Woman
There are who lightly speak with scornful smiles,
Of woman's faith, of woman's artful wiles;
Who call her false in heart, and weak in mind,
The slave of fashion, and to reason blind.
She may be such among the gilded bowers,
Where changing follies serve to waste the hours—
But bear her from the giddy world afar,
And place her lonely, like the evening star,
And with as bright, as pure, as calm a beam,
Her milder virtues will serenely gleam:
Go, place her by the couch of pale disease,
And bid her give the feverish pulses ease—
Say, will she not the task unmurmuring bear,
To soothe the anguish'd brow with tender care—
To trim the midnight lamp, and from her eye,
Though dim with watching, bid soft slumber fly—
With lightly whisper'd voice, and noiseless tread,
Glide, like an angel, round the sick man's bed—
With tireless patience watch the speaking eye,
And all unask'd his slightest wants supply?
It is not hers to guide the storm of war,
To rule the state, or thunder at the bar—
It is not hers to captivate the heart
With potent eloquence, resistless art—
To sit with men in legislative hall,
To govern realms, or mark their rise and fall;
These things are not for her. 't is woman's care
Alone, to rear the shoots that flourish there—
To list the lisping voice, with joy refined,
To watch the first unfolding of the mind,
The springing dawn of intellectual day,
The brighter beam of reason's perfect ray;
To wipe the starting tear from childhood's eye,
To soothe his little woes, and balms apply,
To drink of science’ fount, that she may store
His opening mind with all her gather'd lore;
To guard his morals with unceasing care,
And bend, for him, the suppliant knee in prayer.
Then give him, in his full and perfect worth,
To serve the land that smiled upon his birth.
Such woman is—and shall proud man forbear,
The converse of the mind with her to share?
No! she with him shall knowledge’ pages scan,
And be the partner, not the toy, of man!
When smit with angry fortune's adverse gale,
E'en his stern spirit seems at length to quail—
When all his hopes are wreck'd, his health has flown,
And strangers claim the land he calls his own:
When friends who flatter'd ‘neath the summer sky,
With brow estranged, his alter'd fortunes fly,
Then, woman, it is thine, with changeless heart,
In all his wretchedness to bear a part:
To quit the scenes thy smiles could once illume,
And sink with him to poverty and gloom;
To soothe his sorrows, calm his aching head,
And hang in speechless fondness o'er his bed,
His woes, his wants, his sufferings to share,
Thine alter'd lot without one plaint to bear;
To lock thy silent sorrows in thy breast,
And smile, as thou wert wont, in days more blest;
His steps to follow to earth's farthest verge,
O'er icy mount, or ocean's foaming surge;
With hopes of better days his heart to cheer,
And with thy smile, to shed the first fond tear.
Such changeless faith is woman's—constant still,
Through each reversing scene of good and ill.
When man is crush'd by storms that o'er him roll,
Then rises woman's timid, shrinking soul:
Pain, peril, want, she fearlessly will bear,
To dash from man the cup of dark despair;
And only asks for all her tireless zeal,
To share his fate—whate'er he feels, to feel—
To breathe in his fond arms her latest breath,
And murmur out the loved one's name in death.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Negro Father's Lamentation Over the Body of His Infant Son
Thou'rt dead, my boy!—my son!—my only child!—
And yet I may not shed one tear for thee,
Nor hanging o'er thy bier in anguish wild,
Upbraid the hand that bore thee far from me:
I cannot wish that thou hadst lived to share
Thy father's fate—his woes—and his despair!
I loved thee—oh! I need not say how well!
Thou wert my all of hopes or bliss on earth!
Yet I will not repine that thou dost dwell
In happiness, with her who gave thee birth,
While I, like yon dark rock of naked stone,
Must bear the storms that round me beat, alone.
'T is well! Thou wilt not share those storms with me,
That is my all of comfort in this hour—
I weep not, though I would have died for thee!
Ay, more than died— that sacrifice were poor—
I would have spurn'd the hand that set me free,
And clasp'd my chain, and lived a slave, for thee.
My boy! my darling boy! farewell, farewell!
Thou ne'er shalt feel the pangs that rend me now,
For still my heart with agony will swell,
To think, that never more upon my brow,
Thy little lips with fondness shall be prest,
As when I oft have clasp'd thee to my breast.
