Brash, these self-substantial tadpoles scurry, Thrusting charms of puffed-up, too thriftless praise. Think they, a strut buckles the fair maid’s gaze, Beguiles the world of flatulent flurry And bobs old men to nod at their worry. But come hie, the prick of love’s briar maze, The fire, and the sweat, and grief it will raise, From field to furrow, ceasing all hurry.
‘Tis murd’rus shame this never-resting time. Fast it whittles cocksure vigor and zest, And sculpts a map of eternal lines drawn, Making too soon sober a young man’s prime, Gold complexion ruddied for death’s conquest, With it desire's groan quenched hence with a yawn.
copyright jeanne rené
Borrowed from the Bard:
self-substantial thriftless praise beguile the world never-resting time death's conquest murd'rous shame gold complexion eternal lines
Jeanne: Hello visitors....Thanks for dropping by. Lets revive Poetic Horizons. I'm very tired of Facebook and have never felt comfortable posting poetry there. So look around and register. Lets get this place moving!
Mar 30, 2019 1:55:53 GMT -8
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.