En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Chestnut Casts His Flambeaux

The chestnut casts his flambeaux, and the flowers
Stream from the hawthorn on the wind away,
The doors clap to, the pane is blind with showers.
Pass me the can, lad; there's an end of May.

There's one spoilt spring to scant our mortal lot,
One season ruined of your little store.
May will be fine next year as like as not:
But ay, but then we shall be twenty-four.

We for a certainty are not the first
Have sat in taverns while the tempest hurled
Their hopeful plans to emptiness, and cursed
Whatever brute and blackguard made the world.

It is in truth iniquity on high
To cheat our sentenced souls of aught they crave,
And mar the merriment as you and I
Fare on our long fool's-errand to the grave.

Iniquity it is; but pass the can.
My lad, no pair of kings our mothers bore;
Our only portion is the estate of man:
We want the moon, but we shall get no more.

If here to-day the cloud of thunder lours
To-morrow it will hie on far behests;
The flesh will grieve on other bones than ours
Soon, and the soul will mourn in other breasts.

The troubles of our proud and angry dust
Are from eternity, and shall not fail.
Bear them we can, and if we can we must.
Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.

poem by Alfred Edward Housman
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The troubles of our proud and angry dust are from eternity, and shall not fail. Bear them we can, and if we can we must. Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.

quote by A.E. Housman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Man and his Makers

1.
I am one of the wind's stories,
I am a fancy of the rain,-
A memory of the high noon's glories,
The hint the sunset had of pain.

2.
They dreamed me as they dreamed all other;
Hawthorn and I, I and the grass,
With sister shade and phantom brother
Across their slumber glide and pass.

3.
Twilight is in my blood, my being
Mingles with trees and ferns and stones;
Thunder and stars my lips are freeing,
And there is sea-rack in my bones.

4.
Those that have dreamed me shall out-wake me,
But I go hence with flowers and weeds;
I am no more to those who make me
Than other drifting fruit and seeds.

5.
And though I love them -mourn to leave them-
Sea, earth and sunset, stars and streams,
My tears, my passing do not grieve them . . .
Other dreams have they, other dreams.

poem by Muriel Stuart
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Only A Soldier's Grave

Only a soldier's grave! Pass by,
For soldiers, like other mortals, die.
Parents had he - they are far away;
No sister weeps o'er the soldier's clay;
No brother comes, with tearful eye;
It's only a soldier's grave - pass by.

True, he was loving, and young, and brave,
Though no glowing epitaph honors his grave;
No proud recital of virtues known,
Of griefs endured, or triumphs won;
No tablet of marble, or obelisk high; -
Only a soldier's grave: - pass by.

Yet bravely he wielded his sword in fight,
And he gave his life in the cause of right!
When his hope was high, and his youthful dream
As warm as the sunlight on yonder stream;
His heart unvexed by sorrow or sigh; -
Yet, 'tis only a soldier's grave: - pass by.

Yet, we should mark it - the soldier's grave,
Some one may seek him in hope to save!
Some of the dear ones, far away,
Would bear him home to his native clay:
'Twere sad, indeed, should they wander nigh,
Find not the hillock, and pass him by.

poem by S.A. Jones
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Only A Soldier's Grave

Only a soldier's grave! Pass by,
For soldiers, like other mortals, die.
Parents he had--they are far away;
No sister weeps o'er the soldier's clay;
No brother comes, with a tearful eye:
It's only a soldier's grave--pass by.

True, he was loving, and young, and brave,
Though no glowing epitaph honors his grave;
No proud recital of virtues known,
Of griefs endured, or of triumphs won;
No tablet of marble, or obelisk high;--
Only a soldier's grave--pass by.

Yet bravely he wielded his sword in fight,
And he gave his life in the cause of right!
When his hope was high, and his youthful dream
As warm as the sunlight on yonder stream;
His heart unvexed by sorrow or sigh;--
Yet,'tis only a soldier's grave:--pass by.

