Song
I
Nay but you, who do not love her,
Is she not pure gold, my mistress?
Holds earth aught—speak truth—above her?
Aught like this tress, see, and this tress,
And this last fairest tress of all,
So fair, see, ere I let it fall?
II
Because, you spend your lives in praising;
To praise, you search the wide world over:
Then why not witness, calmly gazing,
If earth holds aught—speak truth—above her?
Above this tress, and this, I touch
But cannot praise, I love so much!
poem by Robert Browning from Dramatic Romances and Lyrics (1845)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Related quotes
I get Lonely
I get lonely
When the upstairs
Neighbors arrive
They’re in love
They laugh
Eat dinner
Watch TV
Make love by candlelight
Flickering thru window
On to tress.
Tress see, feel
And grow to
Damp sex on wind Spread forth kisses,
Drop on hands, heads, and chests.
A slide of caressing fingers
Thur body hair.
Body lightening slowly crack
Open up body hair
A rush of passion
Seeks.
poem by David E. Patton
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Locks Cut 1359
A snip first here then there, O what distress!
New shorn, life's locks no longer mask years' grey,
Now evident it seems that she must pay
In white Time's ransom where once shone jet tress!
Each single hair is mourned, all can confess
Sharp pangs, where one stray fingers used to play
Little remains. "'Twill grow again! " she'll say -
O ever on must one mistrust missed tress!
Cascading braids that garland fair mistress
Kindle lustful longings night and day.
Sweet locks cropped, lopped, lip-service lead astray
Creates a void avoidable, few bless.
Uncut is Cupid's knot, bow arrrow shorn,
Time flees, betrayal mortal men must mourn.
(27 July 1992)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Ringlet
OH! treasured thus by passion's slave,
Dear relic of the bygone year;
Say, what remains of her who gave?
The vain regret--the useless tear.
The clasping hands--the throbbing brow--
The murmuring of that shadowy word,
To which had answered once--oh! now,
Why is that light quick step unheard?
What in those syllables is found,
That such a start of woe can claim?
A word is but an empty sound,--
Alas! it is--it was--her name!
It was--yes, she was once! as gay,
As full of life, as aught that lives;
The breath--the life--hath passed away,
But not the pang her memory gives.
Bright tress! thy beauty bringeth now
A thousand dreams of rapture gone;
Her sunny eyes, her radiant brow,
The low, light laughter of her tone.
Gazing on thee, again she stands
Before me, as in days of old;
With all her young head's shining bands,
And all its wavy curls of gold.
Till as I view thee, silken tress,
I feel within my suffering heart,--
'Tis all which now my sight can bless,
All that of her will not depart.
Oh! thou that wert life's dearest prize,
That now art but a thought of pain;
Why do thy tones--thy laughing eyes--
Rise up to wring my soul again?
I roam in vain:--the sun that beams
Is still the sun we looked upon;
My hand, my lonely hand, in dreams,
Seeks still for thine to clasp its own.
My heart resists all time--all change,
And finds no other form so dear.
My memory, wheresoe'er I range,
Clings to the spot where thou wert near.
Change!--thou wert all life's scenery:
To me, the billowy, bounding wave--
The wide green earth--the far blue sky,
Form but the landscape of thy grave!
Oh! bitter is their boon of life
Who cannot hope--who may not die--
I linger in a world of strife,
Whilst thou art in the happy sky!
I envy thee the peace thou hast,
And, but 'tis sin, the knee would bow,
That He who made thee all thou wast,
Would make me all--that thou art now!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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The girl with the raven tresses
What smile made this soul quiver?
Shiver on this day in her audible stare
Each fingertip touch made the world
Tremble at the thought of caressing
A tress of her raven hair.
What love is held aloft in the sky
By each thought we forget is nought
But the desire we have given
In the quiet embrace of fortune,
In the tresses of her raven hair.
Electric touches find their spark
On yielding skin dappled in tense
Desire, quaking in raptures moved
By the bliss of moment oblivion,
Scented by tresses of her raven hair.
