poems

The Last Leaf In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called "places." These "places" make strange angles and curves. One Street crosses itself a time or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account! So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth Avenue, and became a "colony." At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. "Johnsy" was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the table d'h�te of an Eighth Street "D...

GROUP 2 Premium Test Series - Attend Online & Download PDF:  English  |  Tamil . Farmer – Thakazhi Sivasankaran Pillai That fifty-para paddy field is owned by someone in Vaikom. Kesavan Nair has been cultivating it for the last forty years. Before that, Kesavan Nair’s uncle was its cultivator.  Some ten years ago, when paddy prices were as high as five to seven rupees a bushel, rich people from Changanassery and Thiruvalla, had come there for paddy cultivation. They got on lease, groups of paddy fields. They used tractor for deep-ploughing and new fertilisers, to produce bumper crops. And they made huge profits. Kesavan Nair’s fifty para was in the centre of such groups of fields. Big – time farmer, Outhakkutty, met Kesavan Nair one day, on the mud-bund of the field. The crop in the “fifty” was poor when compared to those around it. Outhakkutty broke in, by way of exchanging civilities: “Why is the paddy not lush and robu...

Is there ought you need that my hands withhold, Rich gifts of raiment or grain or gold? Lo ! I have flung to the East and the West Priceless treasures torn from my breast, And yielded the sons of my stricken womb To the drum-beats of the duty, the sabers of doom. Gathered like pearls in their alien graves Silent they sleep by the Persian waves, Scattered like shells on Egyptian sands, They lie with pale brows and brave, broken hands, they are strewn like blossoms mown down by chance On the blood-brown meadows of Flanders and France. Can ye measure the grief of the tears I weep Or compass the woe of the watch I keep? Or the pride that thrills thro' my heart's despair And the hope that comforts the anguish of prayer? And the far sad glorious vision I see Of the torn red banners of victory? when the terror and the tumult of hate shall cease And life be refashioned on anvils of peace, And your love shall offer memorial thanks To the comrades who fought on th...

Better than Heaven or Arcadia I love thee, O my India! And thy love I shall give To every brother nation that lives. God made the Earth; Man made confining countries And their fancy-frozen boundaries. But with unfound boundless love I behold the borderland of my India Expanding into the World. Hail, mother of religions, lotus, scenic beauty,and sages! Thy wide doors are open, Welcoming God's true sons through all ages. Where Ganges, woods, Himalayan caves, and men dream God - I am hallowed; my body touched that sod. - Swami Yogananda Paramhansa