Prologue: Dear child, if you’re reading my biography Sometime in the near future, When I’m dead and dailies are eulogizing me, And you pick up this poem to read, Know...
And the clouds receded: Bit by bit it dissolves With the wind on the sky's pew; Spite the contraction of the beams, Sunset resolves The labour of man; after hours...
time is a magician! a kobo he turns to dollars the hated becomes a darling ... the sprinter is now wobbling the thief he gives collars time is a magician!
[dropcap]A[/dropcap] hundred lines From a bothered mind To his coy mistress To his coy mistress, pure and chaste To sheer beauty, to poise and taste Even a hundred hour Seems little...
Lone... How the breeze wheedled a saint To an old beauty witty-charming court Where sages till tomorrow remaineth picnickers, in there thoughts When drown, a picturesque Even, though a times...
What becomes Of a child still learning walk Then chooses to dance ballet? Anything better than a broken limb? How about one bereft of eyes Hearing thunder bolt and feeling...