This world shakes off its slavery
And wakens the soul the moment
Each tress of raven hair
Lay rooted on a pillow
Next to your own, asleep.
poem by Resten Swondo
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A Fragment
Should fickle hands in far-off days
No longer stroke thy hair,
And lips that once were proud to praise
Forget to call thee fair,
Sigh but my name, and though I be
Mute in the churchyard mould,
I will arise and come to thee,
And worship as of old.
And should I meet the wrinkled brow,
Or find the silver tress,
What were't to me, it would be thou,
I could not love thee less.
'Gainst love time wages bootless strife,
What now is would be then;
The cry that brought me back to life
Would make thee young again.
poem by Alfred Austin
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Real Destruction
I cracked up
From the earth
Among the tress
Stood I found
Some scratches
Of love sign
Few cuts out of
Frustration
Few just for fun
Some took away
My hands
Some my legs
Nailed me
For their add
Pealed
My skin
For medicine
Suck my blood
For addiction
Not taking
In account
My pain
They made me
A toy
For enjoyment.
All these
Remember
In disguise
Lead you in
Real destruction.
poem by Abdul Wahab
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He Stalks Slim Beauty after Lord Byron She Walks in Beauty
He stalks slim beauty's silent flight
through sunless streets, 'neath sullen skies;
stands gall, all's worst below wrong, spite,
defeat, cheat aspect, shady eyes.
This yellow liver would end her light
rich heaven to gaudy fay denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
impairing graceful loveliness.
Itch raves to touch each raven tress,
hard hollow follows fairest face;
his thoughts touch base with base duress
impure, now fear unequal race.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
once soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
where smile once won, now life's tints flow,
destroying days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love was innocent!
(12 October 2011)
She walks in Beauty
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that 's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Most Beautiful Songs of the Year
The most beautiful songs of the year
Are around the Christmas time
When love's true love and sparking here
In winter's cold frosty prime
When love is so dear to everyone
In giving its heart away
And feelings come close one by one
To make up anew and brighter day
The most heartfelt reasons to be alive
Is when there is joy here found
Bells are ringing and Christmas arrive
With harmonious choruses around
When people are close and in peace
And singing their sweet melodies
Dancing around the Christmas tress
Far from every wars tragedies
The most beautiful songs we sing
Are the ones that give us dreams
And hope again to our hearts bring
Like star rays of faraway gleams
When people are close and in peace
And singing their sweet melodies
Dancing around the Christmas tress
Far from every wars tragedies
When you and I are all standing close
Through Christmas evening and night
And the starry starry high sky glows
With the stars of heaven so bright
When loves is for you and love is for me
And everything comes to be alright
And we shall be singing in sweet harmony
Through the evening of Christmas light
poem by Peter S. Quinn
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All ye nations, praise the Lord,
All ye nations, praise the Lord,
All ye lands your voices raise;
Heaven and earth with loud accord,
Praise the Lord, for ever praise.
For his truth and mercy stand,
Past, and present, and to be,
Like the years of his right hand,
Like his own eternity.
Praise Him, ye who know his love;
Praise Him from the depth beneath;
Praise Him in the heights above;
Praise your Maker, all that breathe.
poem by James Montgomery
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Aught
Azriel of Gerona taught
that if you look beyond the yesh
which is the aught you’ll find the naught,
the spirit that’s behind the flesh,
the truth that lies within the kernel,
hidden from the mortal eyes
of man by ayin that’s eternal,
enveloped by man’s lethal lies,
because Reality must be
eclipsed, however hard it’s sought
by I’s that lie between the Thee
which is the Naught beyond the Aught.
