POEMS

Just a few.......seeing as how the year is turning Dark, I thought that the Poetry Page should do so to.
I would Like to draw special attition to the Poet Earnest Dowson ( August 2 1867- Febuary 23 1900)


Wine and Roses	Amor Profanus	Wine Woman And Song	Exile	Dregs
A LAST WORD	Beloved Ghosts	Get Drunk	At Times End	New Moon
The City In the Sea	The Raven	Spirits of the Dead	Nemesis	Continuity
I will Be	Chaos into Lines	Mid Winter	H.P Lovecraft	Mirage
Alienation


Chaos into Lines Edna St. Vincent Millay I will put Chaos into fourteen lines And keep him there; and let him thence escape If he be lucky; let him twist and ape Flood, fire, and demon - his adroit designs Will strain to nothing in the strict confines Of this sweet Order, where, in pious rape, I hold his essence and amorphous shape, Till he with Order mingles and combines. Past are the hours, the years, of our duress, His arrogance, our awful servitude: I have him. He is nothing more nor less Than something simple not yet understood; I shall not even force him to confess; Or answer. I will only make him good.	The Road Not Taken Robert frost Two roads diverged in a yellow wood And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the differenc


Mid Winter Waking unknown	-Stirring suddenly from long hibernation, I know myself once more a poet Guarded by timeless principalities against the worm of Death, this hillside haunting: And presently dared open both my eyes. O gracious, lofty, shame against from under, Back-of-the- mind-land clouds like towers; And you, sudden warm airs that blow before the expected season of new blossom, while sheep still gnaw at roots and lamb-less go. Be witness that on waking, this mid-winter I found his hand in mine laid closely who shall watch out the spring with me. We stand in silence all around us but found no winter anywhere to see.


	Ernest Christopher Dowson was born on August 2, 1867 in Belmont Hill, Lee, Kent to Alfred and Annie (Swan) Dowson. Dowson had one sibling, a younger brother, Rowland. Dowson attended Queen's College, Oxford for two years from 1886 to 1888, but refused to continue for unknown reasons. In 1889 Dowson met and fell in love with Adelaide Foltinowicz, to whom his first book of poems, "Verses," was dedicated. In 1894, shortly after announcing his intention to marry Adelaide, both her father and Dowson's died. Dowson found his mother, who had hanged herself, later that year. Dowson died on February 22, 1900, due most likely to complications from tuberculosis. I have tried to select (what I believe to be) some of his best work
The Days of Wine and Roses They are not long the weepng and the laughter, Love and desire and hate: I think they have no portion in us after we pass the gate They are not long, the days of wine and roses: Out of a misty dream Our path emerges for a while, then closes within a dream	Exile By the sad waters of separation Where we have wandered by divers ways, I have but the shadow and imitation Of the old memorial days. In music I have no consolation, No roses are pale enough for me; The sound of the waters of separation Surpasseth roses and melody. By the sad waters of separation Dimly I hear from an hidden place The sigh of mine ancient adoration: Hardly can I remember your face. If you be dead, no proclamation Sprang to me over the waste, gray sea: Living, the waters of separation Sever for ever your soul from me. No man knoweth our desolation; Memory pales of the old delight; While the sad waters of separation Bear us on to the ultimate night.

Wine Women And Song Wine and woman and song, Three things garnish our way: Yet is day over long. Lest we do our youth wrong, Gather them while we may: Wine and woman and song. Three things render us strong, Vine leaves, kisses and bay: Yet is day over long. Unto us they belong, Us the bitter and gay, Wine and woman and song. We, as we pass along, Are sad that they will not stay; Yet is day over long. Fruits and flowers among, What is better than they: Wine and woman and song? Yet is day over long.	Amor Profanus Beyond the pale of memory, In some mysterious dusky grove; A place of shadows utterly Where never coos the turtle-dove, A world forgotten by the sun: I dreamed we met when day was done, And marvelled at our ancient love. Met there by chance, long kept apart, We wandered through the darkling glades; And that old language of the heart We sought to speak: alas! poor shades! Over pallid lips had run The waters of oblivion, Which crown all loves of men or maids In vain we stammered: from afar Our old desire shown cold and dead: That time was distant as a star, When eyes were bright and lips were red. And still we went with downcast eye And no delight in being nigh, Poor shadows most uncomforted. Ah, Lalage! while life is ours, Hoard not thy beauty rose and white, But pluck the pretty, fleeting flowers That deck our little path of light: For all too soon we twain shall tread The bitter pastures of the dead: Estranged, sad spectres of the night

A LAST WORD 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 from love and fear and lust. Twine our torn hands I pray the earth enfold Our life-sick hearts and turn them into dust.	DREGS The fire is out, and spent the warmth thereof (This is the end of every song man sings!) The golden wine is drunk, the dregs remain, Bitter as wormwood and as salt as pain; And health and hope have gone the way of love Into the drear oblivion of lost things. Ghosts go along with us until the end; This was a mistress, this, perhaps a friend. With pale, indifferent eyes, we sit and wait For the dropt curtain and the closing gate: This is the end of all the songs man sings.


Unknown Authors
A New Moon Unknown A new moon and a windy nite, sweep the cobwebs out of sight There was an old woman tossed up in a basket, Nineteen times as high as the moon; Where she was going I couldn't but ask it, For in her hand she carried a broom. "Old woman, old woman, old woman," quoth I, "O whither, O whither, O whither, so high?" "To sweep the cobwebs off the sky!" "Shall I go with thee "Ay, by-and-by."	At Times End unknown For all of Eternities tears I've cried And the endless aching of the Void For what reason I know not why Heartless crimes and fears to avoid For all the miles I've walked Across an infinity of surreal And all the epitomes I've talked To only deny what I feel All of the prices to spend just a moment To grasp for one second a stolen embrace To lose once again a sweet endearment 'Tis more than my heart cares to face So I grasp in the darkness for shadows and mists Attempting to reach past time's edge, For too brief a span infinity kissed. I step once again to the steep cliffs edge.
Get Drunk unknown One should always be drunk. That's the great thing; the only question. Not to feel the horrible burden of Time weighing on your shoulders and bowing you to the earth, you should be drunk without respite. Drunk with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you please. But get drunk. And if sometimes you should happen to awake, on the stairs of a palace, on the green grass of a ditch, in the dreary solitude of your own room, and find that your drunkeness is ebbing or has vanished, ask the wind and the wave, ask star, bird, or clock, ask everything that moans, everything that flows, everything that sings, everything that speaks, ask them the time; and the wind, the wave, the star, the bird and the clock will all reply: "It is Time to get drunk! If you are not to be the martyred slaves of Time, be perpetually drunk! With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you please."	I Will Be unknown I will be true, because there are those that need. I will be pure, because there are those who care. I will be strong, because there is much to suffer. I will be brave, because there is much to dare.


Beloved Ghosts unknown Do not let beloved ghosts return to find that thoughts of them have brought us tears, but let there dear memory glow and brightly burn as friendly flames doth banish from the years all our dark regrets. Let each remembered one shape on our lips our fondest gallant smiles, to say as they would wish, not you are gone but was oh so sweet to have you for this while.