Poetry Heals

7/31/2019 Poetry Heals

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POETRY HEALS

Breathe in experience..................

breathe out poetry.


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The crown of Literature is poetry. The writer

of prose can only step aside when the poet

passes.


3/28

POETRY MOST HUMAN AND LEAST

WORLDLY OF THE ARTS.


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Brother & Sister

I cannot choose but think upon the timeWhen our two lives grew like two buds that kiss

At lightest thrill from the bee's swinging chime,

Because the one so near the other is.

He was the elder and a little man

Of forty inches, bound to show no dread,And I the girl that puppy-like now ran,

Now lagged behind my brother's larger tread.


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I held him wise, and when he talked to meOf snakes and birds, and which God loved the best,

I thought his knowledge marked the boundary

Where men grew blind, though angels knew the rest.

If he said Hush! I tried to hold my breath;

Wherever he said Come! I stepped in faith.


6/28

Till the dire years whose awful name is ChangeHad grasped our souls still yearning in divorce,

And pitiless shaped them in two forms that range

Two elements which sever their life's course.

But were another childhood-world my share,

I would be born a little sister there."


7/28

POETRY IS A GATEWAY DRUG


8/28

I arise from dreams of thee.

I arise from dreams of thee

In the first sweet sleep of night,

When the winds are breathing low,

And the stars are shining bright

I arise from dreams of thee,

And a spirit in my feet

Has led me -- who knows how? --

To thy chamber-window, sweet!

Percy Bysshe Shelley


9/28

O, lift me from the grass!

I die, I faint, I fall!

Let thy love in kisses rainOn my lips and eyelids pale,

My cheek is cold and white, alas!


10/28

POEM IS THE POINT AT WHICH THE

STRENGTH GAVE OUT.


11/28

Hope is the thing with feathers

"Hope" is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words

And never stopsat all

And sweetestin the Galeis heard

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little BirdThat kept so many warm

Emily Dickinson


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13/28

POETRY IS THE SKELETON

ARCHITECTURE OF OUR LIVES.


14/28

Count that day lost.

If you sit down at set of sun

And count the acts that you have done,

And, counting, find

One self-denying deed, one word

That eased the heart of him who heard,

One glance most kind

That fell like sunshine where it went --Then you may count that day well spent.

George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans)


15/28

But if, through all the livelong day,

You've cheered no heart, by yea or nay --

If, through it all

You've nothing done that you can traceThat brought the sunshine to one face--

No act most small

That helped some soul and nothing cost --

Then count that day as worse than lost.


16/28

POETRY MOTIVATES.....

POETRY EMPOWERS.


17/28

When you are old & gray

WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

William Butler Yeats.


18/28

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face.


19/28

POETRY AN APPROACH TO THE

TRUTH OF FEELING.


20/28

Sweet endings come & go love

Sweet evenings come and go, love,

They came and went of yore:

This evening of our life, love,

Shall go and come no more.

When we have passed away, love,

All things will keep their name;But yet no life on earth, love,

With ours will be the same.



21/28

The daisies will be there, love,

The stars in heaven will shine:

I shall not feel thy wish, love,

Nor thou my hand in thine.

A better time will come, love,

And better souls be born:

I would not be the best, love,

To leave thee now forlorn.


22/28

POETRY PLUCKS AT THE HEART STRINGS

& MAKES MUSIC WITH THEM.


23/28

Blue Wings

Warm whisp'ring through the slender olive leaves

Came to me a gentle sound,Whis'pring of a secret found

In the clear sunshine 'mid the golden sheaves:



24/28

Said it was sleeping for me in the morn,

Called it gladness, called it joy,Drew me on 'Come hither, boy.'

To where the blue wings rested on the corn.

I thought the gentle sound had whispered true

Thought the little heaven mine,

Leaned to clutch the thing divine,

And saw the blue wings melt within the blue!


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Poetry is a deal of joy & pain

With a dash of the Dictionary

Khalil Gibran


26/28

Thus, poetry is the universal

language which the heart holds.


27/28

Tagores lines on

Drowning of the youth.

Thine is this a beginning...

Mine all so the ending..

You and I we are mingling

Like a stream ever flowing..


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Kajali Raina [English Department]

Poetry Heals

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