. The Tyger Tyger Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies. Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire? And what...
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So the death I wrote about has not waited to happen—in the country that well represents the poem’s persona. How…
This is truly beautiful, Margaret! And it looks as if you've kept the the original rhyme scheme, which I'm sure…
Well Cheryl, I’m glad that they’re worth something. Thanks for your feedback!
I’m glad that you liked the poems, jd — thanks for letting me know.
I appreciate your kind words, Sir — always!
