Poetry - Images

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To A Mouse (Of Mice and Men poem)

Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie, O what panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa we bickering brattle! 1 wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi murd'ring pattle! That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald. To thole the Winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld! sae hasty, But Mousie, thou are In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men, Gang aft agley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, For promis'd joy! no thy-lane, I'm truly sorry Man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee otartle, At me, thy poor earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal! 1 doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request r'u get a blessin wi the lave, An', never miss't! Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi me! The present only toucheth thee: But Och! 1 backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' 1 canna 1 guess an' fear! se Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! It's silly wa's the win's are strewin! An' naething, now, to big a new ane O foggage green! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Baith snell an' keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast An weary Winter comin fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. Sookiesooker@deviantart.com
Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie, O what panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa we bickering brattle! 1 wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi murd'ring pattle! That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald. To thole the Winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld! sae hasty, But Mousie, thou are In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men, Gang aft agley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, For promis'd joy! no thy-lane, I'm truly sorry Man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee otartle, At me, thy poor earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal! 1 doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request r'u get a blessin wi the lave, An', never miss't! Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi me! The present only toucheth thee: But Och! 1 backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' 1 canna 1 guess an' fear! se Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! It's silly wa's the win's are strewin! An' naething, now, to big a new ane O foggage green! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Baith snell an' keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast An weary Winter comin fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. Sookiesooker@deviantart.com

Poetry
robert burns scots of mice and men mouse field mouse sleeket beastie tragedy disaster deviant art sookiesooker

A Bottle and A Friend

A Bottle And Friend There's nane that's blest of human kind, But the cheerful and the gay, man, Fal, la, la, &c. Here's a bottle and an honest friend! What wad ye wish for mair, man? Wha kens, before his life may end, What his share may be o' care, man? Then catch the moments as they fly, And use them as ye ought, man: Believe me, happiness is shy, And comes not aye when sought, man. Robert Burns
A Bottle And Friend There's nane that's blest of human kind, But the cheerful and the gay, man, Fal, la, la, &c. Here's a bottle and an honest friend! What wad ye wish for mair, man? Wha kens, before his life may end, What his share may be o' care, man? Then catch the moments as they fly, And use them as ye ought, man: Believe me, happiness is shy, And comes not aye when sought, man. Robert Burns

Poetry
robert burns scots positivity optimism seize the day carpe diem

Address to a Haggis

ADDRESS TO A HAGGIS POEM BY ROBERT BURNS Fair fá your honest, sonsie face, Great Chieftain ó the Puddin-race! Is there that owre his French ragout, Or olio that wad staw a sow, Aboon them á ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang 's m y arm. Or fricassee wad mak her spew Wi' perfect sconner Looks down wi'sneering, scornfú view On sic a dinner? The groaning trencher there ye fil! Your hurdies like a distant hill Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time ó need, While thró your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckless as a withed rash, His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit; Thró bluidy flood or field to dash, O how unfit! His knife see Rustic-labour dight, Ań cut ye up wi' ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like onie ditch; But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his walie nieve a blade, Hé ll make it whissle; An legs, an arms, an heads will sned, Like taps ó thrissle. And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich! Ye Powrs wha mak mankind your care, Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive: Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, Till á their weel-swall'd kytes belyve And dish them out their bill ó fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies; wish her gratefú prayer Are bent like drums; But, if ye wish her gratefú pra yer Gie her a Haggis! Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, Bethankit hums.
ADDRESS TO A HAGGIS POEM BY ROBERT BURNS Fair fá your honest, sonsie face, Great Chieftain ó the Puddin-race! Is there that owre his French ragout, Or olio that wad staw a sow, Aboon them á ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang 's m y arm. Or fricassee wad mak her spew Wi' perfect sconner Looks down wi'sneering, scornfú view On sic a dinner? The groaning trencher there ye fil! Your hurdies like a distant hill Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time ó need, While thró your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckless as a withed rash, His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit; Thró bluidy flood or field to dash, O how unfit! His knife see Rustic-labour dight, Ań cut ye up wi' ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like onie ditch; But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his walie nieve a blade, Hé ll make it whissle; An legs, an arms, an heads will sned, Like taps ó thrissle. And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich! Ye Powrs wha mak mankind your care, Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive: Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, Till á their weel-swall'd kytes belyve And dish them out their bill ó fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies; wish her gratefú prayer Are bent like drums; But, if ye wish her gratefú pra yer Gie her a Haggis! Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, Bethankit hums.

