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Best Famous Deep Water Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Deep Water poems. This is a select list of the best famous Deep Water poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Deep Water poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of deep water poems.

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Written by Robert Graves | Create an image from this poem

Mermaid Dragon Fiend

 In my childhood rumors ran
 Of a world beyond our door—
Terrors to the life of man
 That the highroad held in store.

Of mermaids' doleful game
 In deep water I heard tell,
Of lofty dragons belching flame,
 Of the hornèd fiend of Hell.

Tales like these were too absurd
 For my laughter-loving ear:
Soon I mocked at all I heard,
 Though with cause indeed for fear.

Now I know the mermaid kin
 I find them bound by natural laws:
They have neither tail nor fin,
 But are deadlier for that cause.

Dragons have no darting tongues,
 Teeth saw-edged, nor rattling scales;
No fire issues from their lungs,
 No black poison from their tails:

For they are creatures of dark air,
 Unsubstantial tossing forms,
Thunderclaps of man's despair
 In mid-whirl of mental storms.

And there's a true and only fiend
 Worse than prophets prophesy,
Whose full powers to hurt are screened
 Lest the race of man should die.

Ever in vain will courage plot
 The dragon's death, in coat of proof;
Or love abjure the mermaid grot;
 Or faith denounce the cloven hoof.

Mermaids will not be denied
 The last bubbles of our shame,
The Dragon flaunts an unpierced hide,
 The true fiend governs in God's name.


Written by James A Emanuel | Create an image from this poem

Poet As Fisherman

 I fish for words
to say what I fish for,
half-catch sometimes.

I have caught little pan fish flashing sunlight
(yellow perch, crappies, blue-gills),
lighthearted reeled them in,
filed them on stringers on the shore.
A nice mess, we called them,
and ate with our fingers, laughing.

Once, dreaming of fish in far-off waters,
I hooked a two-foot carp in Michigan,
on nylon line so fine
a fellow-fisher shook his head:
"He'll break it, sure; he'll roll on it and get away."
A quarter-hour it took to bring him in;
back-and-forth toward my net,
syllable by syllable I let him have his way
till he lay flopping on the grass—
beside no other, himself enough in size:
he fed the three of us (each differently)
new strategies of hook, leader, line, and rod.

Working well, I am a deep-water man,
a "Daredevil" silver wobbler
my lure for lake trout in midsummer.

Oh, I have tried the moon, thermometers—
the bait and time and place all by the rule—
fishing for the masterpiece,
the imperial muskellunge in Minnesota,
the peerless pike in Canada.
I have propped a well-thumbed book
against the butt of my favorite rod
and fished from my heart.

Yet, for my labors,
all I have to show
are tactics, lore—
so little I know
of that pea-sized brain I am casting for,
to think it could swim
with the phantom-words
that lure me to this shore.
Written by Denise Levertov | Create an image from this poem

Seeing For A Moment

 I thought I was growing wings—
it was a cocoon.

I thought, now is the time to step
into the fire—
it was deep water.

Eschatology is a word I learned
as a child: the study of Last Things;

facing my mirror—no longer young,
 the news—always of death,
 the dogs—rising from sleep and clamoring
 and howling, howling,

nevertheless
I see for a moment
that's not it: it is
the First Things.

Word after word
floats through the glass.
Towards me.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

The Story of Mongrel Grey

 This is the story the stockman told 
On the cattle-camp, when the stars were bright; 
The moon rose up like a globe of gold 
And flooded the plain with her mellow light. 
We watched the cattle till dawn of day 
And he told me the story of Mongrel Grey. 
He was a knock-about station hack, 
Spurred and walloped, and banged and beat; 
Ridden all day with a sore on his back, 
Left all night with nothing to eat. 
That was a matter of everyday 
Normal occurrence with Mongrel Grey. 

We might have sold him, but someone heard 
He was bred out back on a flooded run, 
Where he learnt to swim like a waterbird; 
Midnight or midday were all as one -- 
In the flooded ground he would find his way; 
Nothing could puzzle old Mongrel Grey. 

'Tis a trick, no doubt, that some horses learn; 
When the floods are out they will splash along 
In girth-deep water, and twist and turn 
From hidden channel and billabong, 
Never mistaking the road to go; 
for a man may guess -- but the horses know. 

