By Carl Sanberg
Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Over the garden nights,
Death, the grey mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers.
Under the harvest moon
When the fragrant crimson
Lurks in the dusk
Of the wild red leaves,
Love, with little hands,
Comes and touches you
With a thousand memories,
And asks you
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.
Sorry, I really like this poem, now 'll put one on here that has a metaphor.
~~LOVE~~
Love is a Sickness
By Samuel Daniel
Love is a sickness full of woes,
All remedies refusing;
A plant that with most cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.
Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries--
Heigh Ho!
Love is a torment of the mind
A tempest everlasting;
And Jove hath made it of a kind
Not well, nor for fasting.
Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries--
Heigh Ho!
Love is complicated, and contradicting. If you try to rid it, it continues even more. If you try to mend it, it declines. They use caring for a plant to explain this.
~~LOVE~~
Love is like a rock, it can be thrown at you in the face and make you blind. But if you pick it up ad examine it, it can be beautiful, with layers, swirls, and many colors...Or it can be rough, pointy, sharp and ugly.
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