Poetry
robert burns haggis scots traditional dish the wee beasties o' the hllls meat pudding

Wilfred Owen: Dulce Et Decorum Est

THE ROMAN LYRICAL POET HORACE ONCE WROTE, DULCE ET DECORUMEST PRO PATRIA MORI', IN ENGLISH, THIS MEANS IT IS GLORIOUS AND HONOURABLE TO DIE FOR ONE'S COUNTRY'.. O 2010 Classical Comics Ltd "DULCE ET DECORUM EST BY WILFRED OWEN. BENT DOUBLE, LKE OLD BEGGARS UNDER SACKS, KNOCK-KNEED, COUGHING LIKE HAGS, WE CURSED THROUGH SLUDGE, TILL ON THE HAUNTING FLARES WE TURNED OUR BACKS AND TOWARDS OUR DISTANT REST BEGAN TO TRUDGE. MEN MARCHED ASLEEP. MANY HAD LOST d THEIR BOOTS BUT LIMPED ON, BLOOD-SHOD. ALL WENT LAME; ALL BLIND DRUNK WITH FATIGUE; DEAF EVEN TO THE H0OTS OF TIRED, OUTSTRIPPED FIVE-NINES THAT DROPPED BEHIND. O 2010 Classical Comics Ltd QUICK, BOYS! GAS! GAS! AN ECSTASY OF FUMBLING, FITTING THE CLUMSY HELMETS JUST IN TIME; BUT SOMEONE STILL WAS YELLING OUT AND STUMBLING, AND FLOUND'RING LIKE A MAN IN FIRE OR LIME. DIM, THROUGH THE AND THICK. GREEN LIGHT, AŞ UNDER A GREEN SEA, MISTY PANES ISAW HIM DROWNING. O 2010 Classical Comics Ltd IN ALL MY DREAMS, BEFORE MY HELPLESS SIGHT, HE PLUNGES AT ME, GUTTERING, CНOKING, DROWNING. O 2010 Classical Comics Ltd IF IN SOME SMOTHERING DREAMS YOU TOO COULD PACE BEHIND THE WAGON THAT WE FLUNG HIM IN, O 2010 Classical Comics Ltd AND WATCH THE WHITE EYES WRITHINGN HIS FACE, HIS HANGING FACE, LIKE A DEVIL'S SICK OF SIN; IF YOU COULD HEAR, AT EVERY JOLT, THE BLOOD COME GARGLING FROM THE FROTH-CORRUPTED LUNGS, OBSCENE AS CANCER, BITTER AS THE CUD OF VILE, INCURABLE SORES ON INNOCENT TONGUES, O 2010 Classical Comics Ltd MY FRIEND, YOU WOULD NOT TELL WITH SUCH HIGH ZEST TO CHILDREN ARDENT FOR SOME DESPERATE GLORY, THE OLD LIE: DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MORI. ADAPTATION: JASON COBLEY LINEWORK: JOHN BLAKE COLOURING: MICHAEL REID LETTERING: GREG POWELL O 2010 Classical Comics Ltd
THE ROMAN LYRICAL POET HORACE ONCE WROTE, DULCE ET DECORUMEST PRO PATRIA MORI', IN ENGLISH, THIS MEANS IT IS GLORIOUS AND HONOURABLE TO DIE FOR ONE'S COUNTRY'.. O 2010 Classical Comics Ltd "DULCE ET DECORUM EST BY WILFRED OWEN. BENT DOUBLE, LKE OLD BEGGARS UNDER SACKS, KNOCK-KNEED, COUGHING LIKE HAGS, WE CURSED THROUGH SLUDGE, TILL ON THE HAUNTING FLARES WE TURNED OUR BACKS AND TOWARDS OUR DISTANT REST BEGAN TO TRUDGE. MEN MARCHED ASLEEP. MANY HAD LOST d THEIR BOOTS BUT LIMPED ON, BLOOD-SHOD. ALL WENT LAME; ALL BLIND DRUNK WITH FATIGUE; DEAF EVEN TO THE H0OTS OF TIRED, OUTSTRIPPED FIVE-NINES THAT DROPPED BEHIND. O 2010 Classical Comics Ltd QUICK, BOYS! GAS! GAS! AN ECSTASY OF FUMBLING, FITTING THE CLUMSY HELMETS JUST IN TIME; BUT SOMEONE STILL WAS YELLING OUT AND STUMBLING, AND FLOUND'RING LIKE A MAN IN FIRE OR LIME. DIM, THROUGH THE AND THICK. GREEN LIGHT, AŞ UNDER A GREEN SEA, MISTY PANES ISAW HIM DROWNING. O 2010 Classical Comics Ltd IN ALL MY DREAMS, BEFORE MY HELPLESS SIGHT, HE PLUNGES AT ME, GUTTERING, CНOKING, DROWNING. O 2010 Classical Comics Ltd IF IN SOME SMOTHERING DREAMS YOU TOO COULD PACE BEHIND THE WAGON THAT WE FLUNG HIM IN, O 2010 Classical Comics Ltd AND WATCH THE WHITE EYES WRITHINGN HIS FACE, HIS HANGING FACE, LIKE A DEVIL'S SICK OF SIN; IF YOU COULD HEAR, AT EVERY JOLT, THE BLOOD COME GARGLING FROM THE FROTH-CORRUPTED LUNGS, OBSCENE AS CANCER, BITTER AS THE CUD OF VILE, INCURABLE SORES ON INNOCENT TONGUES, O 2010 Classical Comics Ltd MY FRIEND, YOU WOULD NOT TELL WITH SUCH HIGH ZEST TO CHILDREN ARDENT FOR SOME DESPERATE GLORY, THE OLD LIE: DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MORI. ADAPTATION: JASON COBLEY LINEWORK: JOHN BLAKE COLOURING: MICHAEL REID LETTERING: GREG POWELL O 2010 Classical Comics Ltd