In Sacred Attunement: A Jewish Theology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press,2008) , Michael Fishbane writes about Azriel of Gerona (36–7) :
R. Azriel pondered the mystery and depth of infinite Being, and even tried to imagine the very borderline between the knowable realm of Absolute Reality and all that might be humanly conceived or known by human minds. In his discourse he calls the first realm Naught (or ayin) , because it is wholly beyond thought and thus virtually Nothing; and the second he deems Aught (or yesh) , because it is the realm where knowable (or discernable) reality becomes and is. But the point of transition is truly neither the one nor the other, but both: it is neither wholly naught, insofar as there is a gathering towards existence (where things are nameable and determinate) , nor is it wholly aught, since this domain is still characterized by the naught (where no thing is named or differentiated.) At this borderline we have something else. What we have is an imaginable sense of aught grounded in naught; that is, a sense that the all-unfolding reality and being of existence, whose source is God, is ultimately effaced in the depths of God’s Godhood. And though we may not follow R. Azriel in his particular mystical ontology of divine emanations, we may nevertheless strain to understand his teaching as a great truth of theology––still pertinent for our lives. For what he conveys through this meditation is that whatever may be humanly sayable about God and existence is ultimately grounded in and a manifestation of the Naught. To bring our minds towards this realization is the tsk of theology. This holds as much for our common view of everyday reality, where the Aught rightly prevails and predominates, as for our sense of God, where the Naught is the ultimate reality wherein all mindfulness is eclipsed.
10/24/08
poem by Gershon Hepner
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Do You Think That I Do Not Know?
They say that I never have written of love,
As a writer of songs should do;
They say that I never could touch the strings
With a touch that is firm and true;
They say I know nothing of women and men
In the fields where Love's roses grow,
And they say I must write with a halting pen
Do you think that I do not know?
When the love-burst came, like an English Spring,
In days when our hair was brown,
And the hem of her skirt was a sacred thing
And her hair was an angel's crown.
The shock when another man touched her arm,
Where the dancers sat round in a row;
The hope and despair, and the false alarm
Do you think that I do not know?
By the arbour lights on the western farms,
You remember the question put,
While you held her warm in your quivering arms
And you trembled from head to foot.
The electric shock from her finger tips,
And the murmuring answer low,
The soft, shy yielding of warm red lips
Do you think that I do not know?
She was buried at Brighton, where Gordon sleeps,
When I was a world away;
And the sad old garden its secret keeps,
For nobody knows to-day.
She left a message for me to read,
Where the wild wide oceans flow;
Do you know how the heart of a man can bleed
Do you think that I do not know?
I stood by the grave where the dead girl lies,
When the sunlit scenes were fair,
And the white clouds high in the autumn skies,
And I answered the message there.
But the haunting words of the dead to me
Shall go wherever I go.
She lives in the Marriage that Might Have Been
Do you think that I do not know?
They sneer or scoff, and they pray or groan,
And the false friend plays his part.
Do you think that the blackguard who drinks alone
Knows aught of a pure girl's heart?
Knows aught of the first pure love of a boy
With his warm young blood aglow,
Knows aught of the thrill of the world-old joy
Do you think that I do not know?
They say that I never have written of love,
They say that my heart is such
That finer feelings are far above;
But a writer may know too much.
There are darkest depths in the brightest nights,
When the clustering stars hang low;
There are things it would break his strong heart to write
Do you think that I do not know?
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Granite Mafia
The people were chased out of their village
for the granite barons, stones to pillage
from the deep of the earth
by the mafia with mirth.
Lands of the cops were grabbed to stop tillage.
The people fled their homes fearing slinging bombs
and the workers who tress-pass in houses without norms.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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On Hearing The News From Venice
(The Death Of Robert Browning)
Now dumb is he who waked the world to speak,
And voiceless hangs the world beside his bier.
Our words are sobs, our cry of praise a tear:
We are the smitten mortal, we the weak.
We see a spirit on Earth's loftiest peak
Shine, and wing hence the way he makes more clear:
See a great Tree of Life that never sere
Dropped leaf for aught that age or storms might wreak.
Such ending is not Death: such living shows
What wide illumination brightness sheds
From one big heart, to conquer man's old foes:
The coward, and the tyrant, and the force
Of all those weedy monsters raising heads
When Song is murk from springs of turbid source.