Yet, should we mark it--the soldier's grave,
Some one may seek him in hope to save!
Some of the dear ones, far away,
Would bear him home to his native clay:
'Twere sad, indeed, should they wander nigh,
Find not the hillock, and pass him by.

poem by Sidney Alroy Jonas
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The Statue Over The Cathedral Door. (From The German Of Julius Mosen)

Forms of saints and kings are standing
The cathedral door above;
Yet I saw but one among them
Who hath soothed my soul with love.

In his mantle,--wound about him,
As their robes the sowers wind,--
Bore he swallows and their fledglings,
Flowers and weeds of every kind.

And so stands he calm and childlike,
High in wind and tempest wild;
O, were I like him exalted,
I would be like him, a child!

And my songs,--green leaves and blossoms,--
To the doors of heaven would hear,
Calling even in storm and tempest,
Round me still these birds of air.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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To M.

IF in the summer of thy bright regard
For one brief season these poor Rhymes shall live
I ask no more, nor think my fate too hard
If other eyes but wintry looks should give;
Nor will I grieve though what I here have writ
O’er burdened Time should drop among the ways,
And to the unremembering dust commit
Beyond the praise and blame of other days:
The song doth pass, but I who sing, remain,
I pluck from Death’s own heart a life more deep,
And as the Spring, that dies not, in her train
Doth scatter blossoms for the Winds to reap,
So I, immortal, as I fare along,
Will strew my path with mortal flowers of song.

poem by William Gay
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The Cargo

As we get poorer,
We accept any gift, grant, loan or help with a glee;
But my words have different sounds to different people.
Is it rumours when you dig up a dead body from the mud?
Iniquity upon iniquity to the cultures of man;
For many people are killed in cold blood and we say nothing.

People drees nicely to churches but,
They are still the workers of iniquity;
Like a conflict of a dream after commodities.
How do we overcome our debts?
You are very young and gifted,
You are very young and talented,
You are very young and educated,
But you are broke without a clue.

Of the hustle and bustle,
Who do i blame when the sun rises?
From a parcel to a luggage before the cargo is sent,
Like the kind of human activities all around us.
What a world that we live in!
When we always expect something from someone;
Iniquity upon iniquity to the cultures of man;
Like the cargo at the harbour.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Shot? So Quick, So Clean an Ending?

Shot? so quick, so clean an ending?
Oh that was right, lad, that was brave:
Yours was not an ill for mending,
'Twas best to take it to the grave.

Oh you had forethought, you could reason,
And saw your road and where it led,
And early wise and brave in season
Put the pistol to your head.

Oh soon, and better so than later
After long disgrace and scorn,
You shot dead the household traitor,
The soul that should not have been born.

Right you guessed the rising morrow
And scorned to tread the mire you must:
Dust's your wages, son of sorrow,
But men may come to worse than dust.

Souls undone, undoing others,--
Long time since the tale began.
You would not live to wrong your brothers:
Oh lad, you died as fits a man.

Now to your grave shall friend and stranger
With ruth and some with envy come:
Undishonoured, clear of danger,
Clean of guilt, pass hence and home.

Turn safe to rest, no dreams, no waking;
And here, man, here's the wreath I've made:
'Tis not a gift that's worth the taking,
But wear it and it will not fade.

poem by Alfred Edward Housman
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Blow Away

May your troubles blow away,
so far away, with the whistling wind,
never to pass this way, ever again;
your feet on your own path
follow it faithfully, don't ever look back.
May your troubles blow away.
a smile on your face
knowing you go at your own pace.
May your troubles blow away.
even if friends who care are very few
you do what you've got to do.
May your troubles blow away.
stay forever true
to what it is your heart says to you.
May your troubles blow away.
don't lose hope
just keep going, and cut the binding ropes.
May your troubles blow away.
when everyone says you're different, and should change
you remember, you've got your own soul, your own name.
May your troubles blow away.
if you ever feel all alone
look way ahead, in the dark see there, the glowing lights of home.
May your troubles blow away.
keep singing the song God gave your soul
you know, somehow, you'll get where it is you've got to go.
May your troubles blow away,
so far away, with the whistling wind,
never to pass this way, ever again.