I was camping out with my youngest son -- 
Bit of a nipper, just learnt to speak -- 
In an empty hut on the lower run, 
Shooting and fishing in Conroy's Creek. 
The youngster toddled about all day 
And there with our horses was Mongrel Grey. 

All of a sudden a flood came down, 
At first a freshet of mountain rain, 
Roaring and eddying, rank and brown, 
Over the flats and across the plain. 
Rising and rising -- at fall of night 
Nothing but water appeared in sight! 

'Tis a nasty place when the floods are out, 
Even in daylight; for all around 
Channels and billabongs twist about, 
Stretching for miles in the flooded ground. 
And to move seemed a hopeless thing to try 
In the dark with the storm-water racing by. 

I had to risk it. I heard a roar 
As the wind swept down and the driving rain; 
And the water rose till it reached the floor 
Of our highest room; and 'twas very plain -- 
The way the torrent was sweeping down -- 
We must make for the highlands at once, or drown. 

Off to the stable I splashed, and found 
The horses shaking with cold and fright; 
I led them down to the lower ground, 
But never a yard would they swim that night! 
They reared and snorted and turned away, 
And none would face it but Mongrel Grey. 

I bound the child on the horse's back, 
And we started off, with a prayer to heaven, 
Through the rain and the wind and the pitchy black 
For I knew that the instinct God has given 
To prompt His creatures by night and day 
Would guide the footsteps of Mongrel Grey. 

He struck deep water at once and swam -- 
I swam beside him and held his mane -- 
Till we touched the bank of the broken dam 
In shallow water; then off again, 
Swimming in darkness across the flood, 
Rank with the smell of the drifting mud. 

He turned and twisted across and back, 
Choosing the places to wade or swim, 
Picking the safest and shortest track -- 
The blackest darkness was clear to him. 
Did he strike the crossing by sight or smell? 
The Lord that held him alone could tell! 

He dodged the timber whene'er he could, 
But timber brought us to grief at last; 
I was partly stunned by a log of wood 
That struck my head as it drifted past; 
Then lost my grip of the brave old grey, 
And in half a second he swept away. 

I reached a tree, where I had to stay, 
And did a perish for two days' hard; 
And lived on water -- but Mongrel Grey, 
He walked right into the homestead yard 
At dawn next morning, and grazed around, 
With the child strapped on to him safe and sound. 

We keep him now for the wife to ride, 
Nothing too good for him now, of course; 
Never a whip on his fat old hide, 
For she owes the child to that brave grey horse. 
And not Old Tyson himself could pay 
The purchase money of Mongrel Grey.
Written by William Topaz McGonagall | Create an image from this poem

The Battle of the Nile

 'Twas on the 18th of August in the year of 1798,
That Nelson saw with inexpressible delight
The City of Alexandria crowded with the ships of France,
So he ordered all sail to be set, and immediately advance. 

And upon the deck, in deep anxiety he stood,
And from anxiety of mind he took but little food;
But now he ordered dinner and prepared without delay,
Saying, I shall gain a peerage to-morrow, or Westminster Abbey. 

The French had found it impossible to enter the port of Alexandria,
Therefore they were compelled to withdraw;
Yet their hearts were burning with anxiety the war to begin,
But they couldn't find a pilot who would convey them safely in. 

Therefore Admiral Brueyes was forced to anchor in Aboukir Bay,
And in a compact line of battle, the leading vessel lay
Close to a shoal, along a line of very deep water,
There they lay, all eager to begin the murderous slaughter. 

The French force consisted of thirteen ships of the line,
As fine as ever sailed on the salt sea brine;
Besides four Frigates carrying 1,196 guns in all,
Also 11,230 men as good as ever fired a cannon ball. 

The number of the English ships were thirteen in all,
And carrying 1012 guns, including great and small;
And the number of men were 8,068,
All jolly British tars and eager for to fight. 

As soon as Nelson perceived the position of the enemy,
His active mind soon formed a plan immediately;
As the plan he thought best, as far as he could see,
Was to anchor his ships on the quarter of each of the enemy. 

And when he had explained hid mode of attack to his officers and men,
He said, form as convenient, and anchor at the stern;
The first gain the victory, and make the best use of it you can,
Therefore I hope every one here to-day, will do their duty to a man. 

