Illusions because you see, they really are terrible. Also, I like the word illusion. ILLUSION!
"The object of art is to stir the most divine and remote chords which make music in our soul. Man is hungry for beauty. There is a void. We spend our days looking for the secret of life. Well, the secret of life is in art."
-Oscar Wilde
"A poet is someone who is astonished by everything."
-Anon.
More quotes:
"Draw a crazy picture,
Write a nutty poem,
Sing a mumble-gumble song,
Whistle through your comb.
Do a loony-goony dance
'Cross the kitchen floor,
Put something silly in the world
That ain't been there before."
-Shel Silverstein
"The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep."
-Robert Frost, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
"'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,' -- that is all
Ye know on Earth, and all ye need to know."
-John Keats, Ode On A Grecian Urn
"Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow--
You are not wrong who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream."
-Edgar Allan Poe, A Dream Within A Dream
"You see things as they are and ask, 'Why?' I dream things as they never were and ask, 'Why not?'"
-George Bernard Shaw
"If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain."
-Emily Dickinson
"You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you mad."
-Aldous Huxley
"Some authors should be paid by the quantity NOT written."
-Anon.
MORE AT SOME POINT...MAYBE :-)!
Illusions of Poetry
Monday, October 28, 2002
Mr. Saylor Katie Thompson
Period 7 10-22-02
Piano(v.2)
Deep in the dark, dusty corner she resides,
There she dwells alone�in her lightless corner,
She, the almost untouchable silent and lonely mourner,
Forgotten, forever forgotten perhaps,
Many souls have passed her by on their journeys, past her place of end,
Quiet curls and churns around, bored of the atmosphere that it must tend,
Once the Piano�s soft voice told tales of truth and invention,
Those simple, sweet melodies are hushed,
Those soul saving movements are shushed,
Keys of yellowed ivory repose�
Upon slowly rotting ebony painted wood,
Pedals once able to command, refuse to surrender to your weight, as they should,
Dust is falling, like snow, like the years could fall away,
The only visitors she has is the dust,
Tiny, trembling, unable to provide help, prevent rust,
Juvenile breezes bestow their occasional company,
But she resigns herself to watch and wait,
Her time worn faith will not ebb or erode away in the hands of fate.
That's my english essay. I <3 it when teachers let me do my own thing.
