Poems about pleasure
Yet Was Not Feel
his mighty pleasure suits us not
we know that their superior eyes
then look for me, be sure you say
of what they do outside
but you have enough of those
i could not feel the anguish go
i wonder how the rich may feel
but tell him that it ceased to feel
a furtive look you know as well
should reach the heart that wanted me
had it for me a morn
yet was not the foe of any
a rich man might not notice it
then look for me, be sure you say
tell me how far the morning leaps
Thought Belong To Love, But Since
though thine attention stop not on me
tell him just how the fingers hurried
but death had told her so the first
i've heard my father tell
tell me what time the weaver sleeps
why do they shut me out of heaven?
nor could i rise with you
i did not know the year then
nor had i time to love, but since
thought belong to him who gave it
yet both so well knew me
it has no future but itself,
it makes an even face
it only moved as do the suns
had let its pleasure through
All This And Mine Should Be,
as dying say it does
they wonder if it died on that
i wonder if it weighs like mine,
all this and more if i should tell
the need did not reduce
maybe that would awaken them!
that would not let the will
that yours and mine should be,
but if the lady come
no man he seemed to know;
but he was left alive because
how well i knew the light before
i put my pleasure all abroad
In The Meal-sack Didn't Catch Then,
i made the bed up for him there to-night,
that the man with the meal-sack didn't catch then,
had wound strings round and round it like a bundle,
there was never a sound beside the wood but one,
but still lies pointed as it plowed the dust,
i have outwalked the furthest city light,
and over the walls i have wended;
i have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
with one stroke of your finger in the middle,
in hopes of seeing the calm of heaven break
for its suggestion of what dreams!
that fate had made thee for the pleasure of the wind,
holding the curve of one position,
That Fate Had Made Thee For The Soul,
the wetter ground like glass
and thought of doing something to the shore
and signifies the sureness of the soul,
that fate had made thee for the pleasure of the wind,
Caught Me Splitting Wood In Virginia,
in massachusetts, in virginia,
oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
and caught me splitting wood in the yard,
the woodbine leaves littered the yard,
They Seemed To Hear Us Talk
i left you in the morning,
the mower in the dew had loved them thus,
that fate had made thee for the pleasure of the wind,
friends make pretense of following to the grave,
and nothing to look backward to with pride,
what brought the kindred spider to that height,
to wash the steps with pail and rag,
where someone used to climb and crawl
you come to fetch me from my work to-night
to hear us talk
the universe seems cramped to you and me,
they seemed to fail the bluebirds under them
for the shocks and changes we need to keep us sane,
to find that the utmost reward
and yet too ready to believe the most,
The Dark Of The Pleasure Of Ether,
wild, earily shattered rose,
autumn, yes, winter was in the wind;
first soldier, and then poet, and then both,
but the secret sits in the middle and knows,
the doctor put him in the dark of ether,
that fate had made thee for the pleasure of the wind,
the measure of the little while
But Something Has To Her Pleasure Will Not
nor yet did i,
what was it it whispered? i knew not well myself;
she let him look, sure that he wouldn't see,
her pleasure will not let me stay,
living, they gave him back to her alive
but something has to be left to god,
whose office it is to bury
it hadn't found the place to blow;
I Have Come By The Night-hawks Peopling Heaven,
i have come by the highway home,
i dream upon the night-hawks peopling heaven,
i was afraid, in brightening first on me,
oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
that tinged the atmosphere,
with doors that none but the wind ever closes,
but once within the wood, we paused
that was a thing we could not wait to learn,
there were enough things to be thought of then,
how else? they are not known to send the dead
but which it only needs that we fulfill,
Whose Only Play Was Gone Already,
even as on earth, in paradise;
and tripped the body, shot the spirit on
and the people look at the sea,
and the strange birds say,
with straining in the world's embrace,
to the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,
oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
so, but the hand was gone already,
and have stopped dying now forever,
and still she had all they had they the lucky!
whose only play was what he found himself,
a small bird flew before me, he was careful