black - Popular Poems and stories from category

О, Черное море, заполни мне раны
Соленой водой до глубин и краев!
Пусть к черту летят все сифоны и краны,
Мой флот стосковался по скрипу бортов.
О, Черное море, моё дарованье,

O black and unknown bards of long ago,
How came your lips to touch the sacred fire
How, in your darkness, did you come to
The power and beauty of the minstrel's lyre

It must come as leaves to a tree or not at all yet it comes sometimes as the black hen with the red round eye on the embroidery stitch by stitch dropped and found again and when it's all there the black hen stares with its round red eye and you're...

Since I stroll in the woods more oftenthan on this frequented path, it's usuallytrees I observe; but among fellow humanswhat I like best is to see an old womanfishing alone at the end of a jetty,hours on end, plainly content
The Russians mush...

Knight And
There came three merry men from south, west, and north,
Ever more sing the roundelay;
To win the Widow of Wycombe forth,

When the swans turned my sister into a swan I would go to the lake, at night, from milking:
The sun would look out through the reeds like a swan,
A swan's red beak; and the beak would
And inside there was darkness, the stars and the...

HE very best ship that ever I knew—Ah-way O, to me O—Was a big black trawler with a deep-sea crew—Sing, my bullies, let the bullgine run
There was one old devil with a broken nose—Ah-way O, to me O—He was four score years, as I suppose—But si...

I Once, only once,
I saw it clear, —That Eden every human heart has dreamedA hundred times, but always far away
Ah, well do I remember how it seemed,
Through the still

Black spring
Pick up your pen, and weeping,
Of February, in sobs and ink,
Write poems, while the slush in thunder Is burning in the black of spring

I shall die in Paris, in a rainstorm,
On a day I already remember
I shall die in Paris— it does not bother me—Doubtless on a Thursday, like today, in autumn
It shall be a Thursday, because today,

Old Black Jacko   Smokes tobacco   In his little pipe of clay
Puff, puff, puff,
He never has enough   Though he smokes it all day
But his lubra says, "Mine tink dat

In grayish doubt and black despair,
I drafted hymns to the earth and the air,pretending to joy, although I lacked it
The age had made lament redundant
So here's the question — who can answer it —Was he a brave man or a hypocrite