Yes! fare thee well! thy fond caress no more
Shall soothe the tortured throbbing of my heart,
As it full oft has done, when tyrant power
Has trampled me to earth, and round me prest
The chain of slavery, till my swelling heart
Has madden'd into frenzy with the smart.
Yet even then, though thou couldst calm my soul,
With thy soft lisping voice and childish glee,
While clasping thee, sad thoughts would o'er me roll,
Of what must be thy future destiny,
Till my hot tears have wet thy little face,
And thou hast wonder'd at my wild embrace.
But thou art dead!—it ne'er will be thy fate
To tremble at a cruel tyrant's frowns—
To bend in servile toil, to feed his state,
To feel the lash, and hear him mock thy groans.
Then fare thee well!—thy father will not weep,
Or wish to wake thee from thy peaceful sleep.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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Don’t Trust a WOMAN! ! !
Don’t trust a woman. They lie, manipulate, and deceive.
Don’t trust a woman. They say things to get you to believe,
That what they say is real and true, but listen to me as I tell you.
Don’t trust a woman. Lies are only what they can achieve.
Don’t give your heart away to a woman. They’ll crush, and stomp on it till it bleeds.
Don’t give your heart away to a woman. They’ll use you just to fulfill there needs.
They will turn to you for only a reason, but tear you apart in every years’ season…
Don’t give your heart away to a woman. Upon it is what a woman does feeds.
Don’t care for a woman. They never will care for you back.
Don’t care for a woman. Everything I’ve said is the plain fact.
She will show you the angel inside, but it’s the devil in her that she hides.
Don’t care for a woman. If you do, you won’t get your heart back.
Don’t fall head over heals in love for a woman. You will only lose in the end.
Don’t fall head over heals in love for a woman. Let them only be ur friend.
If you do, you will fall one day really hard, and your heart will be left chard.
Don’t fall head over heals in love for a woman. Just use them for what god did intend.
This might sound harsh, but it is reality…..
Word of advice to all men and boys…..
poem by J.J B. Torment
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Chauvinist
I’d never really comprehended such a mighty range of
Shapes and sizes down behind, it’s really rather strange:
The buttock muscle in a woman, overlaid with fat
Is actually such a focal point for men to want to pat
Or squeeze, and then to tease her if it’s eminently stout,
Or even risk a stay in clink to sting it with a clout!
After all, we men are tuned to be that way inclined –
And tho’ our needs are varied, girls, they’re all perverse of mind!
Best of all, our sacred dream: to see her shed her gown
When gliding to the shower for the ritual sponging down.
But then alas! With body lathered, oops! she drops the soap;
‘Please! ’ we beg her, ‘bend and bare! ’ But we can only hope!
I’m sure by now you get the picture – like a rule of thumb –
That men like me obsess all day about the fairer bum.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
My dreams are of a
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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She completes me
The woman who inhabits my soul
The woman who took a part of me
that I became unwhole
The woman whom I promised
I'll never let go
The woman who makes me weak
The woman whom I'll always seek
The woman whom I gave my heart
The woman who tore it apart
The woman who I love
The woman who flew away like a dove
The woman who I'll always adore
Never will I abhor
The reason I shed tears
The reason for my fears
The cause of my misery
But I'm never angry
I'll take the pain
Until there's nothing else to gain
poem by Steven Nacar
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Shall I Wasting in Despair
Shall I wasting in despair
Die because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flow'ry meads in May,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?
Shall my heart be griev'd or pin'd
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle dove or pelican,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deserving known
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of best
If she be not such to me,
What care I, how good she be?
'Cause her fortune seems too high
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would
That without them dare to woo;
And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?
Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;
For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?
poem by George Wither
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The Manly Heart
Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Or my cheeks make pale with care
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day
Or the flowery meads in May --
If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?
Shall my foolish heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind;
Or a well dispos-ed nature
Join-ed with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove or pelican,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her merit's value known
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of Best;
If she seem not such to me,
What care I how good she be?
'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do
Who without them dare to woo;
And unless that mind I see,
What care I though great she be?
Great or good, or kind or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;
For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?
poem by George Wither
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Song II
Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die, because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flow'ry meads in May;
If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be.
Should my heart be grieved or pined
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposèd nature
Joinèd with a lovely creature?
Be she meeker, kinder than
Turtle-dove or pelican:
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be.
Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or, her well-deserving known,
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of best
If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be.
'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want or riches find,
Think what with them they would do
That without them dare to woo.
