BrainKing - Forums de discussion (Poetry)

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Poetry

An outlet for players whose creativity extends beyond the board. Post your original works here!

The posting of song lyrics is not the purpose of this board and as such please refrain from doing so. Exceptions can be made to this rule if you are the copyrighted owner of the lyrics and the lyrics are not found offensive by the majority of the population.
This board is a place to post your original works of poetry and prose and also a place for discussion of poetry and related areas.

We have received word from Fencer that other's poetry can be posted to this board. These are the two conditions:
1) When someone posts a known copyrighted poem, he must add the author's name as well
2) If the author is not known, the poem can be posted without problems

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23. Août 2003, 23:19:55

harley

ses messages postés | suivre le fil | lien

Sujet: Have we not had Tennyson yet?

The Owl

When cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

When merry milkmaids click the latch,
And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

24. Août 2003, 00:00:26

CurrentRiver

ses messages postés | suivre le fil | lien

Sujet: Re: Have we not had Tennyson yet?

What hope is here for modern rhyme
To him, who turns a musing eye
On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie
Foreshorten's in the tract of time?

Thes mortal lullabies of pain
May bind a book, may line a box,
May serve to curl a maiden's locks;
Or when a thousand moons shall wane

A man upon a stall may find,
And ,passing, turn the page that tells
A grief, then changed to something else,
Sung by a long-forgotton mind.

But what of that? My darken'd ways
Shall ring with music all the same;
To breath my loss is more than fame,
To utter love more sweet than praise.

By: ALFRED LORD TENNYSON