Blog by Priyanshi | Digital Diary
" To Present local Business identity in front of global market"
" To Present local Business identity in front of global market"
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Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller , long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
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A SIumber did my Spirit Seal
I had no human fears.
She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, no force -
She neither hears not sees,
Rolled round in earth 's diurnal course
With rocks and stones and trees.
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O
The sanke trying
to escape the pursuing stick,
With sudden Curvings of thin
long body. How beautiful
and gracful are his shapes!
He glides through the water away
From the stroke.
O let him go
Over the water
Into the reeds to hide
Without hurt. Small and green
he is harmless even to children.
Along the sand
he lay until observed
and chased away, and now
he vanished in the ripples
among the green slim reeds.
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It takes much time to kill a tree,
Not a simple jab of the knife
Will do it It has grown
Slowly consuming the earth
Rising out of it feeding
Upon its crust absorbing
Years of sunlight, air, water,
And out of its leprous hide
Sprouting leaves
So hack and chop
But this alone won't do it
Not so much pain will do it
The bleeding bark will help
And from close to the ground
Will rise curled green twigs
Miniature boughs
Which if unchecked will expand again
To former size
No,
The root is to be pulled out -
Out of the anchoring earth;
It is to be roped , tired,
And pulled out- snapped out
Or pulled out entirely,
Out from the earth - cave ,
And the strength of the tree exposed
The source, white and wet
The most sensitive,hidden
For years inside the earth.
Then the matter
Of scorching and choking
In sun and air,
Browning,hardening
Twisting, withering,
And then it is done.
Read Full Blog...when the humid shadows hover
Over all the starry spheres
And the meiancholy darkness
Gently weeps in rainy tears,
What a bliss to press the pillow
Of a cottage- chamber bed
And lie listening to the patter
Of the soft rain overhead!
Every tinkle on the shingles.
Has an echo in the heart;
And a thousand dreamy fancies
Into busy being start,
And a thousand recollection
Weave their air-threads into woof,
As I listen to the patter
Of the rain upon the roof.
Now in memory comes my mother,
As she used in years agone,
To regard the darling dreamers
Ere she left them till the dawn:
O! I feel her fond look on me
As I listen to this refrain
Which is played upon the shingles
By the patter of the rain.
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