And unless that mind I see,
What care I though great she be.
Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve.
If she slight me, when I woo,
I can scorn, and let her go.
For, if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be.
poem by George Wither
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The Glory Of A Woman...
The Tenderness Of A Woman
Is In The Strength Of Her Hands
Her Power To Touch
And Take Care Of Her Man
The Gentleness Of A Woman
Is In Her Character, To Care
And Her Courage To Bear
All Pains, As A Pair
The Winsomeness Of A Woman
Is In Her Choice To Understand
And A Support Source To Plan
And Her Voice, Cheering, ‘We Can’
The Sweetness Of A Woman
Is In Her Secure Embrace
Her Fragrance, Form, and Face
And Her Hunger, For His Taste
But, The Weakness Of A Woman
… Is That Her Heart, Is Beaten
Surrenders Body and Soul Even
Before His May Weaken
She Stays The Course To Withstand
The Mighty Heart Of A Man
Patience, Like Hour-Glass Sand
Is The Female Force Of A Woman
The Crowning Glory Of A Woman
Is Tresses, Flowing Like Rain Above
But, The Glorious Joy Of A Woman
Is Knowing, She Is Loved …
The Completeness… Of A Woman
Written & ©: 2/22/10
By: The MoonBee
poem by MoonBee Canady
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Husband And Wife
The world had chafed his spirit proud
By its wearing, crushing strife,
The censure of the thoughtless crowd
Had touched a blameless life;
Like the dove of old, from the water’s foam,
He wearily turned to the ark of home.
Hopes he had cherished with joyous heart,
Had toiled for many a day,
With body and spirit, and patient art,
Like mists had melted away;
And o’er day-dreams vanished, o’er fond hopes flown,
He sat him down to mourn alone.
No, not alone, for soft fingers rest
On his hot and aching brow,
Back the damp hair is tenderly pressed
While a sweet voice whispers low:
“Thy joys have I shared, O my husband true,
And shall I not share thy sorrows too?”
Vain task to resist the loving gaze
That so fondly meets his own,
Revealing a heart that cares for praise
From him and him alone;
And though censure and grief upon him pall,
Unto to her, at least, he is all in all.
What though false friends should turn aside,
Or chill with icy look;
What though he meet the pitying pride,
The proud heart ill can brook;
There are depths of love in one gentle heart,
Whose faith with death alone will part.
Aye! well may thy brow relax its gloom,
For a talisman hast thou
’Gainst hopes that are blighted in their bloom,
’Gainst scornful look or brow—
Her heart is a high and a holy throne
Where monarch supreme thou reignest alone.
Kindly return her tender gaze,
Press closely that little hand,
Whisper fond words and soothing praise—
They are ever at thy command;
It is all the harvest she asks to reap
In return for love as the ocean deep.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Women for the Men
To clasp a silken-textured breast
Is nothing but a daily quest
Of preternatural drive.
We wonder of the fulsome fare
Her bra undone might bring to bear -
Disclosing all so we may stare
For hours on end upon the pair of
Why-do-woman's-curves-ensnare-
the-brains- of-men? -
A bleak affair,
And why we still survive!
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Woman!
Place the white man on Afric's coast,
Whose swarthy sons in blood delight,
Who of their scorn to Europe boast,
And paint their very demons white:
There, while the sterner sex disdains
To soothe the woes they cannot feel,
Woman will strive to heal his pains,
And weep for those she cannot heal:
Hers is warm pity's sacred glow;
From all her stores she bears a part,
And bids the spring of hope re-flow,
That languish'd in the fainting heart.
'What though so pale his haggard face,
So sunk and sad his looks,'--she cries;
'And far unlike our nobler race,
With crisped locks and rolling eyes;
Yet misery marks him of our kind;
We see him lost, alone, afraid;
And pangs of body, griefs in mind,
Pronounce him man, and ask our aid.
'Perhaps in some far-distant shore
There are who in these forms delight;
Whose milky features please them more,
Than ours of jet thus burnished bright;
Of such may be his weeping wife,
Such children for their sire may call,
And if we spare his ebbing life,
Our kindness may preserve them all.'
Thus her compassion Woman shows:
Beneath the line her acts are these;
Nor the wide waste of Lapland-snows
Can her warm flow of pity freeze: -
'From some sad land the stranger comes,
Where joys like ours are never found;
Let's soothe him in our happy homes,
Where freedom sits, with plenty crown'd.
