He Leadeth Me.
quote by Victor Fleming
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Shadow Of Deth
Auxilium meum a Domino
The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures
He leadeth me beside the still waters
He restoreth my soul
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
I will fear no evil; for thou art with me
Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies
Thou anoitest my head with oil; my cup runneth over
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life
And I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever
song performed by by Megadeth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Lord Is My Shepherd
THE LORD ID MY SHEPHERED , THE LORD IS MY SHEPHED
MY FRIEND AND HELPER, I SHALL NOT WANT
HE'S THERE TO GUIDE ME , STANDING BESIDE ME
THE LORD IS MY SHEPHERD, I SHALL NOT WANT
SPOKEN:THE LORD IS MY SHEPHERD, I SHALL NOT WANT
HE MAKETH ME TO LIE IN GREEN PASTURES
HE LEADETH ME BESIDE STILL WATERS
HE RESTORETH MY SOUL
{I SHALL NOT WANT...
HE LEADETH ME IN THE PATHS OF RIGHTEOUSNESS FOR HIS NAME' SAKE
AND YEA, THOUGH I WALK THROUGH THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH.
I WILL FEAR NO EVIL : FOR THOU ART ME;
THY ROD AND THY STAFF,THEY COMFORT ME.
[I SHALL NOT WANT...]
THOU PREPAREST A TABLE BEFORE ME IN THE PRESENT OF MINE ENEMIES;
THOU ANNOINTH MY HEAD WITH OIL; MY CUP RUNNETH OVER.
SURELY GOODNESS AND MERRY SHALL FOLLOW ME ALL THE DAYS OF MY LIFE.
AND I SHALL NOT DWELL IN THE HOUSE OF THE LORD FOREVER
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Weary the path that does not challenge. Doubt is an incentive to truth and patient inquiry leadeth the way.
quote by Hosea Ballou
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Path that leadeth on is lighted by one fire - the light of daring burning in the heart. The more one dares, the more he shall obtain.
quote by Helena Petrova Blavatsky
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The fulness of joy is to behold God in all: for by the same blessed Might, Wisdom, and Love, that He made all-thing, to the same end our good Lord leadeth it continually, and thereto Himself shall bring it; and when it is time we shall see it.
quote by Julian of Norwich
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Song IX: Ho Ye Who Seek Saving
Love is enough: ho ye who seek saving,
Go no further; come hither; there have been who have found it,
And these know the House of Fulfilment of Craving;
These know the Cup with the roses around it;
These know the World's Wound and the balm that hath bound it:
Cry out, the World heedeth not, 'Love, lead us home!'
He leadeth, He hearkeneth, He cometh to you-ward;
Set your faces as steel to the fears that assemble
Round his goad for the faint, and his scourge for the froward,
Lo his lips, how with tales of last kisses they tremble!
Lo his eyes of all sorrow that may not dissemble!
Cry out, for he heedeth, 'O Love, lead us home!'
O hearken the words of his voice of compassion:
'Come cling round about me, ye faithful who sicken
Of the weary unrest and the world's passing fashions!
As the rain in mid-morning your troubles shall thicken,
But surely within you some Godhead doth quicken,
As ye cry to me heeding, and leading you home.
'Come--pain ye shall have, and be blind to the ending!
Come--fear ye shall have, mid the sky's overcasting!
Come--change ye shall have, for far are ye wending!
Come--no crown ye shall have for your thirst and your fasting,
But the kissed lips of Love and fair life everlasting!
Cry out, for one heedeth, who leadeth you home!'
Is he gone? was he with us?--ho ye who seek saving,
Go no further; come hither; for have we not found it?
Here is the House of Fulfilment of Craving;
Here is the Cup with the roses around it;
The World's Wound well healed, and the balm that hath bound it:
Cry out! for he heedeth, fair Love that led home.
poem by William Morris
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Winter
Earth bears her sorrow gladly, like a nun,
Her young face glowing through the icy veil.
The storms that threaten her, the winds that rail,
Kindle a deeper color. She has won
Graces that please the high-enthronèd sun;
Across her soft white robes that drift and trail
He casts his lordly purples, lest she quail
With the dead year, and think that all is done.
She leadeth on through desolate sad days,
A smile upon her lips, a triumph-song
Shut in her heart. Be glad! so singeth she;
Glad of the solitude, the silent ways,—
Even of the pain; so shall thy soul grow strong
For the brave spring that comes to set us free.
poem by Harriet Monroe
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The Lord Is My Shepherd
The Lord is my Shepherd, no want shall I know;
I feed in green pastures, safe folded I rest;
He leadeth my soul where the still waters flow,
Restores me when wand’ring, redeems when oppressed.
