Excellent question! - No Second Troy by William Butler Yeats Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great. Had they but courage equal to desire? What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this, Being high and solitary and most stern? Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?

Hits and Runs - by Carl Sandburg I REMEMBER the Chillicothe ball players grappling the Rock Island ball players in a sixteen-inning game ended by darkness. And the shoulders of the Chillicothe players were a red smoke against the sundown and the shoulders of the Rock Island players were a yellow smoke against the sundown. And the umpire’s voice was hoarse calling balls and strikes and outs and the umpire’s throat fought in the dust for a song.

"The single rose is now the garden where all loves end. Terminate torment of love unsatisfied. The *greater torment* [emphasis mine (sorry)] of love satisfied. End of the endless... Journey without end... Conclusion of all that is inconclusible..." - T.S. Eliot [I forgot the title of the poem from which this excerpt was unwillfully 'extracted' and 'memorized' circa 1977; my apologies for potential inaccuracy(-ies)] [Dedicated to 'Nurse' Catherine Vill, Wilkes-Barre General Hospital, Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, Aug-Oct 1977]

'How do I love thee? Let me count the ways' - Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Wordsworth...'Daffodils' is one of my favourites.. http://www.poetry-online.org/wordsworth_daffodils.htm

Begone, you foolish preachers! Howlers, snufflers, screechers! You miserable teachers! You God-of-blood beseechers! You forgers of God's features! Who make us the devil's creatures! Shut up, you foolish preachers! Get out, you hell-fire screechers Go home, you played-out trickster!

"First They Came" - Martin Niemöller In Germany, they came first for the Communists, And I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Communist; And then they came for the trade unionists, And I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a trade unionist; And then they came for the Jews, And I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Jew; And then... they came for me... And by that time there was no one left to speak up. So it is not poetic genius, and the exact text differs with each rendition, but I love its message - I couldn't agree more with it. I have it on the wall of my study and it spurs me on =)

Porphyria's Lover - Robert Browning. It is a little morbid, but I love the style. The rain set early in tonight, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, and did its worst to vex the lake: I listened with heart fit to break. When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneeled and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her form Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soiled gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And called me. When no voice replied, She put my arm about her waist, And made her smooth white shoulder bare, And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, Murmuring how she loved me--she Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor, To set its struggling passion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me forever. But passion sometimes would prevail, Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain A sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain: So, she was come through wind and rain. Be sure I looked up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last I knew Porphyria worshiped me: surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do. That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. And I untightened next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: I propped her head up as before Only, this time my shoulder bore Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorned at once is fled, And I, its love, am gained instead! Porphyria's love: she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard. And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirred, And yet God has not said a word!

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living, I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing. It doesn't interest me how old you are, I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive. It doesn't interest me what social status you hold. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals, or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain. I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it. I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance without restraint, and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes, without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, and without dwelling on the limitations of being human. It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal, and not betray your own soul. If you can be genuine, and therefore trustworthy. I want to know if you can see beauty even when it is not pretty, every day. And if you can source your own life, from its presence. I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge, and shout to the sky, "Yes, I have hope!" It doesn't interest me, to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after a night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done, to care for those who need you. It doesn't interest me who you know, or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me, and not shrink back. It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself, and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments. ~ <author unknown>

&quot;Hickory dickory dock You found the key to my lock You opened the door I was on the floor And, now you love me no more." Unknown divorced author.

Self-made Haiku from an anonymous author Beneath the deep sea an octupus greeted me With sincerity

Never more-Edgar Allan Poe Once,one terrible night, when I was sitting alone, and ridding old dusty books, in which knowledge was hiding, somebody came,knocking on my doar, queit,quetier,that is traveller,I recan, just that,and nothing else!