Ode Poems Novels & Stories

It's been written to death. "No, June is immortal," cried Emily suddenly, a mutinous sparkle replacing the strained look in her eyes. She was not going to let Mr Carpenter have it all his own way. But Mr Carpenter had tossed June aside without reading a line of it. "'I weary of the hungry world'--what do you know of the hungry world?--you in your New Moon seclusion of old trees and old maids--but it is hungry. Ode to Winter--the seasons are a sort of disease all young poets must have, it seems--ha! 'Spring will not forget'--that's a good line--the only good line in it. H'm'm--Wanderings--

Some weaker cultivators were scared stiff by the poem. Because these ten words were like ten sharp swords fiercely stabbing into everyone's hearts. Too terrifying. It was not safe like a calligraphy or painting, but more like an unsheathed sword. It could pierce through people with a sword at any time. Everyone was dumbfounded. Countless people recited the Ode to the Gallant of the Poet Master, Li Bai. As for writing it on a piece of paper, countless works of art masters had done it. Even the forefather had done so.

I must have dozed off while I was reading earlier. The Poems of Francis Ledwidge – the moth-eaten emerald green book I found in the study – is lying next to my pillow, the gold-embossed oak leaves on the cover glinting in the lamplight. The last thing I remember reading before nodding off was a poem gran had often sung to me as a bedtime lullaby. That book of the page is creased, dog-eared. The poem is about a water spirit who died after falling in love, which seemed to be one of Francis Ledwidge’s favorite themes – doomed love, tragic, beautiful maidens and lots and lots of flowers.

I met a traveller from an antique land, Who said-"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal, these words appear: My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away." P.B Shelley

The poem went this way, Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there; I did not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uprising rush Oh quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die.

My chest tightened as I watched Flora walk away. Then, I straightened my outfit and went to my mother's company. That afternoon, I had plans with a few classmates to go back to my previous school and visit our teacher. While we were talking, I happened to scroll past a new post from Sean on his social media. "Walking around campus with my love again feels like I'm being given a second chance to clear my regrets for not being with her during senior high." When I saw the familiar background, my heart skipped a beat, and I left in a hurry.

I sat on her lap, smelling her perfume, listening to her softly recite this poem: For glance beget ogles, ogles sighs, sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter. At first, I didn't know the meaning of the poem, but I thought its rhythm was beautiful. Every time my mother read this poem, she would smile gently, as if immersed in some kind of happy memory. My father would repeat the poem with her in a low voice, and they would look at each other and feel their love with just one look. As I grew up, I came to understand the poem.