Married folk are like rats in a trap -- fain to get others in, but fain to be out themselves.
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A Dedication. To Charlotte Cushman.
As Love will carve dear names upon a tree,
Symbol of gravure on his heart to be,
So thought I thine with loving text to set
In the growth and substance of my canzonet;
But, writing it, my tears begin to fall --
This wild-rose stem for thy large name's too small!
Nay, still my trembling hands are fain, are fain
Cut the good letters though they lap again;
Perchance such folk as mark the blur and stain
Will say, `It was the beating of the rain;'
Or, haply these o'er-woundings of the stem
May loose some little balm, to plead for them.
poem by Sidney Lanier
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Fluttered Wings
The splendour of the kindling day,
The splendor of the setting sun,
These move my soul to wend its way,
And have done
With all we grasp and toil amongst and say.
The paling roses of a cloud,
The fading bow that arches space,
These woo my fancy toward my shroud,
Toward the place
Of faces veil’d, and heads discrown’d and bow’d.
The nation of the awful stars,
The wandering star whose blaze is brief,
These make me beat against the bars
Of my grief;
My tedious grief, twin to the life it mars.
O fretted heart toss’d to and fro,
So fain to flee, so fain to rest!
All glories that are high or low,
East or west,
Grow dim to thee who art so fain to go.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Not A Child
'Not a child: I call myself a boy,'
Says my king, with accent stern yet mild,
Now nine years have brought him change of joy;
'Not a child.'
How could reason be so far beguiled,
Err so far from sense's safe employ,
Stray so wide of truth, or run so wild?
Seeing his face bent over book or toy,
Child I called him, smiling: but he smiled
Back, as one too high for vain annoy -
Not a child.
II.
Not a child? alack the year!
What should ail an undefiled
Heart, that he would fain appear
Not a child?
Men, with years and memories piled
Each on other, far and near,
Fain again would so be styled:
Fain would cast off hope and fear,
Rest, forget, be reconciled:
Why would you so fain be, dear,
Not a child?
III.
Child or boy, my darling, which you will,
Still your praise finds heart and song employ,
Heart and song both yearning toward you still,
Child or boy.
All joys else might sooner pall or cloy
Love than this which inly takes its fill,
Dear, of sight of your more perfect joy.
Nay, be aught you please, let all fulfil
All your pleasure; be your world your toy:
Mild or wild we love you, loud or still,
Child or boy.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Lord Randall
"Oh where ha'e ye been, Lord Randall, my son!
And where ha'e ye been, my handsome young man!"
"I ha'e been to the wild wood: mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."
"An wha met ye there, Lord Randall, my son?
An wha met you there, my handsome young man?"
"I dined wi my true-love; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie doon."
"And what did she give you, Lord Randall, my son?
And what did she give you, my handsome young man?"
"Eels fried in broo; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie doon."
"And wha gat your leavins, Lord Randall, my son?
And wha gat your leavins, my handsome young man?"
"My hawks and my hounds; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie doon."
"What become a yer bloodhounds, Lord Randall, my son?
What become a yer bloodhounds, my handsome young man?"
"They swelled and they died; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi huntin, and fain wad lie doon."
"O I fear ye are poisoned, Lord Randall, my son!
I fear ye are poisoned, my handsome young man!"
"O yes, I am poisoned; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm sick at m' heart, and I fain wad lie doon."
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Lord Randall
"Oh where ha'e ye been, Lord Randall, my son!
And where ha'e ye been, my handsome young man!"
"I ha'e been to the wild wood: mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."
"An wha met ye there, Lord Randall, my son?
An wha met you there, my handsome young man?"
"I dined wi my true-love; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie doon."
"And what did she give you, Lord Randall, my son?
And what did she give you, my handsome young man?"
"Eels fried in broo; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie doon."
"And wha gat your leavins, Lord Randall, my son?
And wha gat your leavins, my handsome young man?"
