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To the Nile             By John Keats The poem Son of the old Moon-mountains African! Chief of the Pyramid and Crocodile! We call thee fruitful, and that very while A desert fills our seeing’s inward span: Nurse of swart nations since the world began, Art thou so fruitful or dost thou beguile Such men to honour thee, who, worn with toil, Rest for a space “twixt Cairo and Decan? O may dark fancies err! They surely do; ‘Tis ignorance that makes a barren waste Of all beyond itself.   Thou dost bedew Green rushes like our rivers, and dost taste The pleasant sunrise.   Green isles hast thou too, And to the sea as happily dost haste.     John Keats John Keats , (born October 31, 1795, London, England—died February 23, 1821, Rome, Papal States [Italy]), English Romantic lyric poet who devoted his short life to the perfection of a poetry marked by vivid image...

The bomb in the bar will explode at thirteen twenty. Now it’s just thirteen sixteen. There’s still time for some to go in, And some to come out. The terrorist has already crossed the street. That distance keeps him out of danger, and what a view- just like the movies: A woman in a yellow jacket, she’s going in. A man in dark glasses, he’s coming out. Teenagers in jeans, they’re talking. Thirteen seventeen and four seconds. The short one, he’s lucky, he’s getting on a scooter, but the tall one, he’s going in. Thirteen seventeen and forty seconds. That girl, she’s walking along with a green ribbon in her hair. But then a bus suddenly pulls in front of her. Thirteen eighteen. The girl’s gone. Was she that dumb, did she go in or not, we’ll see when they carry them out. Thirteen nineteen. Somehow no one’s going in. Another guy, fat, bald, is leaving, though. Wait a second, looks like he’s looking for something in his   pockets and at thi...

Thou fair-hair’d angel of the   evening,   Now, whilst the sun rests on   the mountains, light   Thy bright torch of love; thy   radiant crown   Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!   Smile on our loves, and while thou drawest the   Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew on every flower that shuts its sweet eyes   In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,   And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon, Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide,   And the lion glares thro’ the dun forest:   The fleeces of our flocks are cover’d with   Thy sacred dew: protect them with thine   influence. William Blake, He was born on 28 November in London 1757. He was an artist and poet; he is an influential figure during the Romantic Era. His works and paintings have inspired many. Blake is now considered a seminal figure in ...