Advice to a Son.. Hemingway

Never trust a white man,
Never kill a Jew,
Never sign a contract,
Never rent a pew.
Don't enlist in armies;
Nor marry many wives;
Never write for magazines;
Never scratch your hives.
Always put paper on the seat,
Don't believe in wars,
Keep yourself both clean and neat,
Never marry whores.
Never pay a blackmailer,
Never go to law,
Never trust a publisher,
Or you'll sleep on straw.
All your friends will leave you
All your friends will die
So lead a clean and wholesome life
And join them in the sky

SEPTEMBER 1913 - W.B YEATS

What need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone?
For men were born to pray and save:
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Yet they were of a different kind,
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangman's rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were
In all their loneliness and pain,
You'd cry, 'Some woman's yellow hair
Has maddened every mother's son':
They weighed so lightly what they gave.
But let them be, they're dead and gone,
They're with O'Leary in the grave.

A LOVE'S WISH

In joyous rays of the morning sun
a life is kindled in green
And in ruthless roars of a brutal gun
The red makes it all unseen
My Friend, my brother, my loving child
Thou art my soul's smile
But now your forms in mute have piled
The beats of my heart sound vile
There would be one day when men would laugh
And cheer their friendship aloud
Our futile hate, their love will dwarf
Their children happy and proud.
When you can hold your neighbour's hand
When lines will not be drawn in sand...

Rains..

The wet knock on my window pane

Of a lofty grey cloud

With happy wind comes in the rain

The earth shines aloud.

A musing dove in shelter sits

And longs for her beaming sun

From seven hues the heaven knits

The arc is lovingly done.

La Belle Dame Sans Merci - John Keats

I. O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.
II. O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!	5
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.
III. I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,	10
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
IV. I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,	15
And her eyes were wild.
V. I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look’d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.	20
VI. I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.
VII. She found me roots of relish sweet,	25
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
“I love thee true.”
VIII. She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sigh’d fill sore,	30
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
IX. And there she lulled me asleep,
And there I dream’d—Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream’d	35
On the cold hill’s side.
X. I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!”	40
XI. I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.
XII. And this is why I sojourn here,	45
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.

The Dream of Dusk

Under the blanket of warm grey clouds
Lies a night grave and quiet
When half the world lies in the caverns of dreams
A few fettered souls roam on roads unknown
They sit in the company of aimless thoughts
Or lie in the lap of wasteland
Laughing at floudering humanity
Or lamenting its heartless cruelty
Holding the hand of darkness
They warmly welcome the blushing crimson sun
The ignorant world wakes up to another day
They lie awaiting the conspiring moon.