Through valley and shadow of death though I stray,
Since Thou art my Guardian, no evil I fear;
Thy rod shall defend me, Thy staff be my stay;
No harm can befall, with my Comforter near.
In midst of affliction my table is spread;
With blessings unmeasured my cup runneth o’er;
With perfume and oil Thou anointest my head;
O what shall I ask of Thy providence more?
Let goodness and mercy, my bountiful God,
Still follow my steps till I meet Thee above;
I seek, by the path which my forefathers trod,
Through land of their sojourn, Thy Kingdom of love.
poem by James Montgomery
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Strangely
i (kept to) keep looking at the dark clouds
hoping to see the rainbow
at least to get a peace of mind
to cleanse my heart with the morning sun when it rises
walking these few metres
one foot in front of the other
as i paced on with life; could not bother
about the unknown saga
because nobody is there; not even a brother
to leadeth me on this one such journey,
no wonder....
i (kept to) keep staring at the dark clouds
in awe
hoping to see the rainbow
at least to get a peace of mind
to cleanse my heart by the sunset
strangely, a sunset boulevard....
no?
yes?
no...
but strangely amazing like dem draw the card.
***extract from 'patterns of life' november 2011 ebook
ntema's unique poetry (nup)
poem by Onalethuso Petruss Ntema
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Americanisation
Britannia needs no Boulevards,
No spaces wide and gay:
Her march was through the crooked streets
Along the narrow way.
Nor looks she where, New York's seduction,
The Broadway leadeth to destruction.
Britannia needs no Cafes:
If Coffee needs must be,
Its place should be the Coffee-house
Where Johnson growled for Tea;
But who can hear that human mountain
Growl for an ice-cream soda-fountain?
She needs no Russian Theatre
Where Father strangles Mother,
In scenes where all the characters
And colours kill each other--
Her boast is freedom had by halves,
And Britons never shall be Slavs.
But if not hers the Dance of Death,
Great Dostoievsky's dance,
And if the things most finely French
Are better done in France--
Might not Americanisation
Be best applied to its own nation?
Ere every shop shall be a store
And every Trade a Trust . . .
Lo, many men in many lands
Know when their cause is just.
There will be quite a large attendance
When we Declare our Independence.
poem by G.K. Chesterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Americanisation
Britannia needs no Boulevards,
No spaces wide and gay:
Her march was through the crooked streets
Along the narrow way.
Nor looks she where, New York's seduction,
The Broadway leadeth to destruction.
Britannia needs no Cafes:
If Coffee needs must be,
Its place should be the Coffee-house
Where Johnson growled for Tea;
But who can hear that human mountain
Growl for an ice-cream soda-fountain?
She needs no Russian Theatrey
Mere Father strangles Mother,
In scenes where all the characters
And colours kill each other--
Her boast is freedom had by halves,
And Britons never shall be Slavs.
But if not hers the Dance of Death,
Great Dostoievsky's dance,
And if the things most finely French
Are better done in France--
Might not Americanisation
Be best applied to its own nation?
Ere every shop shall be a store
And every Trade a Trust . . .
Lo, many men in many lands
Know when their cause is just.
There will be quite a large attendance
When we Declare our Independence.
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 2. Interlude II.
'I thought before your tale began,'
The Student murmured, 'we should have
Some legend written by Judah Rav
In his Gemara of Babylon;
Or something from the Gulistan,--
The tale of the Cazy of Hamadan,
Or of that King of Khorasan
Who saw in dreams the eyes of one
That had a hundred years been dead
Still moving restless in his head,
Undimmed, and gleaming with the lust
Of power, though all the rest was dust.
'But lo! your glittering caravan
On the road that leadeth to Ispahan
Hath led us farther to the East
Into the regions of Cathay.
Spite of your Kalif and his gold,
Pleasant has been the tale you told,
And full of color; that at least
No one will question or gainsay.
And yet on such a dismal day
We need a merrier tale to clear
The dark and heavy atmosphere.
So listen, Lordlings, while I tell,
Without a preface, what befell
A simple cobbler, in the year ?
No matter; it was long ago;
And that is all we need to know.'
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Mine Father
Shadow of a great rock in a weary land
Rock that is higher than I
Rock that begat me
Mine exceeding great reward
Mine Father that hath bought me
Mine heavenly Father
Hath bound the waters in a garment
Hath gathered the wind in His fists
He that dwellest in the Heavens
The true light
The true vine
The incorruptible
The way, the truth, and the life
The Word of life
Mine very present help
In times of need
Rock of my refuge
Rock of my salvation
Rock of my strength
Refuge from the storm
Refuge in times of trouble
Our Father
Who leadeth us by the way that we shouldest go
Who teacheth us to profit
Who exercise loving-kindness, judgment, and righteousness
Our Father which is in heaven
The forever living Father
poem by Mugano S. Paul
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Brook Song: To the Spring
O beauty! vision of forgotten gladness!
