Death, Be Not Proud by John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have called theeMighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrowDie not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,And soonest our best men with thee do …

The Tiger by William Blake

Tiger Tiger, burning bright,In the forests of the night;What immortal hand or eye,Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies.Burnt the fire of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire?What the hand, dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, and what art,Could twist the sinews of thy heart?And when thy heart began …

Because I could not stop for Death

by Emily Dickinson Because I could not stop for Death –He kindly stopped for me –The Carriage held but just Ourselves –And Immortality. We slowly drove – He knew no hasteAnd I had put awayMy labor and my leisure too,For His Civility – We passed the School, where Children stroveAt Recess – in the Ring …

Lahore: The city of hearts

Lahore has got a special place in every person's heart and this is the reason it will always be the city of hearts and dreams. I spent 20 years of my life in Lahore and cherished every single memory I have, the friends I made there; they are all so uniquely kind and generous. I …

Tears such that angels weep

The angels cried on her as she was too innocent and naive to understand that the parrots she just freed would be the cause of her death by torture. Zohra Shah was just an 8-year-old innocent girl when she succumbed to injuries in a local hospital in Rawalpindi. She was brought to the hospital by …

Ode on a Grecian Urn by Keats

Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,Sylvan historian, who canst thus expressA flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shapeOf deities or mortals, or of both,In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?What mad pursuit? What struggle to …

Rise of narcissists: The plague that killed poetry

People around me believe I am a cynical person as nothing around me seems to be fit as per the great divine plan and according to the social structure. They say I have the tendency to scrape the rationality out of every single thing. I can’t disappoint them it isn’t my thing. Let’s talk about …

A Psalm of Life by Henry Wordsworth Longfellow

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,Life is but an empty dream!For the soul is dead that slumbers,And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest!And the grave is not its goal;Dust thou art, to dust returnest,Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,Is our destined end or way;But …

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel bothAnd be one traveler, long I stoodAnd looked down one as far as I couldTo where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair,And having perhaps the better claim,Because it was grassy and wanted wear;Though as for …

A Prison Evening

Each star a rung, night comes down the spiral staircase of the evening. The breeze passes by so very close as if someone just happened to speak of love. In the courtyard, the trees are absorbed refugees embroidering maps of return on the sky. On the roof, the moon - lovingly, generously –  is turning …

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Joy And Sorrow: Khalil Jibran

Then a woman said, "Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow."And he answered:Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.And how else can it be?The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.Is not the cup that hold …

For Malcolm, A Year After, poetry by ETHERIDGE KNIGHT

Compose for Red a proper verse; Adhere to foot and strict iamb; Control the burst of angry words Or they might boil and break the dam. Or they might boil and overflow And drench me, drown me, drive me mad. So swear no oath, so shed no tear, And sing no song blue Baptist sad. …

Digging by Seamus Heaney

Between my finger and my thumb    The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. Under my window, a clean rasping sound    When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:    My father, digging. I look down Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds    Bends low, comes up twenty years away    Stooping in rhythm through potato drills    Where …