Classic poem of the day
We count the broken lyres that rest
Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, —
But o'er their silent sister's breast
The wild flowers who will stoop to number?
A few can touch the magic string,
And noisy Fame is proud to win them; —
Alas for those that never sing,
But die with all their music in them!
Nay, grieve not for the dead alone
Whose song has told their hearts' sad story, —
Weep for the voiceless, who have k......
Member poem of the day
Dream of smooth craft dulcet verse as is my wont,
but such folly bears barred grid smirk,
profound perfume of, meandering willingness an adventuress wayfarer,
immerse yourself in velvet vales extant when presenting oneself,
idle musing is a feeble pursuit not rectifiable nor fruitful either,
the pursuit of wobbly craft as of popular endorsement disregard,
tap alternatively into the zestfulness of silken sibilant surround,
...
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