Poets

The twilight sun, retreats to its nadir, Moon-rise! Flanked by its twinkling fellowship, And the darkened groves their softest shadows… Read More

What shall it ought to be called? I hide your shades in my verses Or you are read in each… Read More

I stood stoic, by the stream, before I could hold no more, And limbs gave weigh, they’d always been strong,… Read More