December 13, 1889.
poem by George Meredith
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Other May Praise What They Like
OTHERS may praise what they like;
But I, from the banks of the running Missouri, praise nothing, in
art, or aught else,
Till it has well inhaled the atmosphere of this river--also the
western prairie-scent,
And fully exudes it again.
poem by Walt Whitman
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Praise Up
Keep on praising, keep on praising
Praise up praise up
Praise up your mind to find a way to live
Keep on praising, keep on praising, keep on praising
Praise up all you people living in your fantasy
Praise up all you people trapped in mental captivity
Gonna free your mind, gonna free your mind
Right now with this feeling, feeling
Keep on praising, keep on praising
Praise up, praise up
Praise up your mind to a fine fine way to live
Keep on praising, keep on praising, keep on praising
Its your expression, its your expression
Its your expression that is leading me to see
Open up your eyes, this aint no compromise
Praise up on lord with this feeling right now
Oh lord what a feeling
Keep on praising, keep on praising
song performed by by G. Love & Special Sauce
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Precious Earth And Precious Sun
We praise you sister Sun and mother Earth,
for being there at the time of our birth.
for giving us flowers to smell, and birds and insects
To hear as well.
We praise you Precious Sun for all of your warmth
You bring to us every day,
We praise you Mother Earth when we holds our hands together to pray
Along with all the creatures you brought here to play.
All of us on the planet praise you Precious Earth and Precious Sun.
Copyright 2010 Chevalier Originals, Inc.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on 07/17/10
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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Septuagesima Sunday
There is a book, who runs may read,
Which heavenly truth imparts,
And all the lore its scholars need,
Pure eyes and Christian hearts.
The works of God above, below,
Within us and around,
Are pages in that book, to show
How God Himself is found.
The glorious sky embracing all
Is like the Maker's love,
Wherewith encompassed, great and small
In peace and order move.
The Moon above, the Church below,
A wondrous race they run,
But all their radiance, all their glow,
Each borrows of its Sun.
The Savour lends the light and heat
That crowns His holy hill;
The saints, like stars, around His seat
Perform their courses still.
The saints above are stars in heaven -
What are the saints on earth?
Like tress they stand whom God has given,
Our Eden's happy birth.
Faith is their fixed unswerving root,
Hope their unfading flower,
Fair deeds of charity their fruit,
The glory of their bower.
The dew of heaven is like Thy grace,
It steals in silence down;
But where it lights, this favoured place
By richest fruits is known.
One Name above all glorious names
With its ten thousand tongues
The everlasting sea proclaims.
Echoing angelic songs.
The raging Fire, the roaring Wind,
Thy boundless power display;
But in the gentler breeze we find
Thy Spirit's viewless way.
Two worlds are ours: 'tis only Sin
Forbids us to descry
The mystic heaven and earth within,
Plain as the sea and sky.
Thou, who hast given me eyes to see
And love this sight so fair,
Give me a heart to find out Thee,
And read Thee everywhere.
poem by John Keble
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Hate Works But Love Does Not
I have seen the love
In the eyes around me
Caring and hugging my feelings
As the root of the tress
I know the warmness of the arms
The soft touch of the palms
But love is lazy and lethargic
Seldom it can be found energetic
The promptness it does lack
It never works back to back
But the hate works very ferociously
With red eyes it acts very quickly
A full pack of energy
Blitzkrieg and scorching
Swashbuckling and blistering
It cuts very deeply and burns very badly
It works havoc but love does not.
poem by Abdul Wahab
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Saint Valentine defines Tough Love
When those you most love
die
that's the time to speak in praise of love
(said Saint Valentine) .
When those you have most loved
up and go, without a word,
that's the time to speak in praise of love
(said Saint Valentine) .
When those you would most love
want nothing to do with you,
that's the time to speak in praise of love
(said Saint Valentine) .
When you feel that all you need right now
is a little love, to change your life,
that's the time to speak in praise of love
(said Saint Valentine) .
When you feel cheated by love
because it's never come your way,
that's the time to speak in praise of love
(said Saint Valentine) .
Trust me. It's not easy to become a saint;
said Saint Valentine.
XXX.St.V.
(revised)
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Quality of loving
Blue of the sky and green of the grass are lovely.
Red of the lips and white of the teeth are lovely.
So are black of the tress and the skin of the child.
You must improve the quality of your loving.
30.04.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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