Donations are essential to keep Write Out Loud going    
profile image

Steven Adams

Updated: Wed, 16 Jan 2019 03:41 pm

http://bit.ly/WookiesWR

@stevewonderz

Contact via WOL logo

Biography

I’m a digital nomad and I travel the world while freelancing and blogging. A freelance blogger and copywriter. I write unique and research-driven content about business, career, life insurance, and more.

Samples

Home Often I had gone this way before: But now it seemed I never could be And never had been anywhere else; 'Twas home; one nationality We had, I and the birds that sang, One memory. They welcomed me. I had come back That eve somehow from somewhere far: The April mist, the chill, the calm, Meant the same thing familiar And pleasant to us, and strange too, Yet with no bar. The thrush on the oaktop in the lane Sang his last song, or last but one; And as he ended, on the elm Another had but just begun His last; they knew no more than I The day was done. Then past his dark white cottage front A labourer went along, his tread Slow, half with weariness, half with ease; And, through the silence, from his shed The sound of sawing rounded all That silence said.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

Do you want to be featured here? Submit your profile.

Comments

No comments posted yet.

If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message