of AlcoholOf vintage wine I am a lover;To drink deep would be my delight;If 'twere not for the bleak hangoverI'd get me loaded every night;I'd whoop it up with song and laughter -If 'twere not for the morning after.For though to soberness I'm givenIt is a thought I've often thunk:The nearest that is Earth to HeavenIs to get sublimely drunk;Is to achieve divine elationBy means of generous libation.Alas, the wine-cups claim their paymentAnd as the price if often pain,if we could sense what morning grey meantWe never would get soused again;Rather than buy a hob-nailed liverI'm sure that we'd abstain for ever.Yet how I love the glow of liquor,As joyfully I drink it up!hoping that unto life's last flickerWith praise I'll raise the ruby cup;And let me like a jolly monkProceed to get sublimely drunk.", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22679": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22679, "poem.id": 22679, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:15:35", "poem.title": "The Sacrifices", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22680": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22680, "poem.id": 22680, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:15:39", "poem.title": "New Year's Eve", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22681": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22681, "poem.id": 22681, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:15:42", "poem.title": "The Front Tooth", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22682": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22682, "poem.id": 22682, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:15:47", "poem.title": "Window Shopper", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22683": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22683, "poem.id": 22683, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:15:51", "poem.title": "The Bliss Of Ignorance", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22684": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22684, "poem.id": 22684, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:15:57", "poem.title": "Susie", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22685": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22685, "poem.id": 22685, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:16:03", "poem.title": "Raising The Flag", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22686": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22686, "poem.id": 22686, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:16:06", "poem.title": "The Petit Vieux", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22687": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22687, "poem.id": 22687, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:16:10", "poem.title": "My Favoured Fare", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22688": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22688, "poem.id": 22688, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:16:13", "poem.title": "My Foe", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22689": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22689, "poem.id": 22689, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:16:18", "poem.title": "The Super", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22690": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22690, "poem.id": 22690, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:16:22", "poem.title": "Weary", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22691": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22691, "poem.id": 22691, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:16:29", "poem.title": "The Score", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22692": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22692, "poem.id": 22692, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:16:35", "poem.title": "Village Virtue", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22693": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22693, "poem.id": 22693, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:16:38", "poem.title": "Washerwife", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22694": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22694, "poem.id": 22694, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:16:44", "poem.title": "My Holiday", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22695": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22695, "poem.id": 22695, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:16:47", "poem.title": "Poet And Peer", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22696": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22696, "poem.id": 22696, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:16:51", "poem.title": "The Booby-Trap", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22697": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22697, "poem.id": 22697, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:16:56", "poem.title": "Picture Dealer", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22698": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22698, "poem.id": 22698, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:17:01", "poem.title": "My Ancestors", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22699": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22699, "poem.id": 22699, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:17:04", "poem.title": "My Neighbors", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22700": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22700, "poem.id": 22700, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:17:09", "poem.title": "Portent", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22708": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22708, "poem.id": 22708, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:17:12", "poem.title": "The Answer", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22709": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22709, "poem.id": 22709, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:17:16", "poem.title": "Ragetty Doll", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22710": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22710, "poem.id": 22710, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:17:22", "poem.title": "Land Mine", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22711": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22711, "poem.id": 22711, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:17:24", "poem.title": "My Childhood God", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22712": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22712, "poem.id": 22712, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:17:30", "poem.title": "The Parting", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22713": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22713, "poem.id": 22713, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:17:35", "poem.title": "My Trinity", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22714": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22714, "poem.id": 22714, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:17:39", "poem.title": "Old Crony", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22715": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22715, "poem.id": 22715, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:17:45", "poem.title": "Milking Time", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22716": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22716, "poem.id": 22716, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:17:49", "poem.title": "My Tails", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22717": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22717, "poem.id": 22717, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:17:54", "poem.title": "The Actor", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22718": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22718, "poem.id": 22718, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:18:00", "poem.title": "Rivera Honeymoon", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22719": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22719, "poem.id": 22719, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:18:06", "poem.title": "The Sightless Man", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22720": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22720, "poem.id": 22720, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:18:11", "poem.title": "The Philanderer", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22721": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22721, "poem.id": 22721, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:18:18", "poem.title": "Mike", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22722": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22722, "poem.id": 22722, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:18:21", "poem.title": "Ripe Fruit", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22723": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22723, "poem.id": 22723, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:18:27", "poem.title": "Room 6: The Little Workgirl", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22724": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22724, "poem.id": 22724, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:18:32", "poem.title": "Resignation", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22725": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22725, "poem.id": 22725, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:18:35", "poem.title": "Tranquillity", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22726": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22726, "poem.id": 22726, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:18:42", "poem.title": "My Cross", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22727": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22727, "poem.id": 22727, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:18:48", "poem.title": "Striving", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22728": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22728, "poem.id": 22728, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:18:54", "poem.title": "Katie Drummond", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22729": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22729, "poem.id": 22729, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:18:58", "poem.title": "The Red Retreat", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22730": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22730, "poem.id": 22730, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:19:02", "poem.title": "Lost", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22731": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22731, "poem.id": 22731, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:19:05", "poem.title": "My Coffin", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22732": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22732, "poem.id": 22732, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:19:08", "poem.title": "Pavement Poet", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22733": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22733, "poem.id": 22733, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:19:12", "poem.title": "The Boola-Boola Maid", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22734": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22734, "poem.id": 22734, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:19:16", "poem.title": "The Logger", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22735": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22735, "poem.id": 22735, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:19:21", "poem.title": "The Lark", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22736": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22736, "poem.id": 22736, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:19:27", "poem.title": "Unholy Trinity", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22737": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22737, "poem.id": 22737, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:19:33", "poem.title": "My Picture", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22738": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22738, "poem.id": 22738, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:19:37", "poem.title": "Tom", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22739": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22739, "poem.id": 22739, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:19:41", "poem.title": "My Consolation", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22740": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22740, "poem.id": 22740, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:19:45", "poem.title": "Patches", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22742": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22742, "poem.id": 22742, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:19:49", "poem.title": "The Host", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22747": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22747, "poem.id": 22747, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:19:51", "poem.title": "The Record", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22748": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22748, "poem.id": 22748, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:19:56", "poem.title": "The Ghosts", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22749": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22749, "poem.id": 22749, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:19:58", "poem.title": "The Missal Makers", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22750": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22750, "poem.id": 22750, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:20:03", "poem.title": "The Old", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22751": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22751, "poem.id": 22751, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:20:06", "poem.title": "The Buyers", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22752": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22752, "poem.id": 22752, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:20:12", "poem.title": "Teddy Bear", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22753": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22753, "poem.id": 22753, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:20:15", "poem.title": "The Last Supper", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22754": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22754, "poem.id": 22754, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:20:21", "poem.title": "The Seance", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22755": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22755, "poem.id": 22755, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:20:28", "poem.title": "The Pigeons Of St. Marks", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22756": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22756, "poem.id": 22756, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:20:31", "poem.title": "The Hand", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22757": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22757, "poem.id": 22757, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:20:36", "poem.title": "The Low-Down White", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22758": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22758, "poem.id": 22758, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:20:39", "poem.title": "The Decision", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22759": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22759, "poem.id": 22759, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:20:42", "poem.title": "My Garden", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22760": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22760, "poem.id": 22760, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:20:48", "poem.title": "My Bay'Nit", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22761": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22761, "poem.id": 22761, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:20:53", "poem.title": "Pooch", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22762": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22762, "poem.id": 22762, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:20:58", "poem.title": "Leaves", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22763": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22763, "poem.id": 22763, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:21:04", "poem.title": "The Judgement", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22764": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22764, "poem.id": 22764, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:21:06", "poem.title": "Relativity", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22765": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22765, "poem.id": 22765, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:21:09", "poem.title": "The Song Of The Pacifist", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22766": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22766, "poem.id": 22766, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:21:11", "poem.title": "Why?", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22767": { 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22848, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:31:32", "poem.title": "Local Lad", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22849": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22849, "poem.id": 22849, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:31:38", "poem.title": "Lindy Lou", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22851": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22851, "poem.id": 22851, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:31:42", "poem.title": "The Stretcher-Bearer", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22852": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22852, "poem.id": 22852, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:31:48", "poem.title": "The Shorter Catechism", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22853": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22853, "poem.id": 22853, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:31:52", "poem.title": "Old Tom", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, 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"poem.title": "Two Words", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22869": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22869, "poem.id": 22869, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:34:17", "poem.title": "Julot The Apache", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22870": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22870, "poem.id": 22870, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:34:21", "poem.title": "My Dentist", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22871": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22871, "poem.id": 22871, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:34:44", "poem.title": "The Centenarians", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22872": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22872, "poem.id": 22872, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:34:46", "poem.title": "White Christmas", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22873": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22873, "poem.id": 22873, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:34:51", "poem.title": "The Ballad Of Touch-The-Button Nell", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22874": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22874, "poem.id": 22874, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:34:54", "poem.title": "Lip-Stick Liz", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22875": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22875, "poem.id": 22875, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:35:00", "poem.title": "The Sceptic", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22876": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22876, "poem.id": 22876, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:35:07", "poem.title": "The Ballad Of Pious Pete", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22877": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22877, "poem.id": 22877, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:35:14", "poem.title": "Tri-Colour", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert 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"poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22921": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22921, "poem.id": 22921, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:40:15", "poem.title": "No More Music", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22922": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22922, "poem.id": 22922, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:40:22", "poem.title": "The Faceless Man", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22923": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22923, "poem.id": 22923, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:40:46", "poem.title": "My Mate", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22924": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22924, "poem.id": 22924, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:40:49", "poem.title": "Mud", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22925": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22925, "poem.id": 22925, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:40:57", "poem.title": "Old David Smail", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22926": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22926, "poem.id": 22926, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:41:00", "poem.title": "The Coward", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22927": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22927, "poem.id": 22927, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:41:07", "poem.title": "Lottery Ticket", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22928": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22928, "poem.id": 22928, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:41:12", "poem.title": "Kathleen", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22929": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22929, "poem.id": 22929, "poem.ts": "2018-02-28 20:52:25", "poem.title": "Miracles", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "" }, "22930": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22930, "poem.id": 22930, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:42:02", "poem.title": "My Son", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22931": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22931, "poem.id": 22931, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:42:07", "poem.title": "Negress In Notre Dame", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22932": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22932, "poem.id": 22932, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:42:13", "poem.title": "The Blind And The Dead", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22933": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22933, "poem.id": 22933, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:42:20", "poem.title": "The Prisoner", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22934": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22934, "poem.id": 22934, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:42:24", "poem.title": "Maternity", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22935": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22935, "poem.id": 22935, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:42:27", "poem.title": "Lost Shepherd", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22936": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22936, "poem.id": 22936, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:42:32", "poem.title": "The Smoking Frog", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22937": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22937, "poem.id": 22937, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:42:34", "poem.title": "The Rhyme Of The Remittance Man", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22938": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22938, "poem.id": 22938, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:42:40", "poem.title": "Munition Maker", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22939": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22939, "poem.id": 22939, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:42:44", "poem.title": "The Prospector", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22940": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22940, "poem.id": 22940, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:42:48", "poem.title": "Marie Antoinette", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22941": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22941, "poem.id": 22941, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:42:53", "poem.title": "The Bread-Knife Ballad", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22942": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22942, "poem.id": 22942, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:42:59", "poem.title": "Second Childhood", "poem.date": "11/28/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22943": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22943, "poem.id": 22943, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:43:05", "poem.title": "The Song Of The Soldier-Born", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22944": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22944, "poem.id": 22944, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:43:09", "poem.title": "The Pretty Lady", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22945": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22945, "poem.id": 22945, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:43:13", "poem.title": "The Duel", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22946": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22946, "poem.id": 22946, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:43:18", "poem.title": "The Philistine And The Bohemian", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22947": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22947, "poem.id": 22947, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:43:23", "poem.title": "The Man From Athabaska", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22948": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22948, "poem.id": 22948, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:43:28", "poem.title": "Resolutions", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22949": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22949, "poem.id": 22949, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:43:34", "poem.title": "The Sniper", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22950": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22950, "poem.id": 22950, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:43:38", "poem.title": "Moon Song", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22951": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22951, "poem.id": 22951, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:43:42", "poem.title": "The Other One", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22952": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22952, "poem.id": 22952, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:44:06", "poem.title": "The Ape And I", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22953": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22953, "poem.id": 22953, "poem.ts": "2018-02-28 20:52:29", "poem.title": "The Lunger", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "" }, "22954": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22954, "poem.id": 22954, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:45:22", "poem.title": "The Anniversary", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22955": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22955, "poem.id": 22955, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:45:25", "poem.title": "Pullman Porter", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22956": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22956, "poem.id": 22956, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:45:29", "poem.title": "Oh, It Is Good", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22957": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22957, "poem.id": 22957, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:45:33", "poem.title": "Post Office Romance", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22958": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22958, "poem.id": 22958, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:45:39", "poem.title": "To The Man Of The High North", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22959": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22959, "poem.id": 22959, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:45:44", "poem.title": "Repentance", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22960": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22960, "poem.id": 22960, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:45:47", "poem.title": "The Ballad Of Soulful Sam", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22961": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22961, "poem.id": 22961, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:45:52", "poem.title": "Pragmatic", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22962": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22962, "poem.id": 22962, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:46:00", "poem.title": "Madam La Maquise", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22963": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22963, "poem.id": 22963, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:46:04", "poem.title": "The Reckoning", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22964": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22964, "poem.id": 22964, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:46:07", "poem.title": "Take It Easy", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22965": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22965, "poem.id": 22965, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:46:11", "poem.title": "Old Engine Driver", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22966": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22966, "poem.id": 22966, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:46:17", "poem.title": "The Man From Eldorado", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22967": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22967, "poem.id": 22967, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:46:24", "poem.title": "The Flower Shop", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22968": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22968, "poem.id": 22968, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:46:49", "poem.title": "The Ballad Of The Leather Medal", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22969": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22969, "poem.id": 22969, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:46:55", "poem.title": "The Junior God", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22970": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22970, "poem.id": 22970, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:46:58", "poem.title": "The Man Who Knew", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22971": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22971, "poem.id": 22971, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:47:02", "poem.title": "The Parson's Son", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22972": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22972, "poem.id": 22972, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:47:09", "poem.title": "Premonition", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22973": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22973, "poem.id": 22973, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:47:14", "poem.title": "Kittens", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22974": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22974, "poem.id": 22974, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:47:17", "poem.title": "My Husky Team", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22975": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22975, "poem.id": 22975, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:47:21", "poem.title": "Two Husbands", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22976": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22976, "poem.id": 22976, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:47:26", "poem.title": "The Ballad Of One-Eyed Mike", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22977": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22977, "poem.id": 22977, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:47:31", "poem.title": "On The Wire", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22978": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22978, "poem.id": 22978, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:47:37", "poem.title": "The Dream", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22979": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22979, "poem.id": 22979, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:47:40", "poem.title": "Lord Let Me Live", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22980": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22980, "poem.id": 22980, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:47:43", "poem.title": "Successful Failure", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22981": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22981, "poem.id": 22981, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:47:50", "poem.title": "No Sunday Chicken", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22982": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22982, "poem.id": 22982, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:48:16", "poem.title": "The Bandit", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22983": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22983, "poem.id": 22983, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:48:23", "poem.title": "The Land Of Beyond", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22984": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22984, "poem.id": 22984, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:48:28", "poem.title": "Tom Paine", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22985": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22985, "poem.id": 22985, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:48:54", "poem.title": "The Biologic Urge", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22986": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22986, "poem.id": 22986, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:49:01", "poem.title": "The Bohemian Dreams", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22987": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22987, "poem.id": 22987, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:49:07", "poem.title": "Regret", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22988": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22988, "poem.id": 22988, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:49:13", "poem.title": "Music In The Bush", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22989": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22989, "poem.id": 22989, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:49:18", "poem.title": "Rhyme Builder", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22990": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22990, "poem.id": 22990, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:49:21", "poem.title": "My Friends", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22991": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22991, "poem.id": 22991, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:49:26", "poem.title": "The Sum-Up", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22992": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22992, "poem.id": 22992, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:49:32", "poem.title": "Toilet Seats", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22993": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22993, "poem.id": 22993, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:49:36", "poem.title": "Jobson Of The Star", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22994": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22994, "poem.id": 22994, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:49:44", "poem.title": "The Farmer's Daughter", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22995": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22995, "poem.id": 22995, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:49:49", "poem.title": "Laziness", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22996": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22996, "poem.id": 22996, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:49:56", "poem.title": "The Cow-Juice Cure", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22997": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22997, "poem.id": 22997, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:50:05", "poem.title": "Remorse", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22998": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22998, "poem.id": 22998, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:50:09", "poem.title": "The Ballad Of Lenin's Tomb", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "22999": { "poet_x_poem.id": 22999, "poem.id": 22999, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:50:12", "poem.title": "Murderers", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23000": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23000, "poem.id": 23000, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:50:15", "poem.title": "My Brothers", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23001": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23001, "poem.id": 23001, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:50:21", "poem.title": "While The Bannock Bakes", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23002": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23002, "poem.id": 23002, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:50:26", "poem.title": "The Squaw Man", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23003": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23003, "poem.id": 23003, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:50:48", "poem.title": "Courage 3", "poem.date": "1/3/2015", "poem.content": "In the shadow of the graveI will be brave;I'll smile,- I know I willE'er I be still;Because I will not smileSo long a while.But I'll be sad, I fear,And shed a tear,For those I love and leaveMy loss to grieve:'Tis just their grief I'll grieve,Believe, believe.Not for myself I careAs forth I fare;But for those left behindWae is my mindKnowing how they will missMy careless kiss.Oh I'll be brave when IShall come to die;With courage I will quaffThe Cup and laugh,Aye, even mock at DeathWith failing breath.It is not those who goWho suffer woe;But stricken ones who bideBy cold bedside:God comfort you who keepWatch by my sleep!", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23004": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23004, "poem.id": 23004, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:50:51", "poem.title": "Just Think!", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23005": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23005, "poem.id": 23005, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:50:58", "poem.title": "The Haggis Of Private Mcphee", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23006": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23006, "poem.id": 23006, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:51:01", "poem.title": "The Cuckoo", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23007": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23007, "poem.id": 23007, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:51:06", "poem.title": "The Absinthe Drinkers", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23008": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23008, "poem.id": 23008, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:51:11", "poem.title": "The Enigma", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23009": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23009, "poem.id": 23009, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:51:17", "poem.title": "Wine Bibber", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23010": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23010, "poem.id": 23010, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:51:23", "poem.title": "My Guardian Angel", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23011": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23011, "poem.id": 23011, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:51:29", "poem.title": "Courage 2", "poem.date": "1/3/2015", "poem.content": "Ten little brown chicks scattered and scuffled,Under the blue-berries hiding in fear;Mother-grouse cackling, feathers all ruffled,Dashed to defend them as we drew near.Heart of a heroine, how I admired her!Of such devotion great poets have sung;Homes have been blest by the love that inspired her,Risking her life for the sake of her young.Ten little chicks on her valour reliant,Peered with bright eyes from the bilberry spray;Fiercely she faced us, dismayed but defiant,Rushed at us bravely to scare us away.Then my companion, a crazy young devil(After, he told me he'd done it for fun)Pretended to tremble, and raised his arm level,And ere I could check him he blazed with his gun.Headless she lay, from her neck the blood spouted,And dappled her plumage, the poor, pretty thing!Ten little chicks - oh, I know for I counted,Came out and they tried to creep under her wing.Sickened I said: 'Here's an end to my killing;I swear, nevermore bird or beast will I slay;Starving I may be, but no more blood-spilling . . .'That oath I have kept, and I keep it to-day.", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23012": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23012, "poem.id": 23012, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:51:36", "poem.title": "The Ballad Of The Brand", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23013": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23013, "poem.id": 23013, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:51:39", "poem.title": "The Ballad Of The Black Fox Skin", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23014": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23014, "poem.id": 23014, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:51:44", "poem.title": "My Future", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23015": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23015, "poem.id": 23015, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:51:50", "poem.title": "The Rhyme Of The Restless Ones", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23016": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23016, "poem.id": 23016, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:51:55", "poem.title": "The Ordinary Man", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23017": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23017, "poem.id": 23017, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:51:59", "poem.title": "Little Brother", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23018": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23018, "poem.id": 23018, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:52:04", "poem.title": "Florrie", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23019": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23019, "poem.id": 23019, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:52:10", "poem.title": "The Ballad Of Casey's Billy-Goat", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23020": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23020, "poem.id": 23020, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:52:15", "poem.title": "Sunshine", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23021": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23021, "poem.id": 23021, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:52:20", "poem.title": "The Choice", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23022": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23022, "poem.id": 23022, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:52:23", "poem.title": "Little Moccasins", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23023": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23023, "poem.id": 23023, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:52:25", "poem.title": "Unforgotten", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23024": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23024, "poem.id": 23024, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:52:29", "poem.title": "The Soldier Of Fortune", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23025": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23025, "poem.id": 23025, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:52:35", "poem.title": "Men Of The High North", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23026": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23026, "poem.id": 23026, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:52:41", "poem.title": "The Twa Jocks", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23027": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23027, "poem.id": 23027, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:52:44", "poem.title": "To A Stuffed Shirt", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23028": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23028, "poem.id": 23028, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:52:50", "poem.title": "The Twins Of Lucky Strike", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23029": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23029, "poem.id": 23029, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:52:54", "poem.title": "Convicts Love Canaries", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23030": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23030, "poem.id": 23030, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:53:00", "poem.title": "The Lottery", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23031": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23031, "poem.id": 23031, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:53:04", "poem.title": "The Contented Man", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23032": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23032, "poem.id": 23032, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:53:10", "poem.title": "The Song Of The Camp-Fire", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23033": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23033, "poem.id": 23033, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:53:12", "poem.title": "The Ballad Of How Macpherson Held The Floor", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23034": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23034, "poem.id": 23034, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:53:16", "poem.title": "The Comforter", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23035": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23035, "poem.id": 23035, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:53:20", "poem.title": "My Inner Life", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23036": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23036, "poem.id": 23036, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:53:26", "poem.title": "Ernie Pyle", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23037": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23037, "poem.id": 23037, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:53:33", "poem.title": "My Indian Summer", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23038": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23038, "poem.id": 23038, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:53:40", "poem.title": "The Goat And I", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23039": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23039, "poem.id": 23039, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:53:42", "poem.title": "My Suicide", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23040": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23040, "poem.id": 23040, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:53:47", "poem.title": "The End Of The Trail", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23041": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23041, "poem.id": 23041, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:53:50", "poem.title": "Spanish Peasant", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23042": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23042, "poem.id": 23042, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:53:53", "poem.title": "Sea Change", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23043": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23043, "poem.id": 23043, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:53:55", "poem.title": "The Three Tommies", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23044": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23044, "poem.id": 23044, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:54:00", "poem.title": "Death In The Arctic", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23045": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23045, "poem.id": 23045, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:54:03", "poem.title": "The Tramps", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23046": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23046, "poem.id": 23046, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:54:09", "poem.title": "The Outlaw", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23047": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23047, "poem.id": 23047, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:54:13", "poem.title": "The Mountain And The Lake", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23048": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23048, "poem.id": 23048, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:54:19", "poem.title": "The Ballad Of The Northern Lights", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23049": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23049, "poem.id": 23049, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:54:23", "poem.title": "The Undying", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23050": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23050, "poem.id": 23050, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:54:26", "poem.title": "My Dog's My Boss", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23051": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23051, "poem.id": 23051, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:54:32", "poem.title": "The Tunnel", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23052": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23052, "poem.id": 23052, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:54:39", "poem.title": "Winnie", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23053": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23053, "poem.id": 23053, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:54:43", "poem.title": "The Trapper's Christmas Eve", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23054": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23054, "poem.id": 23054, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:54:46", "poem.title": "The Under-Dogs", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23055": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23055, "poem.id": 23055, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:54:52", "poem.title": "The Ballad Of Salvation Bill", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23056": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23056, "poem.id": 23056, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:54:56", "poem.title": "The Visionary", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23057": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23057, "poem.id": 23057, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:55:02", "poem.title": "The Joy Of Being Poor", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23058": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23058, "poem.id": 23058, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:55:09", "poem.title": "Obesity", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23059": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23059, "poem.id": 23059, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:55:15", "poem.title": "Trees Against The Sky", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23060": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23060, "poem.id": 23060, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:55:21", "poem.title": "The Christmas Tree", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23061": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23061, "poem.id": 23061, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:55:27", "poem.title": "The Thinker", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23062": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23062, "poem.id": 23062, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:55:33", "poem.title": "The Auction Sale", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23063": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23063, "poem.id": 23063, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:55:35", "poem.title": "Rosy-Kins", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23064": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23064, "poem.id": 23064, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:55:41", "poem.title": "Moon-Lover", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23065": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23065, "poem.id": 23065, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:55:47", "poem.title": "Sailor Son", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23066": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23066, "poem.id": 23066, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:56:10", "poem.title": "Success", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23067": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23067, "poem.id": 23067, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:56:14", "poem.title": "Rover's Rest", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23068": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23068, "poem.id": 23068, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:56:21", "poem.title": "Ruins", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23069": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23069, "poem.id": 23069, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:56:23", "poem.title": "Roulette", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23070": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23070, "poem.id": 23070, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:56:27", "poem.title": "The March Of The Dead", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23071": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23071, "poem.id": 23071, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:56:30", "poem.title": "Careers", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23072": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23072, "poem.id": 23072, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:56:33", "poem.title": "Simplicity", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23073": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23073, "poem.id": 23073, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:56:35", "poem.title": "Spanish Men", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23074": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23074, "poem.id": 23074, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:56:38", "poem.title": "Jim", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23075": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23075, "poem.id": 23075, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:56:42", "poem.title": "Slugging Saint", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23076": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23076, "poem.id": 23076, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:56:49", "poem.title": "The Womb", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23077": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23077, "poem.id": 23077, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:56:55", "poem.title": "Laughter", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23078": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23078, "poem.id": 23078, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 10:57:00", "poem.title": "Sea Sorcery", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23079": { 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"poet_x_poem.id": 23382, "poem.id": 23382, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:26:44", "poem.title": "Courage", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23383": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23383, "poem.id": 23383, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:26:48", "poem.title": "A Plea", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23384": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23384, "poem.id": 23384, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:26:54", "poem.title": "A Song Of Sixty-Five", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23385": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23385, "poem.id": 23385, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:27:00", "poem.title": "Bessie's Boil", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23386": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23386, "poem.id": 23386, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:27:06", "poem.title": "Young Mother", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23387": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23387, "poem.id": 23387, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:27:13", "poem.title": "Your Poem", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23388": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23388, "poem.id": 23388, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:27:18", "poem.title": "A Canvas For A Crust", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23389": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23389, "poem.id": 23389, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:27:24", "poem.title": "A Cabbage Patch", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23390": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23390, "poem.id": 23390, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:27:29", "poem.title": "A Pot Of Tea", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23391": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23391, "poem.id": 23391, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:27:34", "poem.title": "A Character", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23392": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23392, "poem.id": 23392, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:27:41", "poem.title": "A Bachelor", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23393": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23393, "poem.id": 23393, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:27:43", "poem.title": "Cinderella", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23394": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23394, "poem.id": 23394, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:27:50", "poem.title": "Abandoned Dog", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23395": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23395, "poem.id": 23395, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:27:56", "poem.title": "A Domestic Tragedy", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23396": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23396, "poem.id": 23396, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:28:01", "poem.title": "A Mediocre Man", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23397": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23397, "poem.id": 23397, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:28:05", "poem.title": "Death Of A Cockroach", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23398": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23398, "poem.id": 23398, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:28:06", "poem.title": "A Song Of Success", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23399": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23399, "poem.id": 23399, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:28:11", "poem.title": "A Casualty", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23400": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23400, "poem.id": 23400, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:28:14", "poem.title": "A Lyric Day", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23401": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23401, "poem.id": 23401, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:28:20", "poem.title": "The Men That Don'T Fit In", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23402": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23402, "poem.id": 23402, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:28:23", "poem.title": "(the Sunshine Seeks My Little Room)", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23403": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23403, "poem.id": 23403, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:28:25", "poem.title": "A Rusty Nail", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23404": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23404, "poem.id": 23404, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:28:28", "poem.title": "Carry On", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23405": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23405, "poem.id": 23405, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:28:33", "poem.title": "A Song Of Suicide", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23406": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23406, "poem.id": 23406, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:28:38", "poem.title": "A Busy Man", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23407": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23407, "poem.id": 23407, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:28:45", "poem.title": "The Shooting Of Dan Mcgrew", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23408": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23408, "poem.id": 23408, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:28:53", "poem.title": "A Little Prayer", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23409": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23409, "poem.id": 23409, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:29:00", "poem.title": "A Rolling Stone", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23410": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23410, "poem.id": 23410, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:29:05", "poem.title": "Fighting Mac", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "A Life TragedyA pistol shot rings round and round the world; In pitiful defeat a warrior lies.A last defiance to dark Death is hurled, A last wild challenge shocks the sunlit skies. Alone he falls, with wide, wan, woeful eyes:Eyes that could smile at death -- could not face shame.Alone, alone he paced his narrow room, In the bright sunshine of that Paris day;Saw in his thought the awful hand of doom; Saw in his dream his glory pass away; Tried in his heart, his weary heart, to pray:\"O God! who made me, give me strength to faceThe spectre of this bitter, black disgrace.