Songs of Anisha
“Ode to Pity,”
by Jane Austen
1
Ever musing I delight to tread
The Paths of honour and the Myrtle Grove
Whilst the pale Moon her beams doth shed
On disappointed Love.
While Philomel on airy hawthorn Bush
Sings sweet and Melancholy, And the thrush
Converses with the Dove.
2
Gently brawling down the turnpike road,
Sweetly noisy falls the Silent Stream
The Moon emerges from behind a Cloud
And darts upon the Myrtle Grove her beam.
Ah! then what Lovely Scenes appear,
The hut, the Cot, the Grot, and Chapel queer,
And eke the Abbey too a mouldering heap,
Cnceal'd by aged pines her head doth rear
And quite invisible doth take a peep.
“A Poet’s Cry,”
by Barbara Gorelick
Wanting to leave a small footprint when I die
I often ask myself that age old question "why?"
When the mask I wore is stripped away at last
Will I be just a pebble dropped in seas so vast
Might I scribble in the dust some sign that I was here
A word or phrase that might bring a smile or tear
Now that the days are marching toward December
When there is not but words, will anyone remember
A simple poet's cry; the chapter closed and done
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