manzo_ganzo
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BEAUTY
Beauty is the eyes of a maid who’s in love
Beauty is the ocean seen from above
Beauty is a bird whose feathers are white
Beauty is the sky when its colour is bright
It can be a person, an idea or a place,
Or even a tear that runs down your face
Beauty is a tree whose leaves are brown,
Yellow, or green, or all fallen down
It’s also a thought by nature unsound
It’s even a slug that creeps on the ground
Beauty is a heart not blackened by time
Beauty is a poem that needs no rhyme
Wherever this excellent quality lies
Beauty is only in the beholder’s eyes
Joseph Pino 06-07 /03/ 2009
To An Emerald Leaf Floating On The Ocean
Your gentlest colours I used to lay my eyes upon,
The Wicklow mountains, the river and the old swan
Are now just memories that time has sweetly aged,
For the passing of time had all our passion drained.
Pensive we used to walk among the fields of Carlow,
Sitting in silence on the edge of the little bridge,
Gaily in the company of the unfailing crow,
While the sun slowly sank beyond the ridge
I walked and pondered in the same field on my own,
on the passing of time, on all things by it outgrown;
How different were the first days from the last,
How identical your eyes, so different from the past.
Beauty is the eyes of a maid who’s in love
Beauty is the ocean seen from above
Beauty is a bird whose feathers are white
Beauty is the sky when its colour is bright
It can be a person, an idea or a place,
Or even a tear that runs down your face
Beauty is a tree whose leaves are brown,
Yellow, or green, or all fallen down
It’s also a thought by nature unsound
It’s even a slug that creeps on the ground
Beauty is a heart not blackened by time
Beauty is a poem that needs no rhyme
Wherever this excellent quality lies
Beauty is only in the beholder’s eyes
Joseph Pino 06-07 /03/ 2009
To An Emerald Leaf Floating On The Ocean
Your gentlest colours I used to lay my eyes upon,
The Wicklow mountains, the river and the old swan
Are now just memories that time has sweetly aged,
For the passing of time had all our passion drained.
Pensive we used to walk among the fields of Carlow,
Sitting in silence on the edge of the little bridge,
Gaily in the company of the unfailing crow,
While the sun slowly sank beyond the ridge
I walked and pondered in the same field on my own,
on the passing of time, on all things by it outgrown;
How different were the first days from the last,
How identical your eyes, so different from the past.