\"* * * * *The burn brawls darkly down the shaggy glen; The bee-kissed heather blooms around the door;He sees himself a barefoot boy again, Bending o'er page of legendary lore. He hears the pibroch, grips the red claymore,Runs with the Fiery Cross, a clansman true,Sworn kinsman of Rob Roy and Roderick Dhu.Eating his heart out with a wild desire, One day, behind his counter trim and neat,He hears a sound that sets his brain afire -- The Highlanders are marching down the street. Oh, how the pipes shrill out, the mad drums beat!\"On to the gates of Hell, my Gordons gay!\"He flings his hated yardstick away.He sees the sullen pass, high-crowned with snow, Where Afghans cower with eyes of gleaming hate.He hurls himself against the hidden foe. They try to rally -- ah, too late, too late! Again, defenseless, with fierce eyes that waitFor death, he stands, like baited bull at bay,And flouts the Boers, that mad Majuba day.He sees again the murderous Soudan, Blood-slaked and rapine-swept. He seems to standUpon the gory plain of Omdurman. Then Magersfontein, and supreme command Over his Highlanders. To shake his handA King is proud, and princes call him friend.And glory crowns his life -- and now the end,The awful end. His eyes are dark with doom; He hears the shrapnel shrieking overhead;He sees the ravaged ranks, the flame-stabbed gloom. Oh, to have fallen! -- the battle-field his bed, With Wauchope and his glorious brother-dead.Why was he saved for this, for this? And nowHe raises the revolver to his brow.* * * * *In many a Highland home, framed with rude art, You'll find his portrait, rough-hewn, stern and square;It's graven in the Fuyam fellah's heart; The Ghurka reads it at his evening prayer; The raw lands know it, where the fierce suns glare;The Dervish fears it. Honor to his nameWho holds aloft the shield of England's fame.Mourn for our hero, men of Northern race! We do not know his sin; we only knowHis sword was keen. He laughed death in the face, And struck, for Empire's sake, a giant blow. His arm was strong. Ah! well they learnt, the foeThe echo of his deeds is ringing yet --Will ring for aye. All else . . . let us forget.", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23411": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23411, "poem.id": 23411, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:29:10", "poem.title": "Comfort", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23412": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23412, "poem.id": 23412, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:29:16", "poem.title": "?", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23413": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23413, "poem.id": 23413, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:29:21", "poem.title": "Home And Love", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23414": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23414, "poem.id": 23414, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:29:26", "poem.title": "A Hero", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23415": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23415, "poem.id": 23415, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:29:28", "poem.title": "A Grain Of Sand", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" }, "23416": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23416, "poem.id": 23416, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:29:33", "poem.title": "The Cremation Of Sam Mcgee", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold;The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold;The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did seeWas that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee.Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;Though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd \"sooner live in hell\".On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,He turned to me, and \"Cap,\" says he, \"I'll cash in this trip, I guess;And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request.\"Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:\"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains.\"A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:\"You may tax your brawn and brains,But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains.\"Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -- O God! how I loathed the thing.And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the \"Alice May\".And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;Then \"Here,\" said I, with a sudden cry, \"is my cre-ma-tor-eum.\"Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;The flames just soared, and the furnace roared -- such a blaze you seldom see;And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: \"I'll just take a peep inside.I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked\"; . . . then the door I opened wide.And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: \"Please close that door.It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm --Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm.\"There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold;The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold;The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did seeWas that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee.", "poem.author": "Robert William Service" } } }, "30": { "poet.id": 30, "poet.ts": "2018-02-28 20:53:32", "poet.title": "Phillis Wheatley", "poet.poet_x_poem_id": { "1148": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1148, "poem.id": 1148, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:09:31", "poem.title": "To The Rt. Hon. William, Earl Of Dartmouth", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1149": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1149, "poem.id": 1149, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:09:34", "poem.title": "To His Honour The Lieutenant-Governor, On The Death Of His Lady Marc 24, 1773", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1150": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1150, "poem.id": 1150, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:09:36", "poem.title": "His Excellency General Washington", "poem.date": "1/20/2012", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1151": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1151, "poem.id": 1151, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:09:40", "poem.title": "To A Lady On Her Coming To North-America With Her Son, For The Recovery Of Her Health", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1152": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1152, "poem.id": 1152, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:09:42", "poem.title": "To A Lady On Her Remarkable Preservation In A Hurrican In North-Carolina", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1153": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1153, "poem.id": 1153, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:09:45", "poem.title": "To The Honourable T. H. Esq; On The Death Of His Daughter", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1154": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1154, "poem.id": 1154, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:09:49", "poem.title": "To A Gentleman And Lady On The Death Of The Lady's Brother And Sister, And A Child Of The Name Of Avis, Aged One Year", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1155": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1155, "poem.id": 1155, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:09:51", "poem.title": "To The Rev. Dr. Thomas Amory, On Reading His Sermons On Daily Devotion, In Which That Duty Is Recommended And Assisted", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1156": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1156, "poem.id": 1156, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:09:54", "poem.title": "To Captain H------D, Of The 65th Regiment", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1157": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1157, "poem.id": 1157, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:09:59", "poem.title": "To A Lady On The Death Of Three Relations", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1158": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1158, "poem.id": 1158, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:10:03", "poem.title": "To A Gentleman On His Voyage To Great-Britain For The Recovery Of His Health", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1159": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1159, "poem.id": 1159, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:10:08", "poem.title": "To The Right Honourable William, Earl Of Dartmouth, His Majesty's Principal Secretary Of The State For North-America,", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1160": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1160, "poem.id": 1160, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:10:12", "poem.title": "To A Lady On The Death Of Her Husband", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1161": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1161, "poem.id": 1161, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:10:19", "poem.title": "To S. M. A Young African Painter, On Seeing His Works", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1162": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1162, "poem.id": 1162, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:10:21", "poem.title": "To A Clergyman On The Death Of His Lady", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1163": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1163, "poem.id": 1163, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:10:24", "poem.title": "To Maecenas", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1164": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1164, "poem.id": 1164, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:10:30", "poem.title": "On The Death Of The Rev. Dr. Sewell, 1769", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1165": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1165, "poem.id": 1165, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:10:33", "poem.title": "To The King's Most Excellent Majesty 1768", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1166": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1166, "poem.id": 1166, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:10:38", "poem.title": "An Answer To The Rebus, By The Author Of These Poems", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1167": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1167, "poem.id": 1167, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:10:43", "poem.title": "To The University Of Cambridge", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1168": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1168, "poem.id": 1168, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:10:49", "poem.title": "Goliath Of Gath", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1169": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1169, "poem.id": 1169, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:10:55", "poem.title": "On The Death Of J.C. An Infant", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1170": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1170, "poem.id": 1170, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:11:00", "poem.title": "Niobe In Distress For Her Children Slain By Apollo, From Ovid's Metamorphoses, Book Vi. And From A View Of The Painting Of Mr. Richard Wilson", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1171": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1171, "poem.id": 1171, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:11:03", "poem.title": "On The Death Of Dr. Samuel Marshall", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1172": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1172, "poem.id": 1172, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:11:08", "poem.title": "Thoughts On The Works Of Providence", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1173": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1173, "poem.id": 1173, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:11:14", "poem.title": "Isaiah Lxiii", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1174": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1174, "poem.id": 1174, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:11:18", "poem.title": "On The Death Of Rev. Mr. George Whitefield", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1175": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1175, "poem.id": 1175, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:11:25", "poem.title": "On The Death Of A Youn Gentleman", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1176": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1176, "poem.id": 1176, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:11:28", "poem.title": "To A Lady And Her Children", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1177": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1177, "poem.id": 1177, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:11:35", "poem.title": "An Hymn To The Evening", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1178": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1178, "poem.id": 1178, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:11:38", "poem.title": "An Hymn To Humanity", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1179": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1179, "poem.id": 1179, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:11:41", "poem.title": "Ode To Neptune", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1180": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1180, "poem.id": 1180, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:11:44", "poem.title": "A Rebus", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1181": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1181, "poem.id": 1181, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:11:47", "poem.title": "On Recollection", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1182": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1182, "poem.id": 1182, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:11:50", "poem.title": "A Farewell To America To Mrs. S. W.", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "I.ADIEU, New-England's smiling meads, Adieu, the flow'ry plain:I leave thine op'ning charms, O spring, And tempt the roaring main. II.In vain for me the flow'rets rise, And boast their gaudy pride,While here beneath the northern skies I mourn for health deny'd. III.Celestial maid of rosy hue, O let me feel thy reign! I languish till thy face I view, Thy vanish'd joys regain. IV.Susanna mourns, nor can I bear To see the crystal show'r,Or mark the tender falling tear At sad departure's hour; V.Not unregarding can I see Her soul with grief opprest:But let no sighs, no groans for me, Steal from her pensive breast. VI.In vain the feather'd warblers sing, In vain the garden blooms,And on the bosom of the spring Breathes out her sweet perfumes. VII.While for Britannia's distant shore We sweep the liquid plain,And with astonish'd eyes explore The wide-extended main. VIII.Lo! Health appears! celestial dame! Complacent and serene,With Hebe's mantle o'er her Frame, With soul-delighting mein. IX.To mark the vale where London lies With misty vapours crown'd,Which cloud Aurora's thousand dyes, And veil her charms around. X.Why, Phoebus, moves thy car so slow? So slow thy rising ray? Give us the famous town to view, Thou glorious king of day! XI.For thee, Britannia, I resign New-England's smiling fields; To view again her charms divine, What joy the prospect yields! XII.But thou! Temptation hence away, With all thy fatal train,Nor once seduce my soul away, By thine enchanting strain. XIII.Thrice happy they, whose heav'nly shield Secures their souls from harms,And fell Temptation on the field Of all its pow'r disarms!", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1183": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1183, "poem.id": 1183, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:11:54", "poem.title": "On Virtue", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1184": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1184, "poem.id": 1184, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:11:59", "poem.title": "A Funeral Poem On The Death Of C. E. An Infant Of Twelve Months", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "Through airy roads he wings his instant flightTo purer regions of celestial light;Enlarg'd he sees unnumber'd systems roll,Beneath him sees the universal whole,Planets on planets run their destin'd round,And circling wonders fill the vast profound.Th' ethereal now, and now th' empyreal skiesWith growing splendors strike his wond'ring eyes:The angels view him with delight unknown,Press his soft hand, and seat him on his throne;Then smilling thus: 'To this divine abode,'The seat of saints, of seraphs, and of God,'Thrice welcome thou.' The raptur'd babe replies,'Thanks to my God, who snatch'd me to the skies,'E'er vice triumphant had possess'd my heart,'E'er yet the tempter had beguil d my heart,'E'er yet on sin's base actions I was bent,'E'er yet I knew temptation's dire intent;'E'er yet the lash for horrid crimes I felt,'E'er vanity had led my way to guilt,'But, soon arriv'd at my celestial goal,'Full glories rush on my expanding soul.'Joyful he spoke: exulting cherubs roundClapt their glad wings, the heav'nly vaults resound. Say, parents, why this unavailing moan?Why heave your pensive bosoms with the groan?To Charles, the happy subject of my song,A brighter world, and nobler strains belong.Say would you tear him from the realms aboveBy thoughtless wishes, and prepost'rous love?Doth his felicity increase your pain?Or could you welcome to this world againThe heir of bliss? with a superior airMethinks he answers with a smile severe,'Thrones and dominions cannot tempt me there.' But still you cry, 'Can we the sigh borbear,'And still and still must we not pour the tear?'Our only hope, more dear than vital breath,'Twelve moons revolv'd, becomes the prey of death;'Delightful infant, nightly visions give'Thee to our arms, and we with joy receive,'We fain would clasp the Phantom to our breast,'The Phantom flies, and leaves the soul unblest.' To yon bright regions let your faith ascend,Prepare to join your dearest infant friendIn pleasures without measure, without end.", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1185": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1185, "poem.id": 1185, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:12:05", "poem.title": "On The Death Of A Young Lady Of Five Years Of Age", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1186": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1186, "poem.id": 1186, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:12:10", "poem.title": "An Hymn To The Morning", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "1187": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1187, "poem.id": 1187, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:12:13", "poem.title": "On Imagination", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "THY various works, imperial queen, we see, How bright their forms! how deck'd with pomp by thee!Thy wond'rous acts in beauteous order stand,And all attest how potent is thine hand. From Helicon's refulgent heights attend,Ye sacred choir, and my attempts befriend:To tell her glories with a faithful tongue,Ye blooming graces, triumph in my song. Now here, now there, the roving Fancy flies,Till some lov'd object strikes her wand'ring eyes,Whose silken fetters all the senses bind,And soft captivity involves the mind. Imagination! who can sing thy force?Or who describe the swiftness of thy course?Soaring through air to find the bright abode,Th' empyreal palace of the thund'ring God,We on thy pinions can surpass the wind,And leave the rolling universe behind:From star to star the mental optics rove,Measure the skies, and range the realms above.There in one view we grasp the mighty whole,Or with new worlds amaze th' unbounded soul. Though Winter frowns to Fancy's raptur'd eyesThe fields may flourish, and gay scenes arise;The frozen deeps may break their iron bands,And bid their waters murmur o'er the sands.Fair Flora may resume her fragrant reign,And with her flow'ry riches deck the plain;Sylvanus may diffuse his honours round,And all the forest may with leaves be crown'd:Show'rs may descend, and dews their gems disclose,And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose. Such is thy pow'r, nor are thine orders vain,O thou the leader of the mental train:In full perfection all thy works are wrought,And thine the sceptre o'er the realms of thought.Before thy throne the subject-passions bow,Of subject-passions sov'reign ruler thou;At thy command joy rushes on the heart,And through the glowing veins the spirits dart. Fancy might now her silken pinions tryTo rise from earth, and sweep th' expanse on high:From Tithon's bed now might Aurora rise,Her cheeks all glowing with celestial dies,While a pure stream of light o'erflows the skies.The monarch of the day I might behold,And all the mountains tipt with radiant gold,But I reluctant leave the pleasing views,Which Fancy dresses to delight the Muse;Winter austere forbids me to aspire,And northern tempests damp the rising fire;They chill the tides of Fancy's flowing sea,Cease then, my song, cease the unequal lay.", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" }, "23457": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23457, "poem.id": 23457, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:29:40", "poem.title": "On Being Brought From Africa To America", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Phillis Wheatley" } } }, "31": { "poet.id": 31, "poet.ts": "2018-02-28 20:53:47", "poet.title": "Anne Sexton", "poet.poet_x_poem_id": { "1188": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1188, "poem.id": 1188, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:12:19", "poem.title": "Song For A Lady", "poem.date": "8/7/2015", "poem.content": "On the day of breasts and small hips the window pocked with bad rain, rain coming on like a minister, we coupled, so sane and insane. We lay like spoons while the sinister rain dropped like flies on our lips and our glad eyes and our small hips. \"The room is so cold with rain,\" you said and you, feminine you, with your flower said novenas to my ankles and elbows. You are a national product and power. Oh my swan, my drudge, my dear wooly rose, even a notary would notarize our bed as you knead me and I rise like bread.", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1189": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1189, "poem.id": 1189, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:12:24", "poem.title": "The Legend Of The One-Eyed Man", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1190": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1190, "poem.id": 1190, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:12:29", "poem.title": "Letter Written On A Ferry While Crossing Long Island Sound", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1191": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1191, "poem.id": 1191, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:12:34", "poem.title": "The Child Bearers", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1192": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1192, "poem.id": 1192, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:12:38", "poem.title": "Funnel", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1193": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1193, "poem.id": 1193, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:12:43", "poem.title": "Portrait Of An Old Woman On The College Tavern Wall", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1194": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1194, "poem.id": 1194, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:12:46", "poem.title": "Woman With Girdle", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1195": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1195, "poem.id": 1195, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:12:49", "poem.title": "Some Foreign Letters", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1196": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1196, "poem.id": 1196, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:12:55", "poem.title": "The Fury Of Overshoes", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1197": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1197, "poem.id": 1197, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:13:00", "poem.title": "The Author Of The Jesus Papers Speaks", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1198": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1198, "poem.id": 1198, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:13:02", "poem.title": "The House", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1199": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1199, "poem.id": 1199, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:13:03", "poem.title": "Knee Song", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1200": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1200, "poem.id": 1200, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:13:08", "poem.title": "The Stand-Ins", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1201": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1201, "poem.id": 1201, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:13:11", "poem.title": "Raccoon", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1202": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1202, "poem.id": 1202, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:13:15", "poem.title": "Where I Live In This Honorable House Of The Laurel Tree", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1203": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1203, "poem.id": 1203, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:13:19", "poem.title": "The Kite", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1204": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1204, "poem.id": 1204, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:13:26", "poem.title": "The Errand", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1205": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1205, "poem.id": 1205, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:13:32", "poem.title": "The Interrogation Of The Man Of Many Hearts", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1206": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1206, "poem.id": 1206, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:13:35", "poem.title": "Torn Down From Glory Daily", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1207": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1207, "poem.id": 1207, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:13:40", "poem.title": "The Firebombers", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1208": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1208, "poem.id": 1208, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:13:46", "poem.title": "The Road Back", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1209": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1209, "poem.id": 1209, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:13:52", "poem.title": "The Fury Of Cooks", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1210": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1210, "poem.id": 1210, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:13:54", "poem.title": "The Hangman", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1211": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1211, "poem.id": 1211, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:13:57", "poem.title": "With Mercy For The Greedy", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1212": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1212, "poem.id": 1212, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:14:04", "poem.title": "The Touch", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1213": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1213, "poem.id": 1213, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:14:09", "poem.title": "The Fury Of Rain Storms", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1214": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1214, "poem.id": 1214, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:14:15", "poem.title": "Hutch", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1215": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1215, "poem.id": 1215, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:14:18", "poem.title": "What's That", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1216": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1216, "poem.id": 1216, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:14:24", "poem.title": "The Fury Of Jewels And Coal", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1217": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1217, "poem.id": 1217, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:14:28", "poem.title": "Ringing The Bells", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1218": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1218, "poem.id": 1218, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:14:33", "poem.title": "The Other", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1219": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1219, "poem.id": 1219, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:14:35", "poem.title": "For God While Sleeping", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1220": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1220, "poem.id": 1220, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:14:42", "poem.title": "My Friend, My Friend", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1221": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1221, "poem.id": 1221, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:14:45", "poem.title": "The Fallen Angels", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1222": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1222, "poem.id": 1222, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:14:50", "poem.title": "For Johnny Pole On The Forgotten Beach", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1223": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1223, "poem.id": 1223, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:14:52", "poem.title": "The Bells", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1224": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1224, "poem.id": 1224, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:14:56", "poem.title": "The Assassin", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1225": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1225, "poem.id": 1225, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:15:00", "poem.title": "In The Deep Museum", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1226": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1226, "poem.id": 1226, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:15:04", "poem.title": "The Balance Wheel", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "1227": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1227, "poem.id": 1227, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:15:08", "poem.title": "The Wedding Ring Dance", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23498": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23498, "poem.id": 23498, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:29:44", "poem.title": "The Evil Seekers", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23499": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23499, "poem.id": 23499, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:29:51", "poem.title": "Where It Was At Back Then", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23500": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23500, "poem.id": 23500, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:29:55", "poem.title": "When Man Enters Woman", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23501": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23501, "poem.id": 23501, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:29:58", "poem.title": "Locked Doors", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23502": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23502, "poem.id": 23502, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:30:01", "poem.title": "The Play", "poem.date": 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11:36:23", "poem.title": "Just Once", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23573": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23573, "poem.id": 23573, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:36:29", "poem.title": "Flee On Your Donkey", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23574": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23574, "poem.id": 23574, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:36:35", "poem.title": "The Poet Of Ignorance", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23575": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23575, "poem.id": 23575, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:36:41", "poem.title": "The Ballad Of The Lonely Masturbator", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23576": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23576, "poem.id": 23576, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:36:47", "poem.title": "Noon Walk On The Asylum Lawn", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23577": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23577, "poem.id": 23577, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:36:51", "poem.title": "Us", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23578": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23578, "poem.id": 23578, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:36:54", "poem.title": "The Fury Of Sunsets", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23579": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23579, "poem.id": 23579, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:36:57", "poem.title": "Mother And Daughter", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23580": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23580, "poem.id": 23580, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:37:02", "poem.title": "The Big Heart", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23581": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23581, "poem.id": 23581, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:37:08", "poem.title": "For The Year Of The Insane", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23582": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23582, "poem.id": 23582, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:37:11", "poem.title": "Unknown Girl In A Maternity Ward", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23583": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23583, "poem.id": 23583, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:37:17", "poem.title": "End, Middle, Beginning", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23584": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23584, "poem.id": 23584, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:37:23", "poem.title": "Ghosts", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23585": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23585, "poem.id": 23585, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:37:27", "poem.title": "Doctors", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23586": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23586, "poem.id": 23586, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:37:31", "poem.title": "Housewife", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23587": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23587, "poem.id": 23587, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:37:37", "poem.title": "Red Riding Hood", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23588": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23588, "poem.id": 23588, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:37:40", "poem.title": "The Consecrating Mother", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23589": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23589, "poem.id": 23589, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:37:43", "poem.title": "Rumpelstiltskin", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23590": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23590, "poem.id": 23590, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:37:48", "poem.title": "Rapunzel", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23591": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23591, "poem.id": 23591, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:37:52", "poem.title": "The Starry Night", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23592": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23592, "poem.id": 23592, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:37:57", "poem.title": "Young", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23593": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23593, "poem.id": 23593, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:38:02", "poem.title": "Live", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23594": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23594, "poem.id": 23594, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:38:07", "poem.title": "Crossing The Atlantic", "poem.date": "7/11/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23595": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23595, "poem.id": 23595, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:38:14", "poem.title": "For John, Who Begs Me Not To Enquire Further", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23596": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23596, "poem.id": 23596, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:38:16", "poem.title": "In Celebration Of My Uterus", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23597": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23597, "poem.id": 23597, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:38:22", "poem.title": "The Witch's Life", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23598": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23598, "poem.id": 23598, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:38:27", "poem.title": "The Abortion", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23599": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23599, "poem.id": 23599, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:38:30", "poem.title": "Suicide Note", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23600": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23600, "poem.id": 23600, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:38:35", "poem.title": "Wanting To Die", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23601": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23601, "poem.id": 23601, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:38:38", "poem.title": "Words", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23602": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23602, "poem.id": 23602, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:38:44", "poem.title": "Sylvia's Death", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23603": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23603, "poem.id": 23603, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:38:49", "poem.title": "The Addict", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23604": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23604, "poem.id": 23604, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:38:55", "poem.title": "Going Gone", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23605": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23605, "poem.id": 23605, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:39:01", "poem.title": "Cripples And Other Stories", "poem.date": "7/11/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23606": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23606, "poem.id": 23606, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:39:04", "poem.title": "For My Lover, Returning To His Wife", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23607": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23607, "poem.id": 23607, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:39:07", "poem.title": "The Dead Heart", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23608": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23608, "poem.id": 23608, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:39:11", "poem.title": "Killing The Love", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23609": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23609, "poem.id": 23609, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:39:16", "poem.title": "'Daddy' Warbucks", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23610": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23610, "poem.id": 23610, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:39:22", "poem.title": "Elegy In The Classroom", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23611": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23611, "poem.id": 23611, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:39:25", "poem.title": "Despair", "poem.date": "7/11/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23612": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23612, "poem.id": 23612, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:39:30", "poem.title": "As It Was Written", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23613": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23613, "poem.id": 23613, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:39:34", "poem.title": "Bat", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23614": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23614, "poem.id": 23614, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:39:37", "poem.title": "Cockroach", "poem.date": "7/11/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23615": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23615, "poem.id": 23615, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:39:40", "poem.title": "Clothes", "poem.date": "7/11/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23616": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23616, "poem.id": 23616, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:39:45", "poem.title": "August 17th", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23617": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23617, "poem.id": 23617, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:39:52", "poem.title": "Angels Of The Love Affair", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23618": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23618, "poem.id": 23618, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:39:55", "poem.title": "The Black Art", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23619": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23619, "poem.id": 23619, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:40:00", "poem.title": "The Truth The Dead Know", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23620": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23620, "poem.id": 23620, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:40:03", "poem.title": "I Remember", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23621": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23621, "poem.id": 23621, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:40:09", "poem.title": "Consorting With Angels", "poem.date": "7/11/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23622": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23622, "poem.id": 23622, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:40:14", "poem.title": "Demon", "poem.date": "7/11/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23623": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23623, "poem.id": 23623, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:40:17", "poem.title": "August 8th", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23624": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23624, "poem.id": 23624, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:40:20", "poem.title": "Snow White And The Seven Dwarfs", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23625": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23625, "poem.id": 23625, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:40:25", "poem.title": "And One For My Dame", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23626": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23626, "poem.id": 23626, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:40:29", "poem.title": "An Obsessive Combination Of Onotological Inscape, Trickery And Love", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23627": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23627, "poem.id": 23627, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:40:32", "poem.title": "The Kiss", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23628": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23628, "poem.id": 23628, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:40:34", "poem.title": "Her Kind", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23629": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23629, "poem.id": 23629, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:40:37", "poem.title": "Cigarettes And Whiskey And Wild, Wild Women", "poem.date": "7/11/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23630": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23630, "poem.id": 23630, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:40:43", "poem.title": "Buying The Whore", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23631": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23631, "poem.id": 23631, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:40:57", "poem.title": "All My Pretty Ones", "poem.date": "3/29/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23632": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23632, "poem.id": 23632, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:41:04", "poem.title": "Christmas Eve", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23633": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23633, "poem.id": 23633, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:41:50", "poem.title": "Music Swims Back To Me", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23634": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23634, "poem.id": 23634, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:41:57", "poem.title": "Courage", "poem.date": "7/11/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23635": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23635, "poem.id": 23635, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:42:01", "poem.title": "Barefoot", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23636": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23636, "poem.id": 23636, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:42:04", "poem.title": "A Curse Against Elegies", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23637": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23637, "poem.id": 23637, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:42:07", "poem.title": "Again And Again And Again", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23638": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23638, "poem.id": 23638, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:42:11", "poem.title": "Admonitions To A Special Person", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "Watch out for power, for its avalanche can bury you, snow, snow, snow, smothering your mountain.Watch out for hate, it can open its mouth and you'll fling yourself outto eat off your leg, an instant leper.Watch out for friends, because when you betray them, as you will, they will bury their heads in the toiletand flush themselves away.Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothingand leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heartfalls out of your mouth.Watch out for games, the actor's part, the speech planned, known, given, for they will give you awayand you will stand like a naked little boy, pissing on your own child-bed.Watch out for love(unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes) , it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heardand none of your running will end.Love? Be it man. Be it woman.It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is somethinglike prayer and can't be planned, you just fallinto its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.Special person, if I were you I'd pay no attentionto admonitions from me, made somewhat out of your wordsand somewhat out of mine.A collaboration.I do not believe a word I have said, except some, except I think of you like a young treewith pasted-on leaves and know you'll rootand the real green thing will come.Let go. Let go.Oh special person, possible leaves, this typewriter likes you on the way to them, but wants to break crystal glassesin celebration, for you, when the dark crust is thrown offand you float all aroundlike a happened balloon.", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23639": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23639, "poem.id": 23639, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:42:17", "poem.title": "Baby Picture", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23640": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23640, "poem.id": 23640, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:42:20", "poem.title": "A Story For Rose On The Midnight Flight To Boston", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23641": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23641, "poem.id": 23641, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:42:26", "poem.title": "Cinderella", "poem.date": "7/11/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23642": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23642, "poem.id": 23642, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:42:32", "poem.title": "Anna Who Was Mad", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23643": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23643, "poem.id": 23643, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:42:39", "poem.title": "Briar Rose (Sleeping Beauty)", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "Considera girl who keeps slipping off, arms limp as old carrots, into the hypnotist's trance, into a spirit worldspeaking with the gift of tongues.She is stuck in the time machine, suddenly two years old sucking her thumb, as inward as a snail, learning to talk again.She's on a voyage.She is swimming further and further back, up like a salmon, struggling into her mother's pocketbook.Little doll child, come here to Papa.Sit on my knee.I have kisses for the back of your neck.A penny for your thoughts, Princess.I will hunt them like an emerald.Come be my snookyand I will give you a root.That kind of voyage, rank as a honeysuckle.Oncea king had a christeningfor his daughter Briar Roseand because he had only twelve gold plateshe asked only twelve fairiesto the grand event.The thirteenth fairy, her fingers as long and thing as straws, her eyes burnt by cigarettes, her uterus an empty teacup, arrived with an evil gift.She made this prophecy: The princess shall prick herselfon a spinning wheel in her fifteenth yearand then fall down dead.Kaputt! The court fell silent.The king looked like Munch's ScreamFairies' prophecies, in times like those, held water.However the twelfth fairyhad a certain kind of eraserand thus she mitigated the cursechanging that deathinto a hundred-year sleep.The king ordered every spinning wheelexterminated and exorcised.Briar Rose grew to be a goddessand each night the kingbit the hem of her gownto keep her safe.He fastened the moon upwith a safety pinto give her perpetual lightHe forced every male in the courtto scour his tongue with Bab-olest they poison the air she dwelt in.Thus she dwelt in his odor.Rank as honeysuckle.On her fifteenth birthdayshe pricked her fingeron a charred spinning wheeland the clocks stopped.Yes indeed. She went to sleep.The king and queen went to sleep, the courtiers, the flies on the wall.The fire in the hearth grew stilland the roast meat stopped crackling.The trees turned into metaland the dog became china.They all lay in a trance, each a catatonicstuck in a time machine.Even the frogs were zombies.Only a bunch of briar roses grewforming a great wall of tacksaround the castle.Many princestried to get through the bramblesfor they had heard much of Briar Rosebut they had not scoured their tonguesso they were held by the thornsand thus were crucified.In due timea hundred years passedand a prince got through.The briars parted as if for Mosesand the prince found the tableau intact.He kissed Briar Roseand she woke up crying: Daddy! Daddy! Presto! She's out of prison! She married the princeand all went wellexcept for the fear -the fear of sleep.Briar Rosewas an insomniac...She could not napor lie in sleepwithout the court chemistmixing her some knock-out dropsand never in the prince's presence.If if is to come, she said, sleep must take me unawareswhile I am laughing or dancingso that I do not know that brutal placewhere I lie down with cattle prods, the hole in my cheek open.Further, I must not dreamfor when I do I see the table setand a faltering crone at my place, her eyes burnt by cigarettesas she eats betrayal like a slice of meat.I must not sleepfor while I'm asleep I'm ninetyand think I'm dying.Death rattles in my throatlike a marble.I wear tubes like earrings.I lie as still as a bar of iron.You can stick a needlethrough my kneecap and I won't flinch.I'm all shot up with Novocain.This trance girlis yours to do with.You could lay her in a grave, an awful package, and shovel dirt on her faceand she'd never call back: Hello there! But if you kissed her on the mouthher eyes would spring openand she'd call out: Daddy! Daddy! Presto! She's out of prison.There was a theft.That much I am told.I was abandoned.That much I know.I was forced backward.I was forced forward.I was passed hand to handlike a bowl of fruit.Each night I am nailed into placeand forget who I am.Daddy? That's another kind of prison.It's not the prince at all, but my fatherdrunkeningly bends over my bed, circling the abyss like a shark, my father thick upon melike some sleeping jellyfish.What voyage is this, little girl? This coming out of prison? God help -this life after death?", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23644": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23644, "poem.id": 23644, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:42:44", "poem.title": "After Auschwitz", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" }, "23645": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23645, "poem.id": 23645, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:42:50", "poem.title": "45 Mercy Street", "poem.date": "6/27/2006", "poem.content": "In my dream, drilling into the marrow of my entire bone, my real dream, I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill searching for a street sign - namely MERCY STREET. Not there. I try the Back Bay. Not there. Not there. And yet I know the number. 