Poetry

William Shakespeare - Sonnet 18
Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day?

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? a
Thou art more lovely and more temperate: b
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, a
And summer's lease hath all too short a date: b

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, c
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; d
And every fair from fair sometime declines, c
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; d

But thy eternal summer shall not fade e
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; f
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, e
When in eternal lines to time thou growest: f

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, g
So long lives this and this gives life to thee. g


Oscar Wilde's novel the Picture of Dorian Gray, Chapter 1 – ‘the studio was filled with the rich odour of roses’.

The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.

From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flame like as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.

In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.

2007-09-15 03:52:28 · 6 answers · asked by Dr Ask 1

William Shakespeare - Sonnet 18
Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day?

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? a
Thou art more lovely and more temperate: b
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, a
And summer's lease hath all too short a date: b

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, c
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; d
And every fair from fair sometime declines, c
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; d

But thy eternal summer shall not fade e
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; f
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, e
When in eternal lines to time thou growest: f

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, g
So long lives this and this gives life to thee. g


Oscar Wilde's novel the Picture of Dorian Gray, Chapter 1 – ‘the studio was filled with the rich odour of roses’.

The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.

From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flame like as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.

In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.

2007-09-15 03:51:15 · 1 answers · asked by Dr Ask 1

William Shakespeare - Sonnet 18
Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day?

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? a
Thou art more lovely and more temperate: b
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, a
And summer's lease hath all too short a date: b

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, c
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; d
And every fair from fair sometime declines, c
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; d

But thy eternal summer shall not fade e
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; f
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, e
When in eternal lines to time thou growest: f

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, g
So long lives this and this gives life to thee. g


Oscar Wilde's novel the Picture of Dorian Gray, Chapter 1 – ‘the studio was filled with the rich odour of roses’.

The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.

From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flame like as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.

In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.

2007-09-15 03:48:06 · 1 answers · asked by Dr Ask 1

William Shakespeare - Sonnet 18
Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day?

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? a
Thou art more lovely and more temperate: b
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, a
And summer's lease hath all too short a date: b

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, c
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; d
And every fair from fair sometime declines, c
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; d

But thy eternal summer shall not fade e
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; f
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, e
When in eternal lines to time thou growest: f

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, g
So long lives this and this gives life to thee. g


Oscar Wilde's novel the Picture of Dorian Gray, Chapter 1 – ‘the studio was filled with the rich odour of roses’.

The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.

From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flame like as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.

In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.

2007-09-15 03:47:19 · 1 answers · asked by Dr Ask 1

William Shakespeare - Sonnet 18
Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day?

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? a
Thou art more lovely and more temperate: b
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, a
And summer's lease hath all too short a date: b

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, c
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; d
And every fair from fair sometime declines, c
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; d

But thy eternal summer shall not fade e
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; f
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, e
When in eternal lines to time thou growest: f

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, g
So long lives this and this gives life to thee. g


Oscar Wilde's novel the Picture of Dorian Gray, Chapter 1 – ‘the studio was filled with the rich odour of roses’.

The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.

From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flame like as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.

In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.

2007-09-15 03:46:33 · 3 answers · asked by Dr Ask 1

2007-09-15 03:05:45 · 4 answers · asked by Daliane O 1

im studying on this poet, and im find out alot about his life, and reading many of his poems, but i cant understand why he wrote poems. can anyone tell me about why William Blake wrote poetry!

2007-09-15 03:01:41 · 14 answers · asked by dazaclaza 2

Laugh
Written by Semper Fi 83 9/15/07

Give yourself a dose of life's medicine,
To conquer what ails you.
Whichever part of your life,
Wants to crumble and fail you.
Push that very thing aside.
Your medicine is inside.
Just laugh.

Okay, so the boss gave you a day,
Full of paperwork and stress.
Coffe runs, fax this and that.
Then make some sense out of a mess.
Don't digress!
Confess that you are good,
That no problem starts from you.
Pause a sec, and find a smile,
To evaporate the blues.
Just laugh.

Reach way back into your childhood,
When simple things made giggle.
Like playing tag with friends,
Or picking out a friend to tickle.
Your innocence is what this was,
What you must get back again.
Without innocence,
How could we enjoy singing in the rain?
Come on! LAUGH!!!!

2007-09-15 02:44:23 · 10 answers · asked by Anonymous

and i am just flattered with your comment but i'm sure all of them wouldn't get that much praiselol and no there wasn't another person envolved in my sons accident he hit a tel pole i'm going to share another one for your comments thank you

2007-09-14 16:53:29 · 2 answers · asked by rosemary h 2

is it italian ,Shakespearean or something else?

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ;
For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture[s] be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke ; why swell'st thou then ?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And Death shall be no more ; Death, thou shalt die.

2007-09-14 16:52:05 · 2 answers · asked by Anonymous

TITLE: First Light

In early morning
I forget I'm in this world
with crooked chiefs
who make federal deals.

In the first light
I remember who rewards me for living,
not bosses
but singing birds and blue sky.

I know I can bathe and stretch,
make jewelry and love
the witch and wise woman
living inside, needing to be silenced
and put at rest for work's long day.

In the first light
I offer cornmeal
and tobacco.
I say hello to those who came before me,
and to birds
under the eaves,
and budding plants.

I know the old ones are here
And every morning I remember the song
about how buffalo left through a hole in the sky
and how the grandmothers look out from those holes watching over us
from there and from there.

2007-09-14 16:18:41 · 10 answers · asked by Anonymous

Can you make it a love poem and it can be cheeze i really dont care just as long as it say SometHing about me likeing him since i met him and i love evrything about him and also something like i hope you feel the same way to...... So could someone write a poem for me?????? Oh and im 13 and hes 14!!!!!!

2007-09-14 15:51:58 · 8 answers · asked by Cha Cha! 4

I stand before a window,
sound of a crackling fire,
changing hues of sunrise.
Peace surrounds me,
my soul is at rest.
Currents of wind,
twist and tortures,
the slow rising mist.
Ramp to Heaven,
in field of lost souls.
Tiers of boiling fog,
pillars holds up the sky,
UFO sitting on a pond.
You see,
what you want to.

2007-09-14 15:25:31 · 7 answers · asked by Coop 366 7

2007-09-14 15:00:37 · 5 answers · asked by Angelo 1

im going to let you know before hand this might be offensive
any way my friend said when he read sum of my stuff that he didn't think it was mine so i wrote this infront of him in a few mins i like it wasn't supposed to be much but it turned out ok i think

GUNNA HAVE A FEW DRINKS & I GOT THEM 1"S N MY POCKET
HOPIN TO C HUNNIES SO FINE MY EYES START BUGGIN OUTTA SOCKET

DONT GOTTA WORRY BOUT DRINKS GETTIN SPILT ON THE STAGE
MY BOY RYAN USED TO DO THAT, SINCE THEN WELL HIS BEEN CAGED

THIS TIME ITS ME AND "JORGE" JUS CHILLIN IN THE COUCH
U KNOW HOW WE DO, WE GOT A PIMP *** SLOUTCH

I WANA C THESE GIRLS SHAKE N SO MANY WAYZ
BUT I GOTTA BE PATIENT, HAHA MONEY IS TIGHT THESE DAYZ

BY NOW IVE SCOPED THE PLACE AND I THINK ITS KINDA WHACK
HEY SHAUN! LOOK AT THAT GIRL..... DAMN "JORGE" I TAKE THAT BACK!

SHE'S BOUT 5'5 AND THICK AS CAN BE
PARDON ME BUT SWEETIE WOULD U MARRY ME?

IMA GIVE U A 20 AND WHATCH U LEAD THE WAY
IMA KEEP IT REAL I BEEN THINKN BOUT THIS ALL DAY!

BOUT 200 DOLLARS LATER I THNK ITS TIME TO GO
U NO WHAT IM SAYIN "JORGE" I AINT GOT NO MORE DOUGH

THIS WAS WRITTEN BY REQUEST, CASUE U KNOW HOW I DO
HEY BRO DID THINK I WOULDNT DO IT? U SHOULD KNOW ILL COME THREW

THIS IS PACKED W/ A NORMAL STORY AND SUM RYHMES THAT AT TIMES WERE TIGHT

WHEN IN-FACT IT PROLLY REMINDS U OF A MOVIE UD SEE ON A FRIDAY NITE

DONT GET ME WRONG SOME OF THE NAMES AND THE STORY IS A LIL BIT STRETCHED
BUT W/ THE LIFE I LEAD ITS STILL NEVER THAT FAR FETCHED

NOW GO BACK AND READ THIS AGAIN, AND LET IT FLOW LIKE A ROCKET
WHILE U DO THAT IM CHILL AND HAVE A DRINK EVEN W/ NO MONEY N MY POCKET

2007-09-14 14:34:59 · 6 answers · asked by shaun p 2

I woke up in the morning alone
smelling a strangers cologne
theres a note on the dresser
it says love Sylvester
and an autographed shot of Stallone

Please help me, it's bugging me and I keep reciting it over and over trying to remember who wrote it.

2007-09-14 09:20:44 · 3 answers · asked by Anonymous

Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;
They mount -how short a voyage brings
The wanderers back to their delight!
Chains tie us down by land and sea;
And wishes, vain as mine, may be
All that is left to comfort thee.

Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan,
Maimed, mangled by inhuman men;
Or thou upon a desert thrown
Inheritest the lion's den;
Or hast been summoned to the deep,
Thou, thou, and all thy mates, to keep
An incommunicable sleep.


====================
These are part of "The affliction of Margaret" by William Wordworth's poem.
I need some images or pictures for each stanza.
Help me!!

2007-09-14 09:02:14 · 1 answers · asked by ToBeGoodFriend 1

2007-09-14 08:30:14 · 7 answers · asked by FROGGIE 2

I went to town to buy a book,
That's filled with poetry.
What I then got to my surprise,
A brand new book for free.

I met the author signing books,
I asked him for his name.
I found he autographed my book,
As one on here, the same.