When Captain Berry perceived the boldness of the plan,
He said, my Lord, I'm sure the men will do their duty to a man;
And, my Lord, what will the world say, if we gain the victory?
Then Nelson replied, there's no if in the case, and that you'll see. 

Then the British tars went to work without delay,
All hurrying to and fro, making ready for the fray;
And there wasn't a man among them, but was confident that day,
That they would make the French to fly from Aboukir Bay. 

Nelson's fleet did not enter Aboukir Bay at once,
And by adopting that plan, that was his only chance;
But one after another, they bore down on the enemy;
Then Nelson cried, now open fire my heroes, immediately! 

Then the shores of Egypt trembled with the din of the war,
While sheets of flame rent the thick clouds afar;
And the contending fleets hung incumbent o'er the bay,
Whilst our British tars stuck to their guns without the least dismay. 

And loudly roared the earthly thunder along thr river Nile,
And the British ship Orion went into action in splendid style;
Also Nelson's Ship Vanguard bore down on the foe,
With six flags flying from her rigging high and low. 

Then she opened a tremendous fire on the Spartiate,
And Nelson cried, fear not my lads we'll soon make them retreat!
But so terrific was the fire of the enemy on them,
That six of the Vanguards guns were cleared of men. 

Yet there stood Nelson, the noble Hero of the Nile,
In the midst of death and destruction on deck all the while;
And around him on every side, the cannon balls did rattle,
But right well the noble hero knew the issue of the battle. 

But suddenly he received a wound on the head,
And fell into the arms of Captain Berry, but fortunately not dead;
And the flow of blood from his head was very great,
But still the hero of the Nile was resigned to his fate. 

Then to the Cockpit the great Admiral was carried down,
And in the midst of the dying, he never once did frown;
Nor he didn't shake with fear, nor yet did he mourne,
But patiently sat down to wait his own turn. 

And when the Surgeon saw him, he instantly ran,
But Nelson said, Surgeon, attend to that man;
Attend to the sailor you were at, for he requires your aid,
Then I will take my turn, don't be the least afraid. 

And when his turn came, it was found that his wound was but slight,
And when known, it filled the sailors hearts with delight;
And they all hoped he would soon be able to command in the fight,
When suddenly a cry arose of fire! Which startled Nelson with affright. 

And unassisted he rushed upon the deck, and to his amaze,
He discovered that the Orient was all in a blaze;
Then he ordered the men to lower the boats, and relieve the enemy,
Saying, now men, see and obey my orders immediately. 

Then the noble tars manned their boats, and steered to the Orient,
While the poor creatures thanked God for the succour He had sent;
And the burning fragments fell around them like rain,
Still our British tars rescued about seventy of them from the burning flame, 

And of the thirteen sail of the French the British captured nine,
Besides four of their ships were burnt, which made the scene sublime,
Which made the hero of the Nile cry out thank God we've won the day,
And defeated the French most manfully in Aboukir Bay. 

Then the victory was complete and the French Fleet annihilated,
And when the news arrived in England the peoples' hearts felt elated,
Then Nelson sent orders immediately through the fleet,
That thanksgiving should be returned to God for the victory complete.


Written by James Dickey | Create an image from this poem

The Sharks Parlor

 Memory: I can take my head and strike it on a wall on Cumberland Island 
Where the night tide came crawling under the stairs came up the first 
Two or three steps and the cottage stood on poles all night 
With the sea sprawled under it as we dreamed of the great fin circling 
Under the bedroom floor. In daylight there was my first brassy taste of beer 
And Payton Ford and I came back from the Glynn County slaughterhouse 
With a bucket of entrails and blood. We tied one end of a hawser 
To a spindling porch-pillar and rowed straight out of the house 
Three hundred yards into the vast front yard of windless blue water 
The rope out slithering its coil the two-gallon jug stoppered and sealed 
With wax and a ten-foot chain leader a drop-forged shark-hook nestling. 
We cast our blood on the waters the land blood easily passing 
For sea blood and we sat in it for a moment with the stain spreading 
Out from the boat sat in a new radiance in the pond of blood in the sea 
Waiting for fins waiting to spill our guts also in the glowing water. 
We dumped the bucket, and baited the hook with a run-over collie pup. The jug 
Bobbed, trying to shake off the sun as a dog would shake off the sea. 
We rowed to the house feeling the same water lift the boat a new way, 
All the time seeing where we lived rise and dip with the oars. 
We tied up and sat down in rocking chairs, one eye on the other responding 
To the blue-eye wink of the jug. Payton got us a beer and we sat 

