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
 Beloved Ghosts
 Get Drunk
  At Times End
  New Moon
 The City In the Sea
The Raven
Spirits of the Dead

I will Be
Chaos into Lines 
Mid Winter
 H.P Lovecraft Mirage

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


-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


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


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
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.


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
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

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

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 
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

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.