Walking in the freezing air,
Chillness crippling through my hair,
Goosebumps waddling on my spine,
But nonetheless something divine
Pervades the ever frosty world
When moon as yet may be behold
Soaring in the starry sky
But waning under lullaby
Of Phoebus, while with easy pace
He regains his rightful place;
And by the warble of the birds
Your heart from ennui emerges

When I wake up in my bed
With aching head
I hesitate from thence arise
With sleepy eyes;
I rub them with my weaken hands;
An itch in glands
From drinking something cold that night
What wasn’t right
And now regretting doing this;
Something amiss
Through haze and mistness of the day,
Of life decay
I follow birds just when they fly
High in the sky,
It remedies my hurting head
I wish was dead
And every morning just the same,
No ‘scape from pain

The conversation in a bus
Commenced thus:
The silence hung above the ground,
Encompassing all everything around
With muteness of a world;
And not one word
Was uttered in vicinities of life
That ceased to be in an eternal strife
And finally declared was peace,
When something was so thoroughly amiss
Amid turmoil of precipice of hell
Where the most abject creatures used to dwell,
For there was nothing in that vacuousness of chasm,
As if within the man after ******
Was nothing there, within, without,
Nor along the fissure; no, no doubt,
‘Tis something was indeed so very strange
What to the utmost point of stretching range
Was seen no sain a person, nor deranged,
Nor hollow men, nor locked up in a cage
And only one array of words
reverberates through chain of poles:
“We are the men of no land
Who dwell in no men’s land
We’d like to free our hands
To make this torture end”

To thee, The Muse, I will try to aspire,
If you will deign to grant me strength and power
To imbue the words from me required
With Beauty, meaning; to induce desire
Within the souls of ignorants; this sire,
Whose history I’m here about to unfold
By means of means as yet not being told.
An artist was of great imaginary power,
Whom Beaty of the nature didst inspire
To depict th’ most common - most sublime;
Who in the azure pond pervaded to the brim
And strewn with water lilies to the rim
Did manage to express the utmost feeling
And the innermost of soul stirring
With canvas, easel and a swab of brush
In one prolongéd moment of blood rush
Could be compared, if not surpass,
To great Apollo chiseled in the brass;
Fortitude of madman did he has
To every season paint the same haystacks
From the same angle, point of view and place;
And in every sample show it’s grace
Of that uniqueness that he then beheld:
So through the canvas distinctly was smelled
The rich odor of rye so ripe and swelled
That it was hard desire to subdue
To pluck one spike and eagerly to chew
To feel this somehow bitter, somehow pleasant sap,
That not ‘fore long would plunge you into nap
In which you would descry either the dawning
So perfectly describéd in one drawing;
Or woman with a lad amidst the meadow
Under the parasol, or at the window
Pondering on something in her mind;
Or sky with water jointlessly aligned
So ‘tis impossible to  outline
To which domain each sphere is confined;
Or four lean poplars in one straight array,
Or two red boats at anchor at the bay;
The Lunch, The Cliff, The Magpie perched,
Another lilies  joyfully emerged
As if there is no other place for them
And everything pervaded with such phlegm
That ‘tis indeed so bitterly  to rise,
And in the distance to behold sunrise
Although comparable, but not the same
To that Which nature’s trying To surpass in vain.

The dark is but the light what’s yet to fade,
And so are we in our most current state
Just corpses what are soon to putrefy,
Pervade the soil and to the heaven fly