Fulfillment of a dream that ne'er betrays!
O miracle of hope, and balm of sadness!
Creative ecstasy and fount of praise!
...........................................
I lay upon the ground and gave no token,
I hid my face mid sodden leaves and sere,
My languid pulses chill, my spirit broken,—
I knew not, O divine one! you were near;
For snows and frosts of winter, new-departed,
Still held my will in thrall and weighed me down;
And I forgot—forlorn and heavy-hearted—
Your promise, goddess of the violet crown!
But soft as music in remembrance sighing,
You fanned me with your wooing breath, and I,
Who shed no tears when lone I seemed and dying,
Wept at your touch, and knew I should not die.
Now by my banks are tender blossoms blowing:
In fragrant loveliness they smile on me,—
But I must hasten to the river, knowing
The river leadeth ever to the sea.
High over me the budding branches quiver
With songs that swell in happy harmony;
But sweeter is the murmur of the river,—
The river that leads ever to the sea!
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Mine and Thine (1904)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Lord Is My Shepherd
The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want:
I'm a created follower, I was made a worshipper,
Of spirits, trees, people, stones, but now my idol's left me all alone.
This desire within me's left me hollow, I need someone to follow!
They need to know the way, or I won't see the light of day!
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
This world where I walk, is dry-the dust makes me choke.
My idols lead me to a land of death, here I die in the heat of the dearth.
Oh for some cool water, an oasis, to cool my soul's cravings.
I need some food to nourish me, a fruitful place to run free.
I'm tired of running for my life, I want a place without strife.
He leadeth me beside the still waters:
This life is full of storms, I want to sail on the calm.
The waves are crashing down out here, grinding into the sand.
I gotta get this pounding out my ears: Jesus, hold my heart, calm my fears.
He restoreth my soul:
When I walk out there, I see zombies walking around me.
Indeed, I've been the living dead, many times I've sat on the ledge.
I need a restoration, a renovation, heck, I need a haulover: life revolution.
One answer: Jesus on the cross. Life change, the Lord restores the soul.
The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.
poem by Joses Tirtabudi
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 2. The Spanish Jew's Tale; Kambalu
Into the city of Kambalu,
By the road that leadeth to Ispahan,
At the head of his dusty caravan,
Laden with treasure from realms afar,
Baldacca and Kelat and Kandahar,
Rode the great captain Alau.
The Khan from his palace-window gazed,
And saw in the thronging street beneath,
In the light of the setting sun, that blazed
Through the clouds of dust by the caravan raised,
The flash of harness and jewelled sheath,
And the shining scimitars of the guard,
And the weary camels that bared their teeth,
As they passed and passed through the gates unbarred
Into the shade of the palace-yard.
Thus into the city of Kambalu
Rode the great captain Alau;
And he stood before the Khan, and said:
'The enemies of my lord are dead;
All the Kalifs of all the West
Bow and obey thy least behest;
The plains are dark with the mulberry-trees,
The weavers are busy in Samarcand,
The miners are sifting the golden sand,
The divers plunging for pearls in the seas,
And peace and plenty are in the land.
'Baldacca's Kalif, and he alone,
Rose in revolt against thy throne:
His treasures are at thy palace-door,
With the swords and the shawls and the jewels he wore;
His body is dust o'er the desert blown.
'A mile outside of Baldacca's gate
I left my forces to lie in wait,
Concealed by forests and hillocks of sand,
And forward dashed with a handful of men,
To lure the old tiger from his den
Into the ambush I had planned.
Ere we reached the town the alarm was spread,
For we heard the sound of gongs from within;
And with clash of cymbals and warlike din
The gates swung wide; and we turned and fled;
And the garrison sallied forth and pursued,
With the gray old Kalif at their head,
And above them the banner of Mohammed:
So we snared them all, and the town was subdued.
'As in at the gate we rode, behold,
A tower that is called the Tower of Gold!
For there the Kalif had hidden his wealth,
Heaped and hoarded and piled on high,
Like sacks of wheat in a granary;
And thither the miser crept by stealth
To feel of the gold that gave him health,
And to gaze and gloat with his hungry eye
On jewels that gleamed like a glow-worm's spark,
Or the eyes of a panther in the dark.
'I said to the Kalif: 'Thou art old,
Thou hast no need of so much gold.