I told him that I come on here,
To learn to write my rhymes.
I asked him if he was the one,
Who'd helped me several times.

I got my book and went back home.
And read his lovely words.
I really liked the one he wrote,
About the flying birds.


He explained to me about counting syllables and making words rhyme by organizing them into different order and not changing the meaning. He also explained many more things. I wish I could have talked longer.

He signed my books:

Huggles n Squeezles
Exit Dondi, stage right.

2007-09-14 08:05:22 · 2 answers · asked by Anonymous

Whenever it is that my time comes,
And judgement then awaits.
Judge not the wicked sinful heart.
Instead the righteous soul.
My life has been a long turmoil.
I lived a life of sin.
My mother called me Jezebelle,
For all my worldly ways.
Twas taught to me by satan's spawn.
The man I new as Dad.
The things he did were very wrong,
He took me for his own.
When I grew up I left this man,
To seek a life anew.
All I found were more like him,
To tear my world apart.
Now I sit behind these bars.
My life is close to done.
One more hour is all I have,
Until they throw the switch.
I guess I should have stayed at home,
And not killed all those men.
But I did not and now must pay.
The highest price of all.
My sinful life must now be lost.
For all the wrong I've done.
So judge me not for killing men,
Although they number twelve.
And pray forgiveness for my soul,
So I won't sleep in hell.

2007-09-14 06:56:14 · 11 answers · asked by Anonymous

THE ***** SPEAKS OF RIVERS

I've known rivers
I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I build my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississipi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I've known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

2007-09-14 06:48:53 · 12 answers · asked by Anonymous

Soldier

As I put my pen doen to this paper
the pain in my mind makes me realize
I have nothing to say. I was
a prisoner, and my captor were
these words unspoken.

Like a bottle of asprin I kept my words
hostage inside me. So many times I wanted to
pull the trigger on myself for not saying goodbye.
I felt so angry that I got the
call to duty. Maybe it because of my wife's beauty.
Or maybe it was my child's innocence.
Either way I was stil a prisoner of
these unspoken I words.

I love you. I miss you. I want you.
These are all the things I wanted to say. But I was
still a prisoner of these words. So I
sip this. smoke this, Sniff this, anything
to keep the pain away from my brain.

sorry
this is only 3/4 of the poem because the rest won't fit. Tell me waht you think about this.

2007-09-14 05:35:04 · 11 answers · asked by animedrawer69 2

When are you supposed to feel old?
I remember, it was 40 I was told.
40 arrived and then did depart,
And here I am, 11 at heart.

I eye the mirror, and it eyes me,
Together we decide we are happy.
I am content with the reflection,
Of inner youth and perception.

Age brings the wisdom of a child,
With the dignity to be free and wild.
Forever I shall remain this age,
Free to experiment and engage.

So, 11 is my life's work each day,
With years of experiences to relay.
To those of younger years,
Who look in the mirror and form tears.

2007-09-14 03:47:56 · 13 answers · asked by Marguerite 7

There is this boy i like that keeps giving me mixed signals that he likes me. one moment the says he likes me the next he says he doesnt and so on. i like him and need a poem to write to him to make him understand i like him. Please help.

2007-09-14 03:18:48 · 3 answers · asked by mickey 2

... the woods are lovely dark and deep
but i have promises to keep
and miles to go before i sleep
and miles to go before i sleep

2007-09-14 01:20:26 · 5 answers · asked by Anonymous

http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20070913150149AAHI6xY

I didn't mean to do a song as an answer to a question, but it came out that way. Since it was an answer to another question, you'll have to link to it to see it, then come back and answer. :) Thanks.

2007-09-14 01:14:04 · 5 answers · asked by Scotty Doesnt Know 7

I really love rhyming poetry. I do not particularly care for the unrhymed poetry. I think it just has to do with style and what you like or don't like. I am writing a book of poetry. The poems will go in an order telling a story. I want to draw silouet illustrations. All the poems are on my blog. All my critics say to stop rhyming but I just don't write that way. Now I have it in my head it is out right WRONG to rhyme and my confidence has been shot. Suggestions, help or anything else will be greatly appreciated.

2007-09-14 00:22:23 · 18 answers · asked by Lynnemarie 6

2007-09-13 19:18:09 · 12 answers · asked by Anonymous

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps
Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart---how shall I say?---too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace---all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men,---good! but thanked
Somehow---I know not how---as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech---(which I have not)---to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark"---and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
---E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

2007-09-13 17:58:12 · 4 answers · asked by stop global warming!!! 1

Preditor
By: Mindy

I lost her to the rumors.
I lost her to his smile.
I lost her to that ogar,
That sneaky crocodile.

His over whelming hunger,
He could not dely.
Could not wait any longer,
My best friend became the prey.

She saw all the danger.
The warnings she ignored.
All her friends she's angered.
That selfish moment of reward.

But it got her nowhere.
Half a smile at the most.
I see her living in dispair,
From his one time lethal dose.

2007-09-13 17:27:46 · 11 answers · asked by Puzzled 1