The Text
One Sunday eve a grave old man,
Who had not been at church, did say,
'Eliza, tell me, if you can,
What text our Doctor took to-day?'
She hung her head, she blushed for shame,
One single word she did not know,
Nor verse nor chapter she could name,
Her silent blushes told him so.
Again said he, 'My little maid,
What in the sermon did you hear?
Come tell me that, for that may aid
Me to find out the text, my dear.'
A tear stole down each blushing cheek,
She wished she better had attended;
She sobbing said, when she could speak,
She heard not till 'twas almost ended.
'Ah! little heedless one, why what
Could you be thinking on? 'tis clear
Some foolish fancies must have got
Possession of your head, my dear.
'What thoughts were they, Eliza, tell,
Nor seek from me the truth to smother.'-
'O I remember very well,
I whispered something to my brother.
'I said, 'Be friends with me, dear Will;'
We quarrelled, sir, at the church door,-
Though he cried, 'Hush, don't speak, be still,'
Yet I repeated these words o'er
'Seven or eight times, I have no doubt.
But here comes William, and if he
The good things he has heard about
Forgets too, sir, the fault's in me.'
'No, sir,' said William, 'though perplext
And much disturbed by my sister,
I in this matter of the text,
I thank my memory, can assist her.
'I have, and pride myself on having,
A more retentive head than she.'-
Then gracefully his right hand waving,
He with no little vanity
Recited gospel, chapter, verse-
I should be loth to spoil in metre
All the good words he did rehearse,
As spoken by our Lord to Peter.
But surely never words from heaven
Of peace and love more full descended;
That we should seventy times seven
Forgive our brother that offended.
In every point of view he placed it,
As he the Doctor's self had been,
With emphasis and action graced it:
But from his self-conceit 'twas seen
Who had brought home the words, and who had
A little on the meaning thought;
Eliza now the old man knew had
Learned that which William never caught.
Without impeaching William's merit,
His head but served him for the letter;
Hers missed the words, but kept the spirit;
Her memory to her heart was debtor.
poem by Charles Lamb
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The sentence of love...
Many thoughts live inside my head,
Yet quite often they go unsaid.
So many thoughts that were not spoken,
Were they merely just a token? ...
Were the thoughts that meant the most,
The ones I never got round to post?
Have I missed the chance to save us all?
I think the chances must be small...
For if those thoughts meant so much,
We should find a way to stay in touch.
Thought understands feelings in a way,
That mere words could never convey...
And just because these words go unsaid,
Does not mean to life that they are dead.
For special words have meaning so true,
The words I'm thinking of are 'I love you...'
So although the words I don't often say,
May not be heard each and every day.
When the sentence of love my head does start,
You shall live forever in my heart...
Spread the love... The peace will follow...
poem by Cosmic Dreamer
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The Young Letter Writer
Dear Sir, Dear Madam, or Dear Friend,
With ease are written at the top;
When those two happy words are penned,
A youthful writer oft will stop,
And bite his pen, and lift his eyes
As if he thinks to find in air
The wished-for following words, or tries
To fix his thoughts by fixëd stare.
But haply all in vain-the next
Two words may be so long before
They'll come, the writer, sore perplext,
Gives in despair the matter o'er;
And when maturer age he sees
With ready pen so swift inditing,
With envy he beholds the ease
Of long-accustomed letter-writing.
Courage, young friend; the time may be
When you attain maturer age,
Some young as you are now may see
You with like ease glide down a page.
Even then when you, to years a debtor,
In varied phrase your meanings wrap,
The welcomest words in all your letter
May be those two kind words at top.
poem by Charles Lamb
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John Robinson
AIR -- "The Drunkard"
Come listen, friends, and hear a song,
It is a doleful one,
About a young man, dead and gone --
He died far away from home.
John Robinson this young man's name,
His age I cannot tell,
And he was loved by all his friends,
And he was known full well.
His father and mother being dead,
It left him an orphan boy,
When he was with his brother
His health failed him, poor boy.
Kind friends they thought 'twould do him good
To travel for his health;
To California he did go
With his Uncle Zera French.
He was not gone but a short time
When a letter his friends received;
It told how homesick Johnny was,
How he for home did grieve.
It said that he was getting worse,
And his money was nearly gone,
And if he did not soon return
Never more would he see home.
It said, "Dear Brother, will you please
Some money to me send,
For I fear I have not got enough
To bring me back again.
The doctor says I must soon return,
If I wish my home to see,
For if I stay my life is short,
For the air disagrees with me."
His brother Will the letter read,
It made his eyes grow dim.
"Dear brother, he shall soon return,
For I will go and fetch him."
This brother dear was very kind;
With money, he went with haste
For to bring him home again,
But Oh! he went too late.
For he was sick, and very bad --
Poor boy, he thought, no doubt,
If he came home in a smoking car
His money would hold out.
He started to come back alone --
He came one-third the way --
One evening in the car alone
His spirit fled away.
No friend was near to speak to him,
Or hear his dying moan;
How sad, how sad it must have been
To die there all alone;
No loving friends to soothe his brow,
Or ease his weary form;
Poor soul, poor soul is now at rest,
For his soul to heaven has gone.
Telegraph dispatch was sent his friends --
How sad were they to hear --
How their loved one died all alone,
In a car with no one near.
The brother brought his body home
To his friends that loved him best.
He's sleeping in their grave yard now
Let peace be e'er his rest.
poem by Julia A Moore
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Dear One
Dear one, how do I find the words,
the words I need to say?
