Classic poem of the day
Phoebus has thrice his Yearly Circuit run,
The Winter's over, and the Summer's done;
Since that bright Day on which our hands were join'd,
And to Philander I my All resign'd.
Thrice in my Womb I've found the pleasing Strife,
In the first Struggles of my Infants Life:
But O how soon by Heaven I'm call'd to mourn,
While from my Womb a lifeless Babe is torn?
Born to the Grave 'ere it had seen the Light,
Or with o......
Member poem of the day
She tells me her pain is a squall,
sudden and vicious, like a flash
storm whipping in from Bass Strait
to batter King Island.
Her doctors build shelters; nurses
batten hatches, but this tempest
won’t blow over. She says her pain is a vulture now,
circling the desert on threadbare wings.
With beak and claw, it slashes and rips
nerve endings, drinks color from her eyes.
The pain is no longer squall or vulture,...