Poetry
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Sara Teasdale: There Will Come Soft Rains

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, And swallows oireling with their shimmering saund; And frogs in the pool singing at night. And wild plum trees in tremulous white; Robins will wear their feathery fire, Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire; And not one will know of the war, not one Will care at last when it is done. Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree, If mankind perished utterly: And Spring herself when she woke at dawn Would searcely know that we were gone.
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, And swallows oireling with their shimmering saund; And frogs in the pool singing at night. And wild plum trees in tremulous white; Robins will wear their feathery fire, Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire; And not one will know of the war, not one Will care at last when it is done. Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree, If mankind perished utterly: And Spring herself when she woke at dawn Would searcely know that we were gone.

Poetry
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Giuseppe Ungaretti: I Am A Creature

I AM A CREATURE BY GIUSEPPE UNGARETTI(1916) LIKE THIS STONE AT SAN MICHELE So COLD SO HARD SO ARID SO RESISTANT SO COMPLETELY I NANIMATE MY UNSEEN TEARS DEATH ARE LIKE IS PAID THIS STONE BY LIVING TRANSLATION BY MARCO SONZOGNI AND ROSS WOODS DRAWINGS BY JULIAN PETERS
I AM A CREATURE BY GIUSEPPE UNGARETTI(1916) LIKE THIS STONE AT SAN MICHELE So COLD SO HARD SO ARID SO RESISTANT SO COMPLETELY I NANIMATE MY UNSEEN TEARS DEATH ARE LIKE IS PAID THIS STONE BY LIVING TRANSLATION BY MARCO SONZOGNI AND ROSS WOODS DRAWINGS BY JULIAN PETERS

Poetry
sono una creatura giuseppe ungaretti i am a creature italian stone soldier world war one ww1 first world war inanimate

Giuseppe Ungaretti: Vigil

VIGIL BY GIUSEPPE UNGARETTI (1915) AN ENTIRE NIGHT BUTCHERED TOSSED BESIDE A COMRADE HIS MOUTH GNARLED FACING THE FULL MOON I COULDN'T BE HIS SWOLLEN HANDS SEEPED INTO MY SILENCE MORE BOUND TO LIFE I WROTE LETTERS FULL OF LOVE TRANSLATION BY MARCO SONZOGNI AND ROSS WOODS DRAWINGS BY JULIAN PETERS
VIGIL BY GIUSEPPE UNGARETTI (1915) AN ENTIRE NIGHT BUTCHERED TOSSED BESIDE A COMRADE HIS MOUTH GNARLED FACING THE FULL MOON I COULDN'T BE HIS SWOLLEN HANDS SEEPED INTO MY SILENCE MORE BOUND TO LIFE I WROTE LETTERS FULL OF LOVE TRANSLATION BY MARCO SONZOGNI AND ROSS WOODS DRAWINGS BY JULIAN PETERS

Poetry
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T.S.Elliot: The Hollow Men

