It's hard to understandpeople that arelike him.One moment, we'rehappy together-thenhe suddenly disappears.With my heart aching,I beg for him, knowingmy cries are just screamsinto the void. Itdoesn't affect him, though.If only he couldhow much Icare.
I have a secret-everybody knows it,or, at least that's what IThink.He doesn't know.I Want him to, butwould he freak out?Would that "best friendLove" still be shared?Or would he brush meoff, and leave me behindaching, longing forHim?
I love my friends.I like my life.My grades aregood, reputation-pristine. Yet IDon't feel happy here.Is there somethingwrong with me? OrIs there an unchangeablereason behind this feeling?Any other way,something does notBelong.
To wake the soul by tender strokes of art,To raise the genius, and to mend the heart;To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold,Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold:For this the tragic Muse first trod the stage,Commanding tears to stream through every age;Tyrants no more their savage nature kept,And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept.Our author shuns by vulgar springs to moveThe hero's glory, or the virgin's love;In pitying love, we but our weakness show,And wild ambition well deserves its woe.Here tears shall flow from a more generous cause,
'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,Came children walking two and two, in read, and blue, and green:Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters flow.Oh what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town!Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own.The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.Now like a mighty wild they raise to heaven the voice of song,Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among:Beneath them sit the aged man, wise guardians of the poor.
March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale,Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order!March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale,All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border.Many a banner spread,Flutters above your head,Many a crest that is famous in story.Mount and make ready then,Sons of the mountain glen,Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory.Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing,Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing,Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.Trumpets are sounding,War-steeds are bounding,