I married the
cold night
with a cities worth
of lights as my
witness.

Like those of
Babylon we wished
to be closest to the
Gods on our night
of promise.

Her natural brown
hair fell across
her flawless face
in thin lonely wisps.

The tip of
her nose turned
an unhealthy red
as the hill top winds
made their
way past.

We both
produced chilling
diamond cut
wedding bands
made from the ice of
our hearts.

Slipped upon
my finger she did
with the coldness
and a whispered
promise.

And I upon hers
with the words
we had
agreed upon.
"May My coldness
hurt no other but
you".

She always look outside her door
Or stay beside her window pane
She wants to know and see much more
Her neighbor’s deeds and what they gain

She has to meet the rich and poor
She always look outside her door
But that motive of yesterday
Gone with the wind, 'twas blown away

She’s now but an observant one
Who always judge and sneers at man
She always look outside her door
Seems she forgot what is life  for

This poor woman, she never know
That now she looks like a scarecrow
While her feet stands flat on the floor
She always look outside her door.

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

I.

The happiest day—the happiest hour
    My seared and blighted heart hath known,
  The highest hope of pride and power,
    I feel hath flown.


II.

Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween
    But they have vanished long, alas!
  The visions of my youth have been—
    But let them pass.


III.

And pride, what have I now with thee?
    Another brow may ev’n inherit
  The venom thou hast poured on me—
    Be still my spirit!


IV.

The happiest day—the happiest hour
    Mine eyes shall see—have ever seen
  The brightest glance of pride and power
    I feel have been:


V.

But were that hope of pride and power
    Now offered with the pain
  Ev’n then I felt—that brightest hour
    I would not live again:

VI.

For on its wing was dark alloy
    And as it fluttered—fell
  An essence—powerful to destroy
    A soul that knew it well.

Sent to a friend who had complained that I was glad enough to see
him when he came, but didn't seem to miss him if he stayed away.

And cannot pleasures, while they last,
Be actual unless, when past,
They leave us shuddering and aghast,
With anguish smarting?
And cannot friends be firm and fast,
And yet bear parting?

And must I then, at Friendship's call,
Calmly resign the little all
(Trifling, I grant, it is and small)
I have of gladness,
And lend my being to the thrall
Of gloom and sadness?

And think you that I should be dumb,
And full DOLORUM OMNIUM,
Excepting when YOU choose to come
And share my dinner?
At other times be sour and glum
And daily thinner?

Must he then only live to weep,
Who'd prove his friendship true and deep
By day a lonely shadow creep,
At night-time languish,
Oft raising in his broken sleep
The moan of anguish?

The lover, if for certain days
His fair one be denied his gaze,
Sinks not in grief and wild amaze,
But, wiser wooer,
He spends the time in writing lays,
And posts them to her.

And if the verse flow free and fast,
Till even the poet is aghast,
A touching Valentine at last
The post shall carry,
When thirteen days are gone and past
Of February.

Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet,
In desert waste or crowded street,
Perhaps before this week shall fleet,
Perhaps to-morrow.
I trust to find YOUR heart the seat
Of wasting sorrow.

In visions of the dark night
  I have dreamed of joy departed—
But a waking dream of life and light
  Hath left me broken-hearted.

Ah! what is not a dream by day
  To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
  Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream—that holy dream,
  While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam,
  A lonely spirit guiding.

What though that light, thro’ storm and night,
  So trembled from afar—
What could there be more purely bright
  In Truth’s day star?