THE HOLLOW MEN HOZLOW We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Leaning together Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! Our dried voices, when We whisper together Are quiet and meaningless As wind in dry grass Or rats' feet over broken glass In our dry cellar Shape without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion Those who have crossed With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom Remember us-if at all-not as lost Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men. JS. Eliot Here we go round the prickly pear Prickly pear prickly pear Here we go round the prickly pear At five o'clock in the morning. Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom Between the conception And the creation Between the emotion Eyes I dare not meet in dreams In death's dream kingdom These do not appear: There, the eyes are Sunlight on a broken column There, is a tree swinging And voices are In the wind's singing More distant and more solemn Than a fading star. Let me be no nearer In death's dream kingdom Let me also wear Such deliberate disguises Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves In this valley of dying stars In a field Behaving as the wind behaves No nearer- This is the dead land This is cactus land Here the stone images Are raised, here they receive The supplication of a dead man's hand And the response Under the twinkle of a fading star. Is it like this In death's other kingdom Waking alone At the hour when we are Trembling with tenderness Lips that would kiss Form prayers to broken stone. Falls the Shadolw Life is very long Between the desire And the spasm Between the potency And the existence Between the essence And the descent Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom For Thine is Life is For Thine the This is the way the world ends The eyes are not here There are no eyes here In this hollow valley This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms This is the way the world ends In this last of meeting places We grope together And avoid speech Gathered on this beach of the fumid river Sightless, unless The eyes reappear As the perpetual star Multifoliate rose Of death's twilight kingdom The hope only Of empty men. This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper. Not that final meeting In the twilight kingdom
THE HOLLOW MEN HOZLOW We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Leaning together Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! Our dried voices, when We whisper together Are quiet and meaningless As wind in dry grass Or rats' feet over broken glass In our dry cellar Shape without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion Those who have crossed With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom Remember us-if at all-not as lost Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men. JS. Eliot Here we go round the prickly pear Prickly pear prickly pear Here we go round the prickly pear At five o'clock in the morning. Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom Between the conception And the creation Between the emotion Eyes I dare not meet in dreams In death's dream kingdom These do not appear: There, the eyes are Sunlight on a broken column There, is a tree swinging And voices are In the wind's singing More distant and more solemn Than a fading star. Let me be no nearer In death's dream kingdom Let me also wear Such deliberate disguises Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves In this valley of dying stars In a field Behaving as the wind behaves No nearer- This is the dead land This is cactus land Here the stone images Are raised, here they receive The supplication of a dead man's hand And the response Under the twinkle of a fading star. Is it like this In death's other kingdom Waking alone At the hour when we are Trembling with tenderness Lips that would kiss Form prayers to broken stone. Falls the Shadolw Life is very long Between the desire And the spasm Between the potency And the existence Between the essence And the descent Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom For Thine is Life is For Thine the This is the way the world ends The eyes are not here There are no eyes here In this hollow valley This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms This is the way the world ends In this last of meeting places We grope together And avoid speech Gathered on this beach of the fumid river Sightless, unless The eyes reappear As the perpetual star Multifoliate rose Of death's twilight kingdom The hope only Of empty men. This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper. Not that final meeting In the twilight kingdom

Poetry
the hollow men t.s.elliot this is the way the world ends not with a bang but a whimper deviant art lonius death's kingdom afterlife death

William Ernest Henley: Invictus

Neme AV OUT OF THE NIGHT THAT COVERS ME, BLACK AS THE PIT FROM FOLE TO POLE, I THANK WHATEVER GODS MAY BE FOR MY UNCONQUERABLE SOUL. IN THE FELL CUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE I HAVE NOT WINCED NOR CRIED ALOUD. UNDER THE BLUDGEONINGS OF CHANCE MY HEAD IS BLOOoY, BUT UNBOWED, BEYOND THIS PLACE OF WRATH AND TEARS LOOMS BUT THE HORROR OF THE SHADE, AND YET THE MENACE OF THE YEARS FINDS, AND SHALL FIND ME, UNARAID. Oise Myre Drstr. Ibis conalt nemivemi-no IT MATTERS NOT How STRAIT THE GATE. HOW CHAREED WITH PUNISHMENTS THE SCROLL. I AM THE MASTER OF MY FATE AM THE CAPTAIN OF MY SOUL
Neme AV OUT OF THE NIGHT THAT COVERS ME, BLACK AS THE PIT FROM FOLE TO POLE, I THANK WHATEVER GODS MAY BE FOR MY UNCONQUERABLE SOUL. IN THE FELL CUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE I HAVE NOT WINCED NOR CRIED ALOUD. UNDER THE BLUDGEONINGS OF CHANCE MY HEAD IS BLOOoY, BUT UNBOWED, BEYOND THIS PLACE OF WRATH AND TEARS LOOMS BUT THE HORROR OF THE SHADE, AND YET THE MENACE OF THE YEARS FINDS, AND SHALL FIND ME, UNARAID. Oise Myre Drstr. Ibis conalt nemivemi-no IT MATTERS NOT How STRAIT THE GATE. HOW CHAREED WITH PUNISHMENTS THE SCROLL. I AM THE MASTER OF MY FATE AM THE CAPTAIN OF MY SOUL