Thou shouldst not have heaped and hidden it here,
Till the breath of battle was hot and near,
But have sown through the land these useless hoards
To spring into shining blades of swords,
And keep thine honor sweet and clear.
These grains of gold are not grains of wheat;
These bars of silver thou canst not eat;
These jewels and pearls and precious stones
Cannot cure the aches in thy bones,
Nor keep the feet of Death one hour
From climbing the stairways of thy tower!'
'Then into his dungeon I locked the drone,
And left him to feed there all alone
In the honey-cells of his golden hive:
Never a prayer, nor a cry, nor a groan
Was heard from those massive walls of stone,
Nor again was the Kalif seen alive!
'When at last we unlocked the door,
We found him dead upon the floor;
The rings had dropped from his withered hands,
His teeth were like bones in the desert sands:
Still clutching his treasure he had died;
And as he lay there, he appeared
A statue of gold with a silver beard,
His arms outstretched as if crucified.'
This is the story, strange and true,
That the great captain Alau
Told to his brother the Tartar Khan,
When he rode that day into Kambalu
By the road that leadeth to Ispahan.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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A Year's Courtship
I saw her, Harry, first, in March --
You know the street that leadeth down
By the old bridge's crumbling arch? --
Just where it leaves the dusty town
A lonely house stands grim and dark --
You've seen it? then I need not say
How quaint the place is -- did you mark
An ivied window? Well! one day,
I, chasing some forgotten dream,
And in a poet's idlest mood,
Caught, as I passed, a white hand's gleam --
A shutter opened -- there she stood
Training the ivy to its prop.
Two dark eyes and a brow of snow
Flashed down upon me -- did I stop? --
She says I did -- I do not know.
But all that day did something glow
Just where the heart beats; frail and slight,
A germ had slipped its shell, and now
Was pushing softly for the light.
And April saw me at her feet,
Dear month of sunshine and of rain!
My very fears were sometimes sweet,
And hope was often touched with pain.
For she was frank, and she was coy,
A willful April in her ways;
And in a dream of doubtful joy
I passed some truly April days.
May came, and on that arch, sweet mouth,
The smile was graver in its play,
And, softening with the softening South,
My April melted into May.
She loved me, yet my heart would doubt,
And ere I spoke the month was June --
One warm still night we wandered out
To watch a slowly setting moon.
Something which I saw not -- my eyes
Were not on heaven -- a star, perchance,
Or some bright drapery of the skies,
Had caught her earnest, upper glance.
And as she paused -- Hal! we have played
Upon the very spot -- a fir
Just touched me with its dreamy shade,
But the full moonlight fell on her --
And as she paused -- I know not why --
I longed to speak, yet could not speak;
The bashful are the boldest -- I --
I stooped and gently kissed her cheek.
A murmur (else some fragrant air
Stirred softly) and the faintest start --
O Hal! we were the happiest pair!
O Hal! I clasped her heart to heart!
And kissed away some tears that gushed;
But how she trembled, timid dove,
When my soul broke its silence, flushed
With a whole burning June of love.
Since then a happy year hath sped
Through months that seemed all June and May,
And soon a March sun, overhead,
Will usher in the crowning day.
Twelve blessed moons that seemed to glow
All summer, Hal! -- my peerless Kate!
She is the dearest -- "Angel?" -- no!
Thank God! -- but you shall see her -- wait.
So all is told! I count on thee
To see the Priest, Hal! Pass the wine!
Here's to my darling wife to be!
And here's to -- when thou find'st her -- thine!
poem by Henry Timrod
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Kisses And The Rhythmic Principle
My dear ladies - that is to say, those of you who may happen inadvertently to glance through this dreadful paper
Most of you, no doubt, have felt impelled, at one time or another, to lightly caper
Round and about a ballroom, clasped in the manly and purely platonic embrace of some intellectual affinity - some male bird of your type.
There comes a period in the lives of all of us when the time for such festive prancing seems deliciously ripe.
Is it not so? Then dance, dear ladies, dance every time you get a chance.
Pray, do not think for a moment that I approve of those incomprehensible persons known as Wowsers.
I object to them on principle. I object to all their works, opinions and prejudices.
But most of all I object to their absurd hats and totally nondescript trousers.
But I digress. Ladies, I am your friend.
And ever shall I sympathetically lend
An ear to your protestations in defence of the polka-mazurka, and the schottische, and the two-step, and the waltz.
To declare that such dances are indelicate is false.
They are not!
Nor is the turkey-trot
A thing of evil.
And, as some would have us believe, an invention of the DEVIL.
