"pasturing" poems - Hello Poetry

Whence came his feet into my field, and why? How is it that he sees it all so drear? How do I see his seeing, and how hear The name his bitter silence knows it by? This was the little fold of separate sky Whose pasturing clouds in the soul’s atmosphere Drew living light from one continual year: How should he find it lifeless? He, or I? Lo! this new Self now wanders round my field, With plaints for every flower, and for each tree A moan, the sighing wind’s auxiliary: And o’er sweet waters of my life, that yield Unto his lips no draught but tears unseal’d, Even in my place he weeps. Even I, not he.

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Dante Gabriel Rossetti

He And I

Whence came his feet into my field, and why? How is it that he sees it all so drear? How do I see his seeing, and how hear The name his bitter silence knows it by? This was the little fold of separate sky Whose pasturing clouds in the soul’s atmosphere Drew living light from one continual year: How should he find it lifeless? He, or I? Lo! this new Self now wanders round my field, With plaints for every flower, and for each tree A moan, the sighing wind’s auxiliary: And o’er sweet waters of my life, that yield Unto his lips no draught but tears unseal’d, Even in my place he weeps. Even I, not he.

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Penguins painted pink, peacefully practising pragmatic pebble placement. Perfectly pointy piles, please! Profoundly pious Pandas ponder pancreatic problems, predict potential palsy. Prognosis? Perilously poor. Pale porpoises proudly plunge purple pools, placidly pasturing petrified plankton. Poor protozoans perish. Portly, paunchy, plumpish, porcine, porky pigs populate putrid puddles, Pulverizing pumpkin pies. Purposely Prickly porcupines pursue palatable plants, pin-pointing precisely. Puce petunias preferred. Pill popping puppet people perpetuate planetary perdition, pardon profuse pollution. Pretentious ******

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Sep 4, 2019

Sep 4, 2019 at 11:22 PM UTC

Venter

P

Penguins painted pink, peacefully practising pragmatic pebble placement. Perfectly pointy piles, please! Profoundly pious Pandas ponder pancreatic problems, predict potential palsy. Prognosis? Perilously poor. Pale porpoises proudly plunge purple pools, placidly pasturing petrified plankton. Poor protozoans perish. Portly, paunchy, plumpish, porcine, porky pigs populate putrid puddles, Pulverizing pumpkin pies. Purposely Prickly porcupines pursue palatable plants, pin-pointing precisely. Puce petunias preferred. Pill popping puppet people perpetuate planetary perdition, pardon profuse pollution. Pretentious ******

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It seems to be; I walk, where your legs tire I sing, where you forget your melody It seems to be; I have lived for you, when death was pasturing your heart I have built for you, a world full of nothing but art It seems to be; I have not been there for myself, all this while.

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Sep 30, 2024

Sep 30, 2024 at 9:19 AM UTC

lokenathroy

It seems to be

It seems to be; I walk, where your legs tire I sing, where you forget your melody It seems to be; I have lived for you, when death was pasturing your heart I have built for you, a world full of nothing but art It seems to be; I have not been there for myself, all this while.

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What sort of power, Does man desire? Levitating things and reading minds Or with our hands producing fire What sort of power, Does man require? To stop suffering and end war And peaceful minds inspire What sort of power, Does man acquire? When people blind and dumb For useless toil perspire Pasturing peoples Just miserable pawns Glorious queens What sort of power! A reaper but not a sower Dollars, Pounds and Euros It always has to be plurals Merchants of death What sort of power! What else but dominance Reigning supreme Upon all let my light beam I enjoy being king What sort of power! Can we direct our step? That left should follow right And not with the man above fight But having to submit What sort of power? Flashing lightning and pouring tempest Exploding sun and twinkling star Marvellous hands and a woman’s breast Mist in our face and a galaxy so far Mighty tree or labouring ant Drop of rain on a petal of rose Bumbling bee and lumbering elephant Who created all these I suppose What sort of power!

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May 3, 2017

May 3, 2017 at 5:21 AM UTC

okambazabwino

Power

What sort of power, Does man desire? Levitating things and reading minds Or with our hands producing fire What sort of power, Does man require? To stop suffering and end war And peaceful minds inspire What sort of power, Does man acquire? When people blind and dumb For useless toil perspire Pasturing peoples Just miserable pawns Glorious queens What sort of power! A reaper but not a sower Dollars, Pounds and Euros It always has to be plurals Merchants of death What sort of power! What else but dominance Reigning supreme Upon all let my light beam I enjoy being king What sort of power! Can we direct our step? That left should follow right And not with the man above fight But having to submit What sort of power? Flashing lightning and pouring tempest Exploding sun and twinkling star Marvellous hands and a woman’s breast Mist in our face and a galaxy so far Mighty tree or labouring ant Drop of rain on a petal of rose Bumbling bee and lumbering elephant Who created all these I suppose What sort of power!

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