poem by Smoky Hoss
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The Last Chantey

"~And there was no more sea.~"



Thus said The Lord in the Vault above the Cherubim
Calling to the Angels and the Souls in their degree:
"Lo! Earth has passed away
On the smoke of Judgment Day.
That Our word may be established shall We gather up the sea?"

Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners:
"Plague upon the hurricane that made us furl and flee!
But the war is done between us,
In the deep the Lord hath seen us --
Our bones we'll leave the barracout', and God may sink the sea!"

Then said the soul of Judas that betray]\ed Him:
"Lord, hast Thou forgotten Thy covenant with me?
How once a year I go
To cool me on the floe?
And Ye take my day of mercy if Ye take away the sea!"

Then said the soul of the Angel of the Off-shore Wind:
(He that bits the thunder when the bull-mouthed breakers flee):
"I have watch and ward to keep
O'er Thy wonders on the deep,
And Ye take mine honour from me if Ye take away the sea!"

Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners:
"Nay, but we were angry, and a hasty folk are we!
If we worked the ship together
Till she foundered in foul weather,
Are we babes that we should clamour for a vengeance on the sea?"

Then said the souls of the slaves that men threw overboard:
"Kennelled in the picaroon a weary band were we;
But Thy arm was strong to save,
And it touched us on the wave,
And we drowsed the long tides idle till Thy Trumpets tore the sea."

Then cried the soul of the stout Apostle Paul to God:
"Once we frapped a ship, and she laboured woundily.
There were fourteen score of these,
And they blessed Thee on their knees,
When they learned Thy Grace and Glory under Malta by the sea!"

Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners,
Plucking at their harps, and they plucked unhandily:
"Our thumbs are rough and tarred,
And the tune is something hard --
May we lift a Deep-sea Chantey such as seamen use at sea?"

Then said the souls of the gentlemen-adventurers --
Fettered wrist to bar all for red iniquity:
"Ho, we revel in our chains
O'er the sorrow that was Spain's;
Heave or sink it, leave or drink it, we were masters of the sea!"

Up spake the soul of a gray Gothavn 'speckshioner --
(He that led the flinching in the fleets of fair Dundee):
"Oh, the ice-blink white and near,
And the bowhead breaching clear!
Will Ye whelm them all for wantonness that wallow in the sea?"

Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners,
Crying: "Under Heaven, here is neither lead nor lee!
Must we sing for evermore
On the windless, glassy floor?
Take back your golden fiddles and we'll beat to open sea!"

Then stooped the Lord, and He called the good sea up to Him,
And 'stablished his borders unto all eternity,
That such as have no pleasure
For to praise the Lord by measure,
They may enter into galleons and serve Him on the sea.

Sun, wind, and cloud shall fail not from the face of it,
Stinging, ringing spindrift, nor the fulmar flying free;
And the ships shall go abroad
To the Glory of the Lord
Who heard the silly sailor-folk and gave them back their sea!

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Holy Sonnet XI: Spit In My Face You Jews, And Pierce My Side

Spit in my face you Jews, and pierce my side,
Buffet, and scoff, scourge, and crucify me,
For I have sinned, and sinned, and only he
Who could do no iniquity hath died:
But by my death can not be satisfied
My sins, which pass the Jews' impiety:
They killed once an inglorious man, but I
Crucify him daily, being now glorified.
Oh let me, then, his strange love still admire:
Kings pardon, but he bore our punishment.
And Jacob came clothed in vile harsh attire
But to supplant, and with gainful intent:
God clothed himself in vile man's flesh, that so
He might be weak enough to suffer woe.

