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- Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten, Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold, Let it be forgotten for ever and ever, Time is a kind friend, he will make us old. If anyone asks, say it was forgotten Long and long ago, As a flower, as a fire, as a hushed footfall In a long forgotten snow.
poets.org/poem/let-it-be-forgottenLet It Be Forgotten by Sara Teasdale - Poems | Academy of ...
By Rupert Brooke. If I should die, think only this of me: That there’s some corner of a foreign field. That is for ever England. There shall be. In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam; A body of England’s, breathing English air,
Night Mail. This is the night mail crossing the Border, Bringing the cheque and the postal order, Letters for the rich, letters for the poor, The shop at the corner, the girl next door. Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb: The gradient's against her, but she's on time. Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder.
This sonnet encompasses the memoirs of a deceased soldier who declares his patriotism to his homeland by declaring that his sacrifice will be the eternal ownership of England of the small portion of land where his body is buried. The poem appears not to follow the normal purpose of a Petrarchan sonnet either.
They meshed the light of moon and sun. Far over the Misty Mountains cold, To dungeons deep and caverns old, We must away, ere break of day, To claim our long-forgotten gold. Goblets they carved there for themselves, And harps of gold, where no man delves. There lay they long, and many a song.
Skye Darkholme - A murder of Crows now roosts here On spindly limbs now quite austere, The untilled soil around is home To poison sumac wildly grown. I really enjoyed these desserts, the use of the murder of crows, and beautifully dark depth.
Four Quartets – Extract. In my beginning is my end. In succession. Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended, Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place. Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass. Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires, Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth. Which is already flesh, fur and faeces,
The Solitary Reaper. By William Wordsworth. Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the Vale profound.
