Oh how beautiful The leaves a bright greenBranches like fingers reaching To touch and scratch and claw Their beauty astonishes me. Oh how I wish I were one So free So free To do What I Please Free Free Free
I apologize too muchThey sayI don't need to explain myselfThey sayIt's not your faultThey act this wayIn truthI knowBut my mindDoesn't think soI was raisedTo apologize for everythingThere is no changing thatI just wishYou would understandThat bad habits are hard to break
It wasn't her fault.None of it was.The grades gone wrong.And he blamed 'that boy'.'Its not him'She said through the tears.'You have a choice' he bellowed.'Fine I choose him'.Those words now haunt him.Taunt him.Day and night.His little girl grew up.In one day.'Why?' He asked'Oh the choices I gave'.
The flower is like the sun, brightening up my day.The weed is like the dark, not knowing where you are.The flower is like the stars, sparkling brightThe weeds are like the moon, with only one good side.The flower as beautiful as a diamondThe weeds as big as a crystal rock.The flower petals are like a fragile childThe weed's are like your father's unshavened face.The flower is like a numph with gleaming hairIt flows along with the wind here, there and everywhere.The flower bows like the eighth wonder in ones who seek upon it.The weed grows through the concrete path unable to touch the sky. It's pushed and shoved and somehow it survives.My eyes feast upon the flowerBut heart goes to the weed.
THEY have taken the gable from the roof of clayOn the long swede pile. They have let in the sunTo the white and gold and purple of curled frondsUnsunned. It is a sight more tender-gorgeousAt the wood-corner where Winter moans and dripsThan when, in the Valley of the Tombs of Kings,A boy crawls down into a Pharaoh's tombAnd, first of Christian men, beholds the mummy,God and monkey, chariot and throne and vase,Blue pottery, alabaster, and gold.But dreamless long-dead Amen-hotep lies.This is a dream of Winter, sweet as Spring.
Here is the soundless cypress on the lawn :It listens, listens. Taller trees beyondListen. The moon at the unruffled pondStares. And you sing, you sing.That star-enchanted song falls through the airFrom lawn to lawn down terraces of sound,Darts in white arrows on the shadowed ground ;While all the night you sing.My dreams are flowers to which you are a bee,As all night long I listen, and my brainReceives your song, then loses it againIn moonlight on the lawn.Now is your voice a marble high and white,Then like a mist on fields of paradise ;Now is a raging fire, then is like ice,Then breaks, and it is dawn.
I shall return again; I shall returnTo laugh and love and watch with wonder-eyesAt golden noon the forest fires burn,Wafting their blue-black smoke to sapphire skies.I shall return to loiter by the streamsThat bathe the brown blades of the bending grasses,And realize once more my thousand dreamsOf waters rushing down the mountain passes.I shall return to hear the fiddle and fifeOf village dances, dear delicious tunesThat stir the hidden depths of native life,Stray melodies of dim remembered runes.I shall return, I shall return again,To ease my mind of long, long years of pain.