Lit. Sources

Percy Bysshe Shelley once said,
" Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world."
I am not sure if that is true:)
In the meantime some rich sources of lit.:
1. Academy of American Poets
2. The Literature Network
3. Arts & Letters Daily

Dylan Thomas

And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars...

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

.....................................................................

More of Dylan Thomas work here

World of Pushkin

If I walk the noisy streets,
Or enter a many thronged church,
Or sit among the wild young generation,
I give way to my thoughts.

I say to myself: the years are fleeting,
And however many there seem to be,
We must all go under the eternal vault,
And someone's hour is already at hand.

When I look at a solitary oak
I think: the patriarch of the woods.
It will outlive my forgotten age
As it outlived that of my grandfathers'.

If I dandle a young infant,
Immediately I think: farewell!
I will yield my place to you,
For I must fade while your flower blooms.

Each day, and every hour
I habitually follow in my thoughts,
Trying to guess from their number
The year which brings my death.

And where will fate send death to me?
In battle, in my travels, or on the seas?
Or will the neighbouring valley
Receive my chilled ashes?

And although to the senseless body
It is indifferent wherever it rots,
Yet close to my beloved countryside
I still would prefer to rest.

And let it be, beside the grave's vault
That young life forever will be playing,
And impartial, indifferent nature
Eternally be shining in beauty.

by Pushkin

Across

Across the window
After crossing the parking lane
And the blue water swimming pool
Around the green trees lays the raised glory of earth
Mountain.

Close to where horzion is laying
Close to where clouds are forming
Close to where breeze is blowing
Close to where sun is warming

And beyond those
Misting mountains
Turbulent seas
Deep hights
Dark Nights

Thoughts of past
Troubles of present
Hopes of Future
And Pristine beauty of ages
Sleeps.

I sit and think of those moments.....

Sitting at stairs
Looking towards the meadow
With the fountain flowing around
Morning is reaching

Great are those...
who will come now...
from left
from right
from east
and from west
and all the directions

To attend the classes
sometimes to go to nescafe
sometimes to go to chatter at winty
sometimes to the reading room
sometimes to library

sometimes to party
sometimes to rock
sometimes to d&d
sometimes to play
sometimes to edlc
sometimes to quizzin

sometimes to rendezvous
sometimes to tryst
sometimes to biohoriozon
sometimes to chemcon

And then they will go
sometimes to glory
sometimes to history
sometimes to future

And they will remain
close...
close to me

They are my friends!!!

Stopping By Woods...by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

IF by Rudyard Kipling

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,
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 imposters 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 wornout 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 breath 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!