All morning sat there with blood on our minds the red mark out 
In the harbor slowly failing us then the house groaned the rope 
Sprang out of the water splinters flew we leapt from our chairs 
And grabbed the rope hauled did nothing the house coming subtly 
Apart all around us underfoot boards beginning to sparkle like sand 
Pulling out the tarred poles we slept propped-up on leaning to sea 
As in land-wind crabs scuttling from under the floor as we took runs about 
Two more porch-pillars and looked out and saw something a fish-flash 
An almighty fin in trouble a moiling of secret forces a false start 
Of water a round wave growing in the whole of Cumberland Sound the one ripple. 
Payton took off without a word I could not hold him either 

But clung to the rope anyway it was the whole house bending 
Its nails that held whatever it was coming in a little and like a fool 
I took up the slack on my wrist. The rope drew gently jerked I lifted 
Clean off the porch and hit the water the same water it was in 
I felt in blue blazing terror at the bottom of the stairs and scrambled 
Back up looking desperately into the human house as deeply as I could 
Stopping my gaze before it went out the wire screen of the back door 
Stopped it on the thistled rattan the rugs I lay on and read 
On my mother's sewing basket with next winter's socks spilling from it 
The flimsy vacation furniture a bucktoothed picture of myself. 
Payton came back with three men from a filling station and glanced at me 
Dripping water inexplicable then we all grabbed hold like a tug-of-war. 

We were gaining a little from us a cry went up from everywhere 
People came running. Behind us the house filled with men and boys.
On the third step from the sea I took my place looking down the rope 
Going into the ocean, humming and shaking off drops. A houseful 
Of people put their backs into it going up the steps from me 
Into the living room through the kitchen down the back stairs 
Up and over a hill of sand across a dust road and onto a raised field 
Of dunes we were gaining the rope in my hands began to be wet 
With deeper water all other haulers retreated through the house 
But Payton and I on the stairs drawing hand over hand on our blood 
Drawing into existence by the nose a huge body becoming 
A hammerhead rolling in beery shallows and I began to let up 
But the rope strained behind me the town had gone 
Pulling-mad in our house far away in a field of sand they struggled 
They had turned their backs on the sea bent double some on their knees 
The rope over their shoulders like a bag of gold they strove for the ideal 
Esso station across the scorched meadow with the distant fish coming up 
The front stairs the sagging boards still coming in up taking 
Another step toward the empty house where the rope stood straining 
By itself through the rooms in the middle of the air. "Pass the word," 
Payton said, and I screamed it "Let up, good God, let up!" to no one there. 
The shark flopped on the porch, grating with salt-sand driving back in 
The nails he had pulled out coughing chunks of his formless blood. 
The screen door banged and tore off he scrambled on his tail slid 
Curved did a thing from another world and was out of his element and in 
Our vacation paradise cutting all four legs from under the dinner table 
With one deep-water move he unwove the rugs in a moment throwing pints 
Of blood over everything we owned knocked the buckteeth out of my picture 
His odd head full of crashed jelly-glass splinters and radio tubes thrashing 
Among the pages of fan magazines all the movie stars drenched in sea-blood 
Each time we thought he was dead he struggled back and smashed 
One more thing in all coming back to die three or four more times after death. 
At last we got him out logrolling him greasing his sandpaper skin 
With lard to slide him pulling on his chained lips as the tide came, 
Tumbled him down the steps as the first night wave went under the floor. 
He drifted off head back belly white as the moon. What could I do but buy 
That house for the one black mark still there against death a forehead- 
 toucher in the room he circles beneath and has been invited to wreck? 
Blood hard as iron on the wall black with time still bloodlike 
Can be touched whenever the brow is drunk enough. All changes. Memory: 
Something like three-dimensional dancing in the limbs with age 
Feeling more in two worlds than one in all worlds the growing encounters. 