'Tis good the fainting soul to cheer,
To see the famish'd stranger fed;
To milk for him the mother-deer,
To smooth for him the furry bed.
The powers above our Lapland bless
With good no other people know;
T'enlarge the joys that we possess,
By feeling those that we bestow!'
Thus in extremes of cold and heat,
Where wandering man may trace his kind;
Wherever grief and want retreat,
In Woman they compassion find;
She makes the female breast her seat,
And dictates mercy to the mind.
Man may the sterner virtues know,
Determined justice, truth severe;
But female hearts with pity glow,
And Woman holds affliction dear;
For guiltless woes her sorrows flow,
And suffering vice compels her tear;
'Tis hers to soothe the ills below,
And bid life's fairer views appear:
To Woman's gentle kind we owe
What comforts and delights us here;
They its gay hopes on youth bestow,
And care they soothe, and age they cheer.
poem by George Crabbe
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A Woman’s Place
Many say
A woman’s place belongs in the kitchen
As if it a sin
That statement is pathetically mean
I mean why are we so keen
To have men as chefs
Gone are the days
When she’s only good in bed
Fattened up from being well fed
Now A woman’s place
Is with her child
To tame it from growing wild
Apart from flashing her smile and her eyelids
She’s a gem
She knows how to dance
And the true meaning of romance
To state a woman’s place
Is simply a hopeless case
A woman’s place
Is hard to say
A woman’s place
Is in her brain
She knows how to save your pennies
For the day it heavily rains
Saving you from losing face
A woman’s place is at work
For without her
There will be no sweet talk
Her place is also with her man
The guy who is her ultimate fan
She is the only one that
can soothe a mans disturbed mind
Her specie is really one of a kind
That melodic union she must span
A womans place
in this day and age
is one which we must embrace
Her changeless face
invigorates any race
© Sylvia Chidi- 17 October 2005
www.sylviachidi.com
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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To A Young Mother On The Birth Of Her First Born Child
Young mother! proudly throbs thine heart, and well may it rejoice,
Well may’st thou raise to Heaven above in grateful prayer thy voice:
A gift hath been bestowed on thee, a gift of priceless worth,
Far dearer to thy woman’s heart than all the wealth of earth.
What store of deep and holy joy is opened to thy thought—
Glad, sunny dreams of future days, with bliss and rapture fraught;
Of hopes as varied, yet as bright, as beams of April sun,
And plans and wishes centred all within thy darling one!
While others seek in changing scenes earth’s happiness to gain,
In fashion’s halls to win a joy as dazzling as ’tis vain—
A bliss more holy far is thine, far sweeter and more deep,
To watch beside thine infant’s couch and bend above his sleep.
What joy for thee to ling’ring gaze within those cloudless eyes,
Turning upon thee with a glance of such sweet, strange surprise,
Or press a mother’s loving kiss upon that fair, white brow,
Of all earth’s weight of sin and care and pain unconscious now.
Then, as thy loved one’s sleeping breath so softly fans thy cheek,
And gazing on that tiny form, so lovely, yet so weak,
A dream comes o’er thee of the time when nobly at thy side
Thy cherished son shall proudly stand, in manhood’s lofty pride.
Yet a sad change steals slowly o’er thy tender, loving eye,
Thou twin’st him closer to thy heart, with fond and anxious sigh,
Feeling, however bright his course he too must suff’ring know,
Like all earth’s children taste alike life’s cup of care and woe.
But, oh! it lies within thy power to give to him a spell
To guard him in the darkest hour from sorrow safe and well;
Thou’lt find it in the narrow path the great and good have trod—
And thou thyself wilt teach it him—the knowledge of his God!
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Down And Out
Well I'm out on a tear 'cause she's tearing me apart
If I look rough on the outside, you ought to see my heart.
And this look in my eyes shows beyond a doubt,
Since my woman left, I'm down and out.
Well, I'm down at the bar, out of my mind,
Tighter than an eight-day clock with no way to unwind,
That jukebox cries the blues like it knows what I'm about.
Since my woman left, I'm down and out.
Well I'm down to my last dollar, but I don't really care.
My friends have all got whiskey, and they don't mind if I share.
They know how it feels to have your heart torn inside out,
Since my woman left, I'm down and out.
Well, I'm down at the bar, out of my mind,
Tighter than an eight-day clock with no way to unwind,
That jukebox cries the blues like it knows what I'm about.
