Moving Excerpts From Poetry

He was my North, my South, my East and West.
My working week and my Sunday rest.
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song.
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
W.H. Auden

Dying is an art.
Like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I have a call.
Sylvia Plath

Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Mary Oliver

For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next year’s words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
T.S. Eliot

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all
Emily Dickinson


The Photo

A photo,
Beside my bed lies
To remind me
Of all I had missed;
The carefree smile
And shinning eyes,
The sweet tears
And rosy cheeks.

The photo stands
To remind me
Of my limitless happiness
In the small world I had once!

By The Dawn!

When all went dark by the dawn
Nothing was surrounding but
Lights of candles in the curtained room,
Yet I felt lonely although I was alone!
When all was calm by the dawn
Silence was so heavy,
Even with no sound from afar, before my eye
A net of my wrongs was clearly shown.

When all was scented by the dawn
That smell pierced my soul,
I sat in rejoicing by myself,
And every sweet memory could recall!