On the world-famous English poetry 1 Lord Randall
anonymous
"Oh, where have you been, Lord Randall, my son?
Ah, where have you been, my handsome young man? "
"I've been to the wild Woods: Mom, make my bed quickly.
Because I am tired of hunting, I just want to lie down. "
"Where are you eating, Lord Randall, my son?
Where do you eat, my handsome young man? "
"I have dinner with my true love; Mom, help me make the bed,
Because I am tired of hunting, I just want to lie down. "
"What are you eating, Lord Randall, my son?
What are you eating, my handsome young man? "
"Mom, make my bed quickly.
Because I am tired of hunting, I just want to lie down. "
"What happened to your hound, my son Lord Randall?
How is your hound, my handsome young man? "
"Ah, they died of inflation: Mom, make my bed quickly.
Because I am tired of hunting, I just want to lie down. "
"Oh, I'm afraid you are poisoned, Lord Randall, my son!
Ah, I'm afraid you're poisoned, my handsome young man! "
"Oh, yes, I'm poisoned, mom, make my bed quickly.
I want to lie down because my heart is ill. "
On the world-famous English poetry 2. Self-portrait of Rembrandt: Jane Hershfield.
Dogs that have been dead for many years keep appearing in dreams.
We looked at each other with old joy.
It's always her gift to bring me here?
It sleeps, changes clothes, wakes up, dresses and leaves.
Happy and unhappy
Just as a barrel hammered with gold is different from a barrel made of pressed tin,
This painting was put forward.
Everyone carries the same water, it says
About World-famous English Poetry 3 Jack
Author: maxine kumin
How delicious the yellow butter is.
Melt on the white nucleolus, meniscus
The red wine covered in our wine glasses.
We sit with friends as old as us.
After skinning the last silver queen in the garden
And leave chaff and straw for horses.
The last two times in our lives are still worthy of respect:
Our first foal is now a bossy mare of 28 years old.
Calibrated to 84 person-years
My chestnut castrated horse is not entirely a young man.
At the age of 22. Every year, late summer
Laziness and gold invite sadness and regret:
Suddenly it was 1980, and we had a winter buffet.
The wind came like Dickens' cruelty. somehow
We have seven horses for six stables. One of them,
Ron Gelding with a big nose is as calm as a portrait of the president.
Live in a rectangle leading to the compartment. We call it.
Motel lobby. A wise old activist, he dunked.
The hay in the bucket softens it and then visits others.
They hung their heads on the door in Holland. sometimes
He stretched out his limbs and took a nap in his spacious room.
That spring, in the busy toilet.
Riding and wearing shoes, I remember I let him go.
To a neighbor I think is a friend, and then,
She betrayed him in autumn. I did it on purpose.
But I never went to him and bought him back.
Now my past guilt is full of this twisted table.
My guilt is that ghost candles pale our skeletons.
We must become people in an undetermined order.
Oh, Jack, chained alone in some rough compartment.
Do you still remember that wonderful winter?
About World-famous English Poetry 4 Late-night Odes
Author J.D. mcclatchy
It's over, honey. Look at me. I'm almost 50 now,
With grave-like hair in both ears,
Hemorrhoids and muddy prostate, crooked penis,
The sour taste of the first lie every day,
A recurring dream many years ago
The swaying moonlight bead chain,
Slide along a body like mine in the cool darkness, but it is beyond reproach.
What's the use of my carved glass dialogue now,
Now I am so effortlessly vulgar and sad?
What have you got from life and what can you get rid of it?
For me, all day is G and T and CNN.
Try the blonde lawyer, entry-level
80,000 dollars, he is dissatisfied with overtime,
Put Evian and pager in the locker of the gym,
Wrap marijuana in tin foil under office ferns.
This is the hound you brought from heaven, and the pirates
He has curly hair and scented war paint on his nipples.
His answering machine always leaves room for vague and embarrassing calls from a stranger.
Some nights, I laugh so hard that I can't stop crying. Look at me now. Why now?
I gave up pretending to believe that anyone's memory will be perfect a long time ago.
So, why are these stubborn tears? Why do I dream?
Holding you again almost every night,
Or at least dive after you, my long dead,
Through the scarred and unbalanced waves?