Copyright © James Dickey 1965
Online Source - http://www.oceanstar.com/shark/dickey.htm
Written by Adela Florence Cory Nicolson | Create an image from this poem

Reverie of Mahomed Akram at the Tamarind Tank

   The Desert is parched in the burning sun
   And the grass is scorched and white.
   But the sand is passed, and the march is done,
   We are camping here to-night.
        I sit in the shade of the Temple walls,
        While the cadenced water evenly falls,
        And a peacock out of the Jungle calls
        To another, on yonder tomb.
       Above, half seen, in the lofty gloom,
       Strange works of a long dead people loom,
   Obscene and savage and half effaced—
   An elephant hunt, a musicians' feast—
   And curious matings of man and beast;
   What did they mean to the men who are long since dust?
        Whose fingers traced,
        In this arid waste,
   These rioting, twisted, figures of love and lust.

   Strange, weird things that no man may say,
   Things Humanity hides away;—
        Secretly done,—
   Catch the light of the living day,
        Smile in the sun.
   Cruel things that man may not name,
   Naked here, without fear or shame,
        Laughed in the carven stone.

   Deep in the Temple's innermost Shrine is set,
       Where the bats and shadows dwell,
   The worn and ancient Symbol of Life, at rest
       In its oval shell,
   By which the men, who, of old, the land possessed,
   Represented their Great Destroying Power.
        I cannot forget
   That, just as my life was touching its fullest flower,
   Love came and destroyed it all in a single hour,
        Therefore the dual Mystery suits me well.

                           Sitting alone,
   The tank's deep water is cool and sweet,
   Soothing and fresh to the wayworn feet,
           Dreaming, under the Tamarind shade,
           One silently thanks the men who made
   So green a place in this bitter land
                Of sunburnt sand.

   The peacocks scream and the grey Doves coo,
   Little green, talkative Parrots woo,
   And small grey Squirrels, with fear askance,
   At alien me, in their furtive glance,
   Come shyly, with quivering fur, to see
   The stranger under their Tamarind tree.
          Daylight dies,
   The Camp fires redden like angry eyes,
          The Tents show white,
           In the glimmering light,
   Spirals of tremulous smoke arise, to the purple skies,
         And the hum of the Camp sounds like the sea,
     Drifting over the sand to me.
          Afar, in the Desert some wild voice sings
          To a jangling zither with minor strings,
            And, under the stars growing keen above,
            I think of the thing that I love.

         A beautiful thing, alert, serene,
   With passionate, dreaming, wistful eyes,
   Dark and deep as mysterious skies,
   Seen from a vessel at sea.
   Alas, you drifted away from me,
   And Time and Space have rushed in between,
   But they cannot undo the Thing-that-has-been,
               Though it never again may be.
   You were mine, from dusk until dawning light,
   For the perfect whole of that bygone night
               You belonged to me!

   They say that Love is a light thing,
   A foolish thing and a slight thing,
               A ripe fruit, rotten at core;
     They speak in this futile fashion
     To me, who am wracked with passion,
     Tormented beyond compassion,
               For ever and ever more.

   They say that Possession lessens a lover's delight,
     As radiant mornings fade into afternoon.
   I held what I loved in my arms for many a night,
     Yet ever the morning lightened the sky too soon.

   Beyond our tents the sands stretch level and far,
   Around this little oasis of Tamarind trees.
   A curious, Eastern fragrance fills the breeze
   From the ruinous Temple garden where roses are.

   I dream of the rose-like perfume that fills your hair,
   Of times when my lips were free of your soft closed eyes,
   While down in the tank the waters ripple and rise
   And the flying foxes silently cleave the air.

   The present is subtly welded into the past,
   My love of you with the purple Indian dusk,
   With its clinging scent of sandal incense and musk,
            And withering jasmin flowers.
   My eyes grow dim and my senses fail at last,
            While the lonely hours
   Follow each other, silently, one by one,
                 Till the night is almost done.

