For the first fourteen years for a rod they do whine, For the next as a pearl in the world they do shine, For the next trim beauty beginneth to swerve, For the next matrons or drudges they serve, For the next doth crave a staff for a stay, For the next a bier to fetch them away.
quote by Thomas Tusser
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Seamen Three
Seamen three! What men be ye?
Gotham's three wise men we be.
Whither in your bowl so free?
To rake the moon from out the sea.
The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine;
And your ballast is old wine.
Who art thou, so fast adrift?
I am he they call Old Care.
Here on board we will thee lift.
No: I may not enter there.
Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree,
In a bowl Care may not be;
In a bowl Care may not be.
Fear ye not the waves that roll?
No: in charmed bowl we swim.
What the charm that floats the bowl?
Water may not pass the brim.
The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine;
And your ballast is old wine.
poem by Thomas Love Peacock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Three Men of Gotham
SEAMEN three! What men be ye?
Gotham's three wise men we be.
Whither in your bowl so free?
To rake the moon from out the sea.
The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine.--
And your ballast is old wine.
Who art thou, so fast adrift?
I am he they call Old Care.
Here on board we will thee lift.
No: I may not enter there.
Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree,
In a bowl Care may not be.--
In a bowl Care may not be.
Fear ye not the waves that roll?
No: in charmed bowl we swim.
What the charm that floats the bowl?
Water may not pass the brim.
The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine.--
And your ballast is old wine.
poem by Thomas Love Peacock
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Where the Wild Cats Whine
Jet black hair and her green eyes shine
Standing on a cloud in the cool sunshine
Tell me can you see her
Can you hear the wild cats whine
Will you let her take you home
Will you stay a little while
Will you spend some time.
Locked inside like a wild God's cry's
Ringing in her ears in the still of the night
Tell me can you see her
Reaching up to the sky
Looking for the place in the cool sunshine.
Years gone by but the days are the same
Rolling down the track like a dream freight train
I'm going to touch the sun
I'm going to look into her eyes
I'm going to try and find that place where the wild cats whine
Where the wild cats whine in the cool sunshine
With her jet black hair and her green eyes shine
I'm going to follow her home
I'm going to stay for a while
And spend some time in the cool sunshine
Spend some time where the wild cats whine
Locked inside like a wild God's cry's
Ringing in her ears in the still of the night
Now I see her reaching up into the sky
Waiting for me in the cool sunshine
Waiting for me where the wild cats whine.
Jet black hair and her green eyes shine
Waiting on a cloud in the cool sunshine
I'll be here for a while maybe longer than a day
Spend my time in the cool sunshine.
Spend my time where the wild cats whine.
Jeff Nesvig
poem by Jeff Nesvig
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Love is a fire whose flame doth burn unseen
Love is a fire whose flame doth burn unseen
A wound whose aching smart we do not feel;
Contentment discontent with its own weal;
A teasing pain, though neither deep nor keen:
It is not liking more than liking e'en;
Wandering alone 'midst crowds that seem unreal;
Not to content one's self with Heaven's own seal;
A care that only gain by loss doth mean:
'Tis to be captured with one's own consent;
The victor to the vanquished here must serve;
Keep faith with one who on our death is bent:
How can its fickle favour e'er preserve
In human hearts consistence of intent,
Since to itself contrarious Love doth swerve?
poem by Luís de Camões from Sonnets (1595), translated by Collard J. Stock
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Black
Black is thy thought, doth blacken thy name
Slandered beauty
So black is thy shame
Black is thy pupil doth blacken thy mood
Tortured beauty
So black when thy brood
Black is thy heart doth blacken thy tears
Sorrowful beauty
So black is thy fears
Black is thy skin doth blacken within
Black beauty
So black is thy sin
Black is thy hair doth blacken thy shawl
Despair beauty
So black is the abyss as thy beauty fall…..
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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To Stay Put
Up to the end of the year stay put,
Living in a twist of the atmosphere, stay put.
I gather words and breath of oxygen,
Indeed the stay on Earth is to adhere, stay put.
My empire needs growing every day,
This garden of the soul can appear and stay put.
The air is eerie and cool, once a day,
The nights are clear with the biosphere, they stay put.
The slumber of ooze is such that the night is dear,
When years function I am absent with beer, just stay put.
You must decide the life to fetch and burrow,
A year takes shape, my enemy is to disappear, I still stay put.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Sonnet 16
XVI
When I consider how my light is spent,
E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide,
Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, least he returning chide,
Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,
I fondly ask; But patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts, who best
Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and waite.
poem by John Milton
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When I Consider How My Light Is Spent
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
“Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?”
I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need
Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o’er Land and Ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait.”
poem by John Milton
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I Miss You...
