I am a young passionate blogger, very passionate to learn about , something different, on research
Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the west, Star of my Country! on the horizon's brink Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink
By prashant sapkota5 years ago in Poets
Start not - nor deem my spirit fled: In me behold the only skull, From which, unlike a living head, Whatever flows is never dull.
Talk not of sad November, when a day Of warm, glad sunshine fills the sky of noon, And a wind, borrowed from some morn of June,
Oh! my name is John Wellington Wells I'm a dealer in magic and spells, In blessings and curses, And ever filled purses,
In her wimple of wind and her slippers of sleep The twilight comes like a little goose-girl, Herding her owls with many"tu-whoos,"
Dreadful darkness closes in On my bewildered mind; O let me suffer and not sin, Be tortured yet resigned.
Dearest of all, whose tenderness could rise To share all sorrow and to soothe all pain; The blessings breathed for thee with weeping eyes
Methinks from hour to hour her voice I hear: My Lady calls me! I would fain obey; Within, without, I feel myself decay;
I mind me in the days departed, How often underneath the sun With childish bounds I used to run To a garden long deserted.
Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home: Thou art not my friend, and I'm not there. Long through thy weary crowds, I roam;
It is a mournful pleasure to remember the exquisite taste and delight she evinced in the arrangement of a Bouquet; and how often she wished that, hereafter, she might appear to me as a beautiful flower!
It is always a temptation to an armed and agile nation To call upon a neighbor and to say: "We invaded you last night, we are quite prepared to fight,