45 Mercy Street. I know the stained-glass window of the foyer, the three flights of the house with its parquet floors. I know the furniture and mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, the servants. I know the cupboard of Spode the boat of ice, solid silver, where the butter sits in neat squares like strange giant's teeth on the big mahogany table. I know it well. Not there. Where did you go? 45 Mercy Street, with great-grandmother kneeling in her whale-bone corset and praying gently but fiercely to the wash basin, at five A.M. at noon dozing in her wiggy rocker, grandfather taking a nap in the pantry, grandmother pushing the bell for the downstairs maid, and Nana rocking Mother with an oversized flower on her forehead to cover the curl of when she was good and when she was... And where she was begat and in a generation the third she will beget, me, with the stranger's seed blooming into the flower called Horrid. I walk in a yellow dress and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes, enough pills, my wallet, my keys, and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five? I walk. I walk. I hold matches at street signs for it is dark, as dark as the leathery dead and I have lost my green Ford, my house in the suburbs, two little kids sucked up like pollen by the bee in me and a husband who has wiped off his eyes in order not to see my inside out and I am walking and looking and this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime. Pull the shades down - I don't care! Bolt the door, mercy, erase the number, rip down the street sign, what can it matter, what can it matter to this cheapskate who wants to own the past that went out on a dead ship and left me only with paper? Not there. I open my pocketbook, as women do, and fish swim back and forth between the dollars and the lipstick. I pick them out, one by one and throw them at the street signs, and shoot my pocketbook into the Charles River. Next I pull the dream off and slam into the cement wall of the clumsy calendar I live in, my life, and its hauled up notebooks.", "poem.author": "Anne Sexton" } } }, "32": { "poet.id": 32, "poet.ts": "2018-02-28 20:54:02", "poet.title": "Benjamin Zephaniah", "poet.poet_x_poem_id": { "1228": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1228, "poem.id": 1228, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:15:10", "poem.title": "Vegan Steven's Vegan Clothes", "poem.date": "3/7/2012", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Benjamin Zephaniah" }, "1229": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1229, "poem.id": 1229, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:15:13", "poem.title": "Wot A Pair", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Benjamin Zephaniah" }, "1230": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1230, "poem.id": 1230, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:15:21", "poem.title": "Vegan Steven", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Benjamin Zephaniah" }, "1231": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1231, "poem.id": 1231, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:15:25", "poem.title": "Ride", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Benjamin Zephaniah" }, "1232": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1232, "poem.id": 1232, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:15:30", "poem.title": "The Death Of Joy Gardner", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Benjamin Zephaniah" }, "1233": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1233, "poem.id": 1233, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:15:36", "poem.title": "Sos (Save Our Sons)", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Benjamin Zephaniah" }, "1234": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1234, "poem.id": 1234, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:15:42", "poem.title": "Eat Your Words", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Benjamin Zephaniah" }, "1235": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1235, "poem.id": 1235, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:15:45", "poem.title": "What Stephen Lawrence Has Taught Us", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "We know who the killers are, We have watched them strut before usAs proud as sick Mussolinis',We have watched them strut before usCompassionless and arrogant,They paraded before us,Like angels of deathProtected by the law.It is now an open secretBlack people do not haveChips on their shoulders,They just have injustice on their backsAnd justice on their minds,And now we know that the road to libertyIs as long as the road from slavery.The death of Stephen LawrenceHas taught us to love each otherAnd never to take the tedious taskOf waiting for a bus for granted.Watching his parents watching the cover-upBegs the questionWhat are the trading standards here?Why are we paying for a police forceThat will not work for us? The death of Stephen LawrenceHas taught usThat we cannot let the illusion of freedomEndow us with a false sense of security as we walk the streets,The whole world can now watchThe academics and the super copsStruggling to define institutionalised racismAs we continue to die in custodyAs we continue emptying our pockets on the pavements,And we continue to ask ourselvesWhy is it so officialThat black people are so often killedWithout killers? We are not talking about war or revengeWe are not talking about hypothetics or possibilities,We are talking about where we are nowWe are talking about how we live nowIn dis stateUnder dis flag, (God Save the Queen),And God save all those black children who want to grow upAnd God save all the brothers and sistersWho like raving,Because the death of Stephen LawrenceHas taught us that racism is easy whenYou have friends in high places.And friends in high placesHave no use whatsoeverWhen they are not your friends. Dear Mr Condon, Pop out of Teletubby land,And visit reality,Come to an honest placeAnd get some advice from your neighbours,Be enlightened by our community,Neglect your well-paid ignoranceBecause We know who the killers are.", "poem.author": "Benjamin Zephaniah" }, "1236": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1236, "poem.id": 1236, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:15:51", "poem.title": "Neighbours", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Benjamin Zephaniah" }, "1237": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1237, "poem.id": 1237, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:15:55", "poem.title": "Fair Play", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Benjamin Zephaniah" }, "1238": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1238, "poem.id": 1238, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:15:58", "poem.title": "Who's Who", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Benjamin Zephaniah" }, "1239": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1239, "poem.id": 1239, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:16:03", "poem.title": "Everybody Is Doing It", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Benjamin Zephaniah" }, "1240": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1240, "poem.id": 1240, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:16:08", "poem.title": "De Rong Song", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Benjamin Zephaniah" }, "1241": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1241, "poem.id": 1241, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:16:13", "poem.title": "Nature Trail", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Benjamin Zephaniah" }, "1242": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1242, "poem.id": 1242, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:16:14", "poem.title": "The Race Industry", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Benjamin Zephaniah" }, "1243": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1243, "poem.id": 1243, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:16:21", "poem.title": "White Comedy", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Benjamin Zephaniah" }, "1244": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1244, "poem.id": 1244, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:16:28", "poem.title": "We Refugees", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Benjamin Zephaniah" }, "1245": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1245, "poem.id": 1245, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:16:33", "poem.title": "Talking Turkeys!", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Benjamin Zephaniah" }, "1246": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1246, "poem.id": 1246, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:16:36", "poem.title": "Dis Poetry", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Benjamin Zephaniah" }, "1247": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1247, "poem.id": 1247, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:16:42", "poem.title": "The British", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Benjamin Zephaniah" } } }, "33": { "poet.id": 33, "poet.ts": "2018-02-28 20:54:43", "poet.title": "Paul Laurence Dunbar", "poet.poet_x_poem_id": { "1248": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1248, "poem.id": 1248, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:16:46", "poem.title": "Right's Security", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1249": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1249, "poem.id": 1249, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:16:53", "poem.title": "Speakin' At De Cou'T-House", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1250": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1250, "poem.id": 1250, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:16:57", "poem.title": "Speakin' O' Christmas", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1251": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1251, "poem.id": 1251, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:17:03", "poem.title": "The Bohemian", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1252": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1252, "poem.id": 1252, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:17:05", "poem.title": "The Boogah Man", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1253": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1253, "poem.id": 1253, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:17:11", "poem.title": "The Delinquent", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1254": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1254, "poem.id": 1254, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:17:15", "poem.title": "The Disturber", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1255": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1255, "poem.id": 1255, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:17:20", "poem.title": "The Fount Of Tears", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1256": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1256, "poem.id": 1256, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:17:27", "poem.title": "The Garret", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1257": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1257, "poem.id": 1257, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:17:31", "poem.title": "The Lapse", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1258": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1258, "poem.id": 1258, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:17:34", "poem.title": "The Memory Of Martha", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1259": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1259, "poem.id": 1259, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:17:39", "poem.title": "The Monk's Walk", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1260": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1260, "poem.id": 1260, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:17:42", "poem.title": "The Murdered Lover", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1261": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1261, "poem.id": 1261, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:17:46", "poem.title": "The Masters", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1262": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1262, "poem.id": 1262, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:17:49", "poem.title": "The Mystic Sea", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1263": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1263, "poem.id": 1263, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:17:54", "poem.title": "The Ol' Tunes", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1264": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1264, "poem.id": 1264, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:17:57", "poem.title": "The Old Apple-Tree", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1265": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1265, "poem.id": 1265, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:18:01", "poem.title": "The Photograph", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1266": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1266, "poem.id": 1266, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:18:07", "poem.title": "The Plantation Child's Lullaby", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1267": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1267, "poem.id": 1267, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:18:13", "poem.title": "The Song", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1268": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1268, "poem.id": 1268, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:18:19", "poem.title": "The Stirrup Cup", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1269": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1269, "poem.id": 1269, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:18:24", "poem.title": "The Valse", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1270": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1270, "poem.id": 1270, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:18:26", "poem.title": "The Visitor", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1271": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1271, "poem.id": 1271, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:18:30", "poem.title": "The Wooing", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1272": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1272, "poem.id": 1272, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:18:35", "poem.title": "The Wraith", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1273": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1273, "poem.id": 1273, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:18:38", "poem.title": "Time To Tinker 'Roun'!", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1274": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1274, "poem.id": 1274, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:18:41", "poem.title": "To E. H. K.", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1275": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1275, "poem.id": 1275, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:18:44", "poem.title": "To Pfrimmer", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1276": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1276, "poem.id": 1276, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:18:50", "poem.title": "To The Eastern Shore", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1277": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1277, "poem.id": 1277, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:18:53", "poem.title": "To The Memory Of Mary Young", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1278": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1278, "poem.id": 1278, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:18:56", "poem.title": "To An Ingrate", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1279": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1279, "poem.id": 1279, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:19:01", "poem.title": "The Sum", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1280": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1280, "poem.id": 1280, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:19:07", "poem.title": "The Secret", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1281": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1281, "poem.id": 1281, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:19:10", "poem.title": "The Poet And The Baby", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1282": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1282, "poem.id": 1282, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:19:13", "poem.title": "The Pool", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1283": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1283, "poem.id": 1283, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:19:19", "poem.title": "The Quilting", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1284": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1284, "poem.id": 1284, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:19:23", "poem.title": "The Real Question", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1285": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1285, "poem.id": 1285, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:19:25", "poem.title": "The News", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1286": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1286, "poem.id": 1286, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:19:30", "poem.title": "The Mystery", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "1287": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1287, "poem.id": 1287, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:19:34", "poem.title": "The Forest Greeting", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "23766": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23766, "poem.id": 23766, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:42:56", "poem.title": "The Knight", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "23767": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23767, "poem.id": 23767, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:43:01", "poem.title": "The Making Up", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "23768": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23768, "poem.id": 23768, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:43:04", "poem.title": "The Colored Band", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "23769": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23769, "poem.id": 23769, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:43:08", "poem.title": "The Corn-Stalk Fiddle", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "23770": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23770, "poem.id": 23770, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:43:12", "poem.title": "The Crisis", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "23771": { "poet_x_poem.id": 23771, "poem.id": 23771, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 11:43:16", "poem.title": "The Capture", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "23772": { 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"Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24084": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24084, "poem.id": 24084, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:06:44", "poem.title": "A Drowsy Day", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24085": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24085, "poem.id": 24085, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:06:50", "poem.title": "Love And Grief", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24086": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24086, "poem.id": 24086, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:06:54", "poem.title": "The Lawyers' Ways", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24087": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24087, "poem.id": 24087, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:07:00", "poem.title": "A Grievance", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24088": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24088, "poem.id": 24088, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:07:03", "poem.title": "An Ante-Bellum Sermon", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24089": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24089, "poem.id": 24089, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:07:07", "poem.title": "A Sailor's Song", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24090": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24090, "poem.id": 24090, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:07:13", "poem.title": "When All Is Done", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24091": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24091, "poem.id": 24091, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:07:19", "poem.title": "A Banjo Song", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24092": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24092, "poem.id": 24092, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:07:23", "poem.title": "Not They Who Soar", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24093": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24093, "poem.id": 24093, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:07:30", "poem.title": "A Prayer", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24094": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24094, "poem.id": 24094, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:07:32", "poem.title": "For The Man Who Fails", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24095": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24095, "poem.id": 24095, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:07:38", "poem.title": "Invitation To Love", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24096": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24096, "poem.id": 24096, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:07:40", "poem.title": "Ode To Ethiopia", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24097": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24097, "poem.id": 24097, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:07:43", "poem.title": "The Haunted Oak", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24098": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24098, "poem.id": 24098, "poem.ts": 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"poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24118": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24118, "poem.id": 24118, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:09:15", "poem.title": "At The Tavern", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24119": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24119, "poem.id": 24119, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:09:17", "poem.title": "In The Morning", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24120": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24120, "poem.id": 24120, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:09:23", "poem.title": "A Hymn", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24121": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24121, "poem.id": 24121, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:09:33", "poem.title": "October", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24122": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24122, "poem.id": 24122, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:09:39", "poem.title": "A Boy's Summer Song", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24123": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24123, "poem.id": 24123, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:09:44", "poem.title": "A Career", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24124": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24124, "poem.id": 24124, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:09:49", "poem.title": "Howdy, Honey, Howdy", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24125": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24125, "poem.id": 24125, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:09:54", "poem.title": "Life", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24126": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24126, "poem.id": 24126, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:10:00", "poem.title": "Distinction", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24127": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24127, "poem.id": 24127, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:10:06", "poem.title": "A Confidence", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24128": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24128, "poem.id": 24128, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:10:08", "poem.title": "Confirmation", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24129": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24129, "poem.id": 24129, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:10:13", "poem.title": "Common Things", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24130": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24130, "poem.id": 24130, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:10:19", "poem.title": "Accountability", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24131": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24131, "poem.id": 24131, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:10:21", "poem.title": "The Debt", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24132": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24132, "poem.id": 24132, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:10:25", "poem.title": "A Lost Dream", "poem.date": "4/2/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24133": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24133, "poem.id": 24133, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:10:32", "poem.title": "Encouragement", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24134": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24134, "poem.id": 24134, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:10:37", "poem.title": "Old", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24135": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24135, "poem.id": 24135, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:10:42", "poem.title": "Encouraged", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24136": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24136, "poem.id": 24136, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:10:47", "poem.title": "When Malindy Sings", "poem.date": "1/20/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24137": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24137, "poem.id": 24137, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:10:52", "poem.title": "Douglass", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24138": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24138, "poem.id": 24138, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:10:54", "poem.title": "A Negro Love Song", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24139": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24139, "poem.id": 24139, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:10:59", "poem.title": "Little Brown Baby", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24140": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24140, "poem.id": 24140, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:11:06", "poem.title": "Ships That Pass In The Night", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24141": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24141, "poem.id": 24141, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:11:12", "poem.title": "Frederick Douglass", "poem.date": "3/10/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24142": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24142, "poem.id": 24142, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:11:15", "poem.title": "A Choice", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24143": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24143, "poem.id": 24143, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:11:21", "poem.title": "If I Could But Forget", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24144": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24144, "poem.id": 24144, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:11:23", "poem.title": "Morning", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24145": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24145, "poem.id": 24145, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:11:26", "poem.title": "Summer In The South", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24146": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24146, "poem.id": 24146, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:11:32", "poem.title": "Sympathy", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24147": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24147, "poem.id": 24147, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:11:39", "poem.title": "A Golden Day", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24148": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24148, "poem.id": 24148, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:11:44", "poem.title": "Life's Tragedy", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" }, "24149": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24149, "poem.id": 24149, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:11:47", "poem.title": "We Wear The Mask", "poem.date": "1/20/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Paul Laurence Dunbar" } } }, "34": { "poet.id": 34, "poet.ts": "2018-02-28 20:54:59", "poet.title": "Michael Rosen", "poet.poet_x_poem_id": { "1288": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1288, "poem.id": 1288, "poem.ts": "2018-02-28 05:34:18", "poem.title": "Once", "poem.date": "11/29/2011", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "" }, "1289": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1289, "poem.id": 1289, "poem.ts": "2018-02-28 05:34:18", "poem.title": "Down Behind The Dustbin", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "" }, "1290": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1290, "poem.id": 1290, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:21:21", "poem.title": "Chocolate Cake", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "I love chocolate cake.And when I was a boyI loved it even more.Sometimes we used to have it for teaand Mum used to say,'If there's any left overyou can have it to take to schooltomorrow to have at playtime.'And the next day I would take it to schoolwrapped up in tin foilopen it up at playtimeand sit in the corner of the playgroundeating it,you know how the icing on topis all shiny and it cracks as youbite into it,and there's that other kind of icing inthe middleand it sticks to your hands and youcan lick your fingersand lick your lipsoh it's lovely.yeah.Anyway,once we had this chocolate cake for teaand later I went to bedbut while I was in bedI found myself waking uplicking my lipsand smiling.I woke up proper.'The chocolate cake.'It was the first thing1 thought of.I could almost see itso I thought,what if I go downstairsand have a little nibble, yeah?It was all darkeveryone was in bedso it must have been really latebut I got out of bed,crept out of the doorthere's always a creaky floorboard, isn't there?Past Mum and Dad's room,careful not to tread on bits of broken toysor bits of Legoyou know what it's like treading on Legowith your bare feet,yowwwwshhhhhhhdownstairs into the kitchenopen the cupboardand there it isall shining.So I take it out of the cupboardput it on the tableand I see thatthere's a few crumbs lying about on the plate,so I lick my finger and run my finger all over the crumbsscooping them upand put them into my mouth.oooooooommmmmmmmmnice.< br>ThenI look againand on one side where it's been cut,it's all crumbly.So I take a knifeI think I'll just tidy that up a bit,cut off the crumbly bitsscoop them all upand into the mouthoooooommm mmmmnice.Look at the cake again.That looks a bit funny now,one side doesn't match the otherI'll just even it up a bit, eh?Take the knifeand slice.This time the knife makes a little cracky noiseas it goes through that hard icing on top.A whole slice this time,into the mouth.Oh the icing on topand the icing in the middleohhhhhh oooo mmmmmm.But nowI can't stop myselfKnife -1 just take any old slice at itand I've got this great big chunkand I'm cramming it inwhat a greedy pigbut it's so nice,and there's anotherand another and I'm squealing and I'm smacking my lipsand I'm stuffing myself with itandbefore I knowI've eaten the lot.The whole lot.I look at the plate.It's all gone.Oh nothey're bound to notice, aren't they,a whole chocolate cake doesn't just disappeardoes it?What shall 1 do?I know. I'll wash the plate up,and the knifeand put them away and maybe no onewill notice, eh?So I do thatand creep creep creepback to bedinto beddoze offlicking my lipswith a lovely feeling in my belly.Mmmmrnmmmmm.In the morning I get up,downstairs,have breakfast,Mum's saying,'Have you got your dinner money?'and I say,'Yes.''And don't forget to take some chocolate cake with you.'I stopped breathing.'What's the matter,' she says,'you normally jump at chocolate cake?'I'm still not breathing,and she's looking at me very closely now.She's looking at me just below my mouth.'What's that?' she says.'What's what?' I say.'What's that there?''Where?''There,' she says, pointing at my chin.'I don't know,' I say.'It looks like chocolate,' she says.'It's not chocolate is it?'No answer.'Is it?''I don't know.'She goes to the cupboardlooks in, up, top, middle, bottom,turns back to me.'It's gone.It's gone.You haven't eaten it, have you?''I don't know.''You don't know. You don't know if you've eaten a wholechocolate cake or not?When? When did you eat it?'So I told her,and she saidwell what could she say?'That's the last time I give you any cake to taketo school.Now go. Get outno waitnot before you've washed your dirty sticky face.'I went upstairslooked in the mirrorand there it was,just below my mouth,a chocolate smudge.The give-away.Maybe she'll forget about it by next week.", "poem.author": "Michael Rosen" } } }, "35": { "poet.id": 35, "poet.ts": "2018-02-28 20:55:09", "poet.title": "Nikki Giovanni", "poet.poet_x_poem_id": { "1291": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1291, "poem.id": 1291, "poem.ts": "2018-02-28 05:34:23", "poem.title": "A Poem on the Assassination of Robert F. Kennedy", "poem.date": "5/24/2016", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "" }, "1292": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1292, "poem.id": 1292, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:22:17", "poem.title": "Walking Down Park", "poem.date": "5/24/2016", "poem.content": "walking down park amsterdam or columbus do you ever stop to think what it looked like before it was an avenue did you ever stop to think what you walked before you rode subways to the stock exchange (we can't be on the stock exchange we are the stock exchanged) did you ever maybe wonder what grass was like before they rolled it into a ball and called it central park where syphilitic dogs and their two-legged tubercular masters fertilize the corners and side-walks ever want to know what would happen if your life could be fertilized by a love thought from a loved one who loves you ever look south on a clear day and not see time's squares but see tall Birch trees with sycamores touching hands and see gazelles running playfully after the lions ever hear the antelope bark from the third floor apartment ever, did you ever, sit down and wonder about what freedom's freedom would bring it's so easy to be free you start by loving yourself then those who look like you all else will come naturally ever wonder why so much asphalt was laid in so little space probably so we would forget the Iroquois, Algonquin and Mohicans who could caress the earth ever think what Harlem would be like if our herbs and roots and elephant ears grew sending a cacophony of sound to us the parrot parroting black is beautiful black is beautiful owls sending out whooooo's making love ... and me and you just sitting in the sun trying to find a way to get a banana tree from one of the monkeys koala bears in the trees laughing at our listlessness ever think its possible for us to be happy", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1293": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1293, "poem.id": 1293, "poem.ts": "2018-02-28 05:34:23", "poem.title": "For Saundra", "poem.date": "5/24/2016", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "" }, "1294": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1294, "poem.id": 1294, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:23:01", "poem.title": "Knoxville, Tennessee", "poem.date": "5/24/2016", "poem.content": "I always like summerbestyou can eat fresh cornfrom daddy's gardenand okraand greensand cabbageand lots ofbarbecueand buttermilkand homemade ice-creamat the church picnicand listen togospel musicoutsideat the churchhomecomingand go to the mountains withyour grandmotherand go barefootedand be warmall the timenot only when you go to bedand sleep", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1295": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1295, "poem.id": 1295, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:23:04", "poem.title": "The Great Pax Whitie", "poem.date": "5/24/2016", "poem.content": "In the beginning was the word And the word was Death And the word was nigger And the word was death to all niggers And the word was death to all life And the word was death to all peace be still The genesis was life The genesis was death In the genesis of death Was the genesis of war be still peace be still In the name of peace They waged the wars ain't they got no shame In the name of peace Lot's wife is now a product of the Morton company nah, they ain't got no shame Noah packing his wife and kiddies up for a holiday row row row your boat But why'd you leave the unicorns, noah Huh? why'd you leave them While our Black Madonna stood there Eighteen feet high holding Him in her arms Listening to the rumblings of peace be still be still CAN I GET A WITNESS? WITNESS? WITNESS? He wanted to know And peter only asked who is that dude? Who is that Black dude? Looks like a troublemaker to me And the foundations of the mighty mighty Ro Man Cat holic church were laid hallelujah Jesus nah, they ain't got no shame Cause they killed the Carthaginians in the great appian way And they killed the Moors \"to civilize a nation\" And they just killed the earth And blew out the sun In the name of a god Whose genesis was white And war wooed god And america was born Where war became peace And genocide patriotism And honor is a happy slave cause all god's chillun need rhythm And glory hallelujah why can't peace be still The great emancipator was a bigot ain't they got no shame And making the world safe for democracy Were twenty millon slaves nah, they ain't got no shame And they barbecued six million To raise the price of beef And crossed the 38th parallel To control the price of rice ain't we never gonna see the light And champagne was shipped out of the East While kosher pork was introduced To Africa Only the torch can show the way In the beginning was the deed And the deed was death And the honkies are getting confused peace be still So the great white prince Was shot like a nigger in texas And our Black shining prince was murdered like that thug in his cathedral While our nigger in memphis was shot like their prince in dallas And my lord ain't we never gonna see the light The rumblings of this peace must be stilled be stilled be still ahh Black people ain't we got no pride?", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1296": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1296, "poem.id": 1296, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:23:07", "poem.title": "They Clapped", "poem.date": "5/24/2016", "poem.content": "they clapped when we landed thinking africa was just an extension of the black world they smiled as we taxied home to be met black to black face not understanding africans lack color prejudice they rushed to declare cigarettes, money, allegiance to the mother land not knowing despite having read fanon and davenport hearing all of j.h. clarke's lectures, supporting nkrumah in ghana and nigeria in the war that there was once a tribe called afro-americans that populated the whole of africa they stopped running when they learned the packages on the women's heads were heavy and that babies didn't cry and disease is uncomfortable and that villages are fun only because you knew the feel of good leather on good pavement they cried when they saw mercedes benz were as common in lagos as volkswagens are in berlin they shook their heads when they understood there was no difference between the french and the english and the americans and the afro-americans or the tribe next door or the country across the border they were exasperated when they heard sly and the family stone in francophone africa and they finally smiled when little boys who spoke no western tongue said \"james brown\" with reverence they brought out their cameras and bought out africa's drums when they finally realized that they are strangers all over and love is only and always about the lover not the beloved they marveled at the beauty of the people and the richness of the land knowing they could never possess either they clapped when they took off for home despite the dead dream they saw a free future", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1297": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1297, "poem.id": 1297, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:23:15", "poem.title": "Resignation", "poem.date": "5/24/2016", "poem.content": "I love you because the Earth turns round the sun because the North wind blows north sometimes because the Pope is Catholic and most Rabbis Jewish because the winters flow into springs and the air clears after a storm because only my love for you despite the charms of gravity keeps me from falling off this Earth into another dimensionI love you because it is the natural order of thingsI love you like the habit I picked up in college of sleeping through lectures or saying I'm sorry when I get stopped for speeding because I drink a glass of water in the morning and chain-smoke cigarettes all through the day because I take my coffee Black and my milk with chocolate because you keep my feet warm though my life a messI love you because I don't want it any other wayI am helpless in my love for youIt makes me so happy to hear you call my nameI am amazed you can resist locking me in an echo chamber where your voice reverberates through the four walls sending me into spasmatic ecstasyI love you because it's been so good for so long that if I didn't love you I'd have to be born again and that is not a theological statementI am pitiful in my love for youThe Dells tell me Love is so simple the thought though of you sends indescribably delicious multitudinous thrills throughout and through-in my bodyI love you because no two snowflakes are alike and it is possible if you stand tippy-toe to walk between the raindropsI love you because I am afraid of the dark and can't sleep in the light because I rub my eyes when I wake up in the morning and find you there because you with all your magic powers were determined thatI should love you because there was nothing for you but thatI would love youI love you because you made me want to love you more than I love my privacy my freedom my commitments and responsibilitiesI love you 'cause I changed my life to love you because you saw me one Friday afternoon and decided that I wouldlove youI love you I love you I love you", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1298": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1298, "poem.id": 1298, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:23:19", "poem.title": "The Laws of Motion", "poem.date": "7/4/2015", "poem.content": "(for Harlem Magic)The laws of science teach us a pound of gold weighs as much as a pound of flour though if dropped from any undetermined height in their natural state one wouldreach bottom and one would fly awayLaws of motion tell us an inert object is more difficult to propel than an object heading in the wrong direction is to turn around. Motion being energy—inertia—apathy. Apathy equals hostility. Hostility—violence. Violence being energy is its own virtue. Laws of motion teach usBlack people are no less confused because of our Blackness than we are diffused because of ourpowerlessness. Man we are told is the only animal who smiles with his lips. The eyes however are the mirror ofthe soulThe problem with love is not what we feel but what we wish we felt when we began to feel we should feelsomething. Just as publicity is not production: seductionis not seductiveIf I could make a wish I'd wish for all the knowledge of all the world. Black may be beautiful Professor Micheausays but knowledge is power. Any desirable object isbought and sold—any neglected object declines in value. It is against man's nature to be in either categoryIf white defines Black and good defines evil then mendefine women or women scientifically speaking describemen. If sweet is the opposite of sour and heat theabsence of cold then love is the contradiction of pain andbeauty is in the eye of the beheldSometimes I want to touch you and be touched in return. But you think I'm grabbing and I think you're shirking and Mama always said to look out for men like youSo I go to the streets with my lips painted red and my eyes carefully shielded to seduce the world my reluctant loverAnd you go to your men slapping fives feeling good posing as a man because you know as long as you sit very very still the laws of motion will be in effect", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1299": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1299, "poem.id": 1299, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:23:25", "poem.title": "Rain", "poem.date": "5/24/2016", "poem.content": "rain is god's sperm falling in the receptive woman how else to spend a rainy day other than with you seeking sun and stars and heavenly bodies how else to spend a rainy day other than with you", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1300": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1300, "poem.id": 1300, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:23:30", "poem.title": "Sky Diving", "poem.date": "5/24/2016", "poem.content": "I hang on the edge of this universe singing off-key talking too loud embracing myself to cushion the fallI shall tumble into deep space never in this form or with this feeling to return to earth It is not tragicI will spiral through that Black hole losing skin limbs internal organs searing my naked soulLanding in the next galaxy with only my essence embracing myself asI dream of you", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1301": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1301, "poem.id": 1301, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:23:35", "poem.title": "Poem For A Lady Whose Voice I Like", "poem.date": "5/24/2016", "poem.content": "so he said: you ain't got no talent if you didn't have a face you wouldn't be nobody and she said: god created heaven and earth and all that's Black within them so he said: you ain't really no hot shit they tell me plenty sisters take care better business than you and she said: on the third day he made chitterlings and all good things to eat and said: \"that's good\" so he said: if the white folks hadn't been under yo skirt and been giving you the big play you'd a had to come on uptown like everybody else and she replied: then he took a big Black greasy rib from adam and said we will call this woeman and her name will be sapphire and she will divide into four parts that simone may sing a song and he said: you pretty full of yourself ain't chu so she replied: show me someone not full of herself and i'll show you a hungry person", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1302": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1302, "poem.id": 1302, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:23:41", "poem.title": "All I Gotta Do", "poem.date": "5/24/2016", "poem.content": "all i gotta do is sit and wait sit and wait and it's gonna find me all i gotta do is sit and wait if i can learn howwhat i need to do is sit and wait cause i'm a woman sit and wait what i gotta do is sit and wait cause i'm a woman it'll find meyou get yours and i'll get mine if i learn to sit and wait you got yours i want mine and i'm gonna get it cause i gotta get it cause i need to get it if i learn howthought about calling for it on the phone asked for a delivery but they didn't have it thought about going to the store to get it walked to the corner but they didn't have itcalled your name in my sleep sitting and waiting thought you would awake me called your name lying in my bed but you didn't have it offered to go get it but you didn't have it so i'm sittingall i know is sitting and waiting waiting and sitting cause i'm a woman all i know is sitting and waiting cause i gotta wait wait for it to find me", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1303": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1303, "poem.id": 1303, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:23:44", "poem.title": "You Came, Too", "poem.date": "5/24/2016", "poem.content": "I came to the crowd seeking friends I came to the crowd seeking love I came to the crowd for understandingI found youI came to the crowd to weep I came to the crowd to laughYou dried my tears You shared my happinessI went from the crowd seeking you I went from the crowd seeking me I went from the crowd foreverYou came, too", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1304": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1304, "poem.id": 1304, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:23:48", "poem.title": "A Historical Footnote to Consider Only When All Else Fails", "poem.date": "5/24/2016", "poem.content": "(For Barbara Crosby)While it is true (though only in a factual sense) That in the wake of a Her-I-can comes a Shower Surely I am not The gravitating force that keeps this house full of panthers Why, LBJ has made it quite clear to me He doesn't give a Good goddamn what I think (else why would he continue to masterbate in public?) Rhythm and Blues is not The downfall of a great civilization And I expect you to Realize That the Temptations have no connection with The CIA We must move on to the true issues of Our time like the mini-skirt Rebellion And perhaps take a Closer look at Flour power It is for Us to lead our people out of the Wein-Bars into the streets into the streets (for safety reasons only) Lord knows we don't Want to lose the support of our Jewish friends So let us work for our day of Presence When Stokely is in The Black House And all will be right with Our World", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1305": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1305, "poem.id": 1305, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:23:54", "poem.title": "Mothers", "poem.date": "5/24/2016", "poem.content": "the last time i was home to see my mother we kissed exchanged pleasantries and unpleasantries pulled a warm comforting silence around us and read separate books i remember the first time i consciously saw her we were living in a three room apartment on burns avenue mommy always sat in the dark i don't know how i knew that but she did that night i stumbled into the kitchen maybe because i've always been a night person or perhaps because i had wet the bed she was sitting on a chair the room was bathed in moonlight diffused through those thousands of panes landlords who rented to people with children were prone to put in windows she may have been smoking but maybe not her hair was three-quarters her height which made me a strong believer in the samson myth and very black i'm sure i just hung there by the door i remember thinking: what a beautiful lady she was very deliberately waiting perhaps for my father to come home from his night job or maybe for a dream that had promised to come by \"come here\" she said \"i'll teach you a poem: i see the moon the moon sees me god bless the moon and god bless me\" i taught it to my son who recited it for her just to say we must learn to bear the pleasures as we have borne the pains", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1306": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1306, "poem.id": 1306, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:24:19", "poem.title": "Life Cycles", "poem.date": "5/24/2016", "poem.content": "she realized she wasn't one of life's winners when she wasn't sure life to her was some dark dirty secret that like some unwanted child too late for an abortion was to be borne aloneshe had so many private habits she would masturbate sometimes she always picked her nose when upset she liked to sit with silence in the dark sadness is not an unusual state for the black woman or writersshe took to sneaking drinks a habit which displeased her both for its effects and taste yet eventually sleep would wrestle her in triumph onto the bed", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1307": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1307, "poem.id": 1307, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:24:24", "poem.title": "When I Die", "poem.date": "5/24/2016", "poem.content": "when i die i hope no one who ever hurt me cries and if they cry i hope their eyes fall out and a million maggots that had made up their brains crawl from the empty holes and devour the flesh that covered the evil that passed itself off as a person that i probably tried to love", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1308": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1308, "poem.id": 1308, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:24:30", "poem.title": "Beautiful Black Men", "poem.date": "7/3/2015", "poem.content": "(With compliments and apologies to all not mentioned by name)i wanta say just gotta say somethingbout those beautiful beautiful beautiful outasightblack menwith they afroswalking down the streetis the same ol dangerbut a brand new pleasuresitting on stoops, in bars, going to officesrunning numbers, watching for their whorespreaching in churches, driving their hogswalking their dogs, winking at mein their fire red, lime green, burnt orangeroyal blue tight tight pants that hugwhat i like to hugjerry butler, wilson pickett, the impressionstemptations, mighty mighty slydon't have to do anything but walkon stageand i scream and stamp and shoutsee new breed men in breed allsdashiki suits with shirts that matchthe lining that compliments the tiesthat smile at the sandalswhere dirty toes peek at meand i scream and stamp and shoutfor more beautiful beautiful beautifulblack men with outasight afros", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1309": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1309, "poem.id": 1309, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:24:36", "poem.title": "Possum Crossing", "poem.date": "6/2/2015", "poem.content": "Backing out the drivewaythe car lights cast an eerie glowin the morning fog centeringon movement in the rain slick streetHitting brakes I anticipate a squirrel or a cat or sometimesa little raccoonI once braked for a blind little mole who try though he didcould not escape the cat toying with his lifeMother-to-be possum occasionally lopes home . . . beingnaturally . . . slow her condition makes her even more gingerWe need a sign POSSUM CROSSING to warn coffee-gurgling neighbors:we share the streets with more than trucks and vans andrailroad crossingsAll birds being the living kin of dinosaursthink themselves invincible and pay no heedto the rolling wheels while they dineon an unlucky rabbitI hit brakes for the flutter of the lights hoping it's not a deeror a skunk or a groundhogcoffee splashes over the cup which I quickly put away from meand into the empty passenger seatI look . . .relieved and exasperated ...to discover I have just missed a big wet leafstruggling . . . to lift itself into the windand live", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1310": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1310, "poem.id": 1310, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:24:42", "poem.title": "Crutches", "poem.date": "5/24/2016", "poem.content": "it's not the crutches we decry it's the need to move forward though we haven't the strengthwomen aren't allowed to need so they develop rituals since we all know working hands idle the devil women aren't supposed to be strong so they develop social smiles and secret drinking problems and female lovers whom they never touch except in dreamsmen are supposed to be strong so they have heart attacks and develop other women who don't know their weaknesses and hide their fears behind male lovers whom they religiously touch each saturday morning on the basketball court it's considered a sign of health doncha know that they take such good care of their bodies", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1311": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1311, "poem.id": 1311, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:25:08", "poem.title": "The Laws of Motion", "poem.date": "5/24/2016", "poem.content": "The laws of science teach us a pound of gold weighs as much as a pound of flour though if dropped from any undetermined height in their natural state one would reach bottom and one would fly away Laws of motion tell us an inert object is more difficult to propel than an object heading in the wrong direction is to turn around. Motion being energy—inertia—apathy. Apathy equals hostility. Hostility—violence. Violence being energy is its own virtue. Laws of motion teach us Black people are no less confused because of our Blackness than we are diffused because of our powerlessness. Man we are told is the only animal who smiles with his lips. The eyes however are the mirror of the soul The problem with love is not what we feel but what we wish we felt when we began to feel we should feel something. Just as publicity is not production: seduction is not seductive If I could make a wish I'd wish for all the knowledge of all the world. Black may be beautiful Professor Micheau says but knowledge is power. Any desirable object is bought and sold—any neglected object declines in value. It is against man's nature to be in either category If white defines Black and good defines evil then men define women or women scientifically speaking describe men. If sweet is the opposite of sour and heat the absence of cold then love is the contradiction of pain and beauty is in the eye of the beheld Sometimes I want to touch you and be touched in return. But you think I'm grabbing and I think you're shirking and Mama always said to look out for men like you So I go to the streets with my lips painted red and my eyes carefully shielded to seduce the world my reluctant lover And you go to your men slapping fives feeling good posing as a man because you know as long as you sit very very still the laws of motion will be in effect", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1312": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1312, "poem.id": 1312, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:25:13", "poem.title": "Dreams", "poem.date": "5/24/2016", "poem.content": "in my younger years before i learned black people aren't suppose to dream i wanted to be a raelet and say \"dr o wn d in my youn tears\" or \"tal kin bout tal kin bout\" or marjorie hendricks and grind all up against the mic and scream \"baaaaaby nightandday baaaaaby nightandday\" then as i grew and matured i became more sensible and decided i would settle down and just become a sweet inspiration", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1313": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1313, "poem.id": 1313, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:25:17", "poem.title": "Winter Poem", "poem.date": "10/20/2015", "poem.content": "once a snowflake fellon my brow and i lovedit so much and i kissedit and it was happy and called its cousinsand brothers and a webof snow engulfed me theni reached to love them alland i squeezed them and they becamea spring rain and i stood perfectlystill and was a flower", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1314": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1314, "poem.id": 1314, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:25:20", "poem.title": "Ego Tripping", "poem.date": "5/24/2016", "poem.content": "I was born in the congoI walked to the fertile crescent and built the sphinxI designed a pyramid so tough that a star that only glows every one hundred years falls into the center giving divine perfect lightI am badI sat on the throne drinking nectar with allahI got hot and sent an ice age to europe