poem by John Donne
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Holy Sonnet XI: Spit In My Face You Jews, And Pierce My Side

Spit in my face you Jews, and pierce my side,
Buffet, and scoff, scourge, and crucify me,
For I have sinned, and sinned, and only he
Who could do no iniquity hath died:
But by my death can not be satisfied
My sins, which pass the Jews' impiety:
They killed once an inglorious man, but I
Crucify him daily, being now glorified.
Oh let me, then, his strange love still admire:
Kings pardon, but he bore our punishment.
And Jacob came clothed in vile harsh attire
But to supplant, and with gainful intent:
God clothed himself in vile man's flesh, that so
He might be weak enough to suffer woe.

poem by John Donne
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Blue Season

Snow in springtime, storm in the sea
Mist at my window, no leaf on my tree
Showers in the garden with no flowers to touch
When will you bring us your sunshine and such.
Season tell me true
Whats been wrong with you
Wont you turn again
Blow away the rain
Blue season, turn away.
Wind in the evening, dust in your eye
Heart full of shadow and cloud in your sky
Everythings wrong and you know youre to blame
Nothing will change while youre still the same
Cold in the city, tears on the street
Faces are empty in those that you meet
Lovers and losers who fail in the night
When will it be that youll treat them right.
Season tell me true
How much do we need you
Wont you turn your wheel
Hide your heart of steel
Blue season, turn away.
Countries and people caught in the rain
When will they learn to feel fine again
Wandering lost now for nothing is clear
Waiting for signs of the turn of the year.
Season tell me true
Whats been wrong with you
Wont you turn again
Blow away in the rain
Blue season, turn away.

song performed by by Nick Drake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Holy Sonnet 11

Spit in my face, you Jews, and pierce my side,
Buffet, and scoff, scourge, and crucify me,
For I have sinn'd, and sinne', and only He,
Who could do no iniquity, hath died.
But by my death can not be satisfied
My sins, which pass the Jews' impiety.
They kill'd once an inglorious man, but I
Crucify him daily, being now glorified.
O let me then His strange love still admire;
Kings pardon, but He bore our punishment;
And Jacob came clothed in vile harsh attire,
But to supplant, and with gainful intent;
God clothed Himself in vile man's flesh, that so
He might be weak enough to suffer woe.

poem by John Donne from Holy Sonnets
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To Me His Presence Is A Mystery

When havoc and disaster came my way
upon a tranquil sunny summer day
I had blamed God for being absent,
of my accusation He was innocent;
He is present in a world of iniquity
and to me His presence is a mystery.

I looked for God, Him I did not see,
His image, His presence eluded me
but I found His tracks everywhere,
in everything lovely His hand was there;
He is present in a world of iniquity
and to me His presence is a mystery

There was great beauty in a lone thrush
singing all the world to a holy hush,
the pattering rain brought along new birth
while He continually blessed the earth;
He is present in a world of iniquity
and to me His presence is a mystery.

poem by Gert Strydom
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An April Joke

Oh, it was a merry, gladsome day,
When the April Fool met the Queen of May;
She had roguish eyes and golden hair,
And they were a mischief-making pair.
They planned the funniest kind of a joke
On the poor, long-suffering mortal folk;
And a few mysterious words he said,
His fool's cap close to her flower-crowned head.
Then he laughed till he made his cap-bells ring,
At the thought of the topsy-turvy Spring.
''Tis a fair exchange,' he said, with a wink--
'It is!' she said, and what do you think?
The flowers that should bloom in the month of May
Every one of them came on an April day!
And they looked for April showers in vain,
But all through May it did nothing but rain!

poem by Carolyn Wells
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To His Conscience

