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jenny piñero Poems
EVEN as a bird sprays many-coloured fires, The plumes of paradise, the dying light Rays through the fevered air in misty spires That vanish in the heights.
Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me, Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee; Sounds of the rude world heard in the day, I'll by the moonlight have all pass'd away!
I Heard a Bird Sing
I heard a bird sing In the night of December A magical thing And sweet to remember.
Sometimes I miss you When drabness chokes me- Stock phrases of technicians Ice and sword of rebels
Have seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of guitar: I have seen the lady Jenny bringing in the dolls, Bringing the springing grass and the soft warm rain.
I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space, Rayless, and pathless, and the iced earth
No Time to Teach; In Class, They Give a General Overview. On Tests, They Want Particular Details.
Now must I these three praise Three women that have wrought What joy is in my days: One because no thought,
Always for the first time
Always for the first time Always for the first time Hardly do I know you by sight
We went to see the doctor At first I thought I'd be Sort of scared to go to him, But he was so nice to me!
What world of wonder are the books! As one opens them and looks, New ideas and people rise, In our fancies and our eyes.
People are oftentimes funny, They are like pieces of chocolate candy Some are nutty and some are tough,
Comments about jenny piñero
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
EVEN as a bird sprays many-coloured fires,
The plumes of paradise, the dying light
Rays through the fevered air in misty spires
That vanish in the heights.
These myriad eyes that look on me are mine;
Wandering beneath them I have found again
The ancient ample moment, the divine,
The God-root within men.
For this, for this the lights innumerable
As symbols shine that we the true light win:
For every star and every deep they fill
Are stars and deeps within.