to cool my thirstMy oldest daughter is nefertiti the tears from my birth pains created the nileI am a beautiful womanI gazed on the forest and burned out the sahara desert with a packet of goat's meat and a change of clothesI crossed it in two hoursI am a gazelle so swift so swift you can't catch me For a birthday present when he was threeI gave my son hannibal an elephant He gave me rome for mother's dayMy strength flows ever onMy son noah built new/ark andI stood proudly at the helm as we sailed on a soft summer dayI turned myself into myself and was jesus men intone my loving name All praises All praisesI am the one who would saveI sowed diamonds in my back yardMy bowels deliver uranium the filings from my fingernails are semi-precious jewels On a trip northI caught a cold and blewMy nose giving oil to the arab worldI am so hip even my errors are correctI sailed west to reach east and had to round off the earth as I went The hair from my head thinned and gold was laid across three continentsI am so perfect so divine so ethereal so surrealI cannot be comprehended except by my permissionI mean...I...can fly like a bird in the sky...", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1315": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1315, "poem.id": 1315, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:25:24", "poem.title": "A Journey", "poem.date": "5/24/2016", "poem.content": "It's a journey . . . that I propose . . . I am not the guide . . . nor technical assistant . . . I will be your fellow passenger . . .Though the rail has been ridden . . . winter clouds cover . . . autumn's exuberant quilt . . . we must provide our own guide-posts . . .I have heard . . . from previous visitors . . . the road washes out sometimes . . . and passengers are compelled . . . to continue groping . . . or turn back . . . I am not afraid . . .I am not afraid . . . of rough spots . . . or lonely times . . . I don't fear . . . the success of this endeavor . . . I am Ra . . . in a space . . . not to be discovered . . . but invented . . .I promise you nothing . . . I accept your promise . . . of the same we are simply riding . . . a wave . . . that may carry . . . or crash . . .It's a journey . . . and I want . . . to go . . .", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1316": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1316, "poem.id": 1316, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:25:31", "poem.title": "Always There Are The Children", "poem.date": "8/13/2015", "poem.content": "and always there are the childrenthere will be children in the heat of daythere will be children in the cold of winterchildren like a quilted blanketare welcomed in our old agechildren like a block of ice to a desert sheikare signs of status in our youthwe feed the children with our culturethat they might understand our travailwe nourish the children on our godsthat they may understand respectwe urge the children on the tracksthat our race will not fall shortbut our children are not oursnor we theirs they are future we are pasthow do we welcome the futurenot with the colonialism of the pastfor that is our problemnot with the racism of the pastfor that is their problemnot with the fears of our own statusfor history is lived not dictatedwe welcome the young of all groupsas our own with the solid nourishmentof food and warmthwe prepare the way with the solidnourishment of self-actualizationwe implore all the young to prepare for the youngbecause always there will be children.", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1317": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1317, "poem.id": 1317, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:25:35", "poem.title": "Legacies", "poem.date": "5/24/2016", "poem.content": "her grandmother called her from the playground \"yes, ma'am\" \"i want chu to learn how to make rolls\" said the old woman proudly but the little girl didn't want to learn how because she knew even if she couldn't say it that that would mean when the old one died she would be less dependent on her spirit so she said \"i don't want to know how to make no rolls\" with her lips poked out and the old woman wiped her hands on her apron saying \"lord these children\" and neither of them ever said what they meant and i guess nobody ever does", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1318": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1318, "poem.id": 1318, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:25:38", "poem.title": "Poetry", "poem.date": "5/24/2016", "poem.content": "poetry is motion graceful as a fawn gentle as a teardrop strong like the eye finding peace in a crowded room we poets tend to think our words are golden though emotion speaks too loudly to be defined by silence sometimes after midnight or just before the dawn we sit typewriter in hand pulling loneliness around us forgetting our lovers or children who are sleeping ignoring the weary wariness of our own logic to compsoe a poem no one understands it it never says 'love me' for poets are beyond love it never says 'accept me' for poems seke not acceptance but controversy it only says 'i am' and therefore i concede that you are tooa poem is pure energy horizontally contained between the mind of the poet and the ear of the reader if it does not sing discard the ear for poetry is song if it does not deligh discard the heart for poetry is joy if it does not inform then close off the brain for it is dead if it cannot heed the insistent message that life is preciouswhich is all we poets wrapped in our loneliness are trying to say", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1319": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1319, "poem.id": 1319, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:25:43", "poem.title": "My First Memory ( Of Librarians )", "poem.date": "2/26/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1320": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1320, "poem.id": 1320, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:25:47", "poem.title": "Habits", "poem.date": "5/24/2016", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1321": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1321, "poem.id": 1321, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:25:54", "poem.title": "Seduction", "poem.date": "5/24/2016", "poem.content": "One dayyou gonna walk in this houseand i'm gonna have a long Africangownyou'll sit down and say 'The Black...'and i'm gonna take one arm outthen you-not noticing me at all- will say 'What about this brother...'and i'm going to be slipping it over my headand you'll rap on about 'The revolution...'while i rest your hand against my stomachyou'll go on-as you always do- saying'I just can't dig...'while i'm moving your hand up and downand i'll be taking your dashiki offthen you'll say 'What we really need...'and taking your shorts offthe you'll noticeyour state of undressand knowing you you'll just say'Nikki/isn't this counterrevolutionary...'", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1322": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1322, "poem.id": 1322, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:25:56", "poem.title": "Cotton Candy On A Rainy Day", "poem.date": "12/13/2013", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1323": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1323, "poem.id": 1323, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:26:00", "poem.title": "Nikki-Rosa", "poem.date": "12/10/2013", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1324": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1324, "poem.id": 1324, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:26:04", "poem.title": "A Summer Love Poem", "poem.date": "12/10/2013", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1325": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1325, "poem.id": 1325, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:26:27", "poem.title": "I'M Not Lonely", "poem.date": "12/10/2013", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1326": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1326, "poem.id": 1326, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:26:34", "poem.title": "And I Have You", "poem.date": "12/10/2013", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1327": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1327, "poem.id": 1327, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:26:40", "poem.title": "Love Is", "poem.date": "12/10/2013", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1328": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1328, "poem.id": 1328, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:26:45", "poem.title": "A Poem Of Friendship", "poem.date": "12/10/2013", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1329": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1329, "poem.id": 1329, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:26:47", "poem.title": "Choices", "poem.date": "12/10/2013", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "1330": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1330, "poem.id": 1330, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:26:50", "poem.title": "I Wrote A Good Omelet", "poem.date": "12/13/2013", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "24202": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24202, "poem.id": 24202, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:11:52", "poem.title": "Kidnap Poem", "poem.date": "12/10/2013", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "24203": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24203, "poem.id": 24203, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:11:58", "poem.title": "Balances", "poem.date": "7/19/2006", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" }, "24204": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24204, "poem.id": 24204, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:12:01", "poem.title": "Knoxville Tennessee", "poem.date": "11/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Nikki Giovanni" } } }, "36": { "poet.id": 36, "poet.ts": "2018-02-28 20:55:19", "poet.title": "Gwendolyn Brooks", "poet.poet_x_poem_id": { "1331": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1331, "poem.id": 1331, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:26:55", "poem.title": "Mayor Harold Washington", "poem.date": "1/17/2012", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1332": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1332, "poem.id": 1332, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:27:02", "poem.title": "Jessie Mitchell’s Mother", "poem.date": "1/17/2012", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1333": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1333, "poem.id": 1333, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:27:04", "poem.title": "Of De Witt Williams On His Way To Lincoln Cemetery", "poem.date": "1/17/2012", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1334": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1334, "poem.id": 1334, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:27:06", "poem.title": "The Blackstone Rangers", "poem.date": "1/17/2012", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1335": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1335, "poem.id": 1335, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:27:11", "poem.title": "The Sermon On The Warpland", "poem.date": "1/17/2012", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1336": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1336, "poem.id": 1336, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:27:34", "poem.title": "One Wants A Teller In A Time Like This", "poem.date": "4/20/2012", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1337": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1337, "poem.id": 1337, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:27:39", "poem.title": "Tommy", "poem.date": "6/19/2015", "poem.content": "I put my seed into the groundAnd said, 'I'll watch it grow.'I watered it and cared for itAs well as I could know.One day I walked in my back yard,And oh. what did I see!My seed had popped itself right outWithout consulting me.", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1338": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1338, "poem.id": 1338, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:27:42", "poem.title": "A Penitent Considers Another Coming Of Mary", "poem.date": "1/17/2012", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1339": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1339, "poem.id": 1339, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:27:44", "poem.title": "The Sundays Of Satin-Legs Smith", "poem.date": "1/17/2012", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1340": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1340, "poem.id": 1340, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:27:47", "poem.title": "The Life Of Lincoln West", "poem.date": "1/17/2012", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1341": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1341, "poem.id": 1341, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:27:53", "poem.title": "The Rites For Cousin Vit", "poem.date": "1/17/2012", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1342": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1342, "poem.id": 1342, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:27:56", "poem.title": "Riot", "poem.date": "1/17/2012", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1343": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1343, "poem.id": 1343, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:28:03", "poem.title": "The Children Of The Poor", "poem.date": "1/17/2012", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1344": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1344, "poem.id": 1344, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:28:26", "poem.title": "Of Robert Frost", "poem.date": "1/17/2012", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1345": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1345, "poem.id": 1345, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:28:31", "poem.title": "Young Afrikans", "poem.date": "1/17/2012", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1346": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1346, "poem.id": 1346, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:28:33", "poem.title": "The Vacant Lot", "poem.date": "1/17/2012", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1347": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1347, "poem.id": 1347, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:28:37", "poem.title": "Boy Breaking Glass", "poem.date": "1/17/2012", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1348": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1348, "poem.id": 1348, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:28:44", "poem.title": "Primer For Blacks", "poem.date": "1/17/2012", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1349": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1349, "poem.id": 1349, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:28:46", "poem.title": "When You Have Forgotten Sunday: The Love Story", "poem.date": "1/17/2012", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1350": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1350, "poem.id": 1350, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:28:48", "poem.title": "A Song In The Front Yard", "poem.date": "1/17/2012", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1351": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1351, "poem.id": 1351, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:28:52", "poem.title": "Truth", "poem.date": "1/17/2012", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1352": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1352, "poem.id": 1352, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:28:54", "poem.title": "Garbageman: The Man With The Orderly Mind", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1353": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1353, "poem.id": 1353, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:28:59", "poem.title": "The Independent Man", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1354": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1354, "poem.id": 1354, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:29:04", "poem.title": "Kitchenette Building", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1355": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1355, "poem.id": 1355, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:29:10", "poem.title": "The Sonnet-Ballad", "poem.date": "1/20/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1356": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1356, "poem.id": 1356, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:29:13", "poem.title": "The Lovers Of The Poor", "poem.date": "1/20/2003", "poem.content": "arrive. The Ladies from the Ladies' Betterment League Arrive in the afternoon, the late light slanting In diluted gold bars across the boulevard brag Of proud, seamed faces with mercy and murder hintingHere, there, interrupting, all deep and debonair, The pink paint on the innocence of fear; Walk in a gingerly manner up the hall. Cutting with knives served by their softest care,Served by their love, so barbarously fair. Whose mothers taught: You'd better not be cruel! You had better not throw stones upon the wrens! Herein they kiss and coddle and assault Anew and dearly in the innocence With which they baffle nature. Who are full,Sleek, tender-clad, fit, fiftyish, a-glow, all Sweetly abortive, hinting at fat fruit, Judge it high time that fiftyish fingers felt Beneath the lovelier planes of enterprise. To resurrect. To moisten with milky chill. To be a random hitching-post or plush. To be, for wet eyes, random and handy hem.Their guild is giving money to the poor. The worthy poor. The very very worthy And beautiful poor. Perhaps just not too swarthy?perhaps just not too dirty nor too dim Nor--passionate. In truth, what they could wishIs--something less than derelict or dull. Not staunch enough to stab, though, gaze for gaze!God shield them sharply from the beggar-bold! The noxious needy ones whose battle's bald Nonetheless for being voiceless, hits one down. But it's all so bad! and entirely too much for them. The stench; the urine, cabbage, and dead beans, Dead porridges of assorted dusty grains, The old smoke, heavy diapers, and, they're told,Something called chitterlings. The darkness. Drawn Darkness, or dirty light. The soil that stirs. The soil that looks the soil of centuries. And for that matter the general oldness. Old Wood. Old marble. Old tile. Old old old. Not homekind Oldness! Not Lake Forest, Glencoe.Nothing is sturdy, nothing is majestic, There is no quiet drama, no rubbed glaze, noUnkillable infirmity of such A tasteful turn as lately they have left,Glencoe, Lake Forest, and to which their carsMust presently restore them. When they're done With dullards and distortions of this fistic Patience of the poor and put-upon. They've never seen such a make-do-ness asNewspaper rugs before! In this, this 'flat,' Their hostess is gathering up the oozed, the rich Rugs of the morning (tattered! the bespattered. . . .) Readies to spread clean rugs for afternoon. Here is a scene for you. The Ladies look, In horror, behind a substantial citizeness Whose trains clank out across her swollen heart.Who, arms akimbo, almost fills a door. All tumbling children, quilts dragged to the floorAnd tortured thereover, potato peelings, soft- Eyed kitten, hunched-up, haggard, to-be-hurt. Their League is allotting largesse to the Lost. But to put their clean, their pretty money, to put Their money collected from delicate rose-fingers Tipped with their hundred flawless rose-nails seems...They own Spode, Lowestoft, candelabra, Mantels, and hostess gowns, and sunburst clocks,Turtle soup, Chippendale, red satin 'hangings,' Aubussons and Hattie Carnegie. They Winter In Palm Beach; cross the Water in June; attend, When suitable, the nice Art Institute; Buy the right books in the best bindings; saunterOn Michigan, Easter mornings, in sun or wind. Oh Squalor! This sick four-story hulk, this fibre With fissures everywhere! Why, what are bringings Of loathe-love largesse? What shall peril hungers So old old, what shall flatter the desolate? Tin can, blocked fire escape and chitterling And swaggering seeking youth and the puzzled wreckageOf the middle passage, and urine and stale shames And, again, the porridges of the underslung And children children children. Heavens! That Was a rat, surely, off there, in the shadows? Long And long-tailed? Gray? The Ladies from the Ladies' Betterment League agree it will be better To achieve the outer air that rights and steadies,To hie to a house that does not holler, to ring Bells elsetime, better presently to cater To no more Possibilities, to get Away. Perhaps the money can be posted.Perhaps they two may choose another Slum! Some serious sooty half-unhappy home!--Where loathe-love likelier may be invested. Keeping their scented bodies in the center Of the hall as they walk down the hysterical hall, They allow their lovely skirts to graze no wall, Are off at what they manage of a canter, And, resuming all the clues of what they were,Try to avoid inhaling the laden air.", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1357": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1357, "poem.id": 1357, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:29:18", "poem.title": "The Ballad Of Rudolph Reed", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "Rudolph Reed was oaken.His wife was oaken too.And his two good girls and his good little manOakened as they grew.\"I am not hungry for berries.I am not hungry for bread.But hungry hungry for a houseWhere at night a man in bed\"May never hear the plasterStir as if in pain.May never hear the roachesFalling like fat rain.\"Where never wife and children needGo blinking through the gloom.Where every room of many roomsWill be full of room.\"Oh my home may have its east or westOr north or south behind it.All I know is I shall know it,And fight for it when I find it.\"The agent's steep and steady stareCorroded to a grin.Why you black old, tough old hell of a man,Move your family in!Nary a grin grinned Rudolph Reed,Nary a curse cursed he,But moved in his House. With his dark little wife,And his dark little children three.A neighbor would look, with a yawning eyeThat squeezed into a slit.But the Rudolph Reeds and children threeWere too joyous to notice it.For were they not firm in a home of their ownWith windows everywhereAnd a beautiful banistered stairAnd a front yard for flowers and a back for grass?The first night, a rock, big as two fists.The second, a rock big as three.But nary a curse cursed Rudolph Reed.(Though oaken as man could be.)The third night, a silvery ring of glass.Patience arched to endure,But he looked, and lo! small Mabel's bloodWas staining her gaze so pure.Then up did rise our Roodoplh ReedAnd pressed the hand of his wife,And went to the door with a thirty-fourAnd a beastly butcher knife.He ran like a mad thing into the nightAnd the words in his mouth were stinking.By the time he had hurt his first white manHe was no longer thinking.By the time he had hurt his fourth white manRudolph Reed was dead.His neighbors gathered and kicked his corpse.\"Nigger--\" his neighbors said.Small Mabel whimpered all night long,For calling herself the cause.Her oak-eyed mother did no thingBut change the bloody gauze.", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1358": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1358, "poem.id": 1358, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:29:24", "poem.title": "The Good Man", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1359": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1359, "poem.id": 1359, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:29:31", "poem.title": "To The Diaspora", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1360": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1360, "poem.id": 1360, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:29:34", "poem.title": "The Bean Eaters", "poem.date": "1/20/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1361": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1361, "poem.id": 1361, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:29:37", "poem.title": "A Bronzeville Mother Loiters In Mississippi. Meanwhile, A Mississippi Mother Burns Bacon", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "From the first it had been like aBallad. It had the beat inevitable. It had the blood.A wildness cut up, and tied in little bunches,Like the four-line stanzas of the ballads she had never quiteunderstood--the ballads they had set her to, in school.Herself: the milk-white maid, the \"maid mild\"Of the ballad. PursuedBy the Dark Villain. Rescued by the Fine Prince.The Happiness-Ever-After.That was worth anything.It was good to be a \"maid mild.\"That made the breath go fast.Her bacon burned. SheHastened to hide it in the step-on can, andDrew more strips from the meat case. The eggs and sour-milk biscuitsDid well. She set out a jarOf her new quince preserve.. . . But there was something about the matter of the Dark Villain.He should have been older, perhaps.The hacking down of a villain was more fun to think aboutWhen his menace possessed undisputed breath, undisputed height,And best of all, when history was clutteredWith the bones of many eaten knights and princesses.The fun was disturbed, then all but nullifiedWhen the Dark Villain was a blackish childOf Fourteen, with eyes still too young to be dirty,And a mouth too young to have lost every reminderOf its infant softness.That boy must have been surprised! ForThese were grown-ups. Grown-ups were supposed to be wise.And the Fine Prince--and that other--so tall, so broad, soGrown! Perhaps the boy had never guessedThat the trouble with grown-ups was that under the magnificent shell of adulthood, just under,Waited the baby full of tantrums.It occurred to her that there may have been somethingRidiculous to the picture of the Fine PrinceRushing (rich with the breadth and height andMature solidness whose lack, in the Dark Villain, was impressing her,Confronting her more and more as this first day after the trialAnd acquittal (wore on) rushingWith his heavy companion to hack down (unhorsed)That little foe. So much had happened, she could not remember now what that foe had doneAgainst her, or if anything had been done.The breaks were everywhere. That she could thinkOf no thread capable of the necessarySew-work.She made the babies sit in their places at the table.Then, before calling HIM, she hurriedTo the mirror with her comb and lipstick. It was necessaryTo be more beautiful than ever.The beautiful wife.For sometimes she fancied he looked at her as thoughMeasuring her. As if he considered, Had she been worth it?Had she been worth the blood, the cramped cries, the little stirring bravado, The gradual dulling of those Negro eyes,The sudden, overwhelming little-boyness in that barn?Whatever she might feel or half-feel, the lipstick necessity was something apart. HE must never concludeThat she had not been worth it.HE sat down, the Fine Prince, andBegan buttering a biscuit. HE looked at HIS hands.More papers were in from the North, HE mumbled. More maddening headlines.With their pepper-words, \"bestiality,\" and \"barbarism,\" and\"Shocking.\" The half-sneers HE had mastered for the trial worked acrossHIS sweet and pretty face.What HE'd like to do, HE explained, was kill them all.The time lost. The unwanted fame.Still, it had been fun to show those intrudersA thing or two. To show that snappy-eyed mother,That sassy, Northern, brown-black--Nothing could stop Mississippi.HE knew that. Big fellaKnew that.And, what was so good, Mississippi knew that.They could send in their petitions, and scarTheir newspapers with bleeding headlines. Their governorsCould appeal to Washington . . .\"What I want,\" the older baby said, \"is 'lasses on my jam.\"Whereupon the younger babyPicked up the molasses pitcher and threwThe molasses in his brother's face. InstantlyThe Fine Prince leaned across the table and slappedThe small and smiling criminal.She did not speak. When the HANDCame down and away, and she could look at her child,At her baby-child,She could think only of blood.Surely her baby's cheekHad disappeared, and in its place, surely,Hung a heaviness, a lengthening red, a red that had no end.She shook her had. It was not true, of course.It was not true at all. TheChild's face was as always, theColor of the paste in her paste-jar.She left the table, to the tune of the children's lamentations, which were shrillerThan ever. SheLooked out of a window. She said not a word. ThatWas one of the new Somethings--The fear,Tying her as with iron.Suddenly she felt his hands upon her. He had followed herTo the window. The children were whimpering now.Such bits of tots. And she, their mother,Could not protect them. She looked at her shoulders, stillGripped in the claim of his hands. She tried, but could not resist the ideaThat a red ooze was seeping, spreading darkly, thickly, slowly,Over her white shoulders, her own shoulders,And over all of Earth and Mars.He whispered something to her, did the Fine Prince, something about love and night and intention.She heard no hoof-beat of the horse and saw no flash of the shining steel.He pulled her face around to meetHis, and there it was, close close,For the first time in all the days and nights.His mouth, wet and red,So very, very, very red,Closed over hers.Then a sickness heaved within her. The courtroom Coca-Cola,The courtroom beer and hate and sweat and drone,Pushed like a wall against her. She wanted to bear it.But his mouth would not go away and neither would theDecapitated exclamation points in that Other Woman's eyes.She did not scream.She stood there.But a hatred for him burst into glorious flower,And its perfume enclasped them--big,Bigger than all magnolias.The last bleak news of the ballad.The rest of the rugged music.The last quatrain.", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1362": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1362, "poem.id": 1362, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:29:39", "poem.title": "Sadie And Maud", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1363": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1363, "poem.id": 1363, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:29:45", "poem.title": "Speech To The Young : Speech To The Progress-Toward", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1364": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1364, "poem.id": 1364, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:29:51", "poem.title": "A Sunset Of The City", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1365": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1365, "poem.id": 1365, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:29:55", "poem.title": "My Dreams, My Works, Must Wait Till After Hell", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1366": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1366, "poem.id": 1366, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:30:00", "poem.title": "The Crazy Woman", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1367": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1367, "poem.id": 1367, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:30:06", "poem.title": "To Be In Love", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1368": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1368, "poem.id": 1368, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:30:29", "poem.title": "The Mother", "poem.date": "1/20/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" }, "1369": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1369, "poem.id": 1369, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:30:36", "poem.title": "We Real Cool", "poem.date": "1/20/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Gwendolyn Brooks" } } }, "37": { "poet.id": 37, "poet.ts": "2018-02-28 20:55:26", "poet.title": "Oscar Wilde", "poet.poet_x_poem_id": { "1370": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1370, "poem.id": 1370, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:30:41", "poem.title": "The House Of Judgement", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1371": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1371, "poem.id": 1371, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:30:48", "poem.title": "We Are Made One with What We Touch and See", "poem.date": "4/20/2015", "poem.content": "We are resolved into the supreme air,We are made one with what we touch and see,With our heart's blood each crimson sun is fair,With our young lives each spring-impassioned treeFlames into green, the wildest beasts that rangeThe moor our kinsmen are, all life is one, and all is change. With beat of systole and of diastoleOne grand great life throbs through earth's giant heart,And mighty waves of single Being rollFrom nerve-less germ to man, for we are partOf every rock and bird and beast and hill,One with the things that prey on us, and one with what we kill. . . . One sacrament are consecrate, the earthNot we alone hath passions hymeneal,The yellow buttercups that shake for mirthAt daybreak know a pleasure not less realThan we do, when in some fresh-blossoming woodWe draw the spring into our hearts, and feel that life is good. . . . Is the light vanished from our golden sun,Or is this daedal-fashioned earth less fair,That we are nature's heritors, and oneWith every pulse of life that beats the air?Rather new suns across the sky shall pass,New splendour come unto the flower, new glory to the grass. And we two lovers shall not sit afar,Critics of nature, but the joyous seaShall be our raiment, and the bearded starShoot arrows at our pleasure! We shall bePart of the mighty universal whole,And through all Aeons mix and mingle with the Kosmic Soul! We shall be notes in that great SymphonyWhose cadence circles through the rhythmic spheres,And all the live World's throbbing heart shall beOne with our heart, the stealthy creeping yearsHave lost their terrors now, we shall not die,The Universe itself shall be our Immortality!", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1372": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1372, "poem.id": 1372, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:30:50", "poem.title": "The Artist", "poem.date": "2/9/2015", "poem.content": "One evening there came into his soul the desire to fashion an image of The Pleasure that abideth for a Moment. And he went forth into the world to look for bronze. For he could only think in bronze.But all the bronze of the whole world had disappeared, nor anywhere in the whole world was there any bronze to be found, save only the bronze of the image of The Sorrow that endureth for Ever.Now this image he had himself, and with his own hands, fashioned, and had set it on the tomb of the one thing he had loved in life. On the tomb of the dead thing he had most loved had he set this image of his own fashioning, that it might serve as a sign of the love of man that dieth not, and a symbol of the sorrow of man that endureth for ever. And in the whole world there was no other bronze save the bronze of this image.And he took the image he had fashioned, and set it in a great furnace, and gave it to the fire.And out of the bronze of the image of The Sorrow that endureth for Ever he fashioned an image of The Pleasure that abideth for a Moment.", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1373": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1373, "poem.id": 1373, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:30:55", "poem.title": "Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring", "poem.date": "5/6/2015", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1374": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1374, "poem.id": 1374, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:31:01", "poem.title": "Louis Napoleon", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1375": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1375, "poem.id": 1375, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:31:03", "poem.title": "Queen Henrietta Maria", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1376": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1376, "poem.id": 1376, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:31:09", "poem.title": "Salve Saturnia Tellus", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1377": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1377, "poem.id": 1377, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:31:13", "poem.title": "Tadium Vita", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1378": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1378, "poem.id": 1378, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:31:17", "poem.title": "The Burden Of Itys", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1379": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1379, "poem.id": 1379, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:31:22", "poem.title": "Libertatis Sacra Fames", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1380": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1380, "poem.id": 1380, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:31:27", "poem.title": "Le Reveillon", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1381": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1381, "poem.id": 1381, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:31:32", "poem.title": "Santa Decca", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1382": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1382, "poem.id": 1382, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:31:39", "poem.title": "Impression Du Voyage", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1383": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1383, "poem.id": 1383, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:31:42", "poem.title": "On The Massacre Of The Christians In Bulgaria", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1384": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1384, "poem.id": 1384, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:31:47", "poem.title": "The Dole Of The King's Daughter (Breton)", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1385": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1385, "poem.id": 1385, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:31:52", "poem.title": "Quia Multum Amavi", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1386": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1386, "poem.id": 1386, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:31:55", "poem.title": "Quantum Mutata", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1387": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1387, "poem.id": 1387, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:32:00", "poem.title": "Le Panneau", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1388": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1388, "poem.id": 1388, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:32:06", "poem.title": "Impressions I. Les Silhouettes", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1389": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1389, "poem.id": 1389, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:32:09", "poem.title": "Urbs Sacra Æterna", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1390": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1390, "poem.id": 1390, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:32:12", "poem.title": "Portia", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1391": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1391, "poem.id": 1391, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:32:17", "poem.title": "Theoretikos", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1392": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1392, "poem.id": 1392, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:32:43", "poem.title": "Sonnet On Approaching Italy", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1393": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1393, "poem.id": 1393, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:32:50", "poem.title": "Sonnet Written In Holy Week At Genoa", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1394": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1394, "poem.id": 1394, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:32:52", "poem.title": "Theocritus", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1395": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1395, "poem.id": 1395, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:32:57", "poem.title": "Impressions Ii. La Fuite De La Lune", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1396": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1396, "poem.id": 1396, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:33:03", "poem.title": "Le Jardin Des Tuileries", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1397": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1397, "poem.id": 1397, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:33:10", "poem.title": "Taedium Vitae", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1398": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1398, "poem.id": 1398, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:33:12", "poem.title": "Phedre", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1399": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1399, "poem.id": 1399, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:33:15", "poem.title": "Fabien Dei Franchi", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1400": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1400, "poem.id": 1400, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:33:20", "poem.title": "Les Ballons", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1401": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1401, "poem.id": 1401, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:33:25", "poem.title": "To Milton", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1402": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1402, "poem.id": 1402, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:33:32", "poem.title": "Tristitiae", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1403": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1403, "poem.id": 1403, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:33:38", "poem.title": "On The Sale By Auction Of Keats' Love Letters", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1404": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1404, "poem.id": 1404, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:33:42", "poem.title": "Lotus Leaves", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1405": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1405, "poem.id": 1405, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:33:44", "poem.title": "On Easter Day", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1406": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1406, "poem.id": 1406, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:33:48", "poem.title": "Sonnet On Hearing The Dies Irae Sung In The Sistine Chapel", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1407": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1407, "poem.id": 1407, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:34:15", "poem.title": "The Disciple", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1408": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1408, "poem.id": 1408, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:34:21", "poem.title": "Double Villanelle", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "1409": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1409, "poem.id": 1409, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:34:24", "poem.title": "The Master", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24323": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24323, "poem.id": 24323, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:12:07", "poem.title": "A Villanelle", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24324": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24324, "poem.id": 24324, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:12:12", "poem.title": "Serenade", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24325": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24325, "poem.id": 24325, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:12:15", "poem.title": "Les Silhouettes", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24326": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24326, "poem.id": 24326, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:12:21", "poem.title": "The New Helen", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24327": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24327, "poem.id": 24327, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:12:24", "poem.title": "Le Jardin", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24328": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24328, "poem.id": 24328, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:12:27", "poem.title": "San Miniato", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24329": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24329, "poem.id": 24329, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:12:33", "poem.title": "Impression Du Matin", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24330": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24330, "poem.id": 24330, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:12:36", "poem.title": "The Teacher Of Wisdom", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24331": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24331, "poem.id": 24331, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:12:41", "poem.title": "Sonnet", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24332": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24332, "poem.id": 24332, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:12:44", "poem.title": "Impression De Voyage", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24333": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24333, "poem.id": 24333, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:12:48", "poem.title": "Italia", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24334": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24334, "poem.id": 24334, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:12:55", "poem.title": "Pan", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24335": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24335, "poem.id": 24335, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:13:00", "poem.title": "La Bella Donna Della Mia Mente", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24336": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24336, "poem.id": 24336, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:13:05", "poem.title": "Humanitad", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24337": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24337, "poem.id": 24337, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:13:07", "poem.title": "La Fuite De La Lune", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24338": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24338, "poem.id": 24338, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:13:10", "poem.title": "La Mer", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24339": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24339, "poem.id": 24339, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:13:16", "poem.title": "Impression - Le Reveillon", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24340": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24340, "poem.id": 24340, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:13:21", "poem.title": "Vita Nuova", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24341": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24341, "poem.id": 24341, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:13:24", "poem.title": "Under The Balcony", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24342": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24342, "poem.id": 24342, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:13:31", "poem.title": "The New Remorse", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24343": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24343, "poem.id": 24343, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:13:34", "poem.title": "Magdalen Walks", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24344": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24344, "poem.id": 24344, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:13:38", "poem.title": "Panthea", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24345": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24345, "poem.id": 24345, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:13:45", "poem.title": "Madonna Mia", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24346": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24346, "poem.id": 24346, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:13:50", "poem.title": "The Sphinx", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24347": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24347, "poem.id": 24347, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:13:56", "poem.title": "Silentium Amoris", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24348": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24348, "poem.id": 24348, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:13:59", "poem.title": "The Doer Of Good", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24349": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24349, "poem.id": 24349, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:14:05", "poem.title": "The Garden Of Eros", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24350": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24350, "poem.id": 24350, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:14:07", "poem.title": "Canzonet", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24351": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24351, "poem.id": 24351, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:14:14", "poem.title": "The Ballad Of Reading Gaol (Version II)", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24352": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24352, "poem.id": 24352, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:14:17", "poem.title": "An Inscription", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24353": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24353, "poem.id": 24353, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:14:23", "poem.title": "In The Gold Room - A Harmony", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24354": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24354, "poem.id": 24354, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:14:29", "poem.title": "Ballade De Marguerite (Normande)", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24355": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24355, "poem.id": 24355, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:14:31", "poem.title": "Rome Unvisited", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24356": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24356, "poem.id": 24356, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:14:38", "poem.title": "Helas!", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24357": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24357, "poem.id": 24357, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:14:41", "poem.title": "Endymion", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24358": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24358, "poem.id": 24358, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:14:46", "poem.title": "Ballade De Marguerite", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24359": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24359, "poem.id": 24359, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:14:52", "poem.title": "Charmides", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24360": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24360, "poem.id": 24360, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:14:57", "poem.title": "Holy Week At Genoa", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24361": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24361, "poem.id": 24361, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:15:04", "poem.title": "Athanasia", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24362": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24362, "poem.id": 24362, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:15:07", "poem.title": "The True Knowledge", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24363": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24363, "poem.id": 24363, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:15:09", "poem.title": "Sonnet To Liberty", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24364": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24364, "poem.id": 24364, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:15:15", "poem.title": "Roses And Rue", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24365": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24365, "poem.id": 24365, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:15:21", "poem.title": "E Tenebris", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24366": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24366, "poem.id": 24366, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:15:24", "poem.title": "Ave Imperatrix", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24367": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24367, "poem.id": 24367, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:15:28", "poem.title": "The Grave Of Shelley", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24368": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24368, "poem.id": 24368, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:15:34", "poem.title": "The Grave Of Keats", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24369": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24369, "poem.id": 24369, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:15:37", "poem.title": "Chanson", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24370": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24370, "poem.id": 24370, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:15:42", "poem.title": "From Spring Days To Winter (For Music)", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24371": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24371, "poem.id": 24371, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:15:47", "poem.title": "The Harlot's House", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24372": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24372, "poem.id": 24372, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:15:50", "poem.title": "Greece", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24373": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24373, "poem.id": 24373, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:15:56", "poem.title": "Easter Day", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24374": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24374, "poem.id": 24374, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:15:59", "poem.title": "By The Arno", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24375": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24375, "poem.id": 24375, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:16:04", "poem.title": "Ravenna", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24376": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24376, "poem.id": 24376, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:16:06", "poem.title": "A Fragment", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24377": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24377, "poem.id": 24377, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:16:13", "poem.title": "At Verona", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24378": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24378, "poem.id": 24378, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:16:16", "poem.title": "To My Wife", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24379": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24379, "poem.id": 24379, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:16:20", "poem.title": "Requiescat", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24380": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24380, "poem.id": 24380, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:16:26", "poem.title": "Desespoir", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24381": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24381, "poem.id": 24381, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:16:28", "poem.title": "My Voice", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24382": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24382, "poem.id": 24382, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:16:32", "poem.title": "Symphony In Yellow", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24383": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24383, "poem.id": 24383, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:16:35", "poem.title": "A Lament", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24384": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24384, "poem.id": 24384, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:16:41", "poem.title": "Camma", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24385": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24385, "poem.id": 24385, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:16:44", "poem.title": "In The Forest", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24386": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24386, "poem.id": 24386, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:16:50", "poem.title": "Ava Maria Plena Gratia", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24387": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24387, "poem.id": 24387, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:16:55", "poem.title": "Apologia", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24388": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24388, "poem.id": 24388, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:17:00", "poem.title": "Amor Intellectualis", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24389": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24389, "poem.id": 24389, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:17:05", "poem.title": "The Ballad Of Reading Gaol", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "(In memoriamC. T. W.Sometime trooper of the Royal Horse Guardsobiit H.M. prison, Reading, BerkshireJuly 7, 1896)IHe did not wear his scarlet coat,For blood and wine are red,And blood and wine were on his handsWhen they found him with the dead,The poor dead woman whom he loved,And murdered in her bed.He walked amongst the Trial MenIn a suit of shabby grey;A cricket cap was on his head,And his step seemed light and gay;But I never saw a man who lookedSo wistfully at the day.I never saw a man who lookedWith such a wistful eyeUpon that little tent of blueWhich prisoners call the sky,And at every drifting cloud that wentWith sails of silver by.I walked, with other souls in pain,Within another ring,And was wondering if the man had doneA great or little thing,When a voice behind me whispered low,'THAT FELLOW'S GOT TO SWING.'Dear Christ! the very prison wallsSuddenly seemed to reel,And the sky above my head becameLike a casque of scorching steel;And, though I was a soul in pain,My pain I could not feel.I only knew what hunted thoughtQuickened his step, and whyHe looked upon the garish dayWith such a wistful eye;The man had killed the thing he loved,And so he had to die.Yet each man kills the thing he loves,By each let this be heard,Some do it with a bitter look,Some with a flattering word,The coward does it with a kiss,The brave man with a sword!Some kill their love when they are young,And some when they are old;Some strangle with the hands of Lust,Some with the hands of Gold:The kindest use a knife, becauseThe dead so soon grow cold.Some love too little, some too long,Some sell, and others buy;Some do the deed with many tears,And some without a sigh:For each man kills the thing he loves,Yet each man does not die.He does not die a death of shameOn a day of dark disgrace,Nor have a noose about his neck,Nor a cloth upon his face,Nor drop feet foremost through the floorInto an empty space.He does not