Can I not sin, but thou wilt be
My private protonotary?
Can I not woo thee, to pass by
A short and sweet iniquity?
I'll cast a mist and cloud upon
My delicate transgression,
So utter dark, as that no eye
Shall see the hugg'd impiety.
Gifts blind the wise, and bribes do please
And wind all other witnesses;
And wilt not thou with gold be tied,
To lay thy pen and ink aside,
That in the mirk and tongueless night,
Wanton I may, and thou not write?
--It will not be: And therefore, now,
For times to come, I'll make this vow;
From aberrations to live free:
So I'll not fear the judge, or thee.

poem by Robert Herrick
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A Mothers Gift

A MOTHER ONCE SAID TO HER SON,

A GIFT I HAVE FOR THEE HERE,

SHITOSHI IS MY GIFT TO THEE,

LO AND BEHOLD, AN INNOCENT MAN IS MADE CAPTIVE BY HIS TRUST, LOVE AND IGNORANT INNOCENCE,

HE IS ENDOWED WITH THE CREATIONS OF RELIGION,

ALL WOMEN WHO HAVE MET HIM IN HIS LIFETIME IS THUS EMPLOYED,

IN THE WORK OF INIQUITY,

THEY ARE CALLED HIS WIVES,

THEY HAVE COME TOGETHER AND A BEIGN CALLED SHITOSHI IS BORN,

ALL OF THEM TOGETHER IS THIS DEMON NAMED SHITOSHI,

MY NAME IS MOST MARRED,

MY IMAGE IS MOST RUINED,

MY IDENTITY IS MOST DEFAMED,

ALL BECAUSE I TRUSTED MY MOTHER,

RELIGION CLAIMS TO GIVE PEACE AND VICTORY,

THEY HAVE RAVISHED OUR WIVES, AND EMPLOYED THEM AS DEMONS,

OUR GIRLS ARE BECOME WHORES AND SLAVES TO RELIGION AND THEIR CHILDREN,

OUR WIVES NOW BELIEVE US TO BE FOOLS AND THUS MAKE US INFERIOR BEFORE OUR ADVERSARIES,

YES, I AM A CAPTIVE OF RELIGION,

A CAPTIVE TO SHITOSHI,

A CAPTIVE TO HYPOCRYTIC MOTHERS, WIVES AND DAUGHTERS,

A CITY OF FORNICATIVE HYPOCRISY IS BUILT AROUND ME,

THE CITY OF INIQUITY,

THIS IS MY MOTHERS GIFT TO ME

poem by Overlord Don Manuel Ihcakeyno
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A Year Ago

I'm sitting by the fire tonight,
The cat purrs on the rug;
The room's abrim with rosy light,
Suavely soft and snug;
And safe and warm from dark and storm
It's cosiness I hug.

Then petulant the window pane
Quakes in the tempest moan,
And cries: "Forlornly in the rain
There starkly streams a stone,
Where one so dear who shared your cheer
Now lies alone, alone.

Go forth! Go forth into the gale
And pass and hour in prayer;
This night of sorrow do not fail
The one you deemed so fair,
The girl below the bitter snow
Who died your child to bear."

So wails the wind, yet here I sit
Beside the ember's glow;
My grog is hot, my pipe is lit,
And loth am I to go
To her who died a ten-month bride,
Only a year ago.

To-day we weep: each morrow is
A littling of regret;
The saddest part of sorrow is
That we in time forget . . .
Christ! Let me go to graveyard woe,--
Yea, I will sorrow yet.

poem by Robert William Service
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When You Are Gone

When you are gone I will live on

I will live on

When you are gone

I will not mourn or forget

How love was born

Much stronger still

Though you are gone

You still live on

In birds in clouds

In simple flowers

In bones and flesh

That carry you

Each day, each hour

And this is your power

Though you are gone

Much stronger now

You still live on

In words that echo in the air

In scent of showers

Fallen leaves

In all of these

And feeling sense

You presence, felt in present tense

I will not mourn

Nor wil I grieve

For you live on

Inside of me

yvette m smith sept 08

poem by Yvette Smith
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