Nay, even the cruelly maligned sticking-plaster
Leadeth in no sense to moral disaster
For always remember, ladies, when you are indulging in intricate terpsichorean evolutions, then that unutterably ecstatic bliss you
Experience for the moment is merely an abnormally rapid oxidisation of the mental tissue.
Dear females - diners, tarts, peaches, flappers, bits o' fluff, and perfect ladies,
There are those who will tell you that dancing is a direct importation from Hades.
By making such absurd and obviously idiotic assertions nothing can be gained:
For the whole matter may be scientifically, psychologically and biologically explained.
For instance, we will suppose that you are treading some stately measure
Such as the Gaby-glide - with a partner whose appearance and deportment give you entire pleasure.
And we will suppose
His is emboldened to propose
A subsequent and somewhat surreptitious adjournment to the conservatory -
(You know the old, old story?)
And, being half inclined to agree, you fall to wondering whether mother would really miss you.
Do not hesitate, dear lady. Respond immediately to the extraordinary and not altogether unpleasant oxidisation of the aforesaid tissue.
And now, dear lady,
Having discovered a secluded nook both cool and shady,
It is just possible that your partner may fondly place his arm around you.
Nay, do not let this dumbfound you.
Be not alarmed. No haughty glances, if you please,
For indications such as these
Betray a mind uncultured. If you would act aright,
I pray you, regard the whole matter in a scientific light.
If, for a moment, I thought you failed to recognise the rhythmic principle I should be sorely grieved.
Remember, always remember, my dear lady, that the poor young man's overcharged brain must, at all costs, be relieved.
(For, in the course of my exhaustive researches, I have discovered, after much Labor and infinite pains,
That a very large proportion of dancing men are afflicted with overcharged brains.)
And then, should he, perchance, press you tenderly to his biled shirt, and ultimately kiss you;
No protests, I pray you.
Reflet, again, that this is uncontrovertibly another manifestation of the rapid, not to say furious oxidisation of the aforementioned tissue.
And here, dear lady, endeth my discourse. I have nothing to add except, perhaps, that it would at this point be advisable to return to the ballroom and your maternal relation.
Not, of course, with any idea of snubbing the poor young man with the overcharged
brain; but merely as an ordinary precaution against the possible effects of over-oxidisation.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. The Spanish Jew's Second Tale; Scanderbeg
The battle is fought and won
By King Ladislaus, the Hun,
In fire of hell and death's frost,
On the day of Pentecost.
And in rout before his path
From the field of battle red
Flee all that are not dead
Of the army of Amurath.
In the darkness of the night
Iskander, the pride and boast
Of that mighty Othman host,
With his routed Turks, takes flight
From the battle fought and lost
On the day of Pentecost;
Leaving behind him dead
The army of Amurath,
The vanguard as it led,
The rearguard as it fled,
Mown down in the bloody swath
Of the battle's aftermath.
But he cared not for Hospodars,
Nor for Baron or Voivode,
As on through the night he rode
And gazed at the fateful stars,
That were shining overhead;
But smote his steed with his staff,
And smiled to himself, and said;
'This is the time to laugh.'
In the middle of the night,
In a halt of the hurrying flight,
There came a Scribe of the King
Wearing his signet ring,
And said in a voice severe:
'This is the first dark blot
On thy name, George Castriot!
Alas! why art thou here,
And the army of Amurath slain,
And left on the battle plain?'
And Iskander answered and said:
'They lie on the bloody sod
By the hoofs of horses trod;
But this was the decree
Of the watchers overhead;
For the war belongeth to God,
And in battle who are we,
Who are we, that shall withstand
The wind of his lifted hand?'
Then he bade them bind with chains
This man of books and brains;
And the Scribe said: 'What misdeed
Have I done, that, without need,
Thou doest to me this thing?'
And Iskander answering
Said unto him: 'Not one
Misdeed to me hast thou done;
But for fear that thou shouldst run
And hide thyself from me,
Have I done this unto thee.
'Now write me a writing, O Scribe,
And a blessing be on thy tribe!
A writing sealed with thy ring,
To King Amurath's Pasha
In the city of Croia,
The city moated and walled,
That he surrender the same
In the name of my master, the King;
For what is writ in his name
Can never be recalled.'
And the Scribe bowed low in dread,
And unto Iskander said:
'Allah is great and just,
But we are as ashes and dust;
How shall I do this thing,
When I know that my guilty head
Will be forfeit to the King?'
Then swift as a shooting star
The curved and shining blade
Of Iskander's scimetar
From its sheath, with jewels bright,
Shot, as he thundered: 'Write!'
And the trembling Scribe obeyed,
And wrote in the fitful glare
Of the bivouac fire apart,
With the chill of the midnight air
On his forehead white and bare,
And the chill of death in his heart.
