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Post by Pez on May 31, 2009 2:02:50 GMT -6
Of life, of love, t'will never speak these lips ne'er part for matters meek And strife, what of? Quills serve to seek lest naught they find a pattern's peak?
A rose by any other name can serve but only for one's shame Arise, fond poet, art thou lame? Canst thou overcome one's pain?
No! Through yonder window breaks inspiration blinded toward one's stakes. Ho! Risen by the body's quakes, tremors present in her wake.
A muse is what this man must find, a well in which his craft resides. Amused is he in one's own mind, by lover's soul he is defined
The calls of "Forward Ho!" have kept thine mind, from Death, bereft What walls yon Romeo have leapt to find himself a Juliet
What purpose doth this pen now keep, when man is lack of words, and weeps? When poet far removed from sleep hath not the walls for which to leap?
The words, transparent, can't be borrowed no loans, no payments on the morrow Woe is he, who lives by sorrow, by rose, by orchid, by the mallow.
Tis he whose lips can scarcely part-- --for they are sealed by joyful art.
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Post by Aphtyn on Jun 3, 2009 11:01:00 GMT -6
5th stanza is awkward. Otherwise it's pretty good.
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