By antique Fancy trimmed, though lowly, bredTo dignity in thee, O Schwytz! are seenThe genuine features of the golden mean;Equality by Prudence governed,Or jealous Nature ruling in her stead;And, therefore, art thou blest with peace, sereneAs that of the sweet fields and meadows greenIn unambitious compass round thee spread.Majestic Berne, high on her guardian steep,Holding a … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820 – XX. – The Town Of Schwytz, By: William Wordsworth
Poems
Anthem Of A Kid Unwanted, By: Andrew Cyr
It was a Thursday morning.And unlike Wednesday,I knew where I was goingshouldn’t be somewhereI wanted to go, but I did.Go. I wanted to leave this houseand this bustling town of drunksand stochastic manipulation. Besides, I wasn’t what her newhusband wanted, and he saidshe needed to pick.I got the short end of the stick. I didn’t know the route, and anyway,anywhere would … [Read more...] about Anthem Of A Kid Unwanted, By: Andrew Cyr
A Holy Hint, By: Geoffrey Heptonstall
To say how is my lovewill you fly to heron silken wings,bird of silver songwith your sweet tongue. One or two or three thingsare never easy to find:counting the stars in the frost,or touching the moon,or hearing the mind of my love. (Freely adapted from the traditional Welsh song, Aderyn du) … [Read more...] about A Holy Hint, By: Geoffrey Heptonstall
The Button Is Pressed, By: Ramses Martin
heat is starting, got meout hereburningfurnishingout of a terrorpraise to my one Terra.as I move past these degreesI see the charm -that of a feather. Sonic be whereI’m currently at -outside hunger homiewith a french fry crave “Cheesy Bacon Stack”to cure a bout of my depression fed by something lonely. clocking in time in my brainbefore I’m driven insane;just know … [Read more...] about The Button Is Pressed, By: Ramses Martin
Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820 – XVIII. – Our Lady Of The Snow, By: William Wordsworth
Meek Virgin Mother, more benignThan fairest Star, upon the heightOf thy own mountain, set to keepLone vigils through the hours of sleep,What eye can look upon thy shrineUntroubled at the sight? These crowded offerings as they hangIn sign of misery relieved,Even these, without intent of theirs,Report of comfortless despairs,Of many a deep and cureless pangAnd confidence … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820 – XVIII. – Our Lady Of The Snow, By: William Wordsworth