Then again Iskander cried:
'Now follow whither I ride,
For here thou must not stay.
Thou shalt be as my dearest friend,
And honors without end
Shall surround thee on every side,
And attend thee night and day.'
But the sullen Scribe replied
'Our pathways here divide;
Mine leadeth not thy way.'
And even as he spoke
Fell a sudden scimetar-stroke,
When no one else was near;
And the Scribe sank to the ground,
As a stone, pushed from the brink
Of a black pool, might sink
With a sob and disappear;
And no one saw the deed;
And in the stillness around
No sound was heard but the sound
Of the hoofs of Iskander's steed,
As forward he sprang with a bound.
Then onward he rode and afar,
With scarce three hundred men,
Through river and forest and fen,
O'er the mountains of Argentar;
And his heart was merry within,
When he crossed the river Drin,
And saw in the gleam of the morn
The White Castle Ak-Hissar,
The city Croia called,
The city moated and walled,
The city where he was born,--
And above it the morning star.
Then his trumpeters in the van
On their silver bugles blew,
And in crowds about him ran
Albanian and Turkoman,
That the sound together drew.
And he feasted with his friends,
And when they were warm with wine,
He said: 'O friends of mine,
Behold what fortune sends,
And what the fates design!
King Amurath commands
That my father's wide domain,
This city and all its lands,
Shall be given to me again.'
Then to the Castle White
He rode in regal state,
And entered in at the gate
In all his arms bedight,
And gave to the Pasha
Who ruled in Croia
The writing of the King,
Sealed with his signet ring.
And the Pasha bowed his head,
And after a silence said:
'Allah is just and great!
I yield to the will divine,
The city and lands are thine;
Who shall contend with fate?'
Anon from the castle walls
The crescent banner falls,
And the crowd beholds instead,
Like a portent in the sky,
Iskander's banner fly,
The Black Eagle with double head;
And a shout ascends on high,
For men's souls are tired of the Turks,
And their wicked ways and works,
That have made of Ak-Hissar
A city of the plague;
And the loud, exultant cry
That echoes wide and far
Is: 'Long live Scanderbeg!'
It was thus Iskander came
Once more unto his own;
And the tidings, like the flame
Of a conflagration blown
By the winds of summer, ran,
Till the land was in a blaze,
And the cities far and near,
Sayeth Ben Joshua Ben Meir,
In his Book of the Words of the Days,
'Were taken as a man
Would take the tip of his ear.'
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Love is Enough: Songs I-IX
I1.
Love is enough: though the World be a-waning
.
And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining,
.
Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discover
.
The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder,
.
Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder,
.
And this day draw a veil over all deeds passed over,
.
Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter;
.
The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter
.
These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.II2.
Love is enough: have no thought for to-morrow
.
If ye lie down this even in rest from your pain,
.
Ye who have paid for your bliss with great sorrow:
.
For as it was once so it shall be again.
.
Ye shall cry out for death as ye stretch forth in vain2.
Feeble hands to the hands that would help but they may not,
.
Cry out to deaf ears that would hear if they could;
.
Till again shall the change come, and words your lips say not
.
Your hearts make all plain in the best wise they would
.
And the world ye thought waning is glorious and good:2.
And no morning now mocks you and no nightfall is weary,
.
The plains are not empty of song and of deed:
.
The sea strayeth not, nor the mountains are dreary;
.
The wind is not helpless for any man's need,
.
Nor falleth the rain but for thistle and weed.2.
O surely this morning all sorrow is hidden,
.
All battle is hushed for this even at least;
.
And no one this noontide may hunger, unbidden
.
To the flowers and the singing and the joy of your feast
.
Where silent ye sit midst the world's tale increased.2.
Lo, the lovers unloved that draw nigh for your blessing!
.
For your tale makes the dreaming whereby yet they live
.
The dreams of the day with their hopes of redressing,
.
The dreams of the night with the kisses they give,
.
The dreams of the dawn wherein death and hope strive.2.
Ah, what shall we say then, but that earth threatened often
.
Shall live on for ever that such things may be,
.
That the dry seed shall quicken, the hard earth shall soften,
.
And the spring-bearing birds flutter north o'er the sea,
.
That earth's garden may bloom round my love's feet and me?III3.
Love is enough: it grew up without heeding
.
In the days when ye knew not its name nor its measure,
.
And its leaflets untrodden by the light feet of pleasure
.
Had no boast of the blossom, no sign of the seeding,
.
As the morning and evening passed over its treasure.3.
And what do ye say then?--That Spring long departed
.
Has brought forth no child to the softness and showers;
.
