Drunk, I'd keep a lamp lit to find my sword,
The blare of horns sounded throughout the camp.
Soldiers ate meat under waving banners;
The military band played boisterous tunes.
Autumn brought our troops to the battlefield.
Carried by a charger at full gallop,
My bow thwipped, sending swift arrows flying.
We restored Imperial lands, boldly,
And won great fame for fighting gallantly,
But fame grows thin and gray just like my hair.
red blossom-laden
branches race across
blue summer skies.
gray winter day:
i walk the stony beach, and
note each rock 's unique.
How to Love in Sanskrit by Anusha Rao
Now winter nights enlarge
The number of their hours;
And clouds their storms discharge
Upon the air towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze
And cups o'erflow with wine,
Let well-turned words amaze
With harmony divine.
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall wait on honey love
While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights
Sleep's leaden spells remove.
This time doth well dispense
With lovers' long discourse;
Much speech hath some defense,
Though beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well;
Some measures comely tread,
Some knotted riddles tell,
Some poems smoothly read.
The summer hath his joys,
And winter his delights;
Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,
They shorten tedious nights.
the soil is soggy
from persistent spring rains,
but, in sun, greens glow.
an ancient mountain,
weathered to rubble,
stands background
to a city that's lived
but a blip of mountain time.
There once was a renowned psychoanalyst
Who found childhood events were always the catalyst.
A patient who lived happily
'Til a recent tragedy,
Learned it all stemmed from thoughts as a neonatalist.
I
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees,
-- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
II
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
III
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
IV
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 