I miss you...as the flowers crave the rain-
Without you, lo, shall thee come again?
As days sans the sun, my world, dark when wanting:
Your absence, when erred did I-haunting!
Sorrow have I not though for what was recited,
Alas, response as proffered, surely was invited!
Offered thee though, as my amity's token;
Mine own truth, more worthy than words not spoken!
My verity, to you offered as an amorous alm-
Your presence near, to serve as my beauteous balm!
Whence lacking for thee am I, not have I reason
To look to the beauty inherent in our newest season!
I long for thee-as the night doth the moon,
Pray do I for your truance to cease most soon!
Maurice Harris,1 April 2009
poem by Maurice Harris
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On his Previous Blindness - Parody John MILTON - On His Blindness
When I consider how my life's been spent
these whirling years in this dark world and wide,
with that one talent which my wits supplied
held in abeyance waiting for love s[c]ent
to blossom to true beauty, to present
the world with tribute due and bona fide,
I thank my stars I have not been denied
your love which none and nothing can prevent,
your love, where that of others is descent,
your love which above all on Earth I pride.
I thank 'coincidence' which did provide
the opportunity to be content.
When I consider this I understand
how two t[hr]o[ugh] one may flow, grow hand in hand!
(10 December 2001 after Jphn Milton see below for alternate version)
Time Misspent
When I consider so much time misspent
these fifty years, I've little right to guide, -
such talent slight which tired wits supplied
suspended, in abeyance, impotent.
I tried to fight conformity, present
the world a contribution bona fide, -
I failed. The spirit is dissatisfied.
Some grief I wrought, feared fraudulent intent,
felt tenderness a threat - heart discontent.
Understanding free from bias, pride,
I'm thankful for, thank life which could provide
the opportunity to learn time lent
grants space to face oneself, to understand
how two should flow together, hand in hand..
(10 December 2001 after Jphn Milton see below for alternate version)
On Our Blindness
When we consider all our freedoms lost
with HA! BE U.S.! Corpus of bush law,
black death to hide the whitewash when p'lice score
'gainst innocence ‘wrong place, wrong time' star-crossed,
One wonders, when our children count the cost
and, chiding, true account present before
Executive Privilege bolted door,
will they, when light denied, in prison tossed,
murmur "God only needs assent Orwellian bossed! "?
Man, chip embeddèd, acts recorded, sore
bearing harsh yoke, must serve where none ignore
C.C.T.V. controls come shine or frost.
They swerve too late who brake fair freedom's flow,
stand, wait, burn at State stake, want not to know …
(15 May 2007 after John MILTON 1608_1674 On His Blindness)
On his Blindness
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
'Doth God exact day-labour, light denied? '
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: 'God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait.'
John MILTON 1608_1674
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Most bands don't even last fourteen months let alone fourteen years.
quote by Peter Steele
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On Our Blindness - after John Milton - On His Blindness
On Our Blindness
When we consider all our freedoms lost
with HA! BE U.S.! Corpus of bush law,
black death to hide the whitewash when p’lice score
’gainst innocence ‘wrong place, wrong time’ star-crossed,
One wonders, when our children count the cost
and, chiding, true account present before
Executive Privilege bolted door,
will they, when light denied, in prison tossed,
murmur “God only needs assent Orwellian bossed! ”?
Man, chip embeddèd, acts recorded, sore
bearing harsh yoke, must serve where none ignore
C.C.T.V. controls come shine or frost.
They swerve too late who brake fair freedom’s flow,
stand, wait, burn at State stake, want not to know …
© Jonathan Robin Parody written 15 May 2007 after John MILTON 1608_1674 – On His Blindness. See below for alternative versions
On his Previous Blindness
When I consider how my life's been spent
these whirling years in this dark world and wide,
with that one talent which my wits supplied
held in abeyance waiting for love s[c]ent
to blossom to true beauty, to present
the world with tribute due and undenied,
I thank my stars I have not been denied
your love which none and nothing can prevent,
your love, where that of others is descent,
your love which above all on Earth I pride.
I thank 'coincidence' which could provide
the opportunity to be content.
When I consider this I understand
how two t[hr]o[ugh] one may flow, grow hand in hand
Parody John MILTON 1608_1674 – On His Blindness
Time Misspent
When he considers so much time misspent
these fifty years, he's little right to guide, –
such talent slight which tired wits supplied
suspended, in abeyance, impotent.
He tried to fight conformity, present
the world a contribution bona fide, –
He failed. The spirit is dissatisfied.
Some grief he wrought, feared fraudulent intent,
felt tenderness a threat – heart discontent.
Understanding free from bias, pride,
stays thankful for, thanks life which could provide
the opportunity to learn time lent
grants space to face oneself, to understand
how two should flow together, hand in hand...
Parody John MILTON 1608_1674 – On His Blindness
__________________
On his Blindness
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
'Doth God exact day-labour, light denied? '
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: 'God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait.'
John MILTON 1608_1674
____________________
Reminiscent Reflections
When I consider how my life is spent,
I hardly ever repent.
Ogden NASH 1902_1971
poem by Jonathan Robin
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On His Blindness
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."
poem by John Milton
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Sonnet XIX: When I Consider How my Light is Spent
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."
poem by John Milton
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Sonnet 19
XIX
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask; But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."
poem by John Milton
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Beautiful One
Oh beautiful one, adorned with spell
To ravage my world as might a sweet angel.
Oh beautiful thing, so much at ease:
Allure of caressing breeze in touch gentle.
Oh beautiful creature, sail me do,
As floating on seas of halcyon blue tincture.
You beautiful being, gracing charm
And features that render feel of deep texture.
Your beautiful poise in glide supreme,
Gives such like a vista honed as from heaven.
That beautiful art of face ornate,
Not ever to understate or be riven.
Your beautiful flame of pulchritude
Doth dizzy me high, so I conclude always
You beautiful girl forever be
My shining Janette; my guide; my stairway.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
All rights reserved
beauty beauty beauty beauty beauty beauty
beauty beauty beauty beauty beauty beauty
beauty beauty beauty beauty beauty beauty
beauty beauty beauty beauty beauty beauty beauty
beauty beauty beauty beauty beauty beauty beauty
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Beauty Of Being In The World Jan.9,2009
THE BEAUTY OF BEING IN THE WORLD Jan.9 2009
The Beauty of being in the world,
The Beauty of Seeing,
The Beauty of these grey skies and small rain,
The Beauty of this park in all its greens.
The Beauty of morning Jerusalem light.
And three young soldiers
Killed yesterday
Defending Israel,
Ro’i Rosner 27, of Holon,
Omer Rabinovitch 23 of Arad,
Amit Robinson 20 of Kibbutz Magal,
Who will never see this Beauty again.
The Beauty of Being in the world
And I sixty- six years old, and more.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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To Whine Or Not To Whine?
to whine or not to whine?
but first ask,
is there someone there
listening there?
is there someone?
someone?
who knows what
whining is
who knows
someone who
understands
that there is nothing
wrong with
whining?
is there? can his listening
change your world
for the better?
can your whining
do something good
for this, well,
rotten world?
then whine.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Whinin' Boy Moan
Van Morrison
Exile Publishing Ltd / Universal Music Publishing Ltd
Drop that coin right into the slot
Get it whether you're ready or not
Let the whinin boy moan
Let the whinin boy moan
Let the whinin boy moan
If you don't know how to do it yourself
Well they call him Mr. Jellyroll
It's just the way he rolls his dough
Let the whinin boy moan
Let the whinin boy moan
Let the whinin boy moan
If you don't know how to do it yourself
Well let the whinin boy moan
If you don't know how to do it yourself
Let the whinin boy moan
If you don't know how to do it yourself
Cos he can do it better, better than anyone else
Whine, whine, whine, whine
All the winos down on Market Street
Roll on over to old North Beach
Let the whinin boy moan
Let the whinin boy moan
Let the whinin boy moan
If you don't know how to do it yourself
Well he gonna sing and play for you
Exactly what he's s'pposed to do
Let the whinin boy moan
Let the whinin boy moan
Let the whinin boy moan
If you don't know how to do it yourself
Whine, whine, whine
Let the whinin boy moan
If you don't know how to do it yourself
Let the whinin boy moan
If you don't know how to do it yourself
Cos he can do it better, better than anyone else
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ay Me, Ay Me, I Sigh the Scythe A-field
Ay me, ay me, I sigh to see the scythe a-field;
Down goeth the grass, soon wrought to wither'd hay:
Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, that beauty needs must yield,
And princes pass, as grass doth fade away.
Ay me, ay me, that life can not have lasting leave,
Nor gold take hold of everlasting joy:
Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, that time hath talents to receive,
And yet no time can make a suer stay.
Ay me, ay me, that wit can not have wished choice,
Nor wish can win that will desires to see:
Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, that mirth can promise no rejoice,
Nor study tell what afterward shall be.
Ay me, ay me, that no sure staff is given to age,
Nor age can give sure wit that youth will take:
Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, that no counsel wise and sage
Will shun the show that all doth mar and make.
Ay me, ay me, come, Time, shear on and shake thy hay,
It is no boot to balk thy bitter blows:
Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, come, Time, take everything away,
For all is thine, be it good or bad, that grows.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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