sit with silent menWho watch him night and day;Who watch him when he tries to weep,And when he tries to pray;Who watch him lest himself should robThe prison of its prey.He does not wake at dawn to seeDread figures throng his room,The shivering Chaplain robed in white,The Sheriff stern with gloom,And the Governor all in shiny black,With the yellow face of Doom.He does not rise in piteous hasteTo put on convict-clothes,While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats,and notesEach new and nerve-twitched pose,Fingering a watch whose little ticksAre like horrible hammer-blows.He does not know that sickening thirstThat sands one's throat, beforeThe hangman with his gardener's glovesSlips through the padded door,And binds one with three leathern thongs,That the throat may thirst no more.He does not bend his head to hearThe Burial Office read,Nor, while the terror of his soulTells him he is not dead,Cross his own coffin, as he movesInto the hideous shed.He does not stare upon the airThrough a little roof of glass:He does not pray with lips of clayFor his agony to pass;Nor feel upon his shuddering cheekThe kiss of Caiaphas.IISix weeks our guardsman walked the yard,In the suit of shabby grey:His cricket cap was on his head,And his step seemed light and gay,But I never saw a man who lookedSo wistfully at the day.I never saw a man who lookedWith such a wistful eyeUpon that little tent of blueWhich prisoners call the sky,And at every wandering cloud that trailedIts ravelled fleeces by.He did not wring his hands, as doThose witless men who dareTo try to rear the changeling HopeIn the cave of black Despair:He only looked upon the sun,And drank the morning air.He did not wring his hands nor weep,Nor did he peek or pine,But he drank the air as though it heldSome healthful anodyne;With open mouth he drank the sunAs though it had been wine!And I and all the souls in pain,Who tramped the other ring,Forgot if we ourselves had doneA great or little thing,And watched with gaze of dull amazeThe man who had to swing.And strange it was to see him passWith a step so light and gay,And strange it was to see him lookSo wistfully at the day,And strange it was to think that heHad such a debt to pay.For oak and elm have pleasant leavesThat in the springtime shoot:But grim to see is the gallows-tree,With its adder-bitten root,And, green or dry, a man must dieBefore it bears its fruit!The loftiest place is that seat of graceFor which all worldlings try:But who would stand in hempen bandUpon a scaffold high,And through a murderer's collar takeHis last look at the sky?It is sweet to dance to violinsWhen Love and Life are fair:To dance to flutes, to dance to lutesIs delicate and rare:But it is not sweet with nimble feetTo dance upon the air!So with curious eyes and sick surmiseWe watched him day by day,And wondered if each one of usWould end the self-same way,For none can tell to what red HellHis sightless soul may stray.At last the dead man walked no moreAmongst the Trial Men,And I knew that he was standing upIn the black dock's dreadful pen,And that never would I see his faceIn God's sweet world again.Like two doomed ships that pass in stormWe had crossed each other's way:But we made no sign, we said no word,We had no word to say;For we did not meet in the holy night,But in the shameful day.A prison wall was round us both,Two outcast men we were:The world had thrust us from its heart,And God from out His care:And the iron gin that waits for SinHad caught us in its snare.IIIIn Debtors' Yard the stones are hard,And the dripping wall is high,So it was there he took the airBeneath the leaden sky,And by each side a Warder walked,For fear the man might die.Or else he sat with those who watchedHis anguish night and day;Who watched him when he rose to weep,And when he crouched to pray;Who watched him lest himself should robTheir scaffold of its prey.The Governor was strong uponThe Regulations Act:The Doctor said that Death was butA scientific fact:And twice a day the Chaplain called,And left a little tract.And twice a day he smoked his pipe,And drank his quart of beer:His soul was resolute, and heldNo hiding-place for fear;He often said that he was gladThe hangman's hands were near.But why he said so strange a thingNo Warder dared to ask:For he to whom a watcher's doomIs given as his task,Must set a lock upon his lips,And make his face a mask.Or else he might be moved, and tryTo comfort or console:And what should Human Pity doPent up in Murderers' Hole?What word of grace in such a placeCould help a brother's soul?With slouch and swing around the ringWe trod the Fools' Parade!We did not care: we knew we wereThe Devil's Own Brigade:And shaven head and feet of leadMake a merry masquerade.We tore the tarry rope to shredsWith blunt and bleeding nails;We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,And cleaned the shining rails:And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,And clattered with the pails.We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,We turned the dusty drill:We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,And sweated on the mill:But in the heart of every manTerror was lying still.So still it lay that every dayCrawled like a weed-clogged wave:And we forgot the bitter lotThat waits for fool and knave,Till once, as we tramped in from work,We passed an open grave.With yawning mouth the yellow holeGaped for a living thing;The very mud cried out for bloodTo the thirsty asphalte ring:And we knew that ere one dawn grew fairSome prisoner had to swing.Right in we went, with soul intentOn Death and Dread and Doom:The hangman, with his little bag,Went shuffling through the gloom:And each man trembled as he creptInto his numbered tomb.That night the empty corridorsWere full of forms of Fear,And up and down the iron townStole feet we could not hear,And through the bars that hide the starsWhite faces seemed to peer.He lay as one who lies and dreamsIn a pleasant meadow-land,The watchers watched him as he slept,And could not understandHow one could sleep so sweet a sleepWith a hangman close at hand.But there is no sleep when men must weepWho never yet have wept:So we - the fool, the fraud, the knave -That endless vigil kept,And through each brain on hands of painAnother's terror crept.Alas! it is a fearful thingTo feel another's guilt!For, right within, the sword of SinPierced to its poisoned hilt,And as molten lead were the tears we shedFor the blood we had not spilt.The Warders with their shoes of feltCrept by each padlocked door,And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,Grey figures on the floor,And wondered why men knelt to prayWho never prayed before.All through the night we knelt and prayed,Mad mourners of a corse!The troubled plumes of midnight wereThe plumes upon a hearse:And bitter wine upon a spongeWas the savour of Remorse.The grey cock crew, the red cock crew,But never came the day:And crooked shapes of Terror crouched,In the corners where we lay:And each evil sprite that walks by nightBefore us seemed to play.They glided past, they glided fast,Like travellers through a mist:They mocked the moon in a rigadoonOf delicate turn and twist,And with formal pace and loathsome graceThe phantoms kept their tryst.With mop and mow, we saw them go,Slim shadows hand in hand:About, about, in ghostly routThey trod a saraband:And the damned grotesques made arabesques,Like the wind upon the sand!With the pirouettes of marionettes,They tripped on pointed tread:But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,As their grisly masque they led,And loud they sang, and long they sang,For they sang to wake the dead.'Oho!' they cried, 'The world is wide,But fettered limbs go lame!And once, or twice, to throw the diceIs a gentlemanly game,But he does not win who plays with SinIn the secret House of Shame.'No things of air these antics were,That frolicked with such glee:To men whose lives were held in gyves,And whose feet might not go free,Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,Most terrible to see.Around, around, they waltzed and wound;Some wheeled in smirking pairs;With the mincing step of a demirepSome sidled up the stairs:And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,Each helped us at our prayers.The morning wind began to moan,But still the night went on:Through its giant loom the web of gloomCrept till each thread was spun:And, as we prayed, we grew afraidOf the Justice of the Sun.The moaning wind went wandering roundThe weeping prison-wall:Till like a wheel of turning steelWe felt the minutes crawl:O moaning wind! what had we doneTo have such a seneschal?At last I saw the shadowed bars,Like a lattice wrought in lead,Move right across the whitewashed wallThat faced my three-plank bed,And I knew that somewhere in the worldGod's dreadful dawn was red.At six o'clock we cleaned our cells,At seven all was still,But the sough and swing of a mighty wingThe prison seemed to fill,For the Lord of Death with icy breathHad entered in to kill.He did not pass in purple pomp,Nor ride a moon-white steed.Three yards of cord and a sliding boardAre all the gallows' need:So with rope of shame the Herald cameTo do the secret deed.We were as men who through a fenOf filthy darkness grope:We did not dare to breathe a prayer,Or to give our anguish scope:Something was dead in each of us,And what was dead was Hope.For Man's grim Justice goes its way,And will not swerve aside:It slays the weak, it slays the strong,It has a deadly stride:With iron heel it slays the strong,The monstrous parricide!We waited for the stroke of eight:Each tongue was thick with thirst:For the stroke of eight is the stroke of FateThat makes a man accursed,And Fate will use a running nooseFor the best man and the worst.We had no other thing to do,Save to wait for the sign to come:So, like things of stone in a valley lone,Quiet we sat and dumb:But each man's heart beat thick and quick,Like a madman on a drum!With sudden shock the prison-clockSmote on the shivering air,And from all the gaol rose up a wailOf impotent despair,Like the sound that frightened marshes hearFrom some leper in his lair.And as one sees most fearful thingsIn the crystal of a dream,We saw the greasy hempen ropeHooked to the blackened beam,And heard the prayer the hangman's snareStrangled into a scream.And all the woe that moved him soThat he gave that bitter cry,And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,None knew so well as I:For he who lives more lives than oneMore deaths than one must die.IVThere is no chapel on the dayOn which they hang a man:The Chaplain's heart is far too sick,Or his face is far too wan,Or there is that written in his eyesWhich none should look upon.So they kept us close till nigh on noon,And then they rang the bell,And the Warders with their jingling keysOpened each listening cell,And down the iron stair we tramped,Each from his separate Hell.Out into God's sweet air we went,But not in wonted way,For this man's face was white with fear,And that man's face was grey,And I never saw sad men who lookedSo wistfully at the day.I never saw sad men who lookedWith such a wistful eyeUpon that little tent of blueWe prisoners called the sky,And at every careless cloud that passedIn happy freedom by.But there were those amongst us allWho walked with downcast head,And knew that, had each got his due,They should have died instead:He had but killed a thing that lived,Whilst they had killed the dead.For he who sins a second timeWakes a dead soul to pain,And draws it from its spotted shroud,And makes it bleed again,And makes it bleed great gouts of blood,And makes it bleed in vain!Like ape or clown, in monstrous garbWith crooked arrows starred,Silently we went round and roundThe slippery asphalte yard;Silently we went round and round,And no man spoke a word.Silently we went round and round,And through each hollow mindThe Memory of dreadful thingsRushed like a dreadful wind,And Horror stalked before each man,And Terror crept behind.The Warders strutted up and down,And kept their herd of brutes,Their uniforms were spick and span,And they wore their Sunday suits,But we knew the work they had been at,By the quicklime on their boots.For where a grave had opened wide,There was no grave at all:Only a stretch of mud and sandBy the hideous prison-wall,And a little heap of burning lime,That the man should have his pall.For he has a pall, this wretched man,Such as few men can claim:Deep down below a prison-yard,Naked for greater shame,He lies, with fetters on each foot,Wrapt in a sheet of flame!And all the while the burning limeEats flesh and bone away,It eats the brittle bone by night,And the soft flesh by day,It eats the flesh and bone by turns,But it eats the heart alway.For three long years they will not sowOr root or seedling there:For three long years the unblessed spotWill sterile be and bare,And look upon the wondering skyWith unreproachful stare.They think a murderer's heart would taintEach simple seed they sow.It is not true! God's kindly earthIs kindlier than men know,And the red rose would but blow more red,The white rose whiter blow.Out of his mouth a red, red rose!Out of his heart a white!For who can say by what strange way,Christ brings His will to light,Since the barren staff the pilgrim boreBloomed in the great Pope's sight?But neither milk-white rose nor redMay bloom in prison-air;The shard, the pebble, and the flint,Are what they give us there:For flowers have been known to healA common man's despair.So never will wine-red rose or white,Petal by petal, fallOn that stretch of mud and sand that liesBy the hideous prison-wall,To tell the men who tramp the yardThat God's Son died for all.Yet though the hideous prison-wallStill hems him round and round,And a spirit may not walk by nightThat is with fetters bound,And a spirit may but weep that liesIn such unholy ground,He is at peace - this wretched man -At peace, or will be soon:There is no thing to make him mad,Nor does Terror walk at noon,For the lampless Earth in which he liesHas neither Sun nor Moon.They hanged him as a beast is hanged:They did not even tollA requiem that might have broughtRest to his startled soul,But hurriedly they took him out,And hid him in a hole.They stripped him of his canvas clothes,And gave him to the flies:They mocked the swollen purple throat,And the stark and staring eyes:And with laughter loud they heaped the shroudIn which their convict lies.The Chaplain would not kneel to prayBy his dishonoured grave:Nor mark it with that blessed CrossThat Christ for sinners gave,Because the man was one of thoseWhom Christ came down to save.Yet all is well; he has but passedTo Life's appointed bourne:And alien tears will fill for himPity's long-broken urn,For his mourners will be outcast men,And outcasts always mournVI know not whether Laws be right,Or whether Laws be wrong;All that we know who lie in gaolIs that the wall is strong;And that each day is like a year,A year whose days are long.But this I know, that every LawThat men have made for Man,Since first Man took his brother's life,And the sad world began,But straws the wheat and saves the chaffWith a most evil fan.This too I know - and wise it wereIf each could know the same -That every prison that men buildIs built with bricks of shame,And bound with bars lest Christ should seeHow men their brothers maim.With bars they blur the gracious moon,And blind the goodly sun:And they do well to hide their Hell,For in it things are doneThat Son of God nor son of ManEver should look upon!The vilest deeds like poison weeds,Bloom well in prison-air;It is only what is good in ManThat wastes and withers there:Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,And the Warder is Despair.For they starve the little frightened childTill it weeps both night and day:And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,And gibe the old and grey,And some grow mad, and all grow bad,And none a word may say.Each narrow cell in which we dwellIs a foul and dark latrine,And the fetid breath of living DeathChokes up each grated screen,And all, but Lust, is turned to dustIn Humanity's machine.The brackish water that we drinkCreeps with a loathsome slime,And the bitter bread they weigh in scalesIs full of chalk and lime,And Sleep will not lie down, but walksWild-eyed, and cries to Time.But though lean Hunger and green ThirstLike asp with adder fight,We have little care of prison fare,For what chills and kills outrightIs that every stone one lifts by dayBecomes one's heart by night.With midnight always in one's heart,And twilight in one's cell,We turn the crank, or tear the rope,Each in his separate Hell,And the silence is more awful farThan the sound of a brazen bell.And never a human voice comes nearTo speak a gentle word:And the eye that watches through the doorIs pitiless and hard:And by all forgot, we rot and rot,With soul and body marred.And thus we rust Life's iron chainDegraded and alone:And some men curse, and some men weep,And some men make no moan:But God's eternal Laws are kindAnd break the heart of stone.And every human heart that breaks,In prison-cell or yard,Is as that broken box that gaveIts treasure to the Lord,And filled the unclean leper's houseWith the scent of costliest nard.Ah! happy they whose hearts can breakAnd peace of pardon win!How else may man make straight his planAnd cleanse his soul from Sin?How else but through a broken heartMay Lord Christ enter in?And he of the swollen purple throat,And the stark and staring eyes,Waits for the holy hands that tookThe Thief to Paradise;And a broken and a contrite heartThe Lord will not despise.The man in red who reads the LawGave him three weeks of life,Three little weeks in which to healHis soul of his soul's strife,And cleanse from every blot of bloodThe hand that held the knife.And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,The hand that held the steel:For only blood can wipe out blood,And only tears can heal:And the crimson stain that was of CainBecame Christ's snow-white seal.VIIn Reading gaol by Reading townThere is a pit of shame,And in it lies a wretched manEaten by teeth of flame,In a burning winding-sheet he lies,And his grave has got no name.And there, till Christ call forth the dead,In silence let him lie:No need to waste the foolish tear,Or heave the windy sigh:The man had killed the thing he loved,And so he had to die.And all men kill the thing they love,By all let this be heard,Some do it with a bitter look,Some with a flattering word,The coward does it with a kiss,The brave man with a sword!", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24390": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24390, "poem.id": 24390, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:17:08", "poem.title": "Flower Of Love", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault was, had I not been made of common clayI had climbed the higher heights unclimbed yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.From the wildness of my wasted passion I had struck a better, clearer song,Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled with some Hydra-headed wrong.Had my lips been smitten into music by the kisses that but made them bleed,You had walked with Bice and the angels on that verdant and enamelled meed.I had trod the road which Dante treading saw the suns of seven circles shine,Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening, as they opened to the Florentine.And the mighty nations would have crowned me, who am crownless now and without name,And some orient dawn had found me kneeling on the threshold of the House of Fame.I had sat within that marble circle where the oldest bard is as the young,And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the lyre's strings are ever strung.Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out the poppy-seeded wine,With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead, clasped the hand of noble love in mine.And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush the burnished bosom of the dove,Two young lovers lying in an orchard would have read the story of our love;Would have read the legend of my passion, known the bitter secret of my heart,Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as we two are fated now to part.For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by the cankerworm of truth,And no hand can gather up the fallen withered petals of the rose of youth.Yet I am not sorry that I loved you -ah! what else had I a boy to do? - For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the silent-footed years pursue.Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and when once the storm of youth is past,Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death the silent pilot comes at last.And within the grave there is no pleasure, for the blindworm battens on the root,And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of Passion bears no fruit.Ah! what else had I to do but love you? God's own mother was less dear to me,And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an argent lily from the sea.I have made my choice, have lived my poems, and, though youth is gone in wasted days,I have found the lover's crown of myrtle better than the poet's crown of bays.", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24391": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24391, "poem.id": 24391, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:17:13", "poem.title": "A Vision", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" }, "24392": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24392, "poem.id": 24392, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:17:18", "poem.title": "Her Voice", "poem.date": "5/18/2001", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Oscar Wilde" } } }, "38": { "poet.id": 38, "poet.ts": "2018-02-28 20:55:53", "poet.title": "Robert Louis Stevenson", "poet.poet_x_poem_id": { "1410": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1410, "poem.id": 1410, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:34:29", "poem.title": "To Mrs. Will. H. Low.", "poem.date": "3/26/2015", "poem.content": "Even in the bluest noonday of July,There could not run the smallest breath of windBut all the quarter sounded like a wood;And in the chequered silence and aboveThe hum of city cabs that sought the Bois,Suburban ashes shivered into song.A patter and a chatter and a chirpAnd a long dying hiss - it was as thoughStarched old brocaded dames through all the houseHad trailed a strident skirt, or her whole skyEven in a wink had over-brimmed in rain.Hark, in these shady parlours, how it talksOf the near autumn, how the smitten ashTrembles and augurs floods! O not too longIn these inconstant latitudes delay,O not too late from the unbeloved northTrim your escape! For soon shall this low roofResound indeed with rain, soon shall your eyesSearch the foul garden, search the darkened rooms,Nor find one jewel but the blazing log.", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1411": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1411, "poem.id": 1411, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:34:32", "poem.title": "The Sick Child", "poem.date": "4/24/2015", "poem.content": "CHILD.O Mother, lay your hand on my brow!O mother, mother, where am I now?Why is the room so gaunt and great? Why am I lying awake so late?MOTHER.Fear not at all: the night is still.Nothing is here that means you ill -Nothing but lamps the whole town through,And never a child awake but you.CHILD.Mother, mother, speak low in my ear,Some of the things are so great and near,Some are so small and far away,I have a fear that I cannot say,What have I done, and what do I fear,And why are you crying, mother dear?MOTHER.Out in the city, sounds beginThank the kind God, the carts come in!An hour or two more, and God is so kind,The day shall be blue in the window-blind,Then shall my child go sweetly asleep,And dream of the birds and the hills of sheep.", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1412": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1412, "poem.id": 1412, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:34:37", "poem.title": "The Feast Of Famine", "poem.date": "7/1/2015", "poem.content": "Marquesan MannersI. THE PRIEST'S VIGILIn all the land of the tribe was neither fish nor fruit,And the deepest pit of popoi stood empty to the foot.The clans upon the left and the clans upon the rightNow oiled their carven maces and scoured their daggers bright;They gat them to the thicket, to the deepest of the shade,And lay with sleepless eyes in the deadly ambuscade.And oft in the starry even the song of morning rose,What time the oven smoked in the country of their foes;For oft to loving hearts, and waiting ears and sight,The lads that went to forage returned not with the night.Now first the children sickened, and then the women paled,And the great arms of the warrior no more for war availed.Hushed was the deep drum, discarded was the dance;And those that met the priest now glanced at him askance.The priest was a man of years, his eyes were ruby-red,He neither feared the dark nor the terrors of the dead,He knew the songs of races, the names of ancient date;And the beard upon his bosom would have bought the chief's estate.He dwelt in a high-built lodge, hard by the roaring shore,Raised on a noble terrace and with tikis at the door.Within it was full of riches, for he served his nation well,And full of the sound of breakers, like the hollow of a shell.For weeks he let them perish, gave never a helping sign,But sat on his oiled platform to commune with the divine,But sat on his high terrace, with the tikis by his side,And stared on the blue ocean, like a parrot, ruby-eyed.Dawn as yellow as sulphur leaped on the mountain height:Out on the round of the sea the gems of the morning light,Up from the round of the sea the streamers of the sun; -But down in the depths of the valley the day was not begun.In the blue of the woody twilight burned red the cocoa-husk,And the women and men of the clan went forth to bathe in the dusk,A word that began to go round, a word, a whisper, a start:Hope that leaped in the bosom, fear that knocked on the heart:'See, the priest is not risen- look, for his door is fast!He is going to name the victims; he is going to help us at last.'Thrice rose the sun to noon; and ever, like one of the dead,The priest lay still in his house with the roar of the sea in his head;There was never a foot on the floor, there was never a whisper of speech;Only the leering tikis stared on the blinding beach.Again were the mountains fired, again the morning broke;And all the houses lay still, but the house of the priest awoke.Close in their covering roofs lay and trembled the clan,But the aged, red-eyed priest ran forth like a lunatic man;And the village panted to see him in the jewels of death again,In the silver beards of the old and the hair of women slain.Frenzy shook in his limbs, frenzy shone in his eyes,And still and again as he ran, the valley rang with his cries.All day long in the land, by cliff and thicket and den,He ran his lunatic rounds, and howled for the flesh of men;All day long he ate not, nor ever drank of the brook;And all day long in their houses the people listened and shook -All day long in their houses they listened with bated breath,And never a soul went forth, for the sight of the priest was death.Three were the days of his running, as the gods appointed of yore,Two the nights of his sleeping alone in the place of gore:The drunken slumber of frenzy twice he drank to the lees,On the sacred stones of the High-place under the sacred trees;With a lamp at his ashen head he lay in the place of the feast,And the sacred leaves of the banyan rustled around the priest.Last, when the stated even fell upon terrace and tree,And the shade of the lofty island lay leagues away to sea,And all the valleys of verdure were heavy with manna and musk,The wreck of the red-eyed priest came gasping home in the dusk.He reeled across the village, he staggered along the shore,And between the leering tikis crept groping through his door.There went a stir through the lodges, the voice of speech awoke;Once more from the builded platforms arose the evening smoke.And those who were mighty in war, and those renowned for an artSat in their stated seats and talked of the morrow apart.II. THE LOVERSHark! away in the woods- for the ears of love are sharp -Stealthily, quietly touched, the note of the one-stringed harp.In the lighted house of her father, why should Taheia start?Taheia heavy of hair, Taheia tender of heart,Taheia the well-descended, a bountiful dealer in love,Nimble of foot like the deer, and kind of eye like the dove?Sly and shy as a cat, with never a change of face,Taheia slips to the door, like one that would breathe a space;Saunters and pauses, and looks at the stars, and lists to the seas;Then sudden and swift as a cat, she plunges under the trees.Swift as a cat she runs, with her garment gathered high,Leaping, nimble of foot, running, certain of eye;And ever to guide her way over the smooth and the sharp,Ever nearer and nearer the note of the one-stringed harp;Till at length, in a glade of the wood, with a naked mountain above,The sound of the harp thrown down, and she in the arms of her love.'Rua,'- 'Taheia,' they cry- 'my heart, my soul, and my eyes,'And clasp and sunder and kiss, with lovely laughter and sighs,'Rua!'- 'Taheia, my love,'- 'Rua, star of my night,Clasp me, hold me, and love me, single spring of delight.'And Rua folded her close, he folded her near and long,The living knit to the living, and sang the lover's song:Night, night it is, night upon the palms.Night, night it is, the land wind has blown.Starry, starry night, over deep and height;Love, love in the valley, love all alone.'Taheia, heavy of hair, a foolish thing have we done,To bind what gods have sundered unkindly into one.Why should a lowly lover have touched Taheia's skirt,Taheia the well-descended, and Rua child of the dirt?''- On high with the haka-ikis my father sits in state,Ten times fifty kinsmen salute him in the gate;Round all his martial body, and in bands across his face,The marks of the tattooer proclaim his lofty place.I too, in the hands of the cunning, in the sacred cabin of palm, Have shrunk like the mimosa, and bleated like the lamb;Round half my tender body, that none shall clasp but you,For a crest and a fair adornment go dainty lines of blue.Love, love, beloved Rua, love levels all degrees,And the well-tattooed Taheia clings panting to your knees.''- Taheia, song of the morning, how long is the longest love?A cry, a clasp of the hands, a star that falls from above!Ever at morn in the blue, and at night when all is black,Ever it skulks and trembles with the hunter, Death, on its track.Hear me, Taheia, death! For to-morrow the priest shall awake,And the names be named of the victims to bleed for the nation's sake;And first of the numbered many that shall be slain ere noon,Rua the child of the dirt, Rua the kinless loon.For him shall the drum be beat, for him be raised the song,For him to the sacred High-place the chaunting people throng,For him the oven smoke as for a speechless beast,And the sire of my Taheia come greedy to the feast.''Rua, be silent, spare me. Taheia closes her ears.Pity my yearning heart, pity my girlish years!Flee from the cruel hands, flee from the knife and coal,Lie hid in the deeps of the woods, Rua, sire of my soul!''Whither to flee, Taheia, whither in all of the land?The fires of the bloody kitchen are kindled on every hand;On every hand in the isle a hungry whetting of teeth,Eyes in the trees above, arms in the brush beneath.Patience to lie in wait, cunning to follow the sleuth,Abroad the foes I have fought, and at home the friends of my youth.''Love, love, beloved Rua, love has a clearer eye,Hence from the arms of love you go not forth to die.There, where the broken mountain drops sheer into the glen,There shall you find a hold from the boldest hunter of men;There, in the deep recess, where the sun falls only at noon,And only once in the night enters the light of the moon,Nor ever a sound but of birds, or the rain when it falls with a shout;For death and the fear of death beleaguer the valley about.Tapu it is, but the gods will surely pardon despair;Tapu, but what of that? If Rua can only dare.Tapu and tapu and tapu, I know they are every one right;But the god of every tapu is not always quick to smite.Lie secret there, my Rua, in the arms of awful gods,Sleep in the shade of the trees on the couch of the kindly sods,Sleep and dream of Taheia, Taheia will wake for you;And whenever the land wind blows and the woods are heavy with dew,Alone through the horror of night, with food for the soul of her love,Taheia the undissuaded will hurry true as the dove.''Taheia, the pit of the night crawls with treacherous things,Spirits of ultimate air and the evil souls of things;The souls of the dead, the stranglers, that perch in the trees of the wood,Waiters for all things human, haters of evil and good.''Rua, behold me, kiss me, look in my eyes and read;Are these the eyes of a maid that would leave her lover in need?Brave in the eye of day, my father ruled in the fight;The child of his loins, Taheia, will play the man in the night.'So it was spoken, and so agreed, and Taheia aroseAnd smiled in the stars and was gone, swift as the swallow goes;And Rua stood on the hill, and sighed, and followed her flight,And there were the lodges below, each with its door alight;From folk that sat on the terrace and drew out the even longSudden crowings of laughter, monotonous drone of song;The quiet passage of souls over his head in the trees;And from all around the haven the crumbling thunder of seas.'Farewell, my home,' said Rua. 'Farewell, O quiet seat!To-morrow in all your valleys the drum of death shall beat.'III. THE FEASTDawn as yellow as sulphur leaped on the naked peak,And all the village was stirring, for now was the priest to speak.Forth on his terrace he came, and sat with the chief in talk;His lips were blackened with fever, his cheeks were whiter than chalk;Fever clutched at his hands, fever nodded his head,But, quiet and steady and cruel, his eyes shone ruby-red.In the earliest rays of the sun the chief rose up content;Braves were summoned, and drummers; messengers came and went;Braves ran to their lodges, weapons were snatched from the wall;The commons herded together, and fear was over them all.Festival dresses they wore, but the tongue was dry in their mouth,And the blinking eyes in their faces skirted from north to south.Now to the sacred enclosure gathered the greatest and least,And from under the shade of the banyan arose the voice of the feast,The frenzied roll of the drum, and a swift, monotonous song.Higher the sun swam up; the trade wind level and strongAwoke in the tops of the palms and rattled the fans aloud,And over the garlanded heads and shining robes of the crowdTossed the spiders of shadow, scattered the jewels of sun.Forty the tale of the drums, and the forty throbbed like one;A thousand hearts in the crowd, and the even chorus of song,Swift as the feet of a runner, trampled a thousand strong.And the old men leered at the ovens and licked their lips for the food;And the women stared at the lads, and laughed and looked to the wood.As when the sweltering baker, at night, when the city is dead,Alone in the trough of labour treads and fashions the bread;So in the heat, and the reek, and the touch of woman and man,The naked spirit of evil kneaded the hearts of the clan.Now cold was at many a heart, and shaking in many a seat;For there were the empty baskets, but who was to furnish the meat?For here was the nation assembled, and there were the ovens anigh,And out of a thousand singers nine were numbered to die.Till, of a sudden, a shock, a mace in the air, a yell,And, struck in the edge of the crowd, the first of the victims fell.Terror and horrible glee divided the shrinking clan,Terror of what was to follow, glee for a diet of man.Frenzy hurried the chaunt, frenzy rattled the drums;The nobles, high on the terrace, greedily mouthed their thumbs;And once and again and again, in the ignorant crowd below,Once and again and again descended the murderous blow.Now smoked the oven, and now, with the cutting lip of a shell,A butcher of ninety winters jointed the bodies well.Unto the carven lodge, silent, in order due,The grandees of the nation one after one withdrew;And a line of laden bearers brought to the terrace foot,On poles across their shoulders, the last reserve of fruit.The victims bled for the nobles in the old appointed way;The fruit was spread for the commons, for all should eat to-day.And now was the kava brewed, and now the cocoa ran,Now was the hour of the dance for child and woman and man;And mirth was in every heart, and a garland on every head,And all was well with the living and well with the eight who were dead.Only the chiefs and the priest talked and consulted awhile:'To-morrow,' they said, and 'To-morrow,' and nodded and seemed to smile:'Rua the child of dirt, the creature of common clay,Rua must die to-morrow, since Rua is gone to-day.'Out of the groves of the valley, where clear the blackbirds sang.Sheer from the trees of the valley the face of the mountain sprang;Sheer and bare it rose, unscalable barricade,Beaten and blown against by the generous draught of the trade.Dawn on its fluted brow painted rainbow light,Close on its pinnacled crown trembled the stars at night.Here and there in a cleft clustered contorted trees,Or the silver beard of a stream hung and swung in the breeze.High overhead, with a cry, the torrents leaped for the main,And silently sprinkled below in thin perennial rain.Dark in the staring noon, dark was Rua's ravine,Damp and cold was the air, and the face of the cliffs was green.Here, in the rocky pit, accursed already of old,On a stone in the midst of a river, Rua sat and was cold.'Valley of mid-day shadows, valley of silent falls,Rua sang, and his voice went hollow about the walls,'Valley of shadow and rock, a doleful prison to me,What is the life you can give to a child of the sun and the sea?'And Rua arose and came to the open mouth of the glen,Whence he beheld the woods, and the sea, and houses of men.Wide blew the riotous trade, and smelt in his nostrils good;It bowed the boats on the bay, and tore and divided the wood;It smote and sundered the groves as Moses smote with the rod,And the streamers of all the trees blew like banners abroad;And ever and on, in a lull, the trade wind brought him alongA far-off patter of drums and a far-off whisper of song.Swift as the swallow's wings, the diligent hands on the drumFluttered and hurried and throbbed. 'Ah, woe that I hear you come,'Rua cried in his grief, 'a sorrowful sound to me,Mounting far and faint from the resonant shore of the sea!Woe in the song! for the grave breathes in the singers' breath,And I hear in the tramp of the drums the beat of the heart of death.Home of my youth! no more, through all the length of the years,No more to the place of the echoes of early laughter and tears,No more shall Rua return; no more as the evening ends,To crowded eyes of welcome, to the reaching hands of friends.'All day long from the High-place the drums and the singing came,And the even fell, and the sun went down, a wheel of flame;And night came gleaning the shadows and hushing the sounds of the wood;And silence slept on all, where Rua sorrowed and stood.But still from the shore of the bay the sound of the festival rang,And still the crowd in the High-place danced and shouted and sang.Now over all the isle terror was breathed abroadOf shadowy hands from the trees and shadowy snares in the sod;And before the nostrils of night, the shuddering hunter of menHurried, with beard on shoulder, back to his lighted den.'Taheia, here to my side!'- 'Rua, my Rua, you!'And cold from the clutch of terror, cold with the damp of the dew,Taheia, heavy of hair, leaped through the dark to his arms;Taheia leaped to his clasp, and was folded in from alarms.'Rua, beloved, here, see what your love has brought;Coming- alas! returning- swift as the shuttle of thought;Returning, alas! for to-night, with the beaten drum and the voice,In the shine of many torches must the sleepless clan rejoice;And Taheia the well-descended, the daughter of chief and priest,Taheia must sit in her place in the crowded bench of the feast.'So it was spoken; and she, girding her garment high,Fled and was swallowed of woods, swift as the sight of an eye.Night over isle and sea rolled her curtain of stars,Then a trouble awoke in the air, the east was banded with bars;Dawn as yellow as sulphur leaped on the mountain height;Dawn, in the deepest glen, fell a wonder of light;High and clear stood the palms in the eye of the brightening east,And lo! from the sides of the sea the broken sound of the feast!As, when in days of summer, through open windows, the flySwift as a breeze and loud as a trump goes by,But when frosts in the field have pinched the wintering mouse,Blindly noses and buzzes and hums in the firelit house:So the sound of the feast gallantly trampled at night,So it staggered and drooped, and droned in the morning light.IV. THE RAIDIt chanced that as Rua sat in the valley of silent falls,He heard a calling of doves from high on the cliffy walls.Fire had fashioned of yore, and time had broken, the rocks;There were rooting crannies for trees and nesting-places for flocks;And he saw on the top of the cliffs, looking up from the pit of the shade,A flicker of wings and sunshine, and trees that swung in the trade.'The trees swing in the trade,' quoth Rua, doubtful of words,'And the sun stares from the sky, but what should trouble the birds?'Up from the shade he gazed, where high the parapet shone,And he was aware of a ledge and of things that moved thereon.'What manner of things are these? Are they spirits abroad by day?Or the foes of my clan that are come, bringing death by a perilous way?'The valley was gouged like a vessel, and round like the vessel's lip,With a cape of the side of the hill thrust forth like the bows of a ship.On the top of the face of the cape a volley of sun struck fair,And the cape overhung like a chin a gulph of sunless air.'Silence, heart! What is that?- that, that flickered and shone,Into the sun for an instant, and in an instant gone?Was it a warrior's plume, a warrior's girdle of hair?Swung in the loop of a rope, is he making a bridge of the air?'Once and again Rua saw, in the trenchant edge of the sky,The giddy conjuring done. And then, in the blink of an eye,A scream caught in with the breath, a whirling packet of limbs,A lump that dived in the gulph, more swift than a dolphin swims;And there was the lump at his feet, and eyes were alive in the lump.Sick was the soul of Rua, ambushed close in a clump;Sick of soul he drew near, making his courage stout;And he looked in the face of the thing, and the life of the thing went out.And he gazed on the tattooed limbs, and, behold, he knew the man:Hoka, a chief of the Vais, the truculent foe of his clan:Hoka a moment since that stepped in the loop of the rope,Filled with the lust of war, and alive with courage and hope.Again to the giddy cornice Rua lifted his eyes,And again beheld men passing in the armpit of the skies.'Foes of my race!' cried Rua, 'the mouth of Rua is true:Never a shark in the deep is nobler of soul than you.There was never a nobler foray, never a bolder plan;Never a dizzier path was trod by the children of man;And Rua, your evil-dealer through all the days of his years,'Counts it honour to hate you, honour to fall by your spears.'And Rua straightened his back. 'O Vais, a scheme for a scheme!'Cried Rua and turned and descended the turbulent stair of the stream,Leaping from rock to rock as the water-wagtail at homeFlits through resonant valleys and skims by boulder and foam.And Rua burst from the glen and leaped on the shore of the brook,And straight for the roofs of the clan his vigorous way he took.Swift were the heels of his flight, and loud behind as he wentRattled the leaping stones on the line of his long descent.And ever he thought as he ran, and caught at his gasping breath,'O the fool of a Rua, Rua that runs to his death!But the right is the right,' thought Rua, and ran like the wind on the foam,'The right is the right for ever, and home for ever home.For what though the oven smoke? And what though I die ere morn?There was I nourished and tended, and there was Taheia born.'Noon was high on the High-place, the second noon of the feast;And heat and shameful slumber weighed on people and priest;And the heart drudged slow in bodies heavy with monstrous meals;And the senseless limbs were scattered abroad like spokes of wheels;And crapulous women sat and stared at the stones anighWith a bestial droop of the lip and a swinish rheum in the eye.As about the dome of the bees in the time for the drones to fall,The dead and the maimed are scattered, and lie, and stagger, and crawl;So on the grades of the terrace, in the ardent eye of the day,The half-awake and the sleepers clustered and crawled and lay;And loud as the dome of the bees, in the time of a swarming horde,A horror of many insects hung in the air and roared.Rua looked and wondered; he said to himself in his heart:'Poor are the pleasures of life, and death is the better part.'But lo! on the higher benches a cluster of tranquil folkSat by themselves, nor raised their serious eyes, nor spoke:Women with robes unruffled and garlands duly arranged,Gazing far from the feast with faces of people estranged;And quiet amongst the quiet, and fairer than all the fair,Taheia, the well-descended, Taheia, heavy of hair.And the soul of Rua awoke, courage enlightened his eyes,And he uttered a summoning shout and called on the clan to rise.Over against him at once, in the spotted shade of the trees,Owlish and blinking creatures scrambled to hands and knees;On the grades of the sacred terrace, the driveller woke to fear,And the hand of the ham-drooped warrior brandished a wavering spear.And Rua folded his arms, and scorn discovered his teeth;Above the war-crowd gibbered, and Rua stood smiling beneath.Thick, like leaves in the autumn, faint, like April sleet,Missiles from tremulous hands quivered around his feet;And Taheia leaped from her place; and the priest, the ruby-eyed,Ran to the front of the terrace, and brandished his arms, and cried:'Hold, O fools, he brings tidings!' and 'Hold, 'tis the love of my heart!'Till lo! in front of the terrace, Rua pierced with a dart.Taheia cherished his head, and the aged priest stood by,And gazed with eyes of ruby at Rua's darkening eye.'Taheia, here is the end, I die a death for a man.I have given the life of my soul to save an unsavable clan.See them, the drooping of hams! behold me the blinking crew:Fifty spears they cast, and one of fifty true!And you, O priest, the foreteller, foretell for yourself if you can,Foretell the hour of the day when the Vais shall burst on your clan!By the head of the tapu cleft, with death and fire in their hand,Thick and silent like ants, the warriors swarm in the land.'And they tell that when next the sun had climbed to the noonday skies,It shone on the smoke of feasting in the country of the Vais.", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1413": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1413, "poem.id": 1413, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:34:42", "poem.title": "My Body, Which My Dungeon Is", "poem.date": "5/22/2015", "poem.content": "My body which my dungeon is,And yet my parks and palaces: - Which is so great that there I goAll the day long to and fro,And when the night begins to fallThrow down my bed and sleep, while allThe buildings hum with wakefulness - Even as a child of savagesWhen evening takes her on her way,(She having roamed a summer's dayAlong the mountain-sides and scalp)Sleeps in an antre of that alp: - Which is so broad and high that there,As in the topless fields of airMy fancy soars like to a kiteAnd faints in the blue infinite: - Which is so strong, my strongest throesAnd the rough world's besieging blowsNot break it, and so weak withal,Death ebbs and flows in its loose wallAs the green sea in fishers' nets,And tops its topmost parapets: - Which is so wholly mine that ICan wield its whole artillery,And mine so little, that my soulDwells in perpetual control,And I but think and speak and doAs my dead fathers move me to: - If this born body of my bonesThe beggared soul so barely owns,What money passed from hand to hand,What creeping custom of the land,What deed of author or assign,Can make a house a thing of mine?", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1414": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1414, "poem.id": 1414, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:35:05", "poem.title": "The Mirror Speaks", "poem.date": "4/7/2015", "poem.content": "Where the bells peal far at seaCunning fingers fashioned me.There on palace walls I hungWhile that Consuelo sung;But I heard, though I listened well,Never a note, never a trill,Never a beat of the chiming bell.There I hung and looked, and thereIn my grey face, faces fairShone from under shining hair.Well, I saw the poising head,But the lips moved and nothing said;And when lights were in the hall,Silent moved the dancers all.So awhile I glowed, and thenFell on dusty days and men;Long I slumbered packed in straw,Long I none but dealers saw;Till before my silent eyeOn that sees came passing by.Now with an outlandish grace,To the sparkling fire I faceIn the blue room at Skerryvore;Where I wait until the doorOpen, and the Prince of Men,Henry James, shall come again.", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1415": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1415, "poem.id": 1415, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:35:09", "poem.title": "The Light Keeper", "poem.date": "10/21/2015", "poem.content": "The brilliant kernel of the night,The flaming lightroom circles me:I sit within a blaze of lightHeld high above the dusky sea.Far off the surf doth break and roarAlong bleak miles of moonlit shore,Where through the tides the tumbling waveFalls in an avalanche of foamAnd drives its churned waters homeUp many an undercliff and cave.", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1416": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1416, "poem.id": 1416, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:35:12", "poem.title": "Underwoods: Epigram", "poem.date": "1/29/2015", "poem.content": "Of all my verse, like not a single line; But like my title, for it is not mine. That title from a better man I stole: Ah, how much better, had I stol'n the whole.", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1417": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1417, "poem.id": 1417, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:35:18", "poem.title": "Fifteen Men On The Dead Man's Chest", "poem.date": "12/11/2015", "poem.content": "Fifteen men on the Dead Man's Chest — Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!Drink and the devil had done for the rest — Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1418": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1418, "poem.id": 1418, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:35:31", "poem.title": "My House, I Say", "poem.date": "1/9/2015", "poem.content": "My house, I say. But hark to the sunny doves That make my roof the arena of their loves, That gyre about the gable all day long And fill the chimneys with their murmurous song: Our house, they say; and mine, the cat declares And spreads his golden fleece upon the chairs; And mine the dog, and rises stiff with wrath If any alien foot profane the path. So, too, the buck that trimmed my terraces, Our whilom gardener, called the garden his;Who now, deposed, surveys my plain abode And his late kingdom, only from the road.", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1419": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1419, "poem.id": 1419, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:35:35", "poem.title": "There Was An Old Man Of The Cape", "poem.date": "2/4/2015", "poem.content": "There was an old man of the CapeWho made himself garments of crepe.When asked, \"Do they tear?\"He replied, \"Here and there,But they're perfectly splendid for shape!\"", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1420": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1420, "poem.id": 1420, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:35:39", "poem.title": "Consolation", "poem.date": "3/6/2015", "poem.content": "Though he, that ever kind and true,Kept stoutly step by step with you,Your whole long, gusty lifetime through, Be gone a while before,Be now a moment gone before,Yet, doubt not, soon the seasons shall restore Your friend to you.He has but turned the corner — stillHe pushes on with right good will,Through mire and marsh, by heugh and hill, That self-same arduous way —That self-same upland, hopeful way,That you and he through many a doubtful day Attempted still.He is not dead, this friend — not dead,But in the path we mortals treadGot some few, trifling steps ahead And nearer to the end;So that you too, once past the bend,Shall meet again, as face to face, this friend You fancy dead.Push gaily on, strong heart! The whileYou travel forward mile by mile,He loiters with a backward smile Till you can overtake,And strains his eyes to search his wake,Or whistling, as he sees you through the brake, Waits on a stile.", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1421": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1421, "poem.id": 1421, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:35:41", "poem.title": "Wedding Prayer", "poem.date": "2/3/2015", "poem.content": "Lord, behold our family here assembled. We thank you for this place in which we dwell, for the love that unites us, for the peace accorded us this day, for the hope with which we expect the morrow, for the health, the work, the food, and the bright skies that make our lives delightful; for our friends in all parts of the earth. Amen", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1422": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1422, "poem.id": 1422, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:35:46", "poem.title": "To Mesdames Zassetsky And Garschine", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1423": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1423, "poem.id": 1423, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:35:50", "poem.title": "The Spaewife", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1424": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1424, "poem.id": 1424, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:35:56", "poem.title": "The Relic Taken, What Avails The Shrine?", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1425": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1425, "poem.id": 1425, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:36:02", "poem.title": "To Madame Garschine", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1426": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1426, "poem.id": 1426, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:36:07", "poem.title": "To Rosabelle", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1427": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1427, "poem.id": 1427, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:36:12", "poem.title": "Sonet Vi", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1428": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1428, "poem.id": 1428, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:36:18", "poem.title": "Sonnet Viii", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1429": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1429, "poem.id": 1429, "poem.ts": "2018-02-28 05:34:31", "poem.title": "In Maximum", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "" }, "1430": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1430, "poem.id": 1430, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:37:08", "poem.title": "To Miss Cornish", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1431": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1431, "poem.id": 1431, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:37:11", "poem.title": "Frag2", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1432": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1432, "poem.id": 1432, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:37:18", "poem.title": "I, Whom Apollo Somtime Visited", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1433": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1433, "poem.id": 1433, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:37:43", "poem.title": "Light As The Linnet On My Way I Start", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1434": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1434, "poem.id": 1434, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:37:47", "poem.title": "To Will H. Low", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1435": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1435, "poem.id": 1435, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:37:53", "poem.title": "To Charles Baxter", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1436": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1436, "poem.id": 1436, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:37:57", "poem.title": "Tempest Tossed And Sore Afflicted", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1437": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1437, "poem.id": 1437, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:38:04", "poem.title": "In Charidemum", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1438": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1438, "poem.id": 1438, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:38:10", "poem.title": "O Dull Cold Northern Sky", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1439": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1439, "poem.id": 1439, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:38:16", "poem.title": "Sonnet Vii", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1440": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1440, "poem.id": 1440, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:38:22", "poem.title": "Henry James", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1441": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1441, "poem.id": 1441, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:38:44", "poem.title": "To Marcus", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1442": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1442, "poem.id": 1442, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:38:49", "poem.title": "My Heart, When First The Black-Bird Sings", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1443": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1443, "poem.id": 1443, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:38:51", "poem.title": "Sonnet Ii", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1444": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1444, "poem.id": 1444, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:38:53", "poem.title": "To Alison Cunningham, From Her Boy", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1445": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1445, "poem.id": 1445, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:38:58", "poem.title": "Sonnet V", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1446": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1446, "poem.id": 1446, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:39:03", "poem.title": "Frag1", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1447": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1447, "poem.id": 1447, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:39:07", "poem.title": "To N. V. De G. S.", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1448": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1448, "poem.id": 1448, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:39:11", "poem.title": "Hail, Guest, And Enter Freely!", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "1449": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1449, "poem.id": 1449, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:39:16", "poem.title": "I Do Not Fear To Own Me Kin", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24433": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24433, "poem.id": 24433, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:17:20", "poem.title": "I Am Like One That For Long Days Had Sate", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24434": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24434, "poem.id": 24434, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:17:27", "poem.title": "Since Years Ago For Evermore", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24435": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24435, "poem.id": 24435, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:17:30", "poem.title": "Hail! Childish Slave Of Social Rules", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24436": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24436, "poem.id": 24436, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:17:34", "poem.title": "Variant Form Of The Preceding Poem", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24437": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24437, "poem.id": 24437, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:17:40", "poem.title": "In The States", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24438": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24438, "poem.id": 24438, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:17:45", "poem.title": "On Now, Although The Year Be Done", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24439": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24439, "poem.id": 24439, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:17:50", "poem.title": "Know You The River Near To Grez", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24440": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24440, "poem.id": 24440, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:17:54", "poem.title": "The Bour-Tree Den", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24441": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24441, "poem.id": 24441, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:17:57", "poem.title": "Loud And Low In The Chimney", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24442": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24442, "poem.id": 24442, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:18:00", "poem.title": "Thou Strainest Through The Mountain Fern", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24443": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24443, "poem.id": 24443, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:18:03", "poem.title": "Fixed Is The Doom", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24444": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24444, "poem.id": 24444, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:18:08", "poem.title": "A Child's Garden Of Verses", "poem.date": "1/7/2015", "poem.content": "For the long nights you lay awakeAnd watched for my unworthy sake:For your most comfortable handThat led me through the uneven land:For all the story-books you read:For all the pains you comforted:For all you pitied, all you bore,In sad and happy days of yore:- My second Mother, my first Wife,The angel of my infant life- From the sick child, now well and old,Take, nurse, the little book you hold!And grant it, Heaven, that all who readMay find as dear a nurse at need,And every child who lists my rhyme,In the bright, fireside, nursery clime,May hear it in as kind a voiceAs made my childish days rejoice!", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24445": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24445, "poem.id": 24445, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:18:14", "poem.title": "To Minnie", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24446": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24446, "poem.id": 24446, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:18:16", "poem.title": "Fragments", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24447": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24447, "poem.id": 24447, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:18:23", "poem.title": "In Lupum", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24448": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24448, "poem.id": 24448, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:18:29", "poem.title": "For Richmond's Garden Wall", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24449": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24449, "poem.id": 24449, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:18:36", "poem.title": "The Celestial Surgeon", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24450": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24450, "poem.id": 24450, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:18:40", "poem.title": "I Now, O Friend, Whom Noiselessly The Snows", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24451": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24451, "poem.id": 24451, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:18:47", "poem.title": "Lo, Now, My Guest", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24452": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24452, "poem.id": 24452, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:18:50", "poem.title": "Fair Isle At Sea", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24453": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24453, "poem.id": 24453, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:18:53", "poem.title": "Ne Sit Ancillae Tibi Amor Pudor", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24454": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24454, "poem.id": 24454, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:18:59", "poem.title": "De M. Antonio", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24455": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24455, "poem.id": 24455, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:19:01", "poem.title": "Mine Eyes Were Swift To Know Thee", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24456": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24456, "poem.id": 24456, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:19:08", "poem.title": "The Clock's Clear Voice Into The Clearer Air", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24457": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24457, "poem.id": 24457, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:19:13", "poem.title": "To Sydney", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24458": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24458, "poem.id": 24458, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:19:20", "poem.title": "To Mrs. Macmarland", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24459": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24459, "poem.id": 24459, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:19:25", "poem.title": "Soon Our Friends Perish", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24460": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24460, "poem.id": 24460, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:19:29", "poem.title": "Home, My Little Children, Hear Are Songs For You", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24461": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24461, "poem.id": 24461, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:19:33", "poem.title": "Late, O Miller", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24462": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24462, "poem.id": 24462, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:19:36", "poem.title": "Epitaphium Erotii", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24463": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24463, "poem.id": 24463, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:19:39", "poem.title": "Come, Here Is Adieu To The City", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24464": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24464, "poem.id": 24464, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:19:43", "poem.title": "It's Forth Across The Roaring Foam", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24465": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24465, "poem.id": 24465, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:19:47", "poem.title": "Youth And Love", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24466": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24466, "poem.id": 24466, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:19:50", "poem.title": "De Hortis Julii Martialis", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24467": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24467, "poem.id": 24467, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:19:52", "poem.title": "Tales Of Arabia", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24468": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24468, "poem.id": 24468, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:19:58", "poem.title": "Spring Carol", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24469": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24469, "poem.id": 24469, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:20:01", "poem.title": "Now Bare To The Beholder's Eye", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24470": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24470, "poem.id": 24470, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:20:03", "poem.title": "The Angler Rose, He Took His Rod", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24471": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24471, "poem.id": 24471, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:20:09", "poem.title": "Men Are Heaven's Piers", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24472": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24472, "poem.id": 24472, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:20:14", "poem.title": "Sonnet Iii", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24473": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24473, "poem.id": 24473, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:20:17", "poem.title": "I Dreamed Of Forest Alleys Fair", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24474": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24474, "poem.id": 24474, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:20:20", "poem.title": "Man Sails The Deep Awhile", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24475": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24475, "poem.id": 24475, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:20:23", "poem.title": "In The Highlands", "poem.date": "1/4/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24476": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24476, "poem.id": 24476, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:20:27", "poem.title": "The Old Chimaeras. Old Recipts", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24477": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24477, "poem.id": 24477, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:20:33", "poem.title": "To My Name-Child", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24478": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24478, "poem.id": 24478, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:20:36", "poem.title": "The Vanquished Knight", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24479": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24479, "poem.id": 24479, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:20:40", "poem.title": "Sonnet I", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24480": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24480, "poem.id": 24480, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:20:44", "poem.title": "My Heart, When First The Black-Bird Sings", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24481": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24481, "poem.id": 24481, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:20:48", "poem.title": "Stout Marches Lead To Certain Ends", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24482": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24482, "poem.id": 24482, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:20:52", "poem.title": "I Know Not How, But As I Count", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24483": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24483, "poem.id": 24483, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:20:54", "poem.title": "To The Commissioners Of Northern Lights", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24484": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24484, "poem.id": 24484, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:20:57", "poem.title": "This Gloomy Northern Day", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24485": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24485, "poem.id": 24485, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:21:02", "poem.title": "Music At The Villa Marina", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24486": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24486, "poem.id": 24486, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:21:06", "poem.title": "De Ligurra", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24487": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24487, "poem.id": 24487, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:21:10", "poem.title": "I Love To Be Warm By The Red Fireside", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24488": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24488, "poem.id": 24488, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:21:16", "poem.title": "In Port", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24489": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24489, "poem.id": 24489, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:21:20", "poem.title": "Still I Love To Rhyme", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24490": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24490, "poem.id": 24490, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:21:26", "poem.title": "The Hayloft", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24491": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24491, "poem.id": 24491, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:21:29", "poem.title": "De Erotio Puella", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24492": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24492, "poem.id": 24492, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:21:34", "poem.title": "To Ottilie", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24493": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24493, "poem.id": 24493, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:21:40", "poem.title": "Duddingstone", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24494": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24494, "poem.id": 24494, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:21:43", "poem.title": "Prelude", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24495": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24495, "poem.id": 24495, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:21:47", "poem.title": "Dedicatory Poem For \"Underwoods\"", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24496": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24496, "poem.id": 24496, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:21:52", "poem.title": "Early In The Morning I Hear On Your Piano", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24497": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24497, "poem.id": 24497, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:21:55", "poem.title": "Voluntary", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24498": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24498, "poem.id": 24498, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:21:59", "poem.title": "To Willie And Henrietta", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24499": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24499, "poem.id": 24499, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:22:02", "poem.title": "Though Deep Indifference Should Drowse", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24500": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24500, "poem.id": 24500, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:22:06", "poem.title": "Marching Song", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24501": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24501, "poem.id": 24501, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:22:13", "poem.title": "I Will Make You Brooches", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24502": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24502, "poem.id": 24502, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:22:20", "poem.title": "The Piper", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24503": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24503, "poem.id": 24503, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:22:22", "poem.title": "De Coenatione Micae", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24504": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24504, "poem.id": 24504, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:22:25", "poem.title": "The Far-Farers", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24505": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24505, "poem.id": 24505, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:22:30", "poem.title": "Go, Little Book - The Ancient Phrase", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24506": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24506, "poem.id": 24506, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:22:32", "poem.title": "To Auntie", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24507": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24507, "poem.id": 24507, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:22:39", "poem.title": "To The Muse", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24508": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24508, "poem.id": 24508, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:22:43", "poem.title": "It Blows A Snowing Gale", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24509": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24509, "poem.id": 24509, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:22:48", "poem.title": "My Wife", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24510": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24510, "poem.id": 24510, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:22:50", "poem.title": "So Live, So Love, So Use That Fragile Hour", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24511": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24511, "poem.id": 24511, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:22:54", "poem.title": "Historical Associations", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24512": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24512, "poem.id": 24512, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:22:59", "poem.title": "Long Time I Lay In Little Ease", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24513": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24513, "poem.id": 24513, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:23:03", "poem.title": "Come From The Daisied Meadows", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24514": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24514, "poem.id": 24514, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:23:10", "poem.title": "God Gave To Me A Child In Part", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24515": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24515, "poem.id": 24515, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:23:15", "poem.title": "Now When The Number Of My Years", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24516": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24516, "poem.id": 24516, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:23:18", "poem.title": "Heather Ale: A Galloway Legend", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24517": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24517, "poem.id": 24517, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:23:20", "poem.title": "The Sun Travels", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24518": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24518, "poem.id": 24518, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:23:26", "poem.title": "To All That Love The Far And Blue", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24519": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24519, "poem.id": 24519, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:23:28", "poem.title": "Before This Little Gift Was Come", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24520": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24520, "poem.id": 24520, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:23:32", "poem.title": "Katherine", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24521": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24521, "poem.id": 24521, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:23:38", "poem.title": "The Gardener", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24522": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24522, "poem.id": 24522, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:23:40", "poem.title": "Strange Are The Ways Of Men", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24523": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24523, "poem.id": 24523, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:23:44", "poem.title": "I Who All The Winter Through", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24524": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24524, "poem.id": 24524, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:23:47", "poem.title": "System", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24525": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24525, "poem.id": 24525, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:23:53", "poem.title": "Come, My Beloved, Hear From Me", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24526": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24526, "poem.id": 24526, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:23:58", "poem.title": "My Kingdom", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24527": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24527, "poem.id": 24527, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:24:02", "poem.title": "Farewell To The Farm", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24528": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24528, "poem.id": 24528, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:24:08", "poem.title": "In The Green And Gallant Spring", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24529": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24529, "poem.id": 24529, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:24:12", "poem.title": "Small Is The Trust When Love Is Green", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24530": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24530, "poem.id": 24530, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:24:17", "poem.title": "Foreign Children", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24531": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24531, "poem.id": 24531, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:24:21", "poem.title": "Death, To The Dead For Evermore", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24532": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24532, "poem.id": 24532, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:24:27", "poem.title": "Prayer", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24533": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24533, "poem.id": 24533, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:24:33", "poem.title": "Nest Eggs", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24534": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24534, "poem.id": 24534, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:24:39", "poem.title": "Dedication", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24535": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24535, "poem.id": 24535, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:24:44", "poem.title": "Picture-Books In Winter", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24536": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24536, "poem.id": 24536, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:24:50", "poem.title": "Had I The Power That Have The Will", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24537": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24537, "poem.id": 24537, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:24:53", "poem.title": "To Friends At Home", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24538": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24538, "poem.id": 24538, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:24:59", "poem.title": "The Little Land", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24539": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24539, "poem.id": 24539, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:25:01", "poem.title": "To What Shall I Compare Her?", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24540": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24540, "poem.id": 24540, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:25:03", "poem.title": "Looking-Glass River", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24541": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24541, "poem.id": 24541, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:25:09", "poem.title": "Spring Song", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24542": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24542, "poem.id": 24542, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:25:12", "poem.title": "Looking Forward", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24543": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24543, "poem.id": 24543, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:25:18", "poem.title": "Keepsake Mill", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24544": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24544, "poem.id": 24544, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:25:22", "poem.title": "Ad Quintilianum", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24545": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24545, "poem.id": 24545, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:25:26", "poem.title": "The Summer Sun Shone Round Me", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24546": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24546, "poem.id": 24546, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:25:32", "poem.title": "Farewell", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24547": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24547, "poem.id": 24547, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:25:37", "poem.title": "St. Martin's Summer", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24548": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24548, "poem.id": 24548, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:25:43", "poem.title": "Over The Land Is April", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24549": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24549, "poem.id": 24549, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:25:48", "poem.title": "The Dumb Soldier", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24550": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24550, "poem.id": 24550, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:25:54", "poem.title": "My Treasures", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24551": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24551, "poem.id": 24551, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:25:59", "poem.title": "To Any Reader", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24552": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24552, "poem.id": 24552, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:26:05", "poem.title": "Lo! In Thine Honest Eyes I Read", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24553": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24553, "poem.id": 24553, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:26:08", "poem.title": "Young Night-Thought", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24554": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24554, "poem.id": 24554, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:26:13", "poem.title": "If This Were Faith", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24555": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24555, "poem.id": 24555, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:26:19", "poem.title": "Behold, As Goblins Dark Of Mien", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24556": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24556, "poem.id": 24556, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:26:21", "poem.title": "What Man May Learn, What Man May Do", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24557": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24557, "poem.id": 24557, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:26:25", "poem.title": "The Wind Is Without There And Howls In The Trees", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24558": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24558, "poem.id": 24558, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:26:29", "poem.title": "Ad Martialem", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24559": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24559, "poem.id": 24559, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:26:33", "poem.title": "Ad Magistrum Ludi", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24560": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24560, "poem.id": 24560, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:27:12", "poem.title": "The Flowers", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24561": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24561, "poem.id": 24561, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:27:15", "poem.title": "You Looked So Tempting In The Pew", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24562": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24562, "poem.id": 24562, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:27:18", "poem.title": "Night And Day", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24563": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24563, "poem.id": 24563, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:27:28", "poem.title": "Pirate Story", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24564": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24564, "poem.id": 24564, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:27:30", "poem.title": "My Love Was Warm", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24565": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24565, "poem.id": 24565, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:27:33", "poem.title": "To My Mother", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24566": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24566, "poem.id": 24566, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:27:39", "poem.title": "Ad Olum", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24567": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24567, "poem.id": 24567, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:27:41", "poem.title": "The Wind Blew Shrill And Smart", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24568": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24568, "poem.id": 24568, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:27:43", "poem.title": "Shadow March", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24569": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24569, "poem.id": 24569, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:27:46", "poem.title": "", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24570": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24570, "poem.id": 24570, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:27:53", "poem.title": "Fear Not, Dear Friend, But Freely Live Your Days", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24571": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24571, "poem.id": 24571, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:27:57", "poem.title": "Singing", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24572": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24572, "poem.id": 24572, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:28:00", "poem.title": "Good-Night", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24573": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24573, "poem.id": 24573, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:28:06", "poem.title": "Escape At Bedtime", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24574": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24574, "poem.id": 24574, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:28:10", "poem.title": "Whole Duty Of Children", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24575": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24575, "poem.id": 24575, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:28:14", "poem.title": "Christmas At Sea", "poem.date": "3/30/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24576": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24576, "poem.id": 24576, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:28:19", "poem.title": "Swallows Travel To And Fro", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24577": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24577, "poem.id": 24577, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:28:21", "poem.title": "Apologetic Postscript Of A Year Later", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24578": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24578, "poem.id": 24578, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:28:27", "poem.title": "My Bed Is A Boat", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24579": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24579, "poem.id": 24579, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:28:33", "poem.title": "Ad Piscatorem", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24580": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24580, "poem.id": 24580, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:28:37", "poem.title": "Time To Rise", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24581": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24581, "poem.id": 24581, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:28:40", "poem.title": "The Land Of Story-Books", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24582": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24582, "poem.id": 24582, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:28:44", "poem.title": "Air Of Diabelli's", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24583": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24583, "poem.id": 24583, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:28:47", "poem.title": "Love's Vicissitudes", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24584": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24584, "poem.id": 24584, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:28:53", "poem.title": "My Ship And I", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24585": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24585, "poem.id": 24585, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:29:05", "poem.title": "Ad Nepotem", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24586": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24586, "poem.id": 24586, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:29:10", "poem.title": "Block City", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24587": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24587, "poem.id": 24587, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:29:14", "poem.title": "Ad Se Ipsum", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24588": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24588, "poem.id": 24588, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:29:17", "poem.title": "Let Love Go, If Go She Will", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24589": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24589, "poem.id": 24589, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:29:20", "poem.title": "Auntie's Skirts", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24590": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24590, "poem.id": 24590, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:29:24", "poem.title": "Happy Thought", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24591": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24591, "poem.id": 24591, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:29:27", "poem.title": "As In Their Flight The Birds Of Song", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24592": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24592, "poem.id": 24592, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:29:32", "poem.title": "Romance", "poem.date": "1/4/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24593": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24593, "poem.id": 24593, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:29:38", "poem.title": "The Unseen Playmate", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24594": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24594, "poem.id": 24594, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:29:44", "poem.title": "Fairy Bread", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24595": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24595, "poem.id": 24595, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:29:49", "poem.title": "After Reading \"Antony And Cleopatra\"", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24596": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24596, "poem.id": 24596, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:29:54", "poem.title": "Since Thou Hast Given Me This Good Hope, O God", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24597": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24597, "poem.id": 24597, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:29:59", "poem.title": "Away With Funeral Music", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24598": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24598, "poem.id": 24598, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:30:06", "poem.title": "Foreign Lands", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24599": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24599, "poem.id": 24599, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:30:11", "poem.title": "Travel", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24600": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24600, "poem.id": 24600, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:30:15", "poem.title": "When The Sun Come After Rain", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24601": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24601, "poem.id": 24601, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:30:18", "poem.title": "Where Go The Boats?", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24602": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24602, "poem.id": 24602, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:30:34", "poem.title": "Good And Bad Children", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24603": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24603, "poem.id": 24603, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:30:37", "poem.title": "About The Sheltered Garden Ground", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24604": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24604, "poem.id": 24604, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:30:43", "poem.title": "Winter-Time", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24605": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24605, "poem.id": 24605, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:30:50", "poem.title": "The Cow", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24606": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24606, "poem.id": 24606, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:30:56", "poem.title": "The Vagabond", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24607": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24607, "poem.id": 24607, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:31:01", "poem.title": "The Land Of Nod", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24608": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24608, "poem.id": 24608, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:31:05", "poem.title": "An English Breeze", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24609": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24609, "poem.id": 24609, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:31:10", "poem.title": "Armies In The Fire", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24610": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24610, "poem.id": 24610, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:31:16", "poem.title": "Autumn Fires", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24611": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24611, "poem.id": 24611, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:31:19", "poem.title": "As One Who Having Wandered All Night Long", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24612": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24612, "poem.id": 24612, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:31:26", "poem.title": "Flower God, God Of The Spring", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24613": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24613, "poem.id": 24613, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:31:30", "poem.title": "The Moon", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24614": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24614, "poem.id": 24614, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:31:34", "poem.title": "Windy Nights", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24615": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24615, "poem.id": 24615, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:31:41", "poem.title": "A Good Play", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24616": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24616, "poem.id": 24616, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:31:51", "poem.title": "At The Sea-Side", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24617": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24617, "poem.id": 24617, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:31:55", "poem.title": "The Lamplighter", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24618": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24618, "poem.id": 24618, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:32:02", "poem.title": "Bed In Summer", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24619": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24619, "poem.id": 24619, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:32:05", "poem.title": "The Land Of Counterpane", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24620": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24620, "poem.id": 24620, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:32:09", "poem.title": "A Valentine's Song", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "MOTLEY I count the only wearThat suits, in this mixed world, the truly wise,Who boldly smile upon despairAnd shake their bells in Grandam Grundy's eyes.Singers should sing with such a goodly cheerThat the bare listening should make strong like wine,At this unruly time of year,The Feast of Valentine.We do not now parade our \"oughts\"And \"shoulds\" and motives and beliefs in God.Their life lies all indoors; sad thoughtsMust keep the house, while gay thoughts go abroad,Within we hold the wake for hopes deceased;But in the public streets, in wind or sun,Keep open, at the annual feast,The puppet-booth of fun.Our powers, perhaps, are small to please,But even negro-songs and castanettes,Old jokes and hackneyed reparteesAre more than the parade of vain regrets.Let Jacques stand Wert(h)ering by the wounded deer -We shall make merry, honest friends of mine,At this unruly time of year,The Feast of Valentine.I know how, day by weary day,Hope fades, love fades, a thousand pleasures fade.I have not trudged in vain that wayOn which life's daylight darkens, shade by shade.And still, with hopes decreasing, griefs increased,Still, with what wit I have shall I, for one,Keep open, at the annual feast,The puppet-booth of fun.I care not if the wit be poor,The old worn motley stained with rain and tears,If but the courage still endureThat filled and strengthened hope in earlier years;If still, with friends averted, fate severe,A glad, untainted cheerfulness be mineTo greet the unruly time of year,The Feast of Valentine.Priest, I am none of thine, and seeIn the perspective of still hopeful youthThat Truth shall triumph over thee -Truth to one's self - I know no other truth.I see strange days for thee and thine, O priest,And how your doctrines, fallen one by one,Shall furnish at the annual feastThe puppet-booth of fun.Stand on your putrid ruins - stand,White neck-clothed bigot, fixedly the same,Cruel with all things but the hand,Inquisitor in all things but the name.Back, minister of Christ and source of fear -We cherish freedom - back with thee and thineFrom this unruly time of year,The Feast of Valentine.Blood thou mayest spare; but what of tears?But what of riven households, broken faith -Bywords that cling through all men's yearsAnd drag them surely down to shame and death?Stand back, O cruel man, O foe of youth,And let such men as hearken not thy voicePress freely up the road to truth,The King's highway of choice.", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24621": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24621, "poem.id": 24621, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:32:14", "poem.title": "The Wind", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24622": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24622, "poem.id": 24622, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:32:16", "poem.title": "A Thought", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24623": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24623, "poem.id": 24623, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:32:21", "poem.title": "At Last She Comes", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24624": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24624, "poem.id": 24624, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:32:28", "poem.title": "From A Railway Carriage", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24625": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24625, "poem.id": 24625, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:32:33", "poem.title": "My Shadow", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24626": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24626, "poem.id": 24626, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:32:38", "poem.title": "Requiem", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24627": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24627, "poem.id": 24627, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:32:42", "poem.title": "Rain", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24628": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24628, "poem.id": 24628, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:32:45", "poem.title": "A Good Boy", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24629": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24629, "poem.id": 24629, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:32:47", "poem.title": "Summer Sun", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24630": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24630, "poem.id": 24630, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:32:51", "poem.title": "The Swing", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" }, "24631": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24631, "poem.id": 24631, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:32:56", "poem.title": "Love, What Is Love", "poem.date": "12/31/2002", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Robert Louis Stevenson" } } }, "39": { "poet.id": 39, "poet.ts": "2018-02-28 20:56:12", "poet.title": "Alfred Lord Tennyson", "poet.poet_x_poem_id": { "1450": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1450, "poem.id": 1450, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:39:20", "poem.title": "Epitaph on General Gordon", "poem.date": "10/20/2015", "poem.content": "WARRIOR of God, man's friend, and tyrant's foe Now somewhere dead far in the waste Soudan, Thou livest in all hearts, for all men know This earth has never borne a nobler man.", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1451": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1451, "poem.id": 1451, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:39:24", "poem.title": "The Merman", "poem.date": "11/12/2015", "poem.content": "Who would beA merman bold,Sitting alone,Singing aloneUnder the sea,With a crown of gold,On a throne?I would be a merman bold,I would sit and sing the whole of the day;I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power;But at night I would roam abroad and playWith the mermaids in and out of the rocks,Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower;And holding them back by their flowing locksI would kiss them often under the sea,And kiss them again till they kiss'd meLaughingly, laughingly;And then we would wander away, away,To the pale-green sea-groves straight and high,Chasing each other merrily.There would be neither moon nor star;But the wave would make music above us afar —Low thunder and light in the magic night —Neither moon nor star.We would call aloud in the dreamy dells,Call to each other and whoop and cryAll night, merrily, merrily;They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells,Laughing and clapping their hands between,All night, merrily, merrily,But I would throw to them back in mineTurkis and agate and almondine;Then leaping out upon them unseenI would kiss them often under the sea,And kiss them again till they kiss'd meLaughingly, laughingly.Oh! what a happy life were mineUnder the hollow-hung ocean green!Soft are the moss-beds under the sea;We would live merrily, merrily.", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1452": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1452, "poem.id": 1452, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:39:28", "poem.title": "I Send You Here A Sort Of Allegory", "poem.date": "9/18/2015", "poem.content": "I send you here a sort of allegory,(For you will understand it) of a soul,A sinful soul possess'd of many gifts,A spacious garden full of flowering weeds,A glorious Devil, large in heart and brain,That did love Beauty only, (Beauty seenIn all varieties of mould and mind)And Knowledge for its beauty; or if Good,Good only for its beauty, seeing notThat beauty, Good, and Knowledge, are three sistersThat doat upon each other, friends to man,Living together under the same roof,And never can be sunder'd without tears.And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall beShut out from Love, and on her threshold lieHowling in outer darkness. Not for thisWas common clay ta'en from the common earth,Moulded by God, and temper'd with the tearsOf angels to the perfect shape of man.", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1453": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1453, "poem.id": 1453, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:39:34", "poem.title": "The May Queen", "poem.date": "7/25/2015", "poem.content": "YOU must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; To-morrow 'll be the happiest time of all the glad new-year,— Of all the glad new-year, mother, the maddest, merriest day; For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. There 's many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine; There 's Margaret and Mary, there 's Kate and Caroline; But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, they say: So I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break; But I must gather knots of flowers and buds, and garlands gay; For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I see But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,— But I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white; And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. They say he 's dying all for love,—but that can never be; They say his heart is breaking, mother,—what is that to me? There 's many a bolder lad 'll woo me any summer day; And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, And you 'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen; For the shepherd lads on every side 'll come from far away; And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its wavy bowers, And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray; And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass; There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day;And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. All the valley, mother, 'll be fresh and green and still, And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'll merrily glance and play, For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; To-morrow 'll be the happiest time of all the glad new-year; To-morrow 'll be of all the year the maddest, merriest day, For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. NEW YEAR'S EVEIf you 're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear, For I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year. It is the last new-year that I shall ever see,— Then you may lay me low i' the mold, and think no more of me. To-night I saw the sun set,—he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind; And the new-year 's coming up, mother; but I shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. Last May we made a crown of flowers; we had a merry day,— Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May; And we danced about the May-pole and in the hazel copse, Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. There 's not a flower on all the hills,—the frost is on the pane; I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again. I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high,— I long to see a flower so before the day I die. The building-rook 'll caw from the windy tall elm-tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, And the swallow 'll come back again with summer o'er the wave, But I shall lie alone, mother, within the moldering grave. Upon the chancel casement, and upon that grave of mine,In the early, early morning the summer sun 'll shine, Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill,— When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light You 'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. You 'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, And you 'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget you, mother; I shall hear you when you pass, With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. I have been wild and wayward, but you 'll forgive me now; You 'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow; Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild; You should not fret for me, mother—you have another child. If I can, I 'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place; Though you 'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; Though I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you say, And be often, often with you when you think I 'm far away. Good night! good night! when I have said good night forevermore,And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door, Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green,— She 'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. She 'll find my garden tools upon the granary floor. Let her take 'em—they are hers; I shall never garden more;But tell her, when I 'm gone, to train the rosebush that I set About the parlor window and the box of mignonette. Good night, sweet-mother! Call me before the day is born. All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year,— So, if you 're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. CONCLUSIONI thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am; And in the fields all around I hear the bleating of the lamb. How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year! To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet 's here. O, sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies; And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise; And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow; And sweeter far is death than life, to me that long to go. It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessèd sun, And now it seems as hard to stay; and yet, His will be done! But still I think it can't be long before I find release; And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. O, blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver hair, And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there! O, blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head! A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. He taught me all the mercy, for he showed me all the sin; Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there 's One will let me in. Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be; For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat,— There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet; But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call,— It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. For, lying broad awake, I thought of you and Effie dear; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here; With all my strength I prayed for both,—and so I felt resigned, And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed; And then did something speak to me,—I know not what was said; For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, And up the valley came again the music on the wind. But you were sleeping; and I said, \"It 's not for them,—it 's mine;\" And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars; Then seemed to go right up to heaven and die among the stars. So now I think my time is near; I trust it is. I know The blessèd music went that way my soul will have to go. And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day; But Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away. And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret; There 's many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet. If I had lived—I cannot tell—I might have been his wife; But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. O, look! the sun begins to rise! the heavens are in a glow; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine,— Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. O, sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun,— Forever and forever with those just souls and true,— And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado? Forever and forever, all in a blessèd home,— And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come,— To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast,— And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1454": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1454, "poem.id": 1454, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:39:39", "poem.title": "The Blackbird", "poem.date": "7/2/2015", "poem.content": "O blackbird! sing me something well:While all the neighbours shoot thee round,I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground,Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell. The espaliers and the standards allAre thine; the range of lawn and park:The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark,All thine, against the garden wall. Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring,Thy sole delight is, sitting still,With that gold dagger of thy billTo fret the summer jenneting. A golden bill! the silver tongue,Cold February loved, is dry:Plenty corrupts the melodyThat made thee famous once, when young: And in the sultry garden-squares,Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse,I hear thee not at all, or hoarseAs when a hawker hawks his wares. Take warning! he that will not singWhile yon sun prospers in the blue,Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new,Caught in the frozen palms of Spring.", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1455": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1455, "poem.id": 1455, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:39:44", "poem.title": "Hark! The Dogs Howl!", "poem.date": "3/19/2015", "poem.content": "Hark! the dogs howl! the sleetwinds blow, The church-clocks knoll: the hours haste, I leave the dreaming world below. Blown o'er frore heads of hills I go, Long narrowing friths and stripes of snow ÔÇô Time bears my soul into the waste. I seek the voice I loved ÔÇô ah where Is that dear hand that I should press, Those honoured brows that I would kiss? Lo! the broad Heavens cold and bare, The stars that know not my distress. My sighs are wasted in the air, My tears are dropped into the abyss. Now riseth up a little cloud ÔÇô Divideth like a broken wave ÔÇô Shows Death a drooping youth pale-browed And crowned with daisies of the grave. The vapour labours up the sky, Uncertain forms are darkly moved, Larger than human passes by The shadow of the man I loved. I wind my arms for one embrace ÔÇô Can this be he? is that his face? In my strait throat expires the cry. He bends his eyes reproachfully And clasps his hands, as one that prays.", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1456": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1456, "poem.id": 1456, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:39:50", "poem.title": "Lullaby", "poem.date": "1/6/2015", "poem.content": "SWEET and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1457": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1457, "poem.id": 1457, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:39:56", "poem.title": "Love and Sorrow", "poem.date": "5/4/2015", "poem.content": "O maiden, fresher than the first green leafWith which the fearful springtide flecks the lea,Weep not, Almeida, that I said to theeThat thou hast half my heart, for bitter griefDoth hold the other half in sovranty.Thou art my heart's sun in love's crystalline:Yet on both sides at once thou canst not shine:Thine is the bright side of my heart, and thineMy heart's day, but the shadow of my heart,Issue of its own substance, my heart's nightThou canst not lighten even with thy light,All powerful in beauty as thou art.Almeida, if my heart were substanceless,Then might thy rays pass thro' to the other side,So swiftly, that they nowhere would abide,But lose themselves in utter emptiness.Half-light, half-shadow, let my spirit sleepThey never learnt to love who never knew to weep.", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1458": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1458, "poem.id": 1458, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:40:00", "poem.title": "The Sailor Boy", "poem.date": "1/10/2015", "poem.content": "He rose at dawn and, fired with hope, Shot o'er the seething harbour-bar,And reach'd the ship and caught the rope, And whistled to the morning star.And while he whistled long and loud He heard a fierce mermaiden cry,\"O boy, tho' thou are young and proud, I see the place where thou wilt lie.\"The sands and yeasty surges mix In caves about the dreary bay,And on thy ribs the limpet sticks, And in thy heart the scrawl shall play.\"\"Fool,\" he answer'd , \"death is sure To those that stay and those that roam,But I will nevermore endure To sit with empty hands at home.\"My mother clings about my neck, My sisters crying, ‘Stay for shame;'My father raves of death and wreck,- They are all to blame, they are all to blame.\"God help me! save I take my part Of danger on the roaring sea,A devil rises in my heart, Far worse than any death to me.\"", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1459": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1459, "poem.id": 1459, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:40:05", "poem.title": "The Tears Of Heaven", "poem.date": "3/16/2015", "poem.content": "Heaven weeps above the earth all night till morn,In darkness weeps, as all ashamed to weep,Because the earth hath made her state forlornWith selfwrought evils of unnumbered years,And doth the fruit of her dishonour reap.And all the day heaven gathers back her tearsInto her own blue eyes so clear and deep,And showering down the glory of lightsome day,Smiles on the earth's worn brow to win her if she may.", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1460": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1460, "poem.id": 1460, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:40:10", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 95. By Night We Linger'D On The Lawn", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1461": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1461, "poem.id": 1461, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:40:12", "poem.title": "The Two Voices", "poem.date": "2/9/2015", "poem.content": "A still small voice spake unto me,\"Thou art so full of misery,Were it not better not to be?\"Then to the still small voice I said;\"Let me not cast in endless shadeWhat is so wonderfully made.\"To which the voice did urge reply;\"To-day I saw the dragon-flyCome from the wells where he did lie.\"An inner impulse rent the veilOf his old husk: from head to tailCame out clear plates of sapphire mail.\"He dried his wings: like gauze they grew;Thro' crofts and pastures wet with dewA living flash of light he flew.\"I said, \"When first the world began,Young Nature thro' five cycles ran,And in the sixth she moulded man.\"She gave him mind, the lordliestProportion, and, above the rest,Dominion in the head and breast.\"Thereto the silent voice replied;\"Self-blinded are you by your pride:Look up thro' night: the world is wide.\"This truth within thy mind rehearse,That in a boundless universeIs boundless better, boundless worse.\"Think you this mould of hopes and fearsCould find no statelier than his peersIn yonder hundred million spheres?\"It spake, moreover, in my mind:\"Tho' thou wert scatter'd to the wind,Yet is there plenty of the kind.\"Then did my response clearer fall:\"No compound of this earthly ballIs like another, all in all.\"To which he answer'd scoffingly;\"Good soul! suppose I grant it thee,Who'll weep for thy deficiency?\"Or will one beam be less intense,When thy peculiar differenceIs cancell'd in the world of sense?\"I would have said, \"Thou canst not know,\"But my full heart, that work'd below,Rain'd thro' my sight its overflow.Again the voice spake unto me:\"Thou art so steep'd in misery,Surely 'twere better not to be.\"Thine anguish will not let thee sleep,Nor any train of reason keep:Thou canst not think, but thou wilt weep.\"I said, \"The years with change advance:If I make dark my countenance,I shut my life from happier chance.\"Some turn this sickness yet might take,Ev'n yet.\" But he: \"What drug can makeA wither'd palsy cease to shake?\"I wept, \"Tho' I should die, I knowThat all about the thorn will blowIn tufts of rosy-tinted snow;\"And men, thro' novel spheres of thoughtStill moving after truth long sought,Will learn new things when I am not.\"\"Yet,\" said the secret voice, \"some time,Sooner or later, will gray primeMake thy grass hoar with early rime.\"Not less swift souls that yearn for light,Rapt after heaven's starry flight,Would sweep the tracts of day and night.\"Not less the bee would range her cells,The furzy prickle fire the dells,The foxglove cluster dappled bells.\"I said that \"all the years invent;Each month is various to presentThe world with some development.\"Were this not well, to bide mine hour,Tho' watching from a ruin'd towerHow grows the day of human power?\"\"The highest-mounted mind,\" he said,\"Still sees the sacred morning spreadThe silent summit overhead.\"Will thirty seasons render plainThose lonely lights that still remain,Just breaking over land and main?\"Or make that morn, from his cold crownAnd crystal silence creeping down,Flood with full daylight glebe and town?\"Forerun thy peers, thy time, and letThy feet, millenniums hence, be setIn midst of knowledge, dream'd not yet.\"Thou hast not gain'd a real height,Nor art thou nearer to the light,Because the scale is infinite.\"'Twere better not to breathe or speak,Than cry for strength, remaining weak,And seem to find, but still to seek.\"Moreover, but to seem to findAsks what thou lackest, thought resign'd,A healthy frame, a quiet mind.\"I said, \"When I am gone away,‘He dared not tarry,' men will say,Doing dishonour to my clay.\"\"This is more vile,\" he made reply,\"To breathe and loathe, to live and sigh,Than once from dread of pain to die.\"Sick art thou—a divided willStill heaping on the fear of illThe fear of men, a coward still.\"Do men love thee? Art thou so boundTo men, that how thy name may soundWill vex thee lying underground?\"The memory of the wither'd leafIn endless time is scarce more briefThan of the garner'd Autumn-sheaf.\"Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust;The right ear, that is fill'd with dust,Hears little of the false or just.\"\"Hard task, to pluck resolve,\" I cried,\"From emptiness and the waste wideOf that abyss, or scornful pride!\"Nay—rather yet that I could raiseOne hope that warm'd me in the daysWhile still I yearn'd for human praise.\"When, wide in soul and bold of tongue,Among the tents I paused and sung,The distant battle flash'd and rung.\"I sung the joyful P¾an clear,And, sitting, burnish'd without fearThe brand, the buckler, and the spear—\"Waiting to strive a happy strife,To war with falsehood to the knife,And not to lose the good of life—\"Some hidden principle to move,To put together, part and prove,And mete the bounds of hate and love—\"As far as might be, to carve outFree space for every human doubt,That the whole mind might orb about—\"To search thro' all I felt or saw,The springs of life, the depths of awe,And reach the law within the law:\"At least, not rotting like a weed,But, having sown some generous seed,Fruitful of further thought and deed,\"To pass, when Life her light withdraws,Not void of righteous self-applause,Nor in a merely selfish cause—\"In some good cause, not in mine own,To perish, wept for, honour'd, known,And like a warrior overthrown;\"Whose eyes are dim with glorious tears,When, soil'd with noble dust, he hearsHis country's war-song thrill his ears:\"Then dying of a mortal stroke,What time the foeman's line is broke,And all the war is roll'd in smoke.\"\"Yea!\" said the voice, \"thy dream was good,While thou abodest in the bud.It was the stirring of the blood.\"If Nature put not forth her powerAbout the opening of the flower,Who is it that could live an hour?\"Then comes the check, the change, the fall,Pain rises up, old pleasures pall.There is one remedy for all.\"Yet hadst thou, thro' enduring pain,Link'd month to month with such a chainOf knitted purport, all were vain.\"Thou hadst not between death and birthDissolved the riddle of the earth.So were thy labour little-worth.\"That men with knowledge merely play'd,I told thee—hardly nigher made,Tho' scaling slow from grade to grade;\"Much less this dreamer, deaf and blind,Named man, may hope some truth to find,That bears relation to the mind.\"For every worm beneath the moonDraws different threads, and late and soonSpins, toiling out his own cocoon.\"Cry, faint not: either Truth is bornBeyond the polar gleam forlorn,Or in the gateways of the morn.\"Cry, faint not, climb: the summits slopeBeyond the furthest flights of hope,Wrapt in dense cloud from base to cope.\"Sometimes a little corner shines,As over rainy mist inclinesA gleaming crag with belts of pines.\"I will go forward, sayest thou,I shall not fail to find her now.Look up, the fold is on her brow.\"If straight thy track, or if oblique,Thou know'st not. Shadows thou dost strike,Embracing cloud, Ixion-like;\"And owning but a little moreThan beasts, abidest lame and poor,Calling thyself a little lower\"Than angels. Cease to wail and brawl!Why inch by inch to darkness crawl?There is one remedy for all.\"\"O dull, one-sided voice,\" said I,\"Wilt thou make everything a lie,To flatter me that I may die?\"I know that age to age succeeds,Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds,A dust of systems and of creeds.\"I cannot hide that some have striven,Achieving calm, to whom was givenThe joy that mixes man with Heaven:\"Who, rowing hard against the stream,Saw distant gates of Eden gleam,And did not dream it was a dream;\"But heard, by secret transport led,Ev'n in the charnels of the dead,The murmur of the fountain-head—\"Which did accomplish their desire,Bore and forebore, and did not tire,Like Stephen, an unquenched fire.\"He heeded not reviling tones,Nor sold his heart to idle moans,Tho' cursed and scorn'd, and bruised with stones:\"But looking upward, full of grace,He pray'd, and from a happy placeGod's glory smote him on the face.\"The sullen answer slid betwixt:\"Not that the grounds of hope were fix'd,The elements were kindlier mix'd.\"I said, \"I toil beneath the curse,But, knowing not the universe,I fear to slide from bad to worse.\"And that, in seeking to undoOne riddle, and to find the true,I knit a hundred others new:\"Or that this anguish fleeting hence,Unmanacled from bonds of sense,Be fix'd and froz'n to permanence:\"For I go, weak from suffering here:Naked I go, and void of cheer:What is it that I may not fear?\"\"Consider well,\" the voice replied,\"His face, that two hours since hath died;Wilt thou find passion, pain or pride?\"Will he obey when one commands?Or answer should one press his hands?He answers not, nor understands.\"His palms are folded on his breast:There is no other thing express'dBut long disquiet merged in rest.\"His lips are very mild and meek:Tho' one should smite him on the cheek,And on the mouth, he will not speak.\"His little daughter, whose sweet faceHe kiss'd, taking his last embrace,Becomes dishonour to her race—\"His sons grow up that bear his name,Some grow to honour, some to shame,—But he is chill to praise or blame.\"He will not hear the north-wind rave,Nor, moaning, household shelter craveFrom winter rains that beat his grave.\"High up the vapours fold and swim:About him broods the twilight dim:The place he knew forgetteth him.\"\"If all be dark, vague voice,\" I said,\"These things are wrapt in doubt and dread,Nor canst thou show the dead are dead.\"The sap dries up: the plant declines.A deeper tale my heart divines.Know I not Death? the outward signs?\"I found him when my years were few;A shadow on the graves I knew,And darkness in the village yew.\"From grave to grave the shadow crept:In her still place the morning wept:Touch'd by his feet the daisy slept.\"The simple senses crown'd his head:‘Omega! thou art Lord,' they said,‘We find no motion in the dead.'\"Why, if man rot in dreamless ease,Should that plain fact, as taught by these,Not make him sure that he shall cease?\"Who forged that other influence,That heat of inward evidence,By which he doubts against the sense?\"He owns the fatal gift of eyes,That read his spirit blindly wise,Not simple as a thing that dies.\"Here sits he shaping wings to fly:His heart forebodes a mystery:He names the name Eternity.\"That type of Perfect in his mindIn Nature can he nowhere find.He sows himself on every wind.\"He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend,And thro' thick veils to apprehendA labour working to an end.\"The end and the beginning vexHis reason: many things perplex,With motions, checks, and counterchecks.\"He knows a baseness in his bloodAt such strange war with something good,He may not do the thing he would.\"Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn,Vast images in glimmering dawn,Half shown, are broken and withdrawn.\"Ah! sure within him and without,Could his dark wisdom find it out,There must be answer to his doubt,\"But thou canst answer not again.With thine own weapon art thou slain,Or thou wilt answer but in vain.\"The doubt would rest, I dare not solve.In the same circle we revolve.Assurance only breeds resolve.\"As when a billow, blown against,Falls back, the voice with which I fencedA little ceased, but recommenced.\"Where wert thou when thy father play'dIn his free field, and pastime made,A merry boy in sun and shade?\"A merry boy they call'd him then,He sat upon the knees of menIn days that never come again.\"Before the little ducts beganTo feed thy bones with lime, and ranTheir course, till thou wert also man:\"Who took a wife, who rear'd his race,Whose wrinkles gather'd on his face,Whose troubles number with his days:\"A life of nothings, nothing-worth,From that first nothing ere his birthTo that last nothing under earth!\"\"These words,\" I said, \"are like the rest;No certain clearness, but at bestA vague suspicion of the breast:\"But if I grant, thou mightst defendThe thesis which thy words intend—That to begin implies to end;\"Yet how should I for certain hold,Because my memory is so cold,That I first was in human mould?\"I cannot make this matter plain,But I would shoot, howe'er in vain,A random arrow from the brain.\"It may be that no life is found,Which only to one engine boundFalls off, but cycles always round.\"As old mythologies relate,Some draught of Lethe might awaitThe slipping thro' from state to state.\"As here we find in trances, menForget the dream that happens then,Until they fall in trance again.\"So might we, if our state were suchAs one before, remember much,For those two likes might meet and touch.\"But, if I lapsed from nobler place,Some legend of a fallen raceAlone might hint of my disgrace;\"Some vague emotion of delightIn gazing up an Alpine height,Some yeaming toward the lamps of night;\"Or if thro' lower lives I came—Tho' all experience past becameConsolidate in mind and frame—\"I might forget my weaker lot;For is not our first year forgot?The haunts of memory echo not.\"And men, whose reason long was blind,From cells of madness unconfined,Oft lose whole years of darker mind.\"Much more, if first I floated free,As naked essence, must I beIncompetent of memory:\"For memory dealing but with time,And he with matter, could she climbBeyond her own material prime?\"Moreover, something is or seems,That touches me with mystic gleams,Like glimpses of forgotten dreams—\"Of something felt, like something here;Of something done, I know not where;Such as no language may declare.\"The still voice laugh'd. \"I talk,\" said he,\"Not with thy dreams. Suffice it theeThy pain is a reality.\"\"But thou,\" said I, \"hast missed thy mark,Who sought'st to wreck my mortal ark,By making all the horizon dark.\"Why not set forth, if I should doThis rashness, that which might ensueWith this old soul in organs new?\"Whatever crazy sorrow saith,No life that breathes with human breathHas ever truly long'd for death.\"'Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant,Oh life, not death, for which we pant;More life, and fuller, that I want.\"I ceased, and sat as one forlorn.Then said the voice, in quiet scorn,\"Behold, it is the Sabbath morn.\"And I arose, and I releasedThe casement, and the light increasedWith freshness in the dawning east.Like soften'd airs that blowing steal,When meres begin to uncongeal,The sweet church bells began to peal.On to God's house the people prest:Passing the place where each must rest,Each enter'd like a welcome guest.One walk'd between his wife and child,With measured footfall firm and mild,And now and then he gravely smiled.The prudent partner of his bloodLean'd on him, faithful, gentle, good,Wearing the rose of womanhood.And in their double love secure,The little maiden walk'd demure,Pacing with downward eyelids pure.These three made unity so sweet,My frozen heart began to beat,Remembering its ancient heat.I blest them, and they wander'd on:I spoke, but answer came there none:The dull and bitter voice was gone.A second voice was at mine ear,A little whisper silver-clear,A murmur, \"Be of better cheer.\"As from some blissful neighbourhood,A notice faintly understood,\"I see the end, and know the good.\"A little hint to solace woe,A hint, a whisper breathing low,\"I may not speak of what I know.\"Like an Æolian harp that wakesNo certain air, but overtakesFar thought with music that it makes:Such seem'd the whisper at my side:\"What is it thou knowest, sweet voice?\" I cried.\"A hidden hope,\" the voice replied:So heavenly-toned, that in that hourFrom out my sullen heart a powerBroke, like the rainbow from the shower,To feel, altho' no tongue can prove,That every cloud, that spreads aboveAnd veileth love, itself is love.And forth into the fields I went,And Nature's living motion lentThe pulse of hope to discontent.I wonder'd at the bounteous hours,The slow result of winter showers:You scarce could see the grass for flowers.I wonder'd, while I paced along:The woods were fill'd so full with song,There seem'd no room for sense of wrong;And all so variously wrought,I marvell'd how the mind was broughtTo anchor by one gloomy thought;And wherefore rather I made choiceTo commune with that barren voice,Than him that said, \"Rejoice! Rejoice!\"", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1462": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1462, "poem.id": 1462, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:40:15", "poem.title": "Northern Farmer: New Style", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1463": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1463, "poem.id": 1463, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:40:18", "poem.title": "Œnone", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1464": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1464, "poem.id": 1464, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:40:20", "poem.title": "Lxxxiii: Spring", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1465": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1465, "poem.id": 1465, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:40:24", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: Preface", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1466": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1466, "poem.id": 1466, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:40:27", "poem.title": "Obiit Mdcccxxxiii (Entire)", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1467": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1467, "poem.id": 1467, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:40:29", "poem.title": "Hands All Round", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1468": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1468, "poem.id": 1468, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:40:32", "poem.title": "O True And Tried", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1469": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1469, "poem.id": 1469, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:40:36", "poem.title": "Gigantic Daughter Of The West,", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1470": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1470, "poem.id": 1470, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:40:38", "poem.title": "The Last Tournament", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1471": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1471, "poem.id": 1471, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:40:43", "poem.title": "In The Garden At Swainston", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1472": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1472, "poem.id": 1472, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:40:45", "poem.title": "Recollection Of The Arabian Nights", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1473": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1473, "poem.id": 1473, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:40:47", "poem.title": "Milton (Alcaics)", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1474": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1474, "poem.id": 1474, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:40:53", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H. 116", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1475": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1475, "poem.id": 1475, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:40:57", "poem.title": "Idylls Of The King: The Last Tournament (Excerpt)", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1476": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1476, "poem.id": 1476, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:41:03", "poem.title": "The Princess (Part 7)", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1477": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1477, "poem.id": 1477, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:41:07", "poem.title": "The Princess: A Medley: Our Enemies Have Fall'N", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1478": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1478, "poem.id": 1478, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:41:11", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H. 7", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1479": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1479, "poem.id": 1479, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:41:14", "poem.title": "The Progress Of Spring", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1480": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1480, "poem.id": 1480, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:41:18", "poem.title": "Lilian", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1481": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1481, "poem.id": 1481, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:41:22", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 50. Be Near Me When My Light Is Low", "poem.date": "2/16/2015", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1482": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1482, "poem.id": 1482, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:41:47", "poem.title": "The Princess (Prologue)", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1483": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1483, "poem.id": 1483, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:41:53", "poem.title": "The Talking Oak", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1484": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1484, "poem.id": 1484, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:41:56", "poem.title": "Pelleas And Ettarre", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1485": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1485, "poem.id": 1485, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:41:59", "poem.title": "Northern Farmer: Old Style", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1486": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1486, "poem.id": 1486, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:42:05", "poem.title": "The Princess (Part 4)", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1487": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1487, "poem.id": 1487, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:42:10", "poem.title": "The Princess: A Medley: Come Down, O Maid", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1488": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1488, "poem.id": 1488, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:42:14", "poem.title": "The Princess (Part 6)", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "1489": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1489, "poem.id": 1489, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:42:17", "poem.title": "The Princess (Part 3)", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24672": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24672, "poem.id": 24672, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:33:03", "poem.title": "Mariana In The South", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24673": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24673, "poem.id": 24673, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:33:07", "poem.title": "Minnie And Winnie", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24674": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24674, "poem.id": 24674, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:33:10", "poem.title": "Far-Far-Away", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24675": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24675, "poem.id": 24675, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:33:15", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 99. Risest Thou Thus, Dim Dawn, Again", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24676": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24676, "poem.id": 24676, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:33:18", "poem.title": "The Princess: A Medley: Thy Voice Is Heard", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24677": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24677, "poem.id": 24677, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:33:21", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 83. Dip Down Upon The Northern Shore", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24678": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24678, "poem.id": 24678, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:33:24", "poem.title": "The Skipping-Rope", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24679": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24679, "poem.id": 24679, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:33:29", "poem.title": "The Princess: A Medley: Now Sleeps The Crimson Petal", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24680": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24680, "poem.id": 24680, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:33:36", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 39. Old Warder Of These Buried Bones", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24681": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24681, "poem.id": 24681, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:33:38", "poem.title": "The Defence Of Lucknow", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24682": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24682, "poem.id": 24682, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:33:45", "poem.title": "To Edward Lear: On His Travels In Greece", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24683": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24683, "poem.id": 24683, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:33:50", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 96. You Say, But With No Touch Of Sco", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24684": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24684, "poem.id": 24684, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:33:54", "poem.title": "The Letters", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24685": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24685, "poem.id": 24685, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:33:58", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 6. One Writes, That Other Friends Rem", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24686": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24686, "poem.id": 24686, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:34:00", "poem.title": "The Lord Of Burleigh", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24687": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24687, "poem.id": 24687, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:34:04", "poem.title": "Of Old Sat Freedom On The Heights", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24688": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24688, "poem.id": 24688, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:34:07", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 15. To-Night The Winds Begin To Rise", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24689": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24689, "poem.id": 24689, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:34:14", "poem.title": "The Princess: A Medley: Ask Me No More", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24690": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24690, "poem.id": 24690, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:34:16", "poem.title": "Idylls Of The King: Song From The Marriage Of Geraint", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24691": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24691, "poem.id": 24691, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:34:18", "poem.title": "The Princess (Part 5)", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24692": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24692, "poem.id": 24692, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:34:22", "poem.title": "The Mermaid", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24693": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24693, "poem.id": 24693, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:34:24", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 118. Contemplate All This Work Of Tim", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24694": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24694, "poem.id": 24694, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:34:30", "poem.title": "The Princess: A Medley: O Swallow", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24695": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24695, "poem.id": 24695, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:34:35", "poem.title": "Cxv: Spring", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24696": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24696, "poem.id": 24696, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:34:40", "poem.title": "Geraint And Enid", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24697": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24697, "poem.id": 24697, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:34:45", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 44. How Fares It With The Happy Dead?", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24698": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24698, "poem.id": 24698, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:34:49", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 72. Risest Thou Thus, Dim Dawn, Again", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24699": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24699, "poem.id": 24699, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:34:55", "poem.title": "The Princess (Part 2)", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24700": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24700, "poem.id": 24700, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:34:59", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 82. I Wage Not Any Feud With Death", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24701": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24701, "poem.id": 24701, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:35:03", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 121. Sad Hesper O'Er The Buried Sun", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24702": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24702, "poem.id": 24702, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:35:07", "poem.title": "The Marriage Of Geraint", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24703": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24703, "poem.id": 24703, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:35:12", "poem.title": "How Thought You That This Thing Could Captivate?", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24704": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24704, "poem.id": 24704, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:35:15", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 67. When On My Bed The Moonlight Fall", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24705": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24705, "poem.id": 24705, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:35:17", "poem.title": "The Princess: A Medley: Tears, Idle Tears", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24706": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24706, "poem.id": 24706, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:35:24", "poem.title": "Lucretius", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24707": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24707, "poem.id": 24707, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:35:28", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H. Obiit Mdcccxxxiii: 3. O Sorrow, Cruel", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24708": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24708, "poem.id": 24708, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:35:34", "poem.title": "Late, Late, So Late", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24709": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24709, "poem.id": 24709, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:35:37", "poem.title": "Sir Launcelot And Queen Guinevere", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24710": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24710, "poem.id": 24710, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:35:41", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 78. Again At Christmas Did We Weave", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24711": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24711, "poem.id": 24711, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:35:44", "poem.title": "Move Eastward, Happy Earth", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24712": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24712, "poem.id": 24712, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:35:47", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 105. To-Night Ungather'D Let Us Leave", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24713": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24713, "poem.id": 24713, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:35:49", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 2. Old Yew, Which Graspest At The Sto", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24714": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24714, "poem.id": 24714, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:35:52", "poem.title": "The Death Of The Old Year", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24715": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24715, "poem.id": 24715, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:35:57", "poem.title": "The Princess: A Medley: Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24716": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24716, "poem.id": 24716, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:35:59", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. 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O Living Will That Shalt Endure", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24723": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24723, "poem.id": 24723, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:36:29", "poem.title": "In The Valley Of Cauteretz", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24724": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24724, "poem.id": 24724, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:36:34", "poem.title": "Gareth And Lynette", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24725": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24725, "poem.id": 24725, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:36:36", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 55. The Wish, That Of The Living Whol", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24726": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24726, "poem.id": 24726, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:36:40", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 22. The Path By Which We Twain Did Go", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24727": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24727, "poem.id": 24727, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:36:42", "poem.title": "Hendecasyllabics", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24728": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24728, "poem.id": 24728, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:36:45", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 16. I Envy Not In Any Moods", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24729": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24729, "poem.id": 24729, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:36:50", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 56. So Careful Of The Type? 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That Which We Dare Invoke", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24734": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24734, "poem.id": 24734, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:37:13", "poem.title": "From 'The Princess'", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24735": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24735, "poem.id": 24735, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:37:18", "poem.title": "In Memoriam 3: O Sorrow, Cruel Fellowship", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24736": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24736, "poem.id": 24736, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:37:20", "poem.title": "The Passing Of Arthur", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24737": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24737, "poem.id": 24737, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:37:25", "poem.title": "Ode To Memory", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24738": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24738, "poem.id": 24738, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:37:28", "poem.title": "In Memoriam 82: I Wage Not Any Feud With Death", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24739": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24739, "poem.id": 24739, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:37:38", "poem.title": "Idylls Of The King: The Passing Of Arthur (Excerpt)", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24740": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24740, "poem.id": 24740, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:37:44", "poem.title": "The Palace Of Art", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24741": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24741, "poem.id": 24741, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:37:48", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 11. Calm Is The Morn Without A Sound", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24742": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24742, "poem.id": 24742, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:37:52", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 5. Sometimes I Hold It Half A Sin", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24743": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24743, "poem.id": 24743, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:37:58", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 45. The Baby New To Earth And Sky", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24744": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24744, "poem.id": 24744, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:38:00", "poem.title": "St. Agnes' Eve", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24745": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24745, "poem.id": 24745, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:38:03", "poem.title": "Enoch Arden", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24746": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24746, "poem.id": 24746, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:38:08", "poem.title": "The Miller's Daughter", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24747": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24747, "poem.id": 24747, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:38:14", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 54. Oh, Yet We Trust That Somehow Goo", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24748": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24748, "poem.id": 24748, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:38:19", "poem.title": "The Higher Pantheism", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24749": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24749, "poem.id": 24749, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:38:24", "poem.title": "The Grandmother", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24750": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24750, "poem.id": 24750, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:38:30", "poem.title": "You Ask Me, Why, Tho' Ill At Ease", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24751": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24751, "poem.id": 24751, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:38:34", "poem.title": "Duet", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24752": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24752, "poem.id": 24752, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:38:37", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 7. Dark House, By Which Once More I S", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24753": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24753, "poem.id": 24753, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:38:40", "poem.title": "Mariana", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24754": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24754, "poem.id": 24754, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:38:42", "poem.title": "Early Spring", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24755": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24755, "poem.id": 24755, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:38:45", "poem.title": "In Memoriam 131: O Living Will That Shalt Endure", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24756": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24756, "poem.id": 24756, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:38:48", "poem.title": "To E. Fitzgerald: Tiresias", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24757": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24757, "poem.id": 24757, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:38:55", "poem.title": "Beauty", "poem.date": "11/27/2014", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24758": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24758, "poem.id": 24758, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:38:58", "poem.title": "To Virgil", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24759": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24759, "poem.id": 24759, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:39:04", "poem.title": "Flower In The Crannied Wall", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24760": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24760, "poem.id": 24760, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:39:06", "poem.title": "Guinevere", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24761": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24761, "poem.id": 24761, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:39:10", "poem.title": "Sea Dreams", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24762": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24762, "poem.id": 24762, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:39:12", "poem.title": "The Splendor Falls", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24763": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24763, "poem.id": 24763, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:39:15", "poem.title": "Marriage Morning", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24764": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24764, "poem.id": 24764, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:39:18", "poem.title": "The Deserted House", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24765": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24765, "poem.id": 24765, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:39:24", "poem.title": "Summer Night", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24766": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24766, "poem.id": 24766, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:39:30", "poem.title": "Audley Court", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24767": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24767, "poem.id": 24767, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:39:36", "poem.title": "Lady Clare", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24768": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24768, "poem.id": 24768, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:39:43", "poem.title": "Merlin And Vivien", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24769": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24769, "poem.id": 24769, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:39:49", "poem.title": "The Coming Of Arthur", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24770": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24770, "poem.id": 24770, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:39:53", "poem.title": "The Charge Of The Light Brigade", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24771": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24771, "poem.id": 24771, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:39:59", "poem.title": "In Memoriam A. H. H.: 126. Love Is And Was My Lord And King", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24772": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24772, "poem.id": 24772, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:40:05", "poem.title": "Balin And Balan", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24773": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24773, "poem.id": 24773, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:40:07", "poem.title": "Locksley Hall", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24774": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24774, "poem.id": 24774, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:40:14", "poem.title": "The Holy Grail", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24775": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24775, "poem.id": 24775, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:40:19", "poem.title": "The Oak", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24776": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24776, "poem.id": 24776, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:40:24", "poem.title": "Battle Of Brunanburgh", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24777": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24777, "poem.id": 24777, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:40:31", "poem.title": "Sweet And Low", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24778": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24778, "poem.id": 24778, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:40:37", "poem.title": "Dedication", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24779": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24779, "poem.id": 24779, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:40:39", "poem.title": "The War", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24780": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24780, "poem.id": 24780, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:40:42", "poem.title": "Politics", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24781": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24781, "poem.id": 24781, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:40:46", "poem.title": "None", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen, Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine In cataract after cataract to the sea. Behind the valley topmost Gargarus Stands up and takes the morning: but in front The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel, The crown of Troas. Hither came at noon Mournful none, wandering forlorn Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff. \"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. For now the noonday quiet holds the hill: The grasshopper is silent in the grass: The lizard, with his shadow on the stone, Rests like a shadow, and the winds are dead. The purple flower droops: the golden bee Is lily-cradled: I alone awake. My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, And I am all aweary of my life. \"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, O Caves That house the cold crown'd snake! O mountain brooks, I am the daughter of a River-God, Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, A cloud that gather'd shape: for it may be That, while I speak of it, a little while My heart may wander from its deeper woe. \"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. I waited underneath the dawning hills, Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark, And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine: Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, white-hooved, Came up from reedy Simois all alone. \"O mother Ida, harken ere I die. Far-off the torrent call'd me from the cleft: Far up the solitary morning smote The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes I sat alone: white-breasted like a star Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard skin Droop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny hair Cluster'd about his temples like a God's: And his cheek brighten'd as the foam-bow brightens When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came. \"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold, That smelt ambrosially, and while I look'd And listen'd, the full-flowing river of speech Came down upon my heart. `My own none, Beautiful-brow'd none, my own soul, Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingrav'n \"For the most fair,\" would seem to award it thine, As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace Of movement, and the charm of married brows.' \"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. He prest the blossom of his lips to mine, And added 'This was cast upon the board, When all the full-faced presence of the Gods Ranged in the halls of Peleus; whereupon Rose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due: But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, Delivering that to me, by common voice Elected umpire, Herè comes to-day, Pallas and Aphroditè, claiming each This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.' \"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. It was the deep midnoon: one silvery cloud Had lost his way between the piney sides Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came, Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower, And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, Lotos and lilies: and a wind arose, And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, This way and that, in many a wild festoon Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'. \"O mother Ida, harken ere I die. On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and lean'd Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that grows Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made Proffer of royal power, ample rule Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue Wherewith to embellish state, 'from many a vale And river-sunder'd champaign clothed with corn, Or labour'd mine undrainable of ore. Honour,' she said, 'and homage, tax and toll, From many an inland town and haven large, Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing citadel In glassy bays among her tallest towers.' \"O mother Ida, harken ere I die. Still she spake on and still she spake of power, 'Which in all action is the end of all; Power fitted to the season; wisdom-bred And throned of wisdom--from all neighbour crowns Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from me, From me, Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee king-born, A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born, Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power Only, are likest Gods, who have attain'd Rest in a happy place and quiet seats Above the thunder, with undying bliss In knowledge of their own supremacy.' \"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of power Flatter'd his spirit; but Pallas where she stood Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, The while, above, her full and earnest eye Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. \"`Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, These three alone lead life to sovereign power. Yet not for power (power of herself Would come uncall'd for) but to live by law, Acting the law we live by without fear; And, because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.' \"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Again she said: 'I woo thee not with gifts. Sequel of guerdon could not alter me To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, So shalt thou find me fairest. Yet, indeed, If gazing on divinity disrobed Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, Unbias'd by self-profit, oh! rest thee sure That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee, So that my vigour, wedded to thy blood, Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's, To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks, Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown will, Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, Commeasure perfect freedom.' Here she ceas'd And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, 'O Paris, Give it to Pallas!' but he heard me not, Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me! \"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Italian Aphroditè beautiful, Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells, With rosy slender fingers backward drew From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat And shoulder: from the violets her light foot Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form Between the shadows of the vine-bunches Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. \"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh Half-whisper'd in his ear, 'I promise thee The fairest and most loving wife in Greece.' She spoke and laugh'd: I shut my sight for fear: But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm, And I beheld great Herè's angry eyes, As she withdrew into the golden cloud, And I was left alone within the bower; And from that time to this I am alone, And I shall be alone until I die. \"Yet, mother Ida, harken ere I die. Fairest--why fairest wife? am I not fair? My love hath told me so a thousand times. Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday, When I past by, a wild and wanton pard, Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most loving is she? Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains Flash in the pools of whirling Simois! \"O mother, hear me yet before I die. They came, they cut away my tallest pines, My tall dark pines, that plumed the craggy ledge High over the blue gorge, and all between The snowy peak and snow-white cataract Foster'd the callow eaglet--from beneath Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat Low in the valley. Never, never more Shall lone none see the morning mist Sweep thro' them; never see them overlaid With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud, Between the loud stream and the trembling stars. \"O mother, hear me yet before I die. I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds, Among the fragments tumbled from the glens, Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her The Abominable, that uninvited came Into the fair Pele{:i}an banquet-hall, And cast the golden fruit upon the board, And bred this change; that I might speak my mind, And tell her to her face how much I hate Her presence, hated both of Gods and men. \"O mother, hear me yet before I die. Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times, In this green valley, under this green hill, Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone? Seal'd it with kisses? water'd it with tears? O happy tears, and how unlike to these! O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face? O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight? O death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, There are enough unhappy on this earth, Pass by the happy souls, that love to live: I pray thee, pass before my light of life, And shadow all my soul, that I may die. Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, Weigh heavy on my eyelids: let me die. \"O mother, hear me yet before I die. I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts Do shape themselves within me, more and more, Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills, Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother Conjectures of the features of her child Ere it is born: her child!--a shudder comes Across me: never child be born of me, Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes! \"O mother, hear me yet before I die. Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me Walking the cold and starless road of death Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love With the Greek woman. I will rise and go Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says A fire dances before her, and a sound Rings ever in her ears of armed men. What this may be I know not, but I know That, wheresoe'er I am by night and day, All earth and air seem only burning fire.\"", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24782": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24782, "poem.id": 24782, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:40:50", "poem.title": "The Revenge - A Ballad Of The Fleet", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24783": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24783, "poem.id": 24783, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:40:56", "poem.title": "O, Were I Loved As I Desire To Be!", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24784": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24784, "poem.id": 24784, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:41:00", "poem.title": "Spring", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24785": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24785, "poem.id": 24785, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:41:07", "poem.title": "Lancelot And Elaine", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24786": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24786, "poem.id": 24786, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:41:11", "poem.title": "Morte D'Arthur", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24787": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24787, "poem.id": 24787, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:41:16", "poem.title": "The Garden", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24788": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24788, "poem.id": 24788, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:41:20", "poem.title": "Amphion", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24789": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24789, "poem.id": 24789, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:41:26", "poem.title": "Sir Galahad", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24790": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24790, "poem.id": 24790, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:41:31", "poem.title": "Come Down, O Maid", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24791": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24791, "poem.id": 24791, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:41:34", "poem.title": "Claribel: A Melody", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24792": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24792, "poem.id": 24792, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:41:40", "poem.title": "Fatima", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24793": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24793, "poem.id": 24793, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:41:44", "poem.title": "Now Sleeps The Crimson Petal", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24794": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24794, "poem.id": 24794, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:41:47", "poem.title": "Tithonus", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24795": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24795, "poem.id": 24795, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:41:52", "poem.title": "By An Evolutionist", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24796": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24796, "poem.id": 24796, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:41:58", "poem.title": "The Lotos-Eaters", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24797": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24797, "poem.id": 24797, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:42:01", "poem.title": "Freedom", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24798": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24798, "poem.id": 24798, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:42:05", "poem.title": "Demeter And Persephone", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24799": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24799, "poem.id": 24799, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:42:08", "poem.title": "In Memoriam 16: I Envy Not In Any Moods", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24800": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24800, "poem.id": 24800, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:42:14", "poem.title": "The Owl", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24801": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24801, "poem.id": 24801, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:42:20", "poem.title": "Beautiful City", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24802": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24802, "poem.id": 24802, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:42:26", "poem.title": "Boadicea", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24803": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24803, "poem.id": 24803, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:42:31", "poem.title": "Come Into The Garden, Maud", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24804": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24804, "poem.id": 24804, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:42:35", "poem.title": "O Beauty, Passing Beauty!", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24805": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24805, "poem.id": 24805, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:42:38", "poem.title": "The Kraken", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24806": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24806, "poem.id": 24806, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:42:42", "poem.title": "Tears, Idle Tears", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24807": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24807, "poem.id": 24807, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:42:44", "poem.title": "Blow, Bugle, Blow", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24808": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24808, "poem.id": 24808, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:42:47", "poem.title": "Ring Out , Wild Bells", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24809": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24809, "poem.id": 24809, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:42:51", "poem.title": "Cradle Song", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24810": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24810, "poem.id": 24810, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:42:58", "poem.title": "After-Thought", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24811": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24811, "poem.id": 24811, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:43:00", "poem.title": "Ask Me No More", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24812": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24812, "poem.id": 24812, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:43:03", "poem.title": "The Lady Of Shalott (1842)", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "PART I On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And thro' the field the road runs by To many-tower'd Camelot; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Thro' the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott. By the margin, willow veil'd, Slide the heavy barges trail'd By slow horses; and unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd Skimming down to Camelot: But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott? Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to tower'd Camelot: And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers \" 'Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott.\"PART II There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott. And moving thro' a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot: There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village-churls, And the red cloaks of market girls, Pass onward from Shalott. Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, Goes by to tower'd Camelot; And sometimes thro' the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two: She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott. But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, went to Camelot: Or when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed: \"I am half sick of shadows,\" said The Lady of Shalott.PART III A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley-sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott. The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot: And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armour rung, Beside remote Shalott. All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn'd like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot. As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over still Shalott. His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flash'd into the crystal mirror, \"Tirra lirra,\" by the river Sang Sir Lancelot. She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces thro' the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side; \"The curse is come upon me,\" cried The Lady of Shalott.PART IV In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shalott. And down the river's dim expanse Like some bold seër in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance-- With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott. Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right-- The leaves upon her falling light-- Thro' the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot: And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott. Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darken'd wholly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott. Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and burgher, lord and dame, And round the prow they read her name, The Lady of Shalott. Who is this? and what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they cross'd themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot: But Lancelot mused a little space; He said, \"She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott.\"", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24813": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24813, "poem.id": 24813, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:43:06", "poem.title": "Come Not When I Am Dead", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24814": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24814, "poem.id": 24814, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:43:11", "poem.title": "Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24815": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24815, "poem.id": 24815, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:43:15", "poem.title": "The Flower", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24816": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24816, "poem.id": 24816, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:43:20", "poem.title": "‘and Ask Ye Why These Sad Tears Stream?’", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24817": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24817, "poem.id": 24817, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:43:26", "poem.title": "Break, Break, Break", "poem.date": "4/8/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24818": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24818, "poem.id": 24818, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:43:29", "poem.title": "The Eagle", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24819": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24819, "poem.id": 24819, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:43:33", "poem.title": "A Farewell", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24820": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24820, "poem.id": 24820, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:43:38", "poem.title": "The Brook", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24821": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24821, "poem.id": 24821, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:43:41", "poem.title": "Charge Of The Light Brigade", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "HALF a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. 'Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns! ' he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. 'Forward, the Light Brigade! ' Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew Some one had blunder'd: Their's not to make reply, Their's not to reason why, Their's but to do and die: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd: Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre-stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wonder'd. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred! .", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24822": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24822, "poem.id": 24822, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:43:47", "poem.title": "All Things Will Die", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24823": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24823, "poem.id": 24823, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:43:52", "poem.title": "Crossing The Bar", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" }, "24824": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24824, "poem.id": 24824, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:43:57", "poem.title": "Ulysses", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel; I will drink Life to the lees. All times I have enjoy'd Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea. I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known,-- cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honor'd of them all,-- And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains; but every hour is saved >From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. This is my son, mine own Telemachus, to whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,-- Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill This labor, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail; There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me,-- That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads,-- you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honor and his toil. Death closes all; but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks; The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends. 'T is not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down; It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,-- One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.", "poem.author": "Alfred Lord Tennyson" } } }, "40": { "poet.id": 40, "poet.ts": "2018-02-28 20:56:35", "poet.title": "Ezra Pound", "poet.poet_x_poem_id": { "1490": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1490, "poem.id": 1490, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:42:22", "poem.title": "Canto XXXVI", "poem.date": "10/29/2015", "poem.content": "A Lady asks me I speak in seasonShe seeks reason for an affect, wild oftenThat is so proud he hath Love for a nameWho denys it can hear the truth nowWherefore I speak to the present knowersHaving no hope that low-hearted Can bring sight to such reasonBe there not natural demonstration I have no will to try proof-bringingOr say where it hath birthWhat is its virtu and powerIts being and every movingOr delight whereby ‘tis called \"to love\"Or if man can show it to sight. Where memory liveth, it takes its stateFormed like a diafan from light on shadeWhich shadow cometh of Mars and remainethCreated, having a name sensate,Custom of the soul, will from the heart;Cometh from a seen form which being understoodTaketh locus and remaining in the intellect possibleWherein hath he neither weight nor still-standing,Descendeth not by quality but shineth outHimself his own effect unendinglyNot in delight but in the being awareNor can he leave his true likeness otherwhere. He is not vertu but cometh of that perfectionWhich is so postulate not by the reasonBut ‘tis felt, I say.Beyond salvation, holdeth his judging forceDeeming intention to be reason's peer and mate,Poor in discernment, being thus weakness' friendOften his power cometh on death in the end,Be it withstayed and so swinging counterweight.Not that it were natural opposite, but onlyWry'd a bit from the perfect,Let no man say love cometh from chanceOr hath not established lordshipHolding his power even though Memory hath him no more. Cometh he to be when the willFrom overplusTwisteth out of natural measure,Never adorned with rest Moveth he changing colourEither to laugh or weepContorting the face with fear resteth but a littleYet shall ye see of him That he is most oftenWith folk who deserve himAnd his strange quality sets sighs to moveWilling man look into that forméd trace in his mindAnd with such uneasiness as rouseth the flame.Unskilled can not form his image,He himself moveth not, drawing all to his stillness,Neither turneth about to seek his delightNor yet to see out provingBe it so great or so small. He draweth likeness and hue from like natureSo making pleasure more certain in seemingNor can stand hid in such nearness,Beautys be darts tho' not savageSkilled from such fear a man followsDeserving spirit, that pierceth.Nor is he known from his faceBut taken in the white light that is allnessToucheth his aimWho heareth, seeth not formBut is led by its emanationBeing divided, set out from colour,Disjunct in mid darknessGrazeth the light, one moving by other,Being divided, divided from all falsityWorthy of trustFrom him alone mercy proceedeth. Go, song, surely thou mayestWhither it please theeFor so art thou ornate that thy reasonsShall be praised from thy understanders,With others hast thou no will to make company. \"Called thrones, balascio or topaze\"Eriugina was not understood in his time\"which explains, perhaps, the delay in condemning him\"And they went looking for ManicheansAnd found, so far as I can make out, no ManicheansSo they dug for, and damned Scotus Eriugina\"Authority comes from right reason, never the other way on\"Hence the delay in condemning himAquinas head down in a vacuum, Aristotle which way in a vacuum?Sacrum, sacrum, inluminatio coitu.Lo Sordels si fo di Mantovana of a castle named Goito.\"Five castles!\"Five castles!\" (king giv' him five castles)\"And what the hell do I know about dye-works?!\"His Holiness has written a letter: \"CHARLES the Mangy of Anjou…...way you treat your men is a scandal….\"Dilectis miles familiaris…castra Montis OdorisiiMontis Sancti Silvestri pallete et pile…In partibus Thetis….vineland land tilled the land incult pratis nemoribus pascuis with legal jurisdictionhis heirs of both sexes,…sold the damn lot six weeks later,Sordellus de Godio. Quan ben m'albir e mon ric pensamen.", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1491": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1491, "poem.id": 1491, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:42:29", "poem.title": "Canto Xlv", "poem.date": "1/10/2015", "poem.content": "With Usura With usura hath no man a house of good stoneeach block cut smooth and well fittingthat design might cover their face,with usurahath no man a painted paradise on his church wallharpes et luzor where virgin receiveth messageand halo projects from incision,with usuraseeth no man Gonzaga his heirs and his concubinesno picture is made to endure nor to live withbut it is made to sell and sell quicklywith usura, sin against nature,is thy bread ever more of stale ragsis thy bread dry as paper,with no mountain wheat, no strong flourwith usura the line grows thickwith usura is no clear demarcationand no man can find site for his dwelling.Stonecutter is kept from his toneweaver is kept from his loomWITH USURAwool comes not to marketsheep bringeth no gain with usuraUsura is a murrain, usurablunteth the needle in the maid's handand stoppeth the spinner's cunning. Pietro Lombardocame not by usuraDuccio came not by usuranor Pier della Francesca; Zuan Bellin' not by usuranor was ‘La Calunnia' painted.Came not by usura Angelico; came not Ambrogio Praedis,Came no church of cut stone signed: Adamo me fecit.Not by usura St. TrophimeNot by usura Saint Hilaire,Usura rusteth the chiselIt rusteth the craft and the craftsmanIt gnaweth the thread in the loomNone learneth to weave gold in her pattern;Azure hath a canker by usura; cramoisi is unbroideredEmerald findeth no MemlingUsura slayeth the child in the wombIt stayeth the young man's courtingIt hath brought palsey to bed, lyethbetween the young bride and her bridegroom CONTRA NATURAMThey have brought whores for EleusisCorpses are set to banquetat behest of usura. N.B. Usury: A charge for the use of purchasing power, levied without regard to production; often without regard to the possibilities of production. (Hence the failure of the Medici bank.)", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1492": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1492, "poem.id": 1492, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:42:53", "poem.title": "Canto XVI", "poem.date": "7/27/2015", "poem.content": "And before hell mouth; dry plain and two mountains;On the one mountain, a running form, and anotherIn the turn of the hill; in hard steelThe road like a slow screw's thread,The angle almost imperceptible, so that the circuit seemed hardly to rise;And the running form, naked, Blake,Shouting, whirling his arms, the swift limbs,Howling against the evil, his eyes rolling,Whirling like flaming cart-wheels, and his head held backward to gaze on the evilAs he ran from it, to be hid by the steel mountain,And when he showed again from the north side; his eyes blazing toward hell mouth,His neck forward, and like him Peire Cardinal.And in the west mountain, Il Fiorentino,Seeing hell in his mirror, and lo SordelsLooking on it in his shield;And Augustine, gazing toward the invisible. And past them, the criminal lying in the blue lakes of acid,The road between the two hills, upward slowly,The flames patterned in lacquer, crimen est actio,The limbo of chopped ice and saw-dust,And I bathed myself with acid to free myself of the hell ticks,Scales, fallen louse eggs. Palux Laerna,the lake of bodies, aqua morta,of limbs fluid, and mingled, like fish heaped in a bin,and here an arm upward, clutching a fragment of marble,And the embryos, in flux, new inflow, submerging,Here an arm upward, trout, submerged by the eels; and from the bank, the stiff herbagethe dry nobbled path, saw many known, and unknown,for an instant; submerging,The face gone, generation. Then light, air, under saplings,the blue banded lake under æther, an oasis, the stones, the calm field,the grass quiet, and passing the tree of the boughThe grey stone posts, and the stair of gray stone,the passage clean-squared in granite: descending,and I through this, and into the earth, patet terra,entered the quiet air the new sky,the light as after a sun-set, and by their fountains, the heroes,Sigismundo, and Malatesta Novello, and founders, gazing at the mounts of their cities. The plain, distance, and in fount-pools the nymphs of that waterrising, spreading their garlands, weaving their water reeds with the boughs,In the quiet, and now one man rose from his fountainand went off into the plain. Prone in that grass, in sleep; et j'entendis des voix:… wall . . . StrasbourgGalliffet led that triple charge. . . Prussiansand he said [Plarr's narration] it was for the honour of the army.And they called him a swashbuckler. I didn't know what it wasBut I thought: This is pretty bloody damn fine.And my old nurse, he was a man nurse, andHe killed a Prussian and he lay in the streetthere in front of our house for three daysAnd he stank. . . . . . . Brother Percy,And our Brother Percy… old AdmiralHe was a middy in those days,And they came into Ragusa. . . . . . place those men went for the Silk War. . . . .And they saw a procession coming down throughA cut in the hills, carrying somethingThe six chaps in front carrying a long thing on their shoulders,And they thought it was a funeral, but the thing was wrapped up in scarlet,And he put off in the cutter, he was a middy in those days,To see what the natives were doing,And they got up to the six fellows in livery,And they looked at it, and I can still hear the old admiral,\"Was it? it was Lord ByronDead drunk, with the face of an A y n. . . . . . . .He pulled it out long, like that: the face of an a y n . . . . . . . . gel.\" And because that son of a bitch, Franz Josef of Austria. . . . . .And because that son of a bitch Napoléon Barbiche…They put Aldington on Hill 70, in a trench dug through corpsesWith a lot of kids of sixteen,Howling and crying for their mamas,And he sent a chit back to his major: I can hold out for ten minutesWith my sergeant and a machine-gun. And they rebuked him for levity.And Henri Gaudier went to it, and they killed him,And killed a good deal of sculpture,And ole T.E.H. he went to it,With a lot of books from the library,London Library, and a shell buried ‘em in a dug-out,And the Library expressed its annoyance. And a bullet hit him on the elbow…gone through the fellow in front of him,And he read Kant in the Hospital, in Wimbledon,in the original,And the hospital staff didn't like it. And Wyndham Lewis went to it,With a heavy bit of artillery, and the airmen came by with a mitrailleuse,And cleaned out most of his company, and a shell lit on his tin hut,While he was out in the privy, and he was all there was left of that outfit. Windeler went to it, and he was out in the Ægæan,And down in the hold of his ship pumping gas into a sausage,And the boatswain looked over the rail, down into amidships, and he said: Gees! look a' the Kept'n,The Kept'n's a-gettin' ‘er up. And Ole Captain Baker went to it, with his legs full of rheumatics,So much so he couldn't run, so he was six months in hospital,Observing the mentality of the patients. And Fletcher was 19 when he went to it,And his major went mad in the control pit, about midnight, and started throwing the ‘phone aboutAnd he had to keep him quiet till abut six in the morning,And direct that bunch of artillery. And Ernie Hemingway went to it, too much in a hurry,And they buried him for four days. Et ma foi, vous savez, tous les nerveux. Non,Y a une limite; les bêtes, les bêtes ne sontPas faites pour ça, c'est peu de chose un cheval.Les hommes de 34 ans à quatre pattes qui criaient \"maman.\" Mais les costauds,La fin, là à Verdun, n'y avait que ces gros bonshommes Et y voyaient extrêmement clair.Qu'est-ce que ça vaut, les généraux, le lieutenant,on les pèse à un centigramme, n'y a rien que du bois,Notr' capitaine, tout, tout ce qu'il y a de plus renfermé de vieux polytechnicien, mais solide,La tête solide. Là, vous savez,Tout, tout fonctionne, et les voleurs, tous les vices,Mais les rapaces, y avait trois dans notre compagnie, tous tués.Y sortaient fouiller un cadavre, pour rien, y n'serainet sortis pour rien que ça.Et les boches, tout ce que vous voulez, militarisme, et cætera, et cætera.Tout ça, mais, MAIS, l'français, i s'bat quand y a mangé.Mais ces pauvres typesA la fin y s'attaquaient pour manger, Sans orders, les bêtes sauvages, on y faitPrisonniers; ceux qui parlaient français disaient: \"Poo quah? Ma foi on attaquait pour manger.\" C'est le corr-ggras, le corps gras, leurs trains marchaient trois kilomètres à l'heure,Et ça criait, ça grincait, on l'entendait à cinq kilomètres.(Ça qui finit la guerre.) Liste officielle des morts 5,000,000. I vous dit, bè, voui, tout sentait le pétrole.Mais, Non! je l'ai engueulé.Je lui ai dit: T'es un con! T'a raté la guerre. O voui! tous les homes de goût, y conviens,Tout ça en arrière. Mais un mec comme toi!C't homme, un type comme ça! Ce qu'il aurait pu encaisser!Il était dans une fabrique.What, burying squad, terrassiers, avec leur tête en arrière, qui regardaient comme ça,On risquait la vie pour un coup de pelle,Faut que ça soit bein carré, exact… Dey vus a bolcheviki dere, und dey dease him:Looka vat youah Trotzsk is done, e iss madeh deh zhamefull beace!!\"He iss madeh de zhamefull beace, iss he? \"He is madeh de zhamevull beace?\"A Brest-Litovsk, yess? Aint yuh herd? \"He vinneh de vore.\"De droobs iss released vrom de eastern vront, yess?\"Un venn dey getts to deh vestern vront, iss it \"How many getts dere?\"And dose doat getts dere iss so full off revolutions\"Venn deh vrench is come dhru, yess,\"Dey say, \"Vot?\" Un de posch say: \"Aint yeh heard? Say, ve got a rheffolution.\" That's the trick with a crowd, Get ‘em into the street and get ‘em moving.And all the time, there were people goingDown there, over the river. There was a man there talking,To a thousand, just a short speech, andThen move ‘em on. And he said:Yes, these people, they are all right, theyCan do everything, everything except act;And go an' hear ‘em but when they are throughCome to the bolsheviki… And when it broke, there was the crowd there,And the cossacks, just as always before,But one thing, the cossacks said: \"Pojalouista.\"And that got round in the crowd,And then a lieutenant of infantryOrdered ‘em to fire into the crowd, in the square at the end of the Nevsky,In front of the Moscow station,And they wouldn't,And he pulled his sword on a student for laughing,And killed him,And a cossack rode out of his squadOn the other side of the squareAnd cut down the lieutenant of infantryAnd there was the revolution… as soon as they named it. And you can't make ‘em,Nobody knew it was coming. They were all ready, the old gang,Guns on the top of the post-office and the palace,But none of the leaders knew it was coming. And there were some killed at the barracks,But that was between the troops. So we used to hear it at the operaThat they wouldn't be under Haig; and that the advance was beginning;That it was going to begin in a week.", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1493": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1493, "poem.id": 1493, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:42:56", "poem.title": "To Êáëüí (Greek Title)", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1494": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1494, "poem.id": 1494, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:43:02", "poem.title": "Homage To Sextus Propertius - Viii", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1495": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1495, "poem.id": 1495, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:43:08", "poem.title": "Translations And Adaptations From Heine", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1496": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1496, "poem.id": 1496, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:43:15", "poem.title": "Old Idea Of Choan By Rosoriu", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1497": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1497, "poem.id": 1497, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:43:21", "poem.title": "Homage To Quintus Septimus Florentis Christianus", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1498": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1498, "poem.id": 1498, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:43:46", "poem.title": "Homage To Sextus Propertius - Ix", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1499": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1499, "poem.id": 1499, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:43:52", "poem.title": "Phyllidula", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1500": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1500, "poem.id": 1500, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:43:55", "poem.title": "Sennin Poem By Kakuhaku", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1501": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1501, "poem.id": 1501, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:43:59", "poem.title": "Dieu! Qu'Il La Fait", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1502": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1502, "poem.id": 1502, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:44:01", "poem.title": "ßìýñññù (Greek Title)", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1503": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1503, "poem.id": 1503, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:44:04", "poem.title": "Horae Beatae Inscripto", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1504": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1504, "poem.id": 1504, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:44:07", "poem.title": "Homage To Sextus Propertius - Xi", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1505": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1505, "poem.id": 1505, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:44:13", "poem.title": "Near Perigord", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1506": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1506, "poem.id": 1506, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:44:18", "poem.title": "Leave-Taking Near Shoku", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1507": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1507, "poem.id": 1507, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:44:22", "poem.title": "Homage To Sextus Propertius - Iv", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1508": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1508, "poem.id": 1508, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:44:27", "poem.title": "Our Contemporaries", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1509": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1509, "poem.id": 1509, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:44:34", "poem.title": "Mauberley", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1510": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1510, "poem.id": 1510, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:44:36", "poem.title": "Ole Kate", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1511": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1511, "poem.id": 1511, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:44:38", "poem.title": "Homage To Sextus Propertius - X", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1512": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1512, "poem.id": 1512, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:44:44", "poem.title": "Homage To Sextus Propertius - Xii", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1513": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1513, "poem.id": 1513, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:44:47", "poem.title": "Planh For The Young English King", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1514": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1514, "poem.id": 1514, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:44:52", "poem.title": "Piere Vidal Old", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1515": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1515, "poem.id": 1515, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:44:55", "poem.title": "La Fraisne", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1516": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1516, "poem.id": 1516, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:45:01", "poem.title": "The Charge Of The Bread Brigade", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1517": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1517, "poem.id": 1517, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:45:04", "poem.title": "Epitaph", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1518": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1518, "poem.id": 1518, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:45:26", "poem.title": "Homage To Sextus Propertius - Vii", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1519": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1519, "poem.id": 1519, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:45:28", "poem.title": "Threnos", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1520": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1520, "poem.id": 1520, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:45:31", "poem.title": "For E. Mcc", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1521": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1521, "poem.id": 1521, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:45:36", "poem.title": "Famam Librosque Cano", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1522": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1522, "poem.id": 1522, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:45:40", "poem.title": "Poem By The Bridge At Ten-Shin", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1523": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1523, "poem.id": 1523, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:45:42", "poem.title": "Au Salon", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1524": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1524, "poem.id": 1524, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:45:47", "poem.title": "Paracelsus In Excelsis", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1525": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1525, "poem.id": 1525, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:45:51", "poem.title": "Homage To Sextus Propertius - Vi", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1526": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1526, "poem.id": 1526, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:45:55", "poem.title": "Her Monument, The Image Cut Thereon", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1527": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1527, "poem.id": 1527, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:45:59", "poem.title": "Les Millwin", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1528": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1528, "poem.id": 1528, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:46:05", "poem.title": "L'Homme Moyen Sensuel", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "1529": { "poet_x_poem.id": 1529, "poem.id": 1529, "poem.ts": "2018-03-01 05:46:11", "poem.title": "Yeux Glauques", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "24865": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24865, "poem.id": 24865, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:44:01", "poem.title": "Marvoil", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "24866": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24866, "poem.id": 24866, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:44:07", "poem.title": "Homage To Sextus Propertius - Iii", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "24867": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24867, "poem.id": 24867, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:44:09", "poem.title": "To-Em-Meps ‘the Unmoving Cloud'", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "24868": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24868, "poem.id": 24868, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:44:16", "poem.title": "Monumentum Aere, Etc.", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "24869": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24869, "poem.id": 24869, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:44:20", "poem.title": "Dompna Pois De Me No'Us Cal", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "24870": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24870, "poem.id": 24870, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:44:25", "poem.title": "The Faun", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "24871": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24871, "poem.id": 24871, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:44:29", "poem.title": "Salvationists", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "24872": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24872, "poem.id": 24872, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:44:31", "poem.title": "Tempora", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "24873": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24873, "poem.id": 24873, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:44:34", "poem.title": "Ortus", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "24874": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24874, "poem.id": 24874, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:44:36", "poem.title": "The Bellaires", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "24875": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24875, "poem.id": 24875, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:44:38", "poem.title": "Pagani’s, November 8", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "24876": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24876, "poem.id": 24876, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:44:42", "poem.title": "Simulacra", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "24877": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24877, "poem.id": 24877, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:44:45", "poem.title": "Gentildonna", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "24878": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24878, "poem.id": 24878, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:44:48", "poem.title": "Dum Capitolium Scandet", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "24879": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24879, "poem.id": 24879, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:44:54", "poem.title": "Provincia Deserta", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "24880": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24880, "poem.id": 24880, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:44:57", "poem.title": "South-Folk In Cold Country", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "24881": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24881, "poem.id": 24881, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:45:00", "poem.title": "The Patterns", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "24882": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24882, "poem.id": 24882, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:45:04", "poem.title": "Of Jacopo Del Sellaio", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "24883": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24883, "poem.id": 24883, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:45:06", "poem.title": "The Three Poets", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "24884": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24884, "poem.id": 24884, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:45:10", "poem.title": "In Exitum Cuiusdam", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "24885": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24885, "poem.id": 24885, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:45:13", "poem.title": "Satiemus", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "24886": { "poet_x_poem.id": 24886, "poem.id": 24886, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:45:16", "poem.title": "Homage To Sextus Propertius - 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"poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25013": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25013, "poem.id": 25013, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:55:02", "poem.title": "The Jewel Stairs' Grievance", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25014": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25014, "poem.id": 25014, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:55:08", "poem.title": "Villanelle: The Psychological Hour", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25015": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25015, "poem.id": 25015, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:55:13", "poem.title": "The Summons", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25016": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25016, "poem.id": 25016, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:55:20", "poem.title": "Notes For Canto Cxx", "poem.date": "1/20/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25017": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25017, "poem.id": 25017, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:55:26", "poem.title": "A Villonaud: Ballad Of The Gibbet", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25018": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25018, "poem.id": 25018, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:55:32", "poem.title": "Ancient Wisdom, Rather Cosmic", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25019": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25019, "poem.id": 25019, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:55:38", "poem.title": "Statement Of Being", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25020": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25020, "poem.id": 25020, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:55:43", "poem.title": "Grace Before Song", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25021": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25021, "poem.id": 25021, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:55:47", "poem.title": "The Fault Of It", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25022": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25022, "poem.id": 25022, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:55:53", "poem.title": "Fan-Piece, For Her Imperial Lord", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25023": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25023, "poem.id": 25023, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:55:58", "poem.title": "Song", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25024": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25024, "poem.id": 25024, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:56:00", "poem.title": "These Fought In Any Case", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25025": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25025, "poem.id": 25025, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:56:05", "poem.title": "Portrait D'Une Femme", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25026": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25026, "poem.id": 25026, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:56:11", "poem.title": "The Garrett", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25027": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25027, "poem.id": 25027, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:56:16", "poem.title": "Nicotine", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25028": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25028, "poem.id": 25028, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:56:23", "poem.title": "The Seeing Eye", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25029": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25029, "poem.id": 25029, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:56:29", "poem.title": "The Needle", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25030": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25030, "poem.id": 25030, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:56:32", "poem.title": "Salutation", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25031": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25031, "poem.id": 25031, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:56:38", "poem.title": "The Return", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25032": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25032, "poem.id": 25032, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:56:40", "poem.title": "Epilogue", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25033": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25033, "poem.id": 25033, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:56:43", "poem.title": "E.P. Ode Pour L'Election De Son Sepulchre", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25034": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25034, "poem.id": 25034, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:56:45", "poem.title": "Albatre", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25035": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25035, "poem.id": 25035, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:56:52", "poem.title": "The Lake Isle", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25036": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25036, "poem.id": 25036, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:56:57", "poem.title": "Meditatio", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25037": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25037, "poem.id": 25037, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:57:00", "poem.title": "Further Instructions", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25038": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25038, "poem.id": 25038, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:57:03", "poem.title": "Canto Xiii: Kung Walked", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25039": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25039, "poem.id": 25039, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:57:05", "poem.title": "A Ballad Of The Mulberry Road", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25040": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25040, "poem.id": 25040, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:57:08", "poem.title": "Cino", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25041": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25041, "poem.id": 25041, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:57:10", "poem.title": "The Bath-Tub", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25042": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25042, "poem.id": 25042, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:57:13", "poem.title": "The Encounter", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25043": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25043, "poem.id": 25043, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:57:19", "poem.title": "Taking Leave Of A Friend", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25044": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25044, "poem.id": 25044, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:57:24", "poem.title": "L'Art", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25045": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25045, "poem.id": 25045, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:57:26", "poem.title": "Lament Of The Frontier Guard", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25046": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25046, "poem.id": 25046, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:57:30", "poem.title": "Masks", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25047": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25047, "poem.id": 25047, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:57:34", "poem.title": "The Plunge", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25048": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25048, "poem.id": 25048, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:57:39", "poem.title": "Canto Xlix: For The Seven Lakes", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25049": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25049, "poem.id": 25049, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:57:44", "poem.title": "The Tree", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25050": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25050, "poem.id": 25050, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:57:49", "poem.title": "Cantico Del Sole", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25051": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25051, "poem.id": 25051, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:57:54", "poem.title": "[greek]", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25052": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25052, "poem.id": 25052, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:58:00", "poem.title": "Hugh Selwyn Mauberly (Part I)", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25053": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25053, "poem.id": 25053, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:58:06", "poem.title": "In The Old Age Of The Soul", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25054": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25054, "poem.id": 25054, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:58:08", "poem.title": "Canto 13", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25055": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25055, "poem.id": 25055, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:58:11", "poem.title": "The Seafarer", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25056": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25056, "poem.id": 25056, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:58:17", "poem.title": "Francesca", "poem.date": "1/1/2004", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25057": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25057, "poem.id": 25057, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:58:20", "poem.title": "Dance Figure", "poem.date": "6/30/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25058": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25058, "poem.id": 25058, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:58:24", "poem.title": "Tame Cat", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25059": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25059, "poem.id": 25059, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:58:29", "poem.title": "Ballad Of The Goodly Fere", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25060": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25060, "poem.id": 25060, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:58:34", "poem.title": "Ballad For Gloom", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25061": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25061, "poem.id": 25061, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:58:37", "poem.title": "Canto 49", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25062": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25062, "poem.id": 25062, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:58:40", "poem.title": "The Garden", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25063": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25063, "poem.id": 25063, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:58:47", "poem.title": "The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25064": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25064, "poem.id": 25064, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:58:51", "poem.title": "A Song Of The Degrees", "poem.date": "4/1/2010", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25065": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25065, "poem.id": 25065, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:58:57", "poem.title": "A Virginal", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25066": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25066, "poem.id": 25066, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:59:02", "poem.title": "Canto I", "poem.date": "1/13/2003", "poem.content": "And then went down to the ship,Set keel to breakers, forth on the godly sea, andWe set up mast and sail on that swart ship,Bore sheep aboard her, and our bodies alsoHeavy with weeping, and winds from sternwardBore us onward with bellying canvas,Crice's this craft, the trim-coifed goddess.Then sat we amidships, wind jamming the tiller,Thus with stretched sail, we went over sea till day's end.Sun to his slumber, shadows o'er all the ocean,Came we then to the bounds of deepest water,To the Kimmerian lands, and peopled citiesCovered with close-webbed mist, unpierced everWith glitter of sun-raysNor with stars stretched, nor looking back from heavenSwartest night stretched over wreteched men there.The ocean flowing backward, came we then to the placeAforesaid by Circe.Here did they rites, Perimedes and Eurylochus,And drawing sword from my hipI dug the ell-square pitkin; Poured we libations unto each the dead,First mead and then sweet wine, water mixed with white flourThen prayed I many a prayer to the sickly death's-heads; As set in Ithaca, sterile bulls of the bestFor sacrifice, heaping the pyre with goods,A sheep to Tiresias only, black and a bell-sheep.Dark blood flowed in the fosse,Souls out of Erebus, cadaverous dead, of bridesOf youths and of the old who had borne much; Souls stained with recent tears, girls tender,Men many, mauled with bronze lance heads,Battle spoil, bearing yet dreory arms,These many crowded about me; with shouting,Pallor upon me, cried to my men for more beasts; Slaughtered the herds, sheep slain of bronze; Poured ointment, cried to the gods,To Pluto the strong, and praised Proserpine; Unsheathed the narrow sword,I sat to keep off the impetuous impotent dead,Till I should hear Tiresias.But first Elpenor came, our friend Elpenor,Unburied, cast on the wide earth,Limbs that we left in the house of Circe,Unwept, unwrapped in the sepulchre, since toils urged other.Pitiful spirit. And I cried in hurried speech:'Elpenor, how art thou come to this dark coast? 'Cam'st thou afoot, outstripping seamen? ' And he in heavy speech:'Ill fate and abundant wine. I slept in Crice's ingle.'Going down the long ladder unguarded,'I fell against the buttress,'Shattered the nape-nerve, the soul sought Avernus.'But thou, O King, I bid remember me, unwept, unburied,'Heap up mine arms, be tomb by sea-bord, and inscribed:'A man of no fortune, and with a name to come.'And set my oar up, that I swung mid fellows.'And Anticlea came, whom I beat off, and then Tiresias Theban,Holding his golden wand, knew me, and spoke first:'A second time? why? man of ill star,'Facing the sunless dead and this joyless region? 'Stand from the fosse, leave me my bloody bever'For soothsay.' And I stepped back,And he strong with the blood, said then: 'Odysseus'Shalt return through spiteful Neptune, over dark seas,'Lose all companions.' Then Anticlea came.Lie quiet Divus. I mean, that is Andreas Divus,In officina Wecheli, 1538, out of Homer.And he sailed, by Sirens and thence outwards and awayAnd unto Crice. Venerandam,In the Cretan's phrase, with the golden crown, Aphrodite,Cypri munimenta sortita est, mirthful, oricalchi, with goldenGirdle and breat bands, thou with dark eyelidsBearing the golden bough of Argicidia. So that:", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25067": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25067, "poem.id": 25067, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:59:08", "poem.title": "Before Sleep", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25068": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25068, "poem.id": 25068, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:59:12", "poem.title": "Ancient Music", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25069": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25069, "poem.id": 25069, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:59:14", "poem.title": "Alba", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25070": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25070, "poem.id": 25070, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:59:19", "poem.title": "An Immorality", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25071": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25071, "poem.id": 25071, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:59:25", "poem.title": "And The Days Are Not Full Enough", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25072": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25072, "poem.id": 25072, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:59:28", "poem.title": "A Pact", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25073": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25073, "poem.id": 25073, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:59:32", "poem.title": "In A Station Of The Metro", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" }, "25074": { "poet_x_poem.id": 25074, "poem.id": 25074, "poem.ts": "2018-03-02 12:59:37", "poem.title": "A Girl", "poem.date": "1/3/2003", "poem.content": "", "poem.author": "Ezra Pound" } } } } } }