"My hawks and my hounds; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie doon."
"What become a yer bloodhounds, Lord Randall, my son?
What become a yer bloodhounds, my handsome young man?"
"They swelled and they died; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi huntin, and fain wad lie doon."
"O I fear ye are poisoned, Lord Randall, my son!
I fear ye are poisoned, my handsome young man!"
"O yes, I am poisoned; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm sick at m' heart, and I fain wad lie doon."
Admit The Rat (Interlude)
I got a story
bout all these rats
all the sewer rats
all these gun rats
im talkin bout all these gold diggen rats
these hood rats
my grandmothers a rat
she's just an old school rat
my mothers a rat
she's just a high class rat
my sisters rats
she's just a middle class rat
my cousins rats
they just low class rats
im tired of rats tryin to get into my boyz pockets
im tired of rats tryin to ride around in my cars
im tired of rats talkin all that jibber jabber to their friends
but ond day these rats are gonna be straight
no diss to rats
cuz there are some rats that i love too
my message to you today is admit the rat in you
to all women admitt the rat in you
admit the rat in you
admit the rat in you
admit the rat in you
song performed by by Next
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Enjoy A Beautiful Life
Look at the bright shinning blue sky
Look at the birds that're flying high
Look at the flowers and their view
That's all spreading joy that is true
Look at the star that is bright
Look at all life's pleasing sight
Look at the sun with a smile
That'll help you to go another mile
And when you'll do all this dear
Then you'll feel how much others care
And you'll enjoy a beautiful life
Where joy and fain all do survive
And you'll find the path of fain
will surely come in the way of pain
And will show you life's sight
which are full of joy and delight.
poem by Seema Chowdhury
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Admit The Rat
I got a story
Bout all these rats
All the sewer rats
All these gun rats
Im talkin bout all these gold diggen rats
These hood rats
My grandmothers a rat
Shes just an old school rat
My mothers a rat
Shes just a high class rat
My sisters rats
Shes just a middle class rat
My cousins rats
They just low class rats
Im tired of rats tryin to get into my boyz pockets
Im tired of rats tryin to ride around in my cars
Im tired of rats talkin all that jibber jabber to their friends
But ond day these rats are gonna be straight
No diss to rats
Cuz there are some rats that I love too
My message to you today is admit the rat in you
To all women admitt the rat in you
Admit the rat in you
Admit the rat in you
Admit the rat in you
song performed by by Next
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Spices Of Life
Life's spice is made of joy and pain
Like a little dropp of sunshine and fain
Where no one has any power or say
To fight with fate in any way
So remember that it is better to smile
And laugh in your way for a while
And stop your tears to sigh or mourn
And learn to carve a life of your own
Because life is the best gift of god
So think of it as a reward
And remember that without cloud of rain
We couldn't have enjoyed sunshine or fain.
Seema Chowdhury
poem by Seema Chowdhury
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Slave To The Wage
Run away from all your boredom
Run away from all your whoredom and wave
Your worries and cares
Goodbye
All it takes is one decision
A lot of guts, a little vision to wave
Your worries and cares
Goodbye
Its a maze for rats to try
Its a maze for rats to try
Its a race, a race for rats
A race for rats to die
Its a race, a race for rats
A race for rats to die
Sick and tired of maggies farm
Shes a bitch with broken arms to wave
Your worries and cares
Goodbye
Its a maze for rats to try
Its a maze for rats to try
Its a race, a race for rats
A race for rats to die
Its a race, a race for rats
A race for rats to die
Its a race, a race for rats
A race for rats to die
Its a race, a race for rats
A race for rats to die
Burn away
Run away, run away
Run away, run away
Run away, run away
Run away, run away
song performed by by Placebo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Exile's Death
Of what does this poor exile dream?
His garden plot, his dewy mead,
Perchance his tools, perchance his team,—
But ever of murdered France indeed;
Her memory makes his sad heart bleed.
While those that slew her clutch their pay,
The exile pleads with bitter cry:
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die.
The workman sees his workshop still,
And the poor peasant his loved cot;
Sweet homely flowers on the window-sill,
Or the bright hearth (when flowers bloom not)
Smiling on all things unforgot,—
E'en flickering on that nook whence aye
His grandmam's bed erst met his eye.
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die.
In springtime swarm the honey bees;
Pert sparrows, quick heaven's gifts to share.
Blithe 'mong the barley crop one sees;
Sad little rogues, sans though, or care
They rob, as though they eagles were.
An old-world chateau, ivied, grey,
Crumbles the snug farmstead anigh.
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die.
With file and mallet one can live
And keep one's wife and youngster's bright;
One works from faintest dawn till eve,
And in the toil finds true delight.
O sacred labour! life and light!
Our fathers toiled till, wearied, they
Resigned the tools with a smile or sigh.
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die.
On holidays, the artisan,
His tools and cares all cheerily stowing,
Singing brave songs which bless or ban,
Cap jaunty on brow, blouse loosely flowing,
Forth to some festal haunt is going.
One eats a rabbit (so they say!)
And quaffs sour wine of Hungary.
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die.
On Sundays aye the peasant strong
Sings out for Jeanne or Jacqueline:
'Now sweetheart, quickly come along,—
I warrant me, with ribbons fine,—
To dance on the hill till stars bright shine.'
The sabot hath a tricksy way
Of making music in July.
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die.
Mournfully aye the exiles muse,
With spirit,—alas! nigh broken down.
Still they regard the darkling yews
That on green peaceful graves still frown.
One dreams of Germany, and one
Of poor bruised Poland, hapless prey,
And one of beauteous Italy.
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die.
An exile, tired of hopeless pain,
Lay dying; calm, scarce sad, looked he.
'Why die?' I gently asked him then.
He answered, 'Is life sweet to thee?'
Then smiled, 'I shall at length be free!
Farewell, I die. O France, for aye
Thee shall the tyrant crucify?'
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die.
'I die because I see no longer
The fields, erewhile the world to me.
I die, because I hear no longer
The birds, my whole world's melody.
My soul is where I cannot be.
'Twixt four rough planks my body lay,
And bury me,—I care not, I!'
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die.
poem by Victor Hugo
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Carigieburn Wood
Sweet fa's the eve on Craigieburn,
And blythe awakens the morrow,
But a' the pride o' spring's return
Can yield me nocht but sorrow.
I see the flowers and spreading trees,
I hear the wild birds singing;
But what a weary wight can please,
And care his bosom wringing?
Fain, fain would I my griefs impart,
Yet darena for your anger'
But secret love will break my heart,
If I conceal it langer.
If thou refuse to pity me,
If thou shalt love anither,
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree,
Around my grave they'll wither.
poem by Robert Burns
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Craigieburn Wood
Sweet fa's the eve on Craigieburn,
And blythe awakens the morrow,
But a' the pride o' spring's return
Can yield me nocht but sorrow.
I see the flowers and spreading trees,
I hear the wild birds singing;
But what a weary wight can please,
And care his bosom wringing?
Fain, fain would I my griefs impart,
Yet darena for your anger'
But secret love will break my heart,
If I conceal it langer.
If thou refuse to pity me,
If thou shalt love anither,
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree,
Around my grave they'll wither.
poem by Robert Burns
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Sonnet 81: Oh Kiss, Which Dost
Oh kiss, which dost those ruddy gems impart,
Or gems, or fruits of new-found Paradise,
Breathing all bliss and sweet'ning to the heart,
Teaching dumb lips a nobler exercise;
Oh kiss, which souls, even souls, together ties
By links of Love, and only Nature's art:
How fain would I paint thee to all men's eyes,
Or of thy gifts at least shade out some part;
But she forbids, with blushing words, she says
She builds her fame on higher-seated praise;
But my heart burns, I cannot silent be.
Then since (dear life) you fain would have me peace,
And I, mad with delight, want wit to cease,
Stop you my mouth with still, still kissing me.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Sonnet 97: Dian, That Fain Would Cheer
Dian, that fain would cheer her friend the Night,
Shows her oft at the full her fairest race,
Bringing with her those starry nymphs, whose chase
From heav'nly standing hits each mortal wight.
But ah, poor Night, in love with Phoebus' light,
And endlessly despairing of his grace,
Herself (to show no other joy hath place)
Silent and sad in mourning weeds doth dight:
Ev'n so (alas) a lady, Dian's peer,
With chice delights and rarest company
Would fain drive clouds from out my heavy cheer.
But woe is me, though Joy itself were she,
She could not show my blind brain ways of joy
While I despair my Sun's sight to enjoy.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Night Runners Competition Counted
we enjoy counting the rats
running around at night,
when we are arriving home
on our faithful motorbike,
usually two or three rats to see,
Kayla and I have a competition
counting first spied rats we see,
who can spot local drain rats first
the biggest rats seen truthfully
are as big as healthy pet cats,
we go look at pets frequently
in BSD once a week we peep,
in at a pet shop when we watch,
a movie in expedition BSD every week
a family movie is a special treat,
our two happy daughters think it so neat
our neigbour concreted over their open drain
next door rats love their drains seldom stray,
so less rats outside rats too close we do disdain
rats who venture close in life peril cannot stay,
if any bold rats venture into our house ceiling,
these rats are disposed of poisoned very quickly
our rule is no entry for any rats poison strictly,
tropical rat best learn trespass has no pity feeling.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Fairytale Cheer
I see something that is bright
Like small patches of the light
or may be it is just a dream
Very real and soft as a cream
Where moments are dipped in fain
And there is no sign of pain
Where everything is full of delight
And there its all day no night
Or may be I should say my dear
it is a fairy tale of cheer
Where only good things survive
And show no sign of of a bitter life
And there i enjoy everything
Moving to and fro with joy's ring
And I see everything dip in fain
And showing no sign of any pain
Just like all the good in fairy tales
Where joy cannot be measured in scale
Because everywhere it is light
And everything is shining bright
And I wish if I can forever stay
In this imaginary world's day
Where everything is happy and rare
And like a fairy tale of cheer.
poem by Seema Chowdhury
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The Sunset Years of Samuel Shy
Master I may be,
But not of my fate.
Now come the kisses, too many too late.
Tell me, O Parcae,
For fain would I know,
Where were these kisses three decades ago?
Girls there were plenty,
Mint julep girls, beer girls,
Gay younger married and headstrong career girls,
The girls of my friends
And the wives of my friends,
Some smugly settled and some at loose ends,
Sad girls, serene girls,
Girls breathless and turbulent,
Debs cosmopolitan, matrons suburbulent,
All of them amiable,
All of them cordial,
Innocent rousers of instincts primordial,
But even though health and wealth
Hadn't yet missed me,
None of them,
Not even Jenny,
Once kissed me.
These very same girls
Who with me have grown older
Now freely relax with a head on my shoulder,
And now come the kisses,
A flood in full spate,
The meaningless kisses, too many too late.
They kiss me hello,
They kiss me goodbye,
Should I offer a light, there's a kiss for reply.
They kiss me at weddings,
They kiss me at wakes,
The drop of a hat is less than it takes.
They kiss me at cocktails,
They kiss me at bridge,
It's all automatic, like slapping a midge.
The sound of their kisses
Is loud in my ears
Like the locusts that swarm every seventeen years.
I'm arthritic, dyspeptic,
Potentially ulcery,
And weary of kisses by custom compulsory.
Should my dear ones commit me
As senile demential,
It's from kisses perfunctory, inconsequential.
Answer, O Parcae,
For fain would I know,
Where were these kisses three decades ago?
poem by Ogden Nash
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