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It shouts in the sails of the ships at sea,

He steals the down from the honeybee,

He makes the forest trees rustle and sing,

He twirls my kite till it breaks its string.

Laughing, dancing, sunny wind,

Whistling, howling, rainy wind,

North, South, East and West,

Each is the wind I like the best.

He calls up the fog and hides the hills,

He whirls the wings of the great windmills,

The weathercocks love him and turn to discover

His whereabouts-but he’s gone, the rover!

Laughing, dancing, sunny wind,

Whistling, howling, rainy wind,

North, South, East and West,

Each is the wind I like best.

The pine trees toss him cones with glee,

The flowers bend low in courtesy,

Each wave flings up a shower of pearls,

The flag in front of school unfurls.

Laughing, dancing, sunny wind,

Whistling, howling, rainy wind,

North, South, East and West,

Each is the wind I like best.


I have been urged by earnest violins

And drunk their mellow sorrows to the slake

Of all my sorrows and my thirsting sins.

My heart has beaten for the brave drum’s sake.

Huge chords have wrought me mighty: I have hurled

Thuds of gods’  thunder. And with old winds pondered

Over the curse of this chaotic world,-

With low lost winds that maundered as they wandered.


I have been gay with trivial fifes that laugh;

And songs more sweet than possible things are sweet;

And gongs, and oboes. Yet I guessed not half

Life’s symphony till I had made hearts beat,

And touched Love’s body into trembling cries,

And blown my love’s lips into laughs and sighs.

Escape me?



While I am I, and you are you,

So long as the world contains us both,

Me the loving and you the loth

While the one eludes, must the other pursue.

My life is a fault at last, I fear:

It seems too much like a fate, indeed!

Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed.

But what if I fail of my purpose here?

It is but to keep the nerves at strain,

To dry one’s eyes and laugh at a fall,

And, baffled, get up and begin again,—

So the chase takes up one’s life, that’s all.

While, look but once from your farthest bound

At me so deep in the dust and dark,

No sooner the old hope goes to ground

Than a new one, straight to the self-same mark,

I shape me—



Ebony is my name

I come from royal fame

This is what I was told

My face has many folds

Yet I have a spark

Would love to run in the park

I was very blessed

And I must confess

I am a princess

But now I live under stress

Because I ended up here

And live in constant fear

Not used to this situation

Can’t hide my frustration

Waiting for salvation

Will appreciate very much

If someone will come in and touch

There is no more left to say

Thank you, Ebony Shar Pei.

His name is Bingo

He speaks his own lingo

And dressed in layers

No, he is not a player

But he is a sprayer

You know what I mean

It has to be direct and clean

To cover all that green

And to know how to lean

He perfected his routine

Doesn’t make a scene

He is only three pounds

Very close to the ground

People are always astound

When he is around

He is five years old, not a puppy

And his owners are very lucky

And what is life? An hour-glass on the run,

A mist retreating from the morning sun,

A busy, bustling, self-repeated dream.

Its length? A minute’s pause, a moment thought.

And happiness? A bubble on the stream,

That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.


And what is Hope? The puffing gale of morn,

That of its charms divests the dewy lawn,

And robs each flow’ret of its gem-and dies;

A cobweb, hiding disappointment’s thorn,

Which stings more keenly in thin disguise.


And what is Death? Is still the cause unfound?

That dark mysterious name of horrid sound?

A long and lingering sleep the weary crave.

And Peace? Where can its happiness abound?

Nowhere at all, save heaven and the grave.


Then what is Life? when stripped of its disguise,

A thing to be desired it cannot be;

Since everything that meets our foolish eyes

Gives proof sufficient of its vanity.

‘Tis but trial all must undergo,

To teach unthankful mortals how to prize

That happiness vain man’s denied to know,

Until he’s called to claim it the skies.


Love’s aftermath! I think the time is now

That we must gather in, alone, apart

The saddest crop of all the crops that grow,

Love’s aftermath.

Ah, sweet,–sweet yesterday, the tears that start

Can not put back the dial; this is, I trow,

Our harvesting! thy kisses thy kisses chill my heart,

Our lips are cold; averted eyes avow

The twilight of poor love: we can but part,

Dumbly and sadly, reaping as we sow,

Love’s aftermath.



it was Saint Patrick’s Day
I was walking by
and what did I see? a restaurant – Thai
all decorated in green
I could not believe the scene
thought what the heck
I’ll go in and check
came in and announced with a wink
today I am IRISH I would appreciate a free drink!!!!!!!!!!!!
but if you wish – a price
I’ll close my eyes
everybody please stand in line
trust me it will be fine
nobody is dismissed
but all of you will be kissed!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of every day’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love with a passion put to use

In my old griefs, and my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints,–I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life!–and, if God, choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.




A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing

A flowery band to bind us to earth,

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days

Of all the unhealthy and o’er darkn’d ways

Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,

Same shape of beauty moves away the pall

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,

Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon

For simple sheep; and such are daffodils

With the green world they live; and clear hills

That for themselves a cooling covert make

‘Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms

We have imagined for the mighty dead;

An endless fountain of immortal drink,

Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.