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Poems Find and share the perfect poems. The Culture of Glass. Lessons from a Mirror Snow White was nude at her wedding, she's so white the gown seemed to disappear when she put it on. Put me beside her and the proximity is good for a study of chiaroscuro, not much else. Her name aggravates me most, as if I need to be told what's white and what isn't. Judging strictly by appearance there's a future for me forever at her heels, a shadow's constant worship. Is it fair for me to live that way, unable to get off the ground? Turning the tables isn't fair unless they keep turning. Then there's the danger of Russian roulette and my disadvantage: nothing falls from the sky to name me.

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Stained Glass by Rosanna Warren

I am the empty space where the tooth was, that my tongue rushes to fill because I can't stand vacancies. And it's not enough. The penis just fills another gap. When you look at me, know that more than white is missing.

More by Amy Lowell

Thylias Moss This Did Not Happen This did not happen although I have memories of it: a doctor unwrapping a tutu so I knew I was in a hospital but one unlike any other practicing strange medicine but this strangeness has been effective A hospital for dancers? I was in pink, sequined I had been in a street, an alley and I was left there, tutu shredded, I couldn't dance anymore. No animals other than myself, so the animal in me emerged but tried to hurt no one else. 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; Where it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed. Most of the time Carroll gave Tenniel very precise instructions on what and how to draw.

Glass: The Poetry of Science

The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud, because No cloud was in the sky: No birds were flying over head — There were no birds to fly. The eldest Oyster looked at him. But never a word he said: The eldest Oyster winked his eye, And shook his heavy head — Meaning to say he did not choose To leave the oyster-bed.

Four other Oysters followed them, And yet another four; And thick and fast they came at last, And more, and more, and more — All hopping through the frothy waves, And scrambling to the shore. The Walrus and the Carpenter Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock Conveniently low: And all the little Oysters stood And waited in a row. They thanked him much for that.

And you are very nice! Holding his pocket handkerchief Before his streaming eyes. Shall we be trotting home again?

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Away they sped with gamesome minds, And souls untouched by sin; To a level mead they came, and there They drave the wickets in: Pleasantly shone the setting sun Over the town of Lynn. Like sportive deer they coursed about, And shouted as they ran,— Turning to mirth all things of earth, As only boyhood can; But the Usher sat remote from all, A melancholy man! Then leaping on his feet upright, Some moody turns he took,— Now up the mead, then down the mead, And past a shady nook,— And lo!

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Or is it some historic page, Of kings and crowns unstable? The Usher took six hasty strides, As smit with sudden pain, — Six hasty strides beyond the place, Then slowly back again; And down he sat beside the lad, And talked with him of Cain;. And, long since then, of bloody men, Whose deeds tradition saves; Of lonely folks cut off unseen, And hid in sudden graves; Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn, And murders done in caves;.

And how the sprites of injured men Shriek upward from the sod. He told how murderers walk the earth Beneath the curse of Cain, — With crimson clouds before their eyes, And flames about their brain: For blood has left upon their souls Its everlasting stain! For why, Methought last night I wrought A murder, in a dream! One that had never done me wrong — A feeble man and old; I led him to a lonely field, The moon shone clear and cold: Now here, said I, this man shall die, And I will have his gold! But when I touched the lifeless clay, The blood gushed out amain!

For every clot, a burning spot Was scorching in my brain! When Alice encounters these characters, she recites the rhymes. Most of them appear in several slightly different versions. The Lion and the Unicorn are heraldic figures, where the lion stands for England and the unicorn for Scotland. The nursery rhyme records the traditional legend of enmity between the two.

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  • The verse ends:. The words seem originally to have signified a contrast between low and high pitched musical sounds, but Byrom uses them to indicate that, in the view of many, there was no discernible difference in talent of achievement between the composers. The names also appear in the well-known nursery rhyme. However, there is a third possibility: that Byrom simply borrowed onomatopoeic words in current use, and that these later became fully personified in the anonymous nursery rhyme.

    Wordsworth ends with a moral — an example I have not followed. I saw an aged aged man, A-sitting on a gate. But I was thinking of a way To feed oneself on batter, And so go on from day to day Getting a little fatter. And these I do not sell for gold Or coin of silvery shine, But for a copper halfpenny, And that will purchase nine. I heard him then, for I had just Completed my design To keep the Menai bridge from rust By boiling it in wine. I thanked him much for telling me The way he got his wealth, But chiefly for his wish that he Might drink my noble health.

    There was a roaring in the wind all night; The rain came heavily and fell in floods; But now the sun is rising calm and bright; The birds are singing in the distant woods; Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods; The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters; And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters. I was a Traveler then upon the moor; I saw the hare that raced about with joy; I heard the woods and distant waters roar; Or heard them not, as happy as a boy: The pleasant season did my heart employ: My old remembrances when from me wholly; And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy.

    The Man in The Glass - poem by Dale Wimbrow

    But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might Of joy in minds that can no further go, As high as we have mounted in delight In our dejection do we sink as low; To me that morning did it happen so; And fears and fancies thick upon me came; Dim sadness—and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name. I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky; And I bethought me of the playful hare: Even such a happy Child of earth am I; Even as these blissful creatures do I fare; Far from the world I walk, and from all care; But there may come another day to me— Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.

    I thought of Chatterton, the marvelous Boy, The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride; Of Him who walked in glory and in joy Following his plough, along the mountain-side: By our own spirits are we deified: We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness. Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, A leading from above, a something given, Yet it befell that, in this lonely place, When I with these untoward thoughts had striven, Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven I saw a Man before me unawares: The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

    As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie Couched on the bald top of an eminence; Wonder to all who do the same espy, By what means it could thither come, and whence; So that it seems a thing endued with sense: Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself;.