you confuse, discourage, hurt
my confidence dies.
Shove me in your box,
I’m a circle, not a square
Where do I belong?
This post is especially for my fellow insomniacs:-)
I don’t know what the author intended this poem it to be about, but it makes me think of when I can’t fall asleep at night.
Isn’t this the truth?
Will there really be a Morning?
by Emily Dickinson
Will there really be a morning?
Is there such a thing as day?
Could I see it from the mountains
If I were as tall as they?
Has it feet like water lilies?
Has it feathers like a bird?
Is it brought from famous countries
Of which I have never heard?
Oh some Scholar! Oh some Sailor!
Oh some Wise Men from the skies!
Please to tell a little Pilgrim
Where the place called morning lies!
This is a fascinating poem. I don’t know what poetry techniques the author used, but he’s obviously very skilled. I really like how he uses picture words to describe the contrast between the beginning of the battle and the end of it.
Image courtesy of www.trailertheater.com
The Destruction of Sennacherib
BY GEORGE GORDEN, LORD BYRON
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
Intrigued? Click here to learn more about this battle.
I’m studying poetry in school this year, and I really like it! I wanted to share one of the poems from my poetry book, because it inspired me.
It’s truly amazing how words can describe something so perfectly, like this tree.
Courtesy of plantspages.com
I think I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree who looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear,
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.