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London Snow
Friday, June 10, 2011

When men were all asleep the snow came flying,
In large white flakes falling on the city brown,
Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying,
    Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town;
Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing;
Lazily and incessantly floating down and down:
    Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing;
Hiding difference, making unevenness even,
Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing.
    All night it fell, and when full inches seven
It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness,
The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven;
    And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness
Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare:
The eye marvelled - marvelled at the dazzling whiteness;
    The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air;
No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling,
And the busy morning cries came thin and spare.
    Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling,
They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze
Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snowballing;
    Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees;
Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder!'
'O look at the trees!' they cried, 'O look at the trees!'
    With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder,
Following along the white deserted way,
A country company long dispersed asunder:
    When now already the sun, in pale display
Standing by Paul's high dome, spread forth below
His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day.
    For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow;
And trains of sombre men, past tale of number,
Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go:
    But even for them awhile no cares encumber
Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken,
The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber
At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm they have broken.

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Dover Beach

The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; - on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægæan, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, not peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

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Come Into The Garden, Maud
Come into the garden, Maud,
     For the black bat, night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
     I am here at the gate alone ;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
     And the musk of the rose is blown.
 
For a breeze of morning moves,
     And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
     On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
     To faint in his light, and to die.
 
All night have the roses heard
     The flute, violin, bassoon ;
All night has the casement jessamine stirred
     To the dancers dancing in tune ;
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
     And a hush with the setting moon.
 
I said to the lily, ‘There is but one
     With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone ?
     She is weary of dance and play.’
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
     And half to the rising day ;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
     The last wheel echoes away.
 
I said to the rose, ‘The brief night goes
     In babble and revel and wine.
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those,
     For one that will never be thine ?
But mine, but mine,’ so I sware to the rose,
     ‘For ever and ever, mine.’
 
And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
     As the music clashed in the hall ;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
     For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
     Our wood, that is dearer than all ;
 
From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
     That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewel-print of your feet
     In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
     And the valleys of Paradise.
 
The slender acacia would not shake
     One long milk-bloom on the tree ;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake
     As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
     Knowing your promise to me ;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
     They sighed for the dawn and thee.
 
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
     Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
     Queen lily and rose in one ;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
     To the flowers, and be their sun.
 
There has fallen a splendid tear
     From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear ;
     She is coming, my life, my fate ;
The red rose cries, ‘She is near, she is near ;’
     And the white rose weeps, ‘She is late ;’
The larkspur listens, ‘I hear, I hear ;’
     And the lily whispers, ‘I wait.’
 
She is coming, my own, my sweet,
     Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
      Were it earth in an earthy bed ;
My dust would hear her and beat,
     Had I lain for a century dead ;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
     And blossom in purple and red.

Poems
Thursday, June 9, 2011

Poetry (from the [Greek] 'poiesis'/ποίησις [poieo/ποιεω], a making: a forming, creating, or the art of poetry, or a poem) is a form of literary art in which language is used for its aesthetic and evocative qualities in addition to, or in lieu of, its apparent meaning. Poetry may be written independently, as discrete poems, or may occur in conjunction with other arts, as in poetic dramahymnslyrics, or prose poetry. It is published in dedicated magazines (the longest established being Poetry and Oxford Poetry), individual collections and wider anthologies.
Poetry and discussions of it have a long history. Early attempts to define poetry, such as Aristotle'sPoetics, focused on the uses of speech in rhetoricdramasong, and comedy.[1] Later attempts concentrated on features such as repetition, verse form and rhyme, and emphasized the aesthetics which distinguish poetry from more objectively informative, prosaic forms of writing, such as manifestos,biographiesessays, and novels .[2] From the mid-20th century, poetry has sometimes been more loosely defined as a fundamental creative act using language.[3]
Poetry often uses particular forms and conventions to suggest alternative meanings in the words, or to evoke emotional or sensual responses. Devices such as assonancealliterationonomatopoeia, andrhythm are sometimes used to achieve musical or incantatory effects. The use of ambiguitysymbolism,irony, and other stylistic elements of poetic diction often leaves a poem open to multiple interpretations. Similarly, metaphorsimile, and metonymy[4] create a resonance between otherwise disparate images—a layering of meanings, forming connections previously not perceived. Kindred forms of resonance may exist, between individual verses, in their patterns of rhyme or rhythm.
Some forms of poetry are specific to particular cultures and genres, responding to the characteristics of the language in which the poet writes. While readers accustomed to identifying poetry with Dante,GoetheMickiewicz and Rumi may think of it as being written in lines based upon rhyme and regularmeter, there are traditions, such as Biblical poetry, that use other approaches to achieve rhythm andeuphony. Much of modern British and American poetry is to some extent a critique of poetic tradition,[5]playing with and testing (among other things) the principle of euphony itself, to the extent that sometimes it deliberately does not rhyme or keep to set rhythms at all.[6][7][8] In today's globalized world poets often borrow styles, techniques and forms from diverse cultures and languages.

HELLO, this is Jessica Penuliar's heart for poetry. Enjoy reading all my entries! NOTE: NOT ALL POEMS IN HERE ARE WRITTEN BY ME.
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