Since my woman left, I'm down and out.
Since my woman left, since my woman left,
Since my woman left, I'm down and out
song performed by by George Strait
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Would I Were a Careless Child
I would I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
Or bounding o’er the dark blue wave;
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride
Accords not with the freeborn soul,
Which loves the mountain’s craggy side,
And seeks the rocks where billows roll.
Fortune! Take back these cultured lands,
Take back this name of splendid sound!
I hate the touch of servile hands,
I hate the slaves that cringe around.
Place me among the rocks I love,
Which sound to Ocean’s wildest roar;
I ask but this--again to rove
Through scenes my youth hath known before.
Few are my years, and yet I feel
The world was ne’er design’d for me:
Ah! why do dark’ning shades conceal
The hour when man must cease to be?
A visionary scene of bliss:
Truth--wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?
I loved--but those I loved are gone;
Had friends--my early friends are fled:
How cheerless feels the heart alone,
When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions o’er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart--the heart--is lonely still.
How dull! to hear the voice of those
Whom rank of chance, whom wealth or power,
Have made, though neither friends nor foes,
Associates of the festive hour.
Give me again a faithful few,
In years and feelings still the same,
And I will fly the midnight crew,
Where boist’rous Joy is but a name.
And woman, lovely woman! thou,
My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
When e’en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh would I resign
This busy scene of splendid woe,
To make that calm contentment mine,
Which virtue knows, or seems to know.
Fain would I fly the haunts of men-–
I seek to shun, not hate mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,
Whose gloom may suit a darken’d mind.
Oh! that to me the wings were given,
Which bear the turtle to her nest!
Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven,
To flee away, and be at rest.
poem by Byron (1807)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Down & Out
Well Im out on a tear cause shes tearing me apart
If I look rough on the outside, you ought to see my heart.
And this look in my eyes shows beyond a doubt,
Since my woman left, Im down and out.
Well, Im down at the bar, out of my mind,
Tighter than an eight-day clock with no way to unwind,
That jukebox cries the blues like it knows what Im about.
Since my woman left, Im down and out.
Well Im down to my last dollar, but I dont really care.
My friends have all got whiskey, and they dont mind if I share.
They know how it feels to have your heart torn inside out,
Since my woman left, Im down and out.
Well, Im down at the bar, out of my mind,
Tighter than an eight-day clock with no way to unwind,
That jukebox cries the blues like it knows what Im about.
Since my woman left, Im down and out.
Since my woman left, since my woman left,
Since my woman left, Im down and out.
song performed by by George Strait
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Her Hidden Treasure
Her flame was only for the women –
Not for us unlucky men;
A weakness lay for feminine way:
To feel an even fairer skin
In silky slide.
Her lips were for the satin love that
Only flows from rising breast;
The creamy tan was not for man
To pull towards a chiselled chest
In weathered hide.
Her hidden treasure down below
Would shy away from macho length
And only rouse upon the blouse
Undone by other sapphic strength –
In time, inside!
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
woman woman woman woman woman woman
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woman woman woman woman woman woman
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woman woman woman woman woman woman
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Dying Hour
I.
OH! watch me; watch me still
Thro' the long night's dreary hours,
Uphold by thy firm will
Worn Nature's sinking powers!
II.
While yet thy face is there
(The loose locks round it flying),
So young, and fresh, and fair,
I feel not I am dying!
III.
Stoop down, and kiss my brow!
The shadows round me closing
Warn me that dark and low
I soon shall be reposing.
IV.
But while those pitying eyes
Are bending thus above me,
In vain the death-dews rise,--
Thou dost regret and love me!
V.
Then watch me thro' the night,
Thro' my broken, fitful slumber;
By the pale lamp's sickly light
My dying moments number!
VI.
Thy fond and patient smile
Shall soothe my painful waking;
Thy voice shall cheer me while
The slow grey dawn is breaking!
VII.
The battle-slain, whose thirst
No kindly hand assuages,
Whose low faint farewells burst
Unheard, while combat rages,--
VIII.
The exiled, near whose bed
Some vision'd form seems weeping,
Whose steps shall never tread
The land where he lies sleeping,--
IX.
The drown'd, whose parting breath
Is caught by wild winds only,--
Theirs is the bitter death,
Beloved, for they die lonely!
X.
