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Há 4 dias · A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street, Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can, Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut. Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all the ladders start. In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart. William Butler Yeats. Rate:
Há 4 dias · Recent Interactions* This poem was read 117 times, This poem was added to the favorite list by 0 members, This poem was voted by 1 members. (* Interactions only in the last 7 days)
Há 3 dias · Recent Interactions* This poem was read 20 times, This poem was added to the favorite list by 0 members, This poem was voted by 0 members. (* Interactions only in the last 7 days)
Há 4 dias · With the pin of a brooch, Or on the withered men that saw. From their pedantic Babylon. The careless planets in their courses, The stars fade out where the moon comes. And took their tablets and did sums; I would be ignorant as the dawn. That merely stood, rocking the glittering coach. Above the cloudy shoulders of the horses;
Há 3 dias · 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, commen
Há 4 dias · Recent Interactions* This poem was read 10 times, This poem was added to the favorite list by 0 members, This poem was voted by 0 members. (* Interactions only in the last 7 days)
Há 5 dias · The Coming Of Wisdom With Time. Now I may wither into the truth. Though leaves are many, the root is one; Through all the lying days of my youth I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun; Now I may wither into the truth.
