Snow Patrol – Make This Go On Forever (Lyrics)

Snow Patrol - Make This Go On Forever

Please don't let this turn into something it's not
I can only give you everything I've got
I can't be as sorry as you think I should
But I still love you more than anyone else could

All that I keep thinking throughout this whole flight
Is it could take my whole damn life to make this right
This splintered mast I'm holding on won't save me long
Because I know fine well that what I did was wrong

The last girl and the last reason to make this last for as long as I could
First kiss and the first time that I felt connected to anything
The weight of water, the way you told me to look past everything I had ever learned
The final word in the final sentence you ever uttered to me was love

We have got through so much worse than this before
What's so different this time that you can't ignore
You say it is much more than just my last mistake
And we should spend some time apart for both our sakes

The last girl and the last reason to make this last for as long as I could
First kiss and the first time that I felt connected to anything
The weight of water, the way you told me to look past everything I had ever learned
The final word in the final sentence you ever uttered to me was love

The last girl and the last reason to make this last for as long as I could
First kiss and the first time that I felt connected to anything
The weight of water, the way you told me to look past everything I had ever learned
The final word in the final sentence you ever uttered to me was love

And I don't know where to look
My words just break and melt
Please just save me from this darkness [x2]

And I don't know where to look
My words just break and melt
Please just save me from this darkness [x2]

A poem by Robert Frost

Come In

As I came to the edge of the woods,
Thrush music — hark!
Now if it was dusk outside,
Inside it was dark.

Too dark in the woods for a bird
By sleight of wing
To better its perch for the night,
Though it still could sing.

The last of the light of the sun
That had died in the west
Still lived for one song more
In a thrush’s breast.

Far in the pillared dark
Thrush music went –
Almost like a call to come in
To the dark and lament.

But no, I was out for stars;
I would not come in.
I meant not even if asked;
And I hadn’t been.

Robert Frost

The Objection To Being Stepped On

At the end of the row
I stepped on the toe
Of an unemployed hoe.
It rose in offense
And struck me a blow
In the seat of my sense.
It wasn’t to blame
But I called it a name.
And I must say it dealt
Me a blow that I felt
Like a malice prepense.
You may call me a fool,
But was there a rule
The weapon should be
Turned into a tool?
And what do we see?
The first tool I step on
Turned into a weapon.

Robert Frost

A poem by Thomas Hardy

Middle-Age Enthusiasms

To M. H.

WE passed where flag and flower
Signalled a jocund throng;
We said: “Go to, the hour
Is apt!”–and joined the song;
And, kindling, laughed at life and care,
Although we knew no laugh lay there.

We walked where shy birds stood
Watching us, wonder-dumb;
Their friendship met our mood;
We cried: “We’ll often come:
We’ll come morn, noon, eve, everywhen!”
–We doubted we should come again.

We joyed to see strange sheens
Leap from quaint leaves in shade;
A secret light of greens
They’d for their pleasure made.
We said: “We’ll set such sorts as these!”
–We knew with night the wish would cease.

“So sweet the place,” we said,
“Its tacit tales so dear,
Our thoughts, when breath has sped,
Will meet and mingle here!”…
“Words!” mused we. “Passed the mortal door,
Our thoughts will reach this nook no more.”

A poem by Owen Sheers

http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/singlePoem.do?poemId=6004

A poem by Robert Frost

Bereft

Where had I heard this wind before
Change like this to a deeper roar?
What would it take my standing there for,
Holding open a restive door,
Looking downhill to a frothy shore?
Summer was past and day was past.
Somber clouds in the west were massed.
Out in the porch’s sagging floor
Leaves got up in a coil and hissed,
Blindly struck at my knee and missed.
Something sinister in the tone
Told me my secret must be known:
Word I was in the house alone
Somehow must have gotten abroad,
Word I was in my life alone,
Word I had no one left but God.

Robert Frost

Off the rims

Off the rims

Whenever you want to forget

the empty time of your life

you start to feel the urge

to turn anxiously to the bottle

the sense of surprise

in the new feeling discovered

Remembering your lost ideas

and your lost mind and soul

you fill up the senses with spirit

and all takes a different turn

the world could give me a smile

feel like burning inside

all is lost to a single comforting sense

bring the world to me

until this bottle lasts

oh to love and friendship

a renewal that’s so invigorating

Michael Caffari

Dad’s Poetry

Dad’s Poetry

I see you coming and wait to hear
its a sunday morning and it’s a grey one
the talk on the ball and the hall
where one never thinks of the other
I hear the same again and again
the emptiness of lament and of living
The same temptation that has me hanging
Of thinking on what to do not next
Maybe it’s too early and too quick
think of it as a big black box which is hard to carry
the flavour and the same taste of the mediocre food
as life continues to grow and change but not the mood
where is all the glory and of your holiness?
is it all a show of emptiness and stubborness?

Michael Caffari

A reflection

The covetous claim to be Christian, yet they have no trust in Christ. For they are always afraid of want in the time to come, no matter how much they have.

St. Thomas More

A poem by Basil Bunting

At Briggflatts Meetinghouse

Boasts time mocks cumber Rome. Wren
set up his own monument.
Others watch fells dwindle, think
the sun’s fires sink.

Stones indeed sift to sand, oak
blends with saint’s bones.
Yet for a little longer here
stone and oak shelter

silence while we ask nothing
but silence. Look how clouds dance
under the wind’s wing, and leaves
delight in transience.

At Briggflatts Meetinghouse

Boasts time mocks cumber Rome. Wren
set up his own monument.
Others watch fells dwindle, think
the sun’s fires sink.

Stones indeed sift to sand, oak
blends with saint’s bones.
Yet for a little longer here
stone and oak shelter

silence while we ask nothing
but silence. Look how clouds dance
under the wind’s wing, and leaves
delight in transience.

Basil Bunting