But thus, tho' rack'd, to lie,
Thou near, tho' full of sadness,
Leaves still, e'en while I die,
A lingering gleam of gladness!
XI.
I feel not half my pain
When to mine thy fond lip presses,--
I warm to life again
Beneath thy soft caresses!
XII.
Once more, oh! yet once more
Fling, fling thy white arms round me,
As oft in days of yore
Their gentle clasp hath bound me;
XIII.
And hold me to that breast
Which heaves so full with sorrow--
Who knows where I may rest
In the dark and blank to-morrow?
XIV.
Ah! weep not--it shall be
An after-thought to cheer thee,
That while mine eyes could see,
And while mine ears could hear thee--
XV.
Thy voice and smile were still
The spells on which I doated,
And thou, through good and ill,
To me and mine devoted!
XVI.
And calmly by my tomb,
When the low bright day declineth,
And athwart the cypress gloom
The mellow sunset shineth,--
XVII.
Thou'lt sit and think of Him,
Who, of Heaven's immortal splendour,
Had a dream on earth, though dim,
In thy love so pure and tender,--
XVIII.
Who scarcely feels thy touch,--
Whom thy voice can rouse no longer,--
But whose love on earth was such,
That only death was stronger.
XIX.
Yes, sit, but not in tears!
Thine eyes in faith uplifting,
From thy lot of changeful years,
To the Heaven where naught is shifting.
XX.
From this world, where all who love
Are doomed alike to sever,
To the glorious realms above,
Where they dwell in peace for ever!
XXI.
And then such hope shall beam
From the grave where I lie sleeping,
This bitter hour shall seem
Too vague and far for weeping--
XXII.
And grief--ah! hold me now!
My fluttering pulse is failing,--
The death-dews chill my brow,--
The morning light is paling!
XXIII.
I seek thy gaze in vain,--
Earth reels and fades before me;
I die!--but feel no pain,--
Thy sweet face shining o'er me!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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To My Husband on Our Wedding-Day
I leave for thee, beloved one,
The home and friends of youth,
Trusting my hopes, my happiness,
Unto thy love and truth;
I leave for thee my girlhood's joys,
Its sunny, careless mirth,
To bear henceforth my share amid
The many cares of earth.
And yet, no wild regret I give
To all that now I leave,
The golden dreams, the flow'ry wreaths
That I no more may weave;
The future that before me lies
A dark and unknown sea --
Whate'er may be its storms or shoals,
I brave them all with thee!
I will not tell thee now of love
Whose life, ere this, thou'st guessed,
And which, like sacred secret, long
Was treasured in my breast;
Enough that if thy lot be calm,
Or storms should o'er it sweep,
Thou'lt learn that it is woman's love,
Unchanging, pure and deep.
If this life's sunshine gild thy lot,
Bestowing wealth and pride,
Its light enjoying, I shall stand,
Rejoicing, at thy side;
But, oh! if thou should'st prove the griefs
That blight thy fellow-men,
'Twill be my highest, dearest right,
To be, love, with thee then.
And thou, wilt thou not promise me
Thy heart will never change,
That tones and looks, so loving now,
Will ne'er grow stern and strange?
That thou'lt be kind, whatever faults
Or failings may be mine,
And bear with them in patient love,
As I will bear with thine?
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Stuck o the Butt
I cry from deep within my soul
For humanity, which is
So ugly and so bold.
Something I live and
I am not told,
To each other we are so cold.
God has given us a choice
We all have our own voice
Be it right or wrong.
The unsung heroine's song
We must sing
Ring, ding, ding.
The rhapsody of woman/kind
How it blows the mind
Yet so very, very divine.
Woman, woman so fine.
From the pits of her
Inner/self she sing
Her song.
Respect me man with ye'
Organ of taste.
Woman is all man can be
With no waste.
But, notice man continues to mistreat woman.
The will of woman/kind,
Her gentleness,
Her mind,
Her sheer delight.
Her share...
Restrain, the woman who cares
Bind her bring her to the grotto.
Her soul she will give,
For man to live.
Woman is cool, calm and collective
Under pressure still.
Going into death...
To give life
Woman, girl or wife.
Her hand someone need hold,
Without ever being told.
Woman, woman... a (God) gift,
Pure Gold.
An impelling force her source,
Deep,
Deep,
From the gut,
And with all else man is stuck...
On the butt.
poem by whisperkwane Lamb
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