Here is my gift, not roses on your grave, not sticks of burning incense. You lived aloof, maintaining to the end your magnificent disdain. You drank wine, and told the wittiest jokes, and suffocated inside stifling walls. Alone you let the terrible stranger in, and stayed with her alone.
Now you're gone, and nobody says a word about your troubled and exalted life. Only my voice, like a flute, will mourn at your dumb funeral feast. Oh, who would have dared believe that half-crazed I, I, sick with grief for the buried past, I, smoldering on a slow fire, having lost everything and forgotten all, would be fated to commemorate a man so full of strength and will and bright inventions, who only yesterday it seems, chatted with me, hiding the tremor of his mortal pain.
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There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass,...
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(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
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They are not long, the days of wine and roses:Out of a misty dreamOur path emerges for a while, then closesWithin a dream.
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The roses, the lovely notes, the dining and dancing are all welcome and splendid. But when the Godiva is gone, the gift of real love is having someone who'll go the distance with you. Someone who, when the wedding day limo breaks down, is willing to share a seat on the bus.
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Roses are red, Violets are blue, Some poems rhyme
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I go into my library, and all history unrolls before me. I breathe the morning air of the world while the scent of Eden's roses yet lingered in it, while it vibrated only to the world's first brood of nightingales, and to the laugh of Eve. I see the pyramids building; I hear the shoutings of the armies of Alexander.
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God gave us memories, that we might have June roses in the December of our lives.
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The sharp thorn often produces delicate roses.
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You prefer a woman under the earth, you heap roses above a grave;...
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Anti-Valentines Day Poem Hearts and roses and kisses galore, What the hell is all that shit for? People get mushy and start acting queer, It is definitely the most annoying day of the year. This day needs to get the hell over with and pass, Before I shove something up Cupid's ass. I'll spend the day so drunk I can't speak And wear black for the rest of the week. Guys act all sweet, but soon it will fade, For all they are doing is trying to get laid. The arrow Cupid shot at me must not have hit, Cause I think this love thing is a crock of shit. So, here's my story... what else can I say? Love bites my ass... Fuck Valentines Day!
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It is with roses and locomotives (not to mention acrobats Spring electricity Coney Island the 4th of July the eyes of mice and Niagara Falls) that my ''poems'' are competing.
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You like buttercups, dewy sweet, And crocuses, framed in snow; I like roses, born of the heat, And the red carnation's glow.
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I have always felt that although someone may defeat me, and I strike out in a ball game, the pitcher on the particular day was the best player. But I know when I see him again, I'm going to be ready for his curve ball. Failure is a part of success. There is no such thing as a bed of roses all your life. But failure will never stand in the way of success if you learn from it.
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Roses are red; Violets are blue; I want to stick, My penis in you
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God gave us our memories so that we might have roses in December.
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It matters not what goal you seek Its secret here reposes You've got to dig from week to week To get Results or Roses.
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God gave us memory that we might have roses in December.
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God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December.
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(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands
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When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree. Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet And if thou wilt, remember And if thou wilt, forget.
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Roses are red, the sun is gold. Get on your knees, and do as you're told.
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Roses are red Violets are Blue I'm a schizofrenic and so am I
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(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
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(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
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When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree:...
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Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom, On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; But on thy turf shall roses rear Their leaves, the earliest of the year.
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Roses are red, violets are blue, I'm a schitzophrenic, and so am I.
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It is only by enlarging the scope of one's tastes and one's fantasies, by sacrificing everything to pleasure, that that unfortunate individual called man, thrown despite himself into this sad world, can succeed in gathering a few roses . . .
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Don 't hurry. Don't worry. You're only here for a short visit. So don't forget to stop and smell the roses.
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