TO A SPANISH LADY.

THE perfumes of the burning South
Still linger in your hair,
Warm southern winds have kissed your mouth
And left their magic there.
Your lovely mien, your fervid tone,
Your royal glance reveal
The charm of gracious Aragon,
The pride of old Castile.

I could not, if I would, forget
The hour you smiled on me;
An exile with a like regret
For a like destiny.
The Druid harp is hushed and dead,
Broken the lute of Spain,
Great Arthur sleeps uncomforted,
The Cid comes not again.

Ah! lady, you at least can smite
The Saxon conqueror down,
And plant your flag in beauty’s right
High over London town.
Those deep soft eyes, those lips, that part
Like roses freshly blown,
Must vanquish every northern heart,
While yet untouched your own.

— To A Spanish Lady by John Cowper Powys (via qmannola)

Remember, Remember, the fifth of November

Gunpowder, treason and plot

I know of no reason

Why gunpowder, treason

Should ever be forgot

Batman Haiku 2

Bruce has a secret
Selina has one as well
The Bat and the Cat

The Tyger by William Blake
"Tyger! Tyger! burning bright  In the forests of the night,  What immortal hand or eye  Could frame thy fearful symmetry?”

The Tyger by William Blake

"Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?”

"My Beard" by Shel Silverstein

"My Beard" by Shel Silverstein


Mermaids

By Ethel K.Burgess . 1920s

Mermaids

By Ethel K.Burgess . 1920s

TO A SPANISH LADY.

THE perfumes of the burning South
Still linger in your hair,
Warm southern winds have kissed your mouth
And left their magic there.
Your lovely mien, your fervid tone,
Your royal glance reveal
The charm of gracious Aragon,
The pride of old Castile.

I could not, if I would, forget
The hour you smiled on me;
An exile with a like regret
For a like destiny.
The Druid harp is hushed and dead,
Broken the lute of Spain,
Great Arthur sleeps uncomforted,
The Cid comes not again.

Ah! lady, you at least can smite
The Saxon conqueror down,
And plant your flag in beauty’s right
High over London town.
Those deep soft eyes, those lips, that part
Like roses freshly blown,
Must vanquish every northern heart,
While yet untouched your own.

— To A Spanish Lady by John Cowper Powys
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. — Robert Frost-Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening