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I can never get people to understand that poetry is the expression of excited passion, and that there is no such thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal fever. Besides, who would ever shave themselves in such a state?
Give up sitting dutifully at your desk.
I came across this poem recently in StumbleUpon.
undefined (Formerly known as "For The Love of Sylvia Plath") Currently 230 Poems and Growing.
English 50 – Intro to Creative Writing: Exercises for Poets
A free bird leaps on the back Of the wind and floats downstream Till the current ends and dips his wing In the orange suns rays And dares to claim the sky. But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage Can seldom see through his bars of rage His wings are clipped and his feet are tied So he opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with a fearful trill Of things unknown but longed for still And his tune is heard on the distant hill for The caged bird sings of freedom.
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
By Langston Hughes
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A selection of great poems from centuries of brillant authors and poets.