--That we slept and we dreamed through the Summer of flowers;
.
We dreamed of the Winter, and waking dead-hearted
.
Found Winter upon us and waste of dull hours.3.
Nay, Spring was o'er-happy and knew not the reason,
.
And Summer dreamed sadly, for she thought all was ended
.
In her fulness of wealth that might not be amended;
.
But this is the harvest and the garnering season,
.
And the leaf and the blossom in the ripe fruit are blended.3.
It sprang without sowing, it grew without heeding,
.
Ye knew not its name and ye knew not its measure,
.
Ye noted it not mid your hope and your pleasure;
.
There was pain in its blossom, despair in its seeding,
.
But daylong your bosom now nurseth its treasure.IV4.
Love is enough: draw near and behold me
.
Ye who pass by the way to your rest and your laughter,
.
And are full of the hope of the dawn coming after;
.
For the strong of the world have bought me and sold me
.
And my house is all wasted from threshold to rafter.
.
--Pass by me, and hearken, and think of me not!4.
Cry out and come near; for my ears may not hearken,
.
And my eyes are grown dim as the eyes of the dying.
.
Is this the grey rack o'er the sun's face a-flying?
.
Or is it your faces his brightness that darken?
.
Comes a wind from the sea, or is it your sighing?
.
--Pass by me and hearken, and pity me not!4.
Ye know not how void is your hope and your living:
.
Depart with your helping lest yet ye undo me!
.
Ye know not that at nightfall she draweth near to me,
.
There is soft speech between us and words of forgiving
.
Till in dead of the midnight her kisses thrill through me.
.
--Pass by me and harken, and waken me not!4.
Wherewith will ye buy it, ye rich who behold me?
.
Draw out from your coffers your rest and your laughter,
.
And the fair gilded hope of the dawn coming after!
.
Nay this I sell not,--though ye bought me and sold me,--
.
For your house stored with such things from threshold to rafter.
.
--Pass by me, I hearken, and think of you not!V5.
Love is enough: through the trouble and tangle
.
From yesterday's dawning to yesterday's night
.
I sought through the vales where the prisoned winds wrangle,
.
Till, wearied and bleeding, at end of the light
.
I met him, and we wrestled, and great was my might.5.
O great was my joy, though no rest was around me,
.
Though mid wastes of the world were we twain all alone,
.
For methought that I conquered and he knelt and he crowned me,
.
And the driving rain ceased, and the wind ceased to moan,
.
And through clefts of the clouds her planet outshone.5.
O through clefts of the clouds 'gan the world to awaken,
.
And the bitter wind piped, and down drifted the rain,
.
And I was alone--and yet not forsaken,
.
For the grass was untrodden except by my pain:
.
With a Shadow of the Night had I wrestled in vain.5.
And the Shadow of the Night and not Love was departed;
.
I was sore, I was weary, yet Love lived to seek;
.
So I scaled the dark mountains, and wandered sad-hearted
.
Over wearier wastes, where e'en sunlight was bleak,
.
With no rest of the night for my soul waxen weak.5.
With no rest of the night; for I waked mid a story
.
Of a land wherein Love is the light and the lord,
.
Where my tale shall be heard, and my wounds gain a glory,
.
And my tears be a treasure to add to the hoard
.
Of pleasure laid up for his people's reward.5.
Ah, pleasure laid up! Haste then onward and listen,
.
For the wind of the waste has no music like this,
.
And not thus do the rocks of the wilderness glisten:
.
With the host of his faithful through sorrow and bliss
.
My Lord goeth forth now, and knows me for his.VI6.
Love is enough: cherish life that abideth,
.
Lest ye die ere ye know him, and curse and misname him;
.
For who knows in what ruin of all hope he hideth,
.
On what wings of the terror of darkness he rideth?
.
And what is the joy of man's life that ye blame him
.
For his bliss grown a sword, and his rest grown a fire?6.
Ye who tremble for death, or the death of desire,
.
Pass about the cold winter-tide garden and ponder
.
On the rose in his glory amidst of June's fire,
.
On the languor of noontide that gathered the thunder,
.
On the morn and its freshness, the eve and its wonder:
.
Ye may make it no more--shall Spring come to awaken?6.
Live on, for Love liveth, and earth shall be shaken
.
By the wind of his wings on the triumphing morning,
.
When the dead, and their deeds that die not shall awaken,
.
And the world's tale shall sound in your trumpet of warning,
.
And the sun smite the banner called Scorn of the Scorning,
.
And dead pain ye shall trample, dead fruitless desire,
.
As ye wend to pluck out the new world from the fire.VII7.
Dawn talks to Day
.
Over dew-gleaming flowers,
.
Night flies away
.
Till the resting of hours:
.
Fresh are thy feet
.
And with dreams thine eyes glistening,
.
Thy still lips are sweet
.
Though the world is a-listening.
.
O Love, set a word in my mouth for our meeting,
.
Cast thine arms round about me to stay my heart's beating!
.
O fresh day, O fair day, O long day made ours!...7.
Morn shall meet noon
.
While the flower-stems yet move,
.
Though the wind dieth soon
.
And the clouds fade above.
.
Loved lips are thine
.
As I tremble and hearken;
.
Bright thine eyes shine,
.
Though the leaves thy brow darken.
.
O Love, kiss me into silence, lest no word avail me,
.
Stay my head with thy bosom lest breath and life fail me!
.
O sweet day, O rich day, made long for our love!7.
Late day shall greet eve,
.
And the full blossoms shake,
.
For the wind will not leave
.
The tall trees while they wake.
.
Eyes soft with bliss,
.
Come nigher and nigher!
.
Sweet mouth I kiss,
.
Tell me all thy desire!
.
Let us speak, love, together some words of our story,
.
That our lips as they part may remember the glory!
.
O soft day, O calm day, made clear for our sake!7.
Eve shall kiss night,
.
And the leaves stir like rain
.
As the wind stealeth light
.
O'er the grass of the plain.
.
Unseen are thine eyes
.
Mid the dreamy night's sleeping,
.
And on my mouth there lies
.
The dear rain of thy weeping.
.
Hold silence, love, speak not of the sweet day departed,
.
Cling close to me, love, lest I waken sad-hearted!
.
O kind day, O dear day, short day, come again!VIII8.
Love is enough: while ye deemed him a-sleeping,
.
There were signs of his coming and sounds of his feet;
.
His touch it was that would bring you to weeping,
.
When the summer was deepest and music most sweet:
.
In his footsteps ye followed the day to its dying,
.
Ye went forth by his gown-skirts the morning to meet:
.
In his place on the beaten-down orchard-grass lying,
.
Of the sweet ways ye pondered left for life's trying.8.
Ah, what was all dreaming of pleasure anear you,
.
To the time when his eyes on your wistful eyes turned,
.
And ye saw his lips move, and his head bent to hear you,
.
As new-born and glad to his kindness ye yearned?
.
Ah, what was all dreaming of anguish and sorrow,
.
To the time when the world in his torment was burned,
.
And no god your heart from its prison might borrow,
.
And no rest was left, no today, no tomorrow?8.
All wonder of pleasure, all doubt of desire,
.
All blindness, are ended, and no more ye feel
.
If your feet treat his flowers or the flames of his fire,
.
If your breast meet his balms or the edge of his steel.
.
Change is come, and past over, no more strife, no more learning:
.
Now your lips and your forehead are sealed with his seal,
.
Look backward and smile at the thorns and the burning.
.
--Sweet rest, O my soul, and no fear of returning!IX9.
Love is enough: ho ye who seek saving,
.
Go no further; come hither; there have been who have found it,
.
And these know the House of Fulfilment of Craving;
.
These know the Cup with the roses around it;
.
These know the World's Wound and the balm that hath bound it:
.
Cry out, the World heedeth not, 'Love, lead us home!'9.
He leadeth, He hearkeneth, He cometh to you-ward;
.
Set your faces as steel to the fears that assemble
.
Round his goad for the faint, and his scourge for the froward,
.
Lo his lips, how with tales of last kisses they tremble!
.
Lo his eyes of all sorrow that may not dissemble!
.
Cry out, for he heedeth, 'O Love, lead us home!'9.
O hearken the words of his voice of compassion:
.
'Come cling round about me, ye faithful who sicken
.
Of the weary unrest and the world's passing fashions!
.
As the rain in mid-morning your troubles shall thicken,
.
But surely within you some Godhead doth quicken,
.
As ye cry to me heeding, and leading you home.9.
'Come--pain ye shall have, and be blind to the ending!
.
Come--fear ye shall have, mid the sky's overcasting!
.
Come--change ye shall have, for far are ye wending!
.
Come--no crown ye shall have for your thirst and your fasting,
.
But the kissed lips of Love and fair life everlasting!
.
Cry out, for one heedeth, who leadeth you home!'9.
Is he gone? was he with us?--ho ye who seek saving,
.
Go no further; come hither; for have we not found it?
.
Here is the House of Fulfilment of Craving;
.
Here is the Cup with the roses around it;
.
The World's Wound well healed, and the balm that hath bound it:
.
Cry out! for he heedeth, fair Love that led home.
poem by William Morris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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