Classic poem of the day
Therefore, when thou wouldst pray, or dost thine alms,
Blow not a trump before thee: Hypocrites
Do thus, vaingloriously; the common streets
Boast of their largess, echoing their psalms.
On such the laud of men, like unctuous balms,
Falls with sweet savor. Impious Counterfeits!
Prating of heaven, for earth their bosom beats!
Grasping at weeds, they lose immortal palms!
Member poem of the day
Sleep for me no friend is and coming night to soon be and the day too short to ‘tis that at its end I need not rest and the night too long is much more than I do ever need when to bed I do go and the clock I do stare till at last for hours few darkness is and dreams reign quick I awake refreshed not without need one sleep more I arise in the night to go forth and await the day