Do they even exist my love?
For words can never convey
my feelings
my emotions,
my love for you
not on any day.
Dear one,
What good are words
that only drift away?
Words that I need to stay,
uttered sounds are here a while.
I speak and then I smile
hoping that in some small way
you'll know on every day
You are my dear one.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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We are Seven
--------A Simple Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?
I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
--Her beauty made me glad.
"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said
And wondering looked at me.
"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.
"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."
"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven!--I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be."
Then did the little Maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."
"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."
"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little Maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.
"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.
"And often after sunset, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.
"The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.
"So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.
"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."
"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
Quick was the little Maid's reply,
"O Master! we are seven."
"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"
poem by William Wordsworth
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As The Spirit Fills
Verse by verse and line by line; The Spirit fills the heart and mind.
The Spirit moves on a scribe, to pen the words down deep inside.
God uses men to reach the world, with a message for us to herald.
Some may speak while other men, The Lord above uses their pen.
Apostles would speak The Word, and men believed as they heard.
It was God’s Word they received, that would lead them to believe.
As New Believers they would go, and share so others could know,
The saving Grace of Jesus Christ, so they too could have New Life.
As The Truth began to spread, many would use parchment instead.
And The Truth many would heed, from words that they would read.
Either way, God’s Truth we share, with all those for whom we care.
Allow The Spirit to move your heart, so God’s Truth we can impart.
My friend, God will use anyone, to share The Truth about His Son.
Using any form of communication, to reach the lost with Salvation.
Join the Apostles and Prophets of old, sharing Truth till all are told,
About The Lord and Savior above, sent to all by The Father’s Love.
God still moves upon men today, helping us with the words to say,
For me the verses seem to flow, while The Spirit helps me to grow.
As I write the words aren’t mine, for my source is above and Divine.
It is The Spirit who fills my pen, and to this friend, I just say Amen.
(Copyright ©01/2006)
Words of Comfort
In my mind thoughts will flow, from The Truth I have come to know,
To words of light and encouragement, to the places I’ve been sent.
A comfort to all who do believe, and a light to all who are deceived,
God’s encouragement to a brother, while words of Truth to another.
Comforting words that I can say, to brighten a brother’s dismal day,
Words filled with hope and love, that point to our Savior, up above.
Words of Truth that only come, through The Spirit from God’s Son,
Who comes to dwell in our heart, from where words He does impart.
This to bring the lost to The Truth, through loving words not reproof,
So through our words men can see, The Loving Father of all Eternity,
Who came to die, to give us life, through His Only Son, Jesus Christ.
Who now lives, so that all men, through The Son can be Born Again.
Then receive The Spirit spoken of, when they accept His Son’s Love.
To be used upon this temporal earth, through the power of New Birth,
And the washing and regeneration, through His Blood unto Salvation.
Which only comes from God’s Son, the Lord and Savior of everyone.
You too will share the Living Word, speaking Truth until all have heard,
The saving Truth of God’s Salvation, Christ who came for every nation.
And then you will be a comfort too, to all who believe like me and you,
Speaking words of comfort friend, about life in Christ that has on end.
(Copyright ©06/2007)
Modern Day Poet
I am the modern day poet you know
that must make words that easily flow.
For to just present words that ramble on
is to yield forth words that soon are gone.
They're gone from the listener and reader too,
who cannot reason or cannot view
how the words just seem to sit on a page
allowed to sit and yellow with age.
Words must be caressed and also thrive
to take on rhythms which come alive,
alive in the memory that through the ear
has taken it in and holds it dear.
And so in each poem I have my say.
And so in each poem my words do sway
back and forth like a front porch swing
giving my poem a magical ring.
I never allow dullness to come into play
for then my poem will be thrown away
into the piles of poems never read
because they're too hard to keep in the head.
So over and over it's become my style
to enchant the reader for a little while,
making them remember the lilting rhyme
that got into my head one word at a time.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Artist
All day with brow of anxious thought
The dictionary through,
Amid a million words he sought
The sole one that would do.
He wandered on from pub to pub
Yet never ceased to seek
With burning brain and pencil stub
The Word Unique.
Said he: 'I'll nail it down or die.
Oh Heaven help me, pray!'
And then a heavy car dashed by,
And he was in the way.
They rushed him to the hospital,
And though his chance was bleak,
He cried: 'I'll croak, but find I shall
The Word Unique.'
They reckoned he was off his head,
And could be it was so;
For as they bent above his bed
He mumbled soft and low.
And then a name they heard him speak,
Yet did not deem it odd . . .
At last he'd found the Word Unique,--
Just God.
poem by Robert William Service
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A Letter to Hilary
Oh Hilary, dear Hilary;
you must not think ill of me,
though this letter be tardy,
it is mercifully short.
Oh Hilary, dear Hilary;
no metaphor or simile,
can express in mere words,
my true feelings and thoughts!
Oh Hilary, dear Hilary;
this I say, verily,
the distance between us
must not temper my view.
If I might speak of Hilary,
and of nothing ancillary:
as every day passes
I'm thinking of you!
For my love, my dear Hilary,
pumps through vein and capillary,
as my heart thumps out
it's horrible beat.
For love, my dear Hilary,
is the liqueur and distillery,
mellow, mature;
an intoxicant neat!
But if you, my dear Hilary,
would condemn me, and pillory,
a dissembler of words
and execrable verse;
then I, my dