What a man does defiles him, not what is done by others.
quote by William Golding
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Farmer Defiles Minor
The muse of lust,
The muse of the farmers,
The muse of the state of the affairs in my land!
And, a farmer defiles a minor;
But, he was apprehended and handed over to the Police.
Farmer defiles minor!
In the bush with his act to lure this little girl;
And he extensively abused her! !
But this concealed act of his led him to the Court,
Because, someone witnessed the scene!
He forcibly molested the minor,
And he was sentenced to 20 years in jail! !
For this 40-year-old farmer defiled a 7-year-old girl.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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It is an ugly bird that defiles its own nest.
Guilt upon the conscience, like rust upon iron, both defiles and consumes it, gnawing and creeping into it, as that does which at last eats out the very heart and substance of the metal.
Blatant Misrepresentation
Deception may be dressed in fresh wardrobes...
But the scent of it always follows one
Unaccustomed to bathe in the light of truth,
And honesty!
Those who adorn themselves with images...
Are often surprised they are the last to become aware,
Of the stench hidden underneath!
Although they are the first to recommend
Standards be enforced upon those who do not endorse,
Conformity that defiles with blatant misrepresentation!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Doom's Day Prophecy
A tongue of dust, a mouth of clay
with patches of goodness
happy with mundane things
the soul still pines in sorrow and agony
and as the fullness of time sinks abroad
the sun shines with harsh realities
opinion talks tough of ill-fortunes
where a spot defiles a preacher
minted furnace burps, and broaden
the mountains flee from their mounds
into vallies of abyssmality
tall trees, shrubs, and little plants too.
poem by Justice Ominipus
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Neequaye
Of the sorcerers and the magicians of Egypt,
Of the sorcerers and the magicians of the world;
Neequaye, it will be according to your words and works.
You must not show partiality in judgement and,
Turn to Yahweh for wisdom at all times to move on;
For there is no where else to run to.
Neequaye, i am delivered by Yahweh from all harm;
And, you have to learn from His laws too.
Like life in the Arabah and what we see around us,
Like the guidiance of peace and love,
Like the ways of man's adventures to gain all things,
For i am here to guide you on;
Because, blood defiles you and the land on which you live.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Is There Any Truth in Beauty?
Is there any truth in Beauty?
What of the lies beauty tells thee?
Could my beauty not be as worthy
As I make thy Beauty part of me?
Such is Beauty as to make one's sight loud.
This beauty that veils our sense in a shroud.
beauty: that which deters seeing the person.
Does Beauty not conceal what is and isn't?
Yet merciless time holds beauty as a hostage,
Defiles Beauty and scars it with lasting ravage.
Thus the years that pass send Beauty to its resting-place
For vain beauty will yield, to woefully fall from grace.
If beauty should ever lament on age's cruelty,
Let not Beauty forget how little it has wept for me.
Chunder Ali’s Wife
'I AM poor,' said Chunder Ali, while the Mandarin above him
Frowned in supercilious anger at the dog who dared to
speak; 'I am friendless and a Hindoo: such a one meets few to
love him Here in China, where the Hindoo finds the truth alone is
weak. I have naught to buy your justice; were I wise, I had not
striven. Speak your judgment; ' and he crossed his arras and bent
his quivering face. Heard he then the unjust sentence: all his goods and gold
were given To another, and he stood alone, a beggar in the place.
And the man who bought the judgment looked in triumph
and derision At the cheated Hindoo merchant, as he rubbed his hands
and smiled At the whispered gratulation of his friends, and at the
vision Of the more than queenly dower for Ahmeer, his only
child. Fair Ahmeer, who of God's creatures was the only one
who loved him, She, the diamond of his treasures, the one lamb within
his fold, She, whose voice, like her dead mother's, was the only
power that moved him,— She would praise the skill that gained her all this Hindoo's
silk and gold.
And the old man thanked Confucius, and the judge, and him who pleaded.
But why falls this sudden silence? why does each one hold his breath?
Every eye turns on the Hindoo, who before was all unheeded,
And in wond'ring expectation all the court grows still as death.
Not alone stood Chunder Ali: by his side Ahmeer wasstanding,
And his brown hand rested lightly on her shoulder as he smiled
At the sweet young face turned toward him. Then the father's voice commanding
Fiercely bade his daughter to him from the dog whose touch defiled.
But she moved not, and she looked not at her father or the others
As she answered, with her eyes upon the Hindoo's noble face:
'Nay, my father, he defiles not: this kind arm above all others
Is my choosing, and forever by his side shall be my place.
When you knew not, his dear hand had given many a sweet love-token,
He had gathered all my heartstrings and had bound them round his life;
Yet you tell me he defiles me; nay, my father, you have spoken
In your anger, and not knowing I was Chnnder Ali's wife.'
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Modern Love IX: He Felt the Wild Beast
He felt the wild beast in him betweenwhiles
So masterfully rude, that he would grieve
To see the helpless delicate thing receive
His guardianship through certain dark defiles.
Had he not teeth to rend, and hunger too?
But still he spared her. Once: 'Have you no fear ?'
He said: 'twas dusk; she in his grasp; none near.
She laughed: 'No, surely; am I not with you?'
And uttering that soft starry 'you,' she leaned
Her gentle body near him, looking up;
And from her eyes, as from a poison-cup,
He drank until the flittering eyelids screened.
Devilish malignant witch and oh, young beam
Of heaven's circle-glory! Here thy shape
To squeeze like an intoxicating grape
I might, and yet thou goest safe, supreme.
poem by George Meredith
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O Love their Sits a Lion in the Gate
O Love their sits a Lion in the gate
My duty calls above my heart’s desire
Mortal conflict is for sure and cannot wait,
Speak not of peace amidst so great a fire.
Great winds from Eden burn the fair green land
Do we sit idly admits the boiling pot?
The approaching tempest will quickly be at hand,
And defiles the beauty of this very spot.
But my love your faith I will remember
And courage it gives against the lions might.
Your love for me preserves the burning ember,
Of courage growing strong throughout the fight.
Your faith in me will be my victory cry,
With you this mortal’s fear for now will die.
For you this mortal’s fear for now will die.
1982
poem by Gary Bryson
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Psalm 119 part 7
Imperfection of nature, and perfection of scripture.
ver. 96, paraphrased.
Let all the heathen writers join
To form one perfect book;
Great God! if once compared with thine,
How mean their writings look!
Not the most perfect rules they gave
Could show one sin forgiv'n,
Nor lead a step beyond the grave;
But thine conduct to heav'n.
I've seen an end to what we call
Perfection here below;
How short the powers of nature fall,
And can no further go!
Yet men would fain be just with God
By works their hands have wrought;
But thy commands, exceeding broad,
Extend to every thought.
In vain we boast perfection here,
While sin defiles our frame,
And sinks our virtues down so far,
They scarce deserve the name.
Our faith, and love, and every grace,
Fall far below thy word;
But perfect truth and righteousness
Dwell only with the Lord.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Come!
come...
let us wash our bloody hands
in the river that does not choose.
let us take our veangeful hearts
and lay them at the door.
let us dropp our arrogant poses,
and reveal who we are.
let us forgive, and be forgiven...
for every child that dies of starvation,
for every bomb that's dropped.
for every homeless family,
for every broken home.
for every prisoner, every victim,
every hater, and their hate...
for every man and women beaten down,
living day to day in poverty.
for every winner and every loser,
for every unwanted baby...
for every war,
for every tree cut down,
for the smoke that fills our skies,
the oil that defiles our waters...
for every deal made at the expense of humanity...
for every lie sold as the truth!
for every bullet,
for every nuclear accident,
for every act of discrimination...
for every prayer not prayed.
for every apathetic action,
and inaction...
for every voice of freedom
we allow to be imprisoned or killed.
for every chance we let pass by,
for every time we just walk away...
WE ARE RESPONSIBLE!
come!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Sonnet 6
when love lies truth is made vain;
beauty's defiled, an uncomely thing;
wisdom's conceit is falsehood's reign;
will to vision does deception bring;
all grace is stained with spot
of self; justice made foolish; law
cast down; blessing cursed; charity bought.
in the grand design there dwells this flaw-
love of self corrupts workings of grace
and defiles wisdom, making vain her worth
and tainting beauty, turning ugly her face.
conceit of pride rules as falsehood's truth.
all's corrupted, nothing's incorruptible;
truth corrupted, truth turns abominable.
poem by Doug Bentley
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To The Lady Dursley
Here reading how fond Adam was betray'd,
And how by sin Eve's blasted charms decay'd,
Our common loss unjustly you complain,
So small that part of it which you sustain.
You still, fair mother, in your offspring trace
The stock of beauty destined for the race;
Kind Nature forming them, the pattern took
From heaven's first work, and Eve's original look.
You, happy saint, the serpent's power control;
Scarce any actual guilt defiles your soul;
And hell does o'er that mind vain triumphs boast
Which gains does o'er that mind vain triumphs boast
With virtue strong as yours had Eve been arm'd,
In vain the fruit had blush'd, or serpent charm'd;
Nor had our bliss by penitence been bought,
Nor had frail Adam fall'n, nor Milton wrote.
poem by Matthew Prior
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The Lake of the Thousand Isles
(For Music.)
Though Missouri'stide may majestic glide,
There's a curse on the soil it laves;
The Ohio, too, may be fair, but who
Would sojourn in the land of slaves?
Be my prouder lot a Canadian cot
And the bread of a freeman's toils;
Then hurrah for the land of the forests grand,
And the Lake of the Thousand Isles!
I would seek no wealth, at the cost of health,
'Mid the city's din and strife;
More I love the grace of fair nature's face,
And the calm of a woodland life;
I would shun the road by ambition trod,
And the lore which the heart defiles;--
Then hurrah for the land of the forests grand,
And the Lake of the Thousand Isles!
O away, away! I would gladly stray
Where the freedom I love is found;
Where the pine and oak by the woodman's stroke
Are disturbed in their ancient bound;
Where the gladsome swain reaps the golden grain,
And the trout from the stream beguiles;
Then hurrah for the land of the forests grand,
And the Lake of the Thousand Isles.
poem by Evan MacColl
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Tired
O For wings! that I might soar
A little way above the floor,
A little way beyond the roar—
A little nearer to the sky!
To the blue hills, lifted high
Out of all our misery.
Where alone is heard the lark,
Warbling in the infinite arc
From the dawning to the dark;
Where the callow eaglets wink
On the bare and breezy brink,
And slow pinions rise and sink.
Where the dim white breakers beat
Under cloud-drifts at our feet,
Singing, singing, low and sweet;
Where we see the glimmering bay
Greyly melting far away,
On the confines of the day;
Where the green larch-fringes sweep
Rocky defiles, still and steep;
Where the tender lichens creep;
Where the gentian-blossoms blow,
Set in crystal stars of snow;
Where the downward torrents flow
To the plains and yellow leas,
Glancing, twinkling through the trees—
Pure, as from celestial seas.
Where the face of heaven has smiled
Aye on freedom, sweet and wild,
Aye on beauty undefiled.
Where no sound of human speech,
And no human passions, reach;
Where the angels sit and teach.
Where no troublous foot has trod;
Where is impressed on the sod
Only hand and heart of God!
poem by Ada Cambridge
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To My Friend - Ode I
TRANSPLANT the beauteous tree!
Gardener, it gives me pain;
A happier resting-place
Its trunk deserved.
Yet the strength of its nature
To Earth's exhausting avarice,
To Air's destructive inroads,
An antidote opposed.
See how it in springtime
Coins its pale green leaves!
Their orange-fragrance
Poisons each flyblow straight.
The caterpillar's tooth
Is blunted by them;
With silv'ry hues they gleam
In the bright sunshine,
Its twigs the maiden
Fain would twine in
Her bridal-garland;
Youths its fruit are seeking.
See, the autumn cometh!
The caterpillar
Sighs to the crafty spider,--
Sighs that the tree will not fade.
Hov'ring thither
From out her yew-tree dwelling,
The gaudy foe advances
Against the kindly tree,
And cannot hurt it,
But the more artful one
Defiles with nauseous venom
Its silver leaves;
And sees with triumph
How the maiden shudders,
The youth, how mourns he,
On passing by.
Transplant the beauteous tree!
Gardener, it gives me pain;
Tree, thank the gardener
Who moves thee hence!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Unyielding
When I called you in your garden
Mango blooms were rich in fragrance -
Why did you remain so distant,
Keep your doors so tightly fastened?
Blossoms grew to ripe fruit-clusters -
Your rejected my cuppded handfuls,
Closed your eyes to perfectness.
In the fierce harsh storms of Baisakh,
Golden ripened fruit fell tumbling.
'Dust, I said, 'defiles such offerings:
Let your hands be heaven to them.'
Still you showed no friendliness.
Lampless were your doors at evening,
Pitch-black as I played my vina.
How the starlight twanged my heartstrings!
How I set my vina dancing!
You showed no responsiveness.
Sad birds twittered sleeplessly,
Calling, calling lost companions.
Gone the right time for our union -
Low the moon while still you brooded,
Sunk in lonely pensiveness.
Who can understand another!
Heart cannot restrain its passion.
I had hoped that some remaining
Tear-soaked memories would sway you,
Stir your feet to lightsomeness.
Moon fell at the feet of morning,
Loosened from the night's fading necklace.
While you slept, O did my Vina
Lull you with its heartache? Did you
Dream at least of happiness?
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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