Memorabilia Poem By Robert Browning

Memorabilia

  - By Robert Browning

Ah, did you once see Shelley plain, 

And did he stop and speak to you? 

And did you speak to him again? 

How strange it seems, and new! 

But you were living before that, 

And you are living after, 

And the memory I started at — 

My starting moves your laughter. 

I crossed a moor, with a name of its own 

And a certain use in the world no doubt, 

Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone 

'Mid the blank miles round about: 

For there I picked up on the heather 

And there I put inside my breast 

A moulted feather, an eagle-feather— 

Well, I forget the rest. 

Acceptance Poem By Robert Frost

Acceptance is a sonnet by Robert Frost. This beautiful poem implies about accepting facts of life, whether its an event or a threat to one's existence... what is important is to accept it as part and parcel of life and just live hoping to be safe and sound to see the next day.

Acceptance

                     - By Robert Frost

When the spent sun throws up its rays on cloud

And goes down burning into the gulf below,

No voice in nature is heard to cry aloud

At what has happened. Birds, at least must know

It is the change to darkness in the sky.

Murmuring something quiet in her breast,

One bird begins to close a faded eye;

Or overtaken too far from his nest,

Hurrying low above the grove, some waif

Swoops just in time to his remembered tree.

At most he thinks or twitters softly, ''Safe!

Now let the night be dark for all of me.

Let the night be too dark for me to see

Into the future. Let what will be, be.''

Design Poem by Robert Frost

The Design poem by Robert Frost is a sonnet that makes us think whether everything that happens in the nature is planned and executed with perfection. The three characters on which the poem is based is a spider, moth and a flower.

Design

                          - By Robert Frost

I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,

On a white heal-all, holding up a moth

Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth ---

Assorted characters of death and blight

Mixed ready to begin the morning right,

Like the ingredients of a witches' broth ---

A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,

And dead wings carried like a paper kite.

What had that flower to do with being white,

The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?

What brought the kindred spider to that height,

Then steered the white moth thither in the night?

What but design of darkness to appall? ---

If design govern in a thing so small.

The Runaway Poem By Robert Frost

The Runaway

              - By Robert Frost

Once when the snow of the year was beginning to fall,

We stopped by a mountain pasture to say, "Whose colt?"

A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall,

The other curled at his breast.  He dipped his head

And snorted at us.  And then he had to bolt,

We heard the miniature thunder where he fled,

And we saw him, or thought we saw him, dim and gray,

Like a shadow against the curtain of falling flakes.

"I think the little fellow's afraid of the snow.

He isn't winter-broken.  It isn't play

With the little fellow at all.  He's running away.

I doubt if even his mother could tell him, 'Sakes,

It's only weather.'  He'd think she didn't know!

Where is his mother?  He can't be out alone."

And now he comes again with a  clatter of stone

And mounts the wall again with whited eyes

And all his tail that isn't hair up straight.

He shudders his coat as if to throw off flies.

"Whoever it is that leaves him out so late,

When other creatures have gone to stall and bin,

Ought to be told to come and take him in."

The Soldier - Poem By Rupert Brooke

The Soldier

                 - By Rupert Brooke

If I should die, think only this of me:

That there's some corner of a foreign field

That is for ever England. There shall be

In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;

A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,

A body of England's, breathing English air,

Washed by the rivers, bless by the suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,

A pulse in the eternal mind, no less

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;

Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;

And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,

In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.