Philosophy Poems Novels & Stories

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.

I didn't expect that. "That's a really sad book," I say. "You've read it," she straightens up a little. I nod. "And the other one?" "My mom gave it to me," she tightens her hold on it. "Poems, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Ernest Hartley Coleridge. Do you know him?" "Yeah. No man was ever yet a good poet, without being at the same time a profound philosopher. I read Poems for an assignment in school," "You went to school?" she all but shouts. I'm taken aback by her outburst.

Food? Rum? Flowers? Cannibalism? Women? Torture? Poetry? I am an alchemist, not a poet. What am I even supposed to say? Gold is yellow, Silver is blue, Oh, my dear brother, You’ve lost all your screws. Instead of cheering him up, my poetry would torture him. And I didn’t want him to crave death even more. So, poetry was clearly a bad idea. I let out a sigh and even that echoed. Maybe I’ll just ask the obvious.

He knew how much she love listening to poem, anytime she was down, poem heals her. "Really? Please tell me. Am dying to hear it." Her face got brightened with a very cheerful smile, "sweety by who?" "Samuel Taylor Choleridge." "Oh. His poems are not bad either." She sat up, leaning on him. He cleared his throat and started. "All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I

after everything I went through, still just insults I did my study on those creatures for years, and I can still remember some of my favourite poetry and poems I read as a kid A Last Word by Ernest Dowson Let us go hence: the night is now at hand; The day is overworn, the birds all flown; And we have reaped the crops the gods have sown; Despair and death; deep darkness o'er the land, Broods like an owl; we cannot understand Laughter or tears, for we have only known Surpassing vanity: vain things alone Have driven our perverse and aimless band. Let us go hence, somewhither strange and cold, To Hollow Lands where just men and unjust Find end of labour, where's rest for the old, Freedom to all

"Zindagi ke saare jawaab Humaari aankhon me likhe hote hai Humein ek-dusre ki aankhon mein padhna padega, Har kisi ki zindagi mein uski ek Jung hai...... Har kisi ko khud hi ladna padega Agar lamha mile tujhe koyi tehra hua, To jee le use.... Taaki phir keh sake Rang khushiyon ka aur bhi gehra hua, Falsafa ye sunke hairaan kyu hai? Hass de meri jaan pareshaan kya hai" (All answers of life are written in our eyes, We have to read in each other's eyes Everyone has their own struggles in their life, We have to fight it ourselves only If you get the moment that someone is staying for you So live it..... So that you can say that again, The colours of happiness are really dark, Why are you surpris

I'm waiting to tell you who the 'Poet,' he is unbelievably great but not in poetry. P - Philosophy O - Of E - Endless T - Thought Take care of yourselves, my readers !! Tell me what you like, tell me when I was wrong :-)

When autumn’s breeze encounters a dew of jewels. Outruns are numerous earthly affairs. The caress of my lover streams like a pond. Such a date only found in dreamland. The way back home is painstakingly long. If our love is to prevail through time and space. Parting for now will be of no consequence. On the phoenix throne was a poem from the World Universe! ‘Why are there only two sentences inscribed on the throne?’ Darryl looked at the jade panel screen firmly while muttering in his heart, ‘Could someone from the World Universe be in the Artemis Sect?’

Kathrena laughed, but there was a nervous undertone to it, “are all poems so depressing? I’ve never read an uplifting poem, not once.” I snorted. “Of course there are. And, I mean, some people might find this one nice. It’s about letting go, really, moving on. Otherwise, loss consumes you. I mean – that’s what I think, anyway. Poems are pretty subjective. Death of the author, and all that.” But Skye was frowning. “Why would the demon leave us a sign that we should let go? Let go of what, anyway?”

he asked, interested in my presentation; at least he looked interested. " Lately, the environment that we live in is slowly going into extinct. What I mean is, most if not all poets rather write poems about love or other factors if life, forgetting the location where all other factors take course. The few poems written about the environment, are not even written well. So I decided to bring that to notice." I answered, earning a wide smile from the other orators. " Well what are you waiting for? Dive in." the chairman said, smiling to his team.