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Good Novel The Marionettes
The Marionettes ByWalter De La Mare Let the foul Scene proceed:There's laughter in the wings;'Tis sawdust that they bleed,But a box Death brings.How rare a skill is theirsThese extreme pangs to show,How real a frenzy wearsEach feigner of woe!Gigantic dins uprise!Even the gods must feelA smarting of the eyesAs these fumes upsweal.Strange, such a Piece is free,While we Spectators sit,Aghast at its agony,Yet absorbed in it!Dark is the outer air,Cold the night
Good Novel One Day And Another A Lyrical Eclogue Part IV Late Autumn
By Madison Julius CaweinPart IVLate AutumnThey who die young are blest. -Should we not envy such? They are Earth's happiest,God-loved and favored much! - They who die young are blest.1Sick and sad, propped among pillows, she sits at her window.'Though the dog-tooth violet comeWith April showers,And the wild-bees' music humAbout the flowers,We shall never wend as whenLove laughed leading us from menOver violet vale and glen,Where the bob-white piped for hours,And we heard the rain-crow's drum.Now November heavens are gray;Autumn killsEvery joy - like leaves of MayIn the rills. -Still I sit
Good Novel A Riverina Road
Now while so many turn with love and longingTo wan lands lying in the grey North Sea,To thee we turn, hearts, mem�ries, all belonging,Dear land of ours, to thee.West, ever west, with the strong sunshine marchingBeyond the mountains, far from this soft coast,Until we almost see the great plains arching,In endless mirage lost.A land of camps where seldom is sojourning,Where men like the dim fathers of our raceHalt for a time, and next day, unreturning,Fare ever on apace.Last night how many a leaping blaze affrightedThe wailing birds of passage in their file:&nb
Good Novel An Artist Of The Beautiful
George FullerHaunted of Beauty, like the marvellous youthWho sang Saint Agnes' Eve! How passing fairHer shapes took color in thy homestead air!How on thy canvas even her dreams were truth!Magician! who from commonest elementsCalled up divine ideals, clothed uponBy mystic lights soft blending into oneWomanly grace and child-like innocence.Teacher I thy lesson was not given in vain.Beauty is goodness; ugliness is sin;Art's place is sacred: nothing foul thereinMay crawl or tread with bestial feet profane.If rightly choosing is the painter's test,Thy
Good Novel Upon Cupid.
Love, like a beggar, came to meWith hose and doublet torn:His shirt bedangling from his knee,With hat and shoes outworn.He ask'd an alms; I gave him bread,And meat too, for his need:Of which, when he had fully fed,He wished me all good speed.Away he went, but as he turn'd(In faith I know not how)He touch'd me so, as that I burn['d],And am tormented now.Love's silent flames and fires obscureThen crept into my heart;And though I saw no bow, I'm sureHis finger was the dart.ByRobert Herric
Good Novel The Knight's Song
I'll tell thee everything I can:There's little to relate.I saw an aged aged man,A-sitting on a gate.'Who are you, aged man?' I said.'And how is it you live?'And his answer trickled through my head,Like water through a sieve.He said, 'I look for butterfliesThat sleep among the wheat:I make them into mutton-pies,And sell them in the street.I sell them unto men,' he said,'Who sail on stormy seas;And that's the way I get my bread,A trifle, if you please.'But I was thinking of a planTo dye one's whiskers green,And always use so large a fanThat they could not be seen.So having no reply to giveTo what the old man said, I cried'Come, tell me how you live!'And thumped him on the head.His accents mild took up the tale:He said 'I go my ways,And when I find a mountain-rill,I set it in a blaze;
Good Novel The City That Will Not Repent
Climbing the heights of BerkeleyNightly I watch the West.There lies new San Francisco,Sea-maid in purple dressed,Wearing a dancer's girdleAll to inflame desire:Scorning her days of sackcloth,Scorning her cleansing fire.See, like a burning citySets now the red sun's dome.See, mystic firebrands sparkleThere on each store and home.See how
Good Novel In Memoriam 3: O Sorrow, Cruel Fellowship
O Sorrow, cruel fellowship,O Priestess in the vaults of Death,O sweet and bitter in a breath,What whispers from thy lying lip?"The stars," she whispers, "blindly run;A web is wov'n across the sky;From out waste places comes a cry,And murmurs from the dying sun:"And all the phantom, Nature, stands--With all the music in her tone,A hollow echo of my own,--A hollow form with empty hands."And shall I take a thing so blind,Embrace her as my natural good;Or crush her, like a vice of blood,Upon the threshold of the mind?ByAlfred Lord Tennysonhttps://www.public-domain-poetry.com/alfred-lord-tennyson/in-memoriam-3-o-sorrow-cruel-fellowship-743
Good Novel Some One & From A Full Heart
Some one came knockingAt my wee, small door;Some one came knocking,I'm sure - sure - sure;I listened, I opened,I looked to left and right,But naught there was a-stirringIn the still dark night;Only the busy beetleTap-tapping in the wall,Only from the forestThe screech-owl's call,Only the cricket whistlingWhile the dewdrops fall,So I know not who came knocking,At all, at all, a
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