Poetry
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Percy Bysshe Shelley: Ozymandias

ZEN PENCILS presents OZYMANDIAS A poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley I met a traveller from an antique land who said... Two vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand... ...half sunk, a shattered visage lies. Whose frown, and wrinkled lip... .. and sneer of cold command... .. tell that its sculptor well those passions read. Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things. The hand that mocked them... ... and the heart that fed. And on the pedestal these words appear ... MY NAME IS OZYMANDIAS. KING OF KINGS. LOOK ON MY WORKS, YE MIGHTY... ...AND DESPAIR! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay... ...of that colossal wreck... ASC ... boundless and bare... ... the lone and level sands stretch far away. Percy Bysshe Shelley zen pencils.com ARTWORK O GAVIN AUNG THAN 2014
ZEN PENCILS presents OZYMANDIAS A poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley I met a traveller from an antique land who said... Two vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand... ...half sunk, a shattered visage lies. Whose frown, and wrinkled lip... .. and sneer of cold command... .. tell that its sculptor well those passions read. Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things. The hand that mocked them... ... and the heart that fed. And on the pedestal these words appear ... MY NAME IS OZYMANDIAS. KING OF KINGS. LOOK ON MY WORKS, YE MIGHTY... ...AND DESPAIR! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay... ...of that colossal wreck... ASC ... boundless and bare... ... the lone and level sands stretch far away. Percy Bysshe Shelley zen pencils.com ARTWORK O GAVIN AUNG THAN 2014

Poetry
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Rudyard Kipling: If-

If If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, 2 Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream-and not make dreams your master; If you can think-and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!' If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings-nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And-which is more–you'll be a Man, my son! FAMOUS AUTHOR SAYS.
If If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, 2 Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream-and not make dreams your master; If you can think-and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!' If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings-nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And-which is more–you'll be a Man, my son! FAMOUS AUTHOR SAYS.

Poetry
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Robert Frost: The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood. And sorry I could not travel both... ... and be one traveler, long I stood AIR BRAZIL DESTINATION: RIO JE JANEIRO VICTORIA UNIVERSITY And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth. STUDENT ENROLMENT DEPARTURES PIGN Then took the other, as just as fair And having perhaps the better claim Because it was grassy and wanted wear Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same. And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black 1SENIOR CONSULTANT Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence Two roads diverged in a wood, and I- I took the one less traveled by ... ... and that has made all the difference. THE ROAD NOT TAKEN by Robert Frost zen pencils.com ARTWORK O GAVIN AUNG THAN 2012
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood. And sorry I could not travel both... ... and be one traveler, long I stood AIR BRAZIL DESTINATION: RIO JE JANEIRO VICTORIA UNIVERSITY And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth. STUDENT ENROLMENT DEPARTURES PIGN Then took the other, as just as fair And having perhaps the better claim Because it was grassy and wanted wear Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same. And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black 1SENIOR CONSULTANT Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence Two roads diverged in a wood, and I- I took the one less traveled by ... ... and that has made all the difference. THE ROAD NOT TAKEN by Robert Frost zen pencils.com ARTWORK O GAVIN AUNG THAN 2012

Poetry
the road not taken robert frost choice decisions woods zen pencils travelling backpacker college

■ poetry 0.006% 0.0048% 0.0036% 0.0024% 0.00 12% 0.00% 1800 1810 1820 1830 18401850 1860 1870 1880 1890 1900 1910 1920 1930 1940 1950 1960 1970 1980 1990 2000
■ poetry 0.006% 0.0048% 0.0036% 0.0024% 0.00 12% 0.00% 1800 1810 1820 1830 18401850 1860 1870 1880 1890 1900 1910 1920 1930 1940 1950 1960 1970 1980 1990 2000

Poetry