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Thread: English Poetry Competition March 2015

  1. #1
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    grin English Poetry Competition March 2015



    • Welcum to the monthly Competition

      this month you will share pOems of

      '' John Keats ''

      Note:-

      Each member can share only one poetry
      Same and edited sharing won't be considered
      Winners would be decided by admins.
      Closing date of the competition is
      28
      MARCH 2015



    صرف آواز نہیں ، لفظ بھی مقفل ہیں مرے

    سوچ میں ہوں کہ اب تجھ کو پکاروں کیسے

  2. #2
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    keats min - English Poetry Competition March 2015
    51XLzwGA6 L SY300  - English Poetry Competition March 2015


  3. #3
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    grin Photobucket

    A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
    Its loveliness increases; it will never
    Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
    A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
    Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
    Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
    A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
    Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
    Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
    Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkn'd ways
    Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
    Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
    From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
    Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
    For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
    With the green world they live in; and clear rills
    That for themselves a cooling covert make
    'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
    Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
    And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
    We have imagined for the mighty dead;
    An endless fountain of immortal drink,
    Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

    (JOHN KEATS)
    2v1u8md - English Poetry Competition March 2015

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    Ode to Autumn

    Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

    Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
    Conspiring with him how to load and bless
    With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
    To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
    And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
    To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
    With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
    And still more, later flowers for the bees,
    Until they think warm days will never cease,
    For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.

    Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
    Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
    Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
    Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
    Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
    Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
    Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
    And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
    Steady thy laden head across a brook;
    Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
    Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

    Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
    Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,---
    While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
    And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
    Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
    Among the river sallows, borne aloft
    Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
    And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
    Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
    The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
    And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

    -John Keats
    Last edited by Chandbhai; 03-03-2015 at 01:15 PM.

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    222 zpsq25tejtf - English Poetry Competition March 2015
    صرف آواز نہیں ، لفظ بھی مقفل ہیں مرے

    سوچ میں ہوں کہ اب تجھ کو پکاروں کیسے

  6. #6
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    candel A thing of beauty a joy for ever

    A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
    Its lovliness increases; it will never
    Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
    A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
    Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
    Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
    A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
    Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
    Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
    Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkn'd ways
    Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
    Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
    From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
    Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
    For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
    With the green world they live in; and clear rills
    That for themselves a cooling covert make
    'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
    Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
    And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
    We have imagined for the mighty dead;
    An endless fountain of immortal drink,
    Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

    Last edited by R. M. Dixit; 14-03-2015 at 08:37 PM.

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    To the Nile




    Son of the old Moon-mountains African!
    Chief of the Pyramid and Crocodile!
    We call thee fruitful, and that very while
    A desert fills our seeing's inward span:
    Nurse of swart nations since the world began,
    Art thou so fruitful? or dost thou beguile
    Such men to honour thee, who, worn with toil,
    Rest for a space 'twixt Cairo and Decan?
    O may dark fancies err! They surely do;
    'Tis ignorance that makes a barren waste
    Of all beyond itself. Thou dost bedew
    Green rushes like our rivers, and dost taste
    The pleasant sunrise. Green isles hast thou too,
    And to the sea as happily dost haste.








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