Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same, 10
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back. 15
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I"
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. 20
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
I know what the caged bird feels, alas! When the sun is bright on the upland slopes; When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, And the river flows like a stream of glass; When the first bird sings and the first bud opes, And the faint perfume from its chalice steals-- I know what the caged bird feels! I know why the caged bird beats his wing Till its blood is red on the cruel bars; For he must fly back to his perch and cling When he fain would be on the bough a-swing; And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars And they pulse again with a keener sting-- I know why he beats his wing! I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,-- When he beats his bars and he would be free; It is not a carol of joy or glee, But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core, But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings-- I know... [show more]
I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals--
I know what the caged bird feels!
I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting--
I know why he beats his wing!
I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,--
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings--
I know why the caged bird sings! [show less]
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
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.
What are we now but voices
who promise each other
a life neither one can deliver,
not for lack of wanting
but wanting cant make it so.
We hang from a vine
at the cliffs edge.
There are tigers above
and below. Let us love
one another and let go.
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!" He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought- So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! A frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled in his joy. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and... [show more]
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought-
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
A frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe. [show less]
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I'm not cute or built to suit a model's fashion size. But when I start to tell them they think I'm telling lies. I say It's in the reach of my arms, the span of my hips, the stride of my steps, the curl of my lips, I'm a woman. Phenomenally, Phenomenal woman , that's me. I walk into a room, just as cool as you please, and to a man, the fellows stand or fall down on their knees. Then they swarm around me like a hive of honey bees. I say, It's the fire in my eyes and the flash of my teeth, the swing of my waist, and the joy in my feet. I'm a woman, Phenomenally, Phenomenal woman, that's me. Men themselves have wondered what they see in me. They try so much but they can't touch, my inner mystery. When I try to show them, they say they still can't see. I say, It's in the arch of my back, the sun of my smile, the ride of my... [show more]
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a model's fashion size.
But when I start to tell them
they think I'm telling lies.
I say
It's in the reach of my arms,
the span of my hips,
the stride of my steps,
the curl of my lips,
I'm a woman.
Phenomenally,
Phenomenal woman ,
that's me.
I walk into a room,
just as cool as you please,
and to a man,
the fellows stand or
fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me like
a hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes
and the flash of my teeth,
the swing of my waist,
and the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman,
Phenomenally,
Phenomenal woman,
that's me.
Men themselves have wondered
what they see in me.
They try so much
but they can't touch,
my inner mystery.
When I try to show them,
they say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
the sun of my smile,
the ride of my breasts,
the grace of my style.
I'm a woman.
Phenomenally,
Phenomenal woman,
that's me.
Now you understand
just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about,
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
the bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
the need for my care.
'Cause I'm a woman.
Phenomenally,
Phenomenal woman,
that's me. [show less]
The leaves on the trees in colorful repose cascading and swirling, paint their way to the ground like the path to you I found. I fall for you. Blue sky clouds and misty days of dew slip blankets of covering comfort to envelope, the way I love you. Orange sunrise, peach sunset. Not a day past without the warmth of the Son in you. Blessing me from the moment I saw your lovely face. Thank God we met. Snow banks white billowing drifts trips and dips and spills in thankfulness for friendships gifted Grateful for your love. Winds blow changing times into our lives, days of new reasons to live. My heart is alive and it's to you that I give Spend time with me. I'll spend it with you. Waxing moon swells like my heart reminding me how much you mean to me Glimmering shining sliver of light Brightness that you are my love, lighting my night Thanks be to God for... [show more]
The leaves on the trees in colorful repose
cascading and swirling, paint their way to
the ground like the path to you I found.
I fall for you.
Blue sky clouds and misty days of dew slip
blankets of covering comfort to envelope,
the way I love you.
Orange sunrise, peach sunset.
Not a day past without the warmth
of the Son in you.
Blessing me from the moment I saw
your lovely face. Thank God we met.
Snow banks white billowing drifts
trips and dips and spills in
thankfulness for friendships gifted
Grateful for your love.
Winds blow changing times into our lives,
days of new reasons to live.
My heart is alive and it's to you that I give
Spend time with me. I'll spend it with you.
Waxing moon swells like my heart
reminding me how much you mean to me
Glimmering shining sliver of light
Brightness that you are my love, lighting my night
Thanks be to God for His grace and love
without it we would not have been blessed
with you and me. Together we are the gift.
God's gift of love. [show less]
If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you But make allowance for their doubting too, If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream--and not make dreams your master, If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your... [show more]
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son! [show less]
if more people knew about truly great poets like this people might actually approach poetry like they do fiction, and we wouldn't end up with trite and boring lists like this one.
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on August 27th, 2006. Tags: poems, poets
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best living poet.
if more people knew about truly great poets like this people might actually approach poetry like they do fiction, and we wouldn't end up with trite and boring lists like this one.