   Then weary, and drunk with dreams, with my garments damp
   And heavy with dew, I wander towards the camp.
     Tired, with a brain in which fancy and fact are blent,
     I stumble across the ropes till I reach my tent
   And then to rest. To ensweeten my sleep with lies,
   To dream I lie in the light of your long lost eyes,
                   My lips set free.
   To love and linger over your soft loose hair—
   To dream I lay your delicate beauty bare
                   To solace my fevered eyes.
   Ah,—if my life might end in a night like this—
   Drift into death from dreams of your granted kiss!
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Sea-Wife

 There dwells a wife by the Northern Gate,
 And a wealthy wife is she;
She breeds a breed o' rovin' men
 And casts them over sea.

And some are drowned in deep water,
 And some in sight o' shore,
And word goes back to the weary wife
 And ever she sends more.

For since that wife had gate or gear,
 Or hearth or garth or bield,
She willed her sons to the white harvest,
 And that is a bitter yield.

She wills her sons to the wet ploughing,
 To ride the horse of tree,
And syne her sons come back again
 Far-spent from out the sea.

The good wife's sons come home again
 With little into their hands,
But the lore of men that ha' dealt with men
 In the new and naked lands;

But the faith of men that ha' brothered men
 By more than easy breath,
And the eyes o' men that ha' read wi' men
 In the open books of death.

Rich are they, rich in wonders seen,
 But poor in the goods o' men;
So what they ha' got by the skin o' their teeth
 They sell for their teeth again.

For whether they lose to the naked life
 Or win to their hearts' desire,
They tell it all to the weary wife
 That nods beside the fire.

Her hearth is wide to every wind
 That makes the white ash spin;
And tide and tide and 'tween the tides
 Her sons go out and in;

(Out with great mirth that do desire
 Hazard of trackless ways,
In with content to wait their watch
 And warm before the blaze);

And some return by failing light,
 And some in waking dream,
For she hears the heels of the dripping ghosts
 That ride the rough roof-beam.

Home, they come home from all the ports,
 The living and the dead;
The good wife's sons come home again
 For her blessing on their head!
Written by William Topaz McGonagall | Create an image from this poem

The Battle of Gujrat

 'Twas in the year of 1849, and on the 20th of February,
Lord Gough met and attacked Shere Sing right manfully.
The Sikh Army numbered 40,000 in strength,
And showing a front about two miles length. 

It was a glorious morning, the sun was shining in a cloudless sky;
And the larks were singing merrily in the heavens high;
And 'twas about nine o'clock in the morning the battle was begun,
But at the end of three hours the Sikhs were forced to run. 

Lord Gough's force was a mixture of European and native infantry,
And well supported with artillery and cavalry;
But the British Army in numbers weren't so strong,
Yet, fearlessly and steadily, they marched along. 

Shere Sing, the King, had taken up a position near the town,
And as he gazed upon the British Army he did frown;
But Lord Gough ordered the troops to commence the battle,
With sixty big guns that loudly did rattle. 

The Sikhs were posted on courses of deep water,
But the British in a short time soon did them scatter.
Whilst the British cannonading loudly hums,
And in the distance were heard the enemy's drums. 

The the Sikhs began to fight with their artillery,
But their firing didn't work very effectively;
Then the British lines advanced on them right steadily,
Which was a most inspiring sight to see. 

Then the order was given to move forward to attack,
And again-- and again-- through fear the enemy drew back.
Then Penny's brigade, with a ringing cheer, advanced briskly,
And charged with their bayonets very heriocally. 

Then the Sikhs caught the bayonets with their left hand,
And rushed in with their swords, the scene was heroic and grand.
Whilst they slashed and cut with great dexterity,
But the British charge was irresistable, they had to flee. 

And with 150 men they cleared the village of every living thing,
And with British cheers the village did ring;
And the villagers in amazement and terror fled,
Because the streets and their houses were strewn with their dead. 

The chief attack was made on the enemy's right
By Colin Campbell's brigade-- a most magnificent sight.
Though they were exposed to a very galling fire,
But at last the Sikhs were forced to retire. 

And in their flight everything was left behind,
And the poor Sikhs were of all comfort bereft,
Because their swords, cannon, drums, and waggons were left behind,
Therefore little pleasure could they find. 

Then Shere Sing fled in great dismay,
But Lord Gough pursued him without delay,
And captured him a few miles away;
And now the Sikhs are our best soldiers of the present day,
Because India is annexed to the British Dominions, and they must obey.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry