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Sonnet 3
The Stoicks thinke, (and they come neere the truth,)
That vertue is the chiefest good of all,
The Academicks on Idea call.
The Epicures in pleasure spend their youth,
The Perrepatetickes iudge felicitie,
To be the chiefest good aboue all other,
One man, thinks this: and that conceaues another:
So that in one thing very few agree.
Let Stoicks haue their vertue if they will,
And all the rest their chiefe-supposed good,
Let cruell Martialists delight in blood,
And Mysers ioy their bags with gold to fill:
My chiefest good, my chiefe felicity,
Is to be gazing on my loues faire eie.
poem by Richard Barnfield
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Treasure
you are a valuable treasure, a treasure that is second to none, a rare treasure, priceless treasure, a treasure which every ones desire in his heart, a treasure that every heart awaited to explore.
poem by Tijani Adebowale Destiny
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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You Are My Treasure
You are my treasure
My warm desire
You are my treasure
Setting my heart on fire
You are my treasure
Worth more than the gold in the sun
You are my treasure
My heart’s number one
You are my treasure
All the riches I’ll ever need
7 March 2007
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tongues
the tongue
of my body
is in the nerves
the tongue
of my soul
in the heart
the tongue of
my mind
in the head
the tongue
of truth and deceits
in the mouth
the tongue of
the World (Creation)
in the words
of God
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On The Gift Of A Book To A Child
Child! do not throw this book about!
Refrain from the unholy pleasure
Of cutting all the pictures out!
Preserve it as your chiefest treasure.
Child, have you never heard it said
That you are heir to all the ages?
Why, then, your hands were never made
To tear these beautiful thick pages!
Your little hands were made to take
The better things and leave the worse ones:
They also may be used to shake
The Massive Paws of Elder Persons.
And when your prayers complete the day,
Darling, your little tiny hands
Were also made, I think, to pray
For men that lose their fairylands.
poem by Hilaire Belloc
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Treasured
A treasure that was given,
Was dismissed before declared.
The value of it was unknown...
So its purpose was not shared.
It sat amongst the midst of the people.
And they ignored its glow.
They ignored the power of it.
And for years its existence,
The people claimed not to know.
One day the treasure was spotted by a stranger.
Someone who had lived and been around.
Someone who knew what to value in life...
And stumbled accidently,
Upon this small town.
Instantly the treasure was recognized.
And the stranger could not believe what was seen.
The treasure was grateful a respect was shown.
And the people were surprised...
What had been announced by the stranger,
Had not been known!
But it was too late!
The treasure was only there,
To have someone appreciate it.
That appreciation was given!
And the stranger and the treasure...
Forever became enriched friends.
And left together feeling blessed,
They had found each other treasured!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The supreme treasure is knowledge, the middle treasure is children, and the lowest treasure is material wealth.
Treasure For Sure
Treasure
Is called treasure
Because someone see it as precious one
Feeling happiness because he have found it
If not, that treasure
Only become something that has no meaning
poem by Maria Sudibyo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Treasure
Treasure each moment together.
You never know when
the moments will ever end.
Treasure each other’s love
to prevent it from
ever slipping away.
Treasure everything in your life.
Guard it carefully
in case one day it simply fades away.
19 March 2008
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Our language
Thou, who sailest Norse mountain-air,
And Denmark's songs by the cradle singest,
Who badest in Hald the war-flames flare,
And, heard in our children's joy, gently ringest,-
Thou treasure of treasures,
Our mother-tongue,
In pains as in pleasures
Our home and our tower,
With God our power,-
We hallow thee!
Whispering secrets that Holberg stored,
Thou borest him home to a brighter morning,
Didst serve him with armor and whet his sword
For satire's assaults and for laughter's warning.
Thou spirit all knowing,
Our mother-tongue,
The ages foregoing,
The future now growing,
The present glowing,-
We hallow thee!
Kierkegaard thou to the deeps didst bring,
Where life's full currents in God he sounded.
For Wergeland wert thou the eagle's wing,
That lifted him sunward to heights unbounded.
Thou treasure of treasures,
Our mother-tongue,
In pain as in pleasures
Our home and our tower,
With God our power,-
We hallow thee!
Radiant warmth of a May-day
Thou to the spring of our freedom gavest.
In thy clearness our Norse flags aye
With song and honor afar thou wavest.
Thou spirit all knowing,
Our mother-tongue,
The ages foregoing,
The future now growing,
The present glowing,-
We hallow thee!
O'er the ocean unrollest thou
Thy carpet of flowers, a bridge that nigher
Can bring dear friends to meet even now,-
While faith grows greater and heaven higher.
Thou treasure of treasures,
Our mother-tongue,
In pain as in pleasures
Our home and our tower,
With God our power,-
We hallow thee!
Best of friends that I found wert thou;
Thou waitedst for me in the eyes of mother.
And leave me last of them all wilt thou,
Who knewest me better than any other.
Thou spirit all knowing,
Our mother-tongue,
The ages foregoing,
The future now growing,
The present glowing,-
We hallow thee!
poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Song. High State And Honours To Others Impart
High state and honours to others impart,
But give me your heart:
That treasure, that treasure alone,
I beg for my own.
So gentle a love, so fervent a fire,
My soul does inspire;
That treasure, that treasure alone,
I beg for my own.
Your love let me crave;
Give me in possessing
So matchless a blessing;
That empire is all I would have.
Love's my petition,
All my ambition;
If e'er you discover
So faithful a lover,
So real a flame,
I'll die, I'll die,
So give up my game.
poem by John Dryden
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It is the chiefest point of happiness that a man is willing to be what he is.
Sonnet: The Tongue
Tongue, the muscle belly in the mouth’s floor!
That grandmothers used to narrate folklore;
With sensors to taste the food that we eat,
And speak fluently with neighbors who cheat.
The boneless tongue gives creatures satiety;
In misdemeanor, speaks words so nasty;
The tongue-tied man cannot speak out too well;
The one with a long tongue argues like hell.
The tongue can emit both a soothing word,
And also cut like a double-edged sword;
The tongue helps one to sing a sweet song,
And touch one’s nose-tip whenever too long.
The tongue can start a war or conclude it;
Some stars use it for their kissing habit.
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Give us enough but with a sparing hand.
quote by Edmund Waller
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love is a tyrant sparing none.
quote by Pierre Corneille
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
quote by Thomas Gray
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Suicidal English
A front to bulldoze the world?
The humble English language inches
Its way round the world picking up
A snobbishness that many ignorant
Souls would die to keep as if it is
The language of their souls
Particularly among Asiatics
Where some happily give up their
Mother tongue just to flaunt
Their mastery of a tongue
Which carries no historical naunces
Of their own, no cultural sounds
Which have taken an eternity.
To emerge in their own lingo;
A treasure then blindly
Carted away in the backyard,
A superficial sophistication keenly pursued;
Its attainment accentuating the
Shallowness and inadequacy of
Their own personality, identity and growth.
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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If you are too sparing with the cat's food, the rats will eat your ears.