What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. Thus in winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone, I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.
Writer’s Digest 94th Annual Competition Rhyming Poetry First Place Winner:
“Plaints of the Old Git”
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Congratulations to Peter Hankins, first-place winner in the Rhyming Poetry
category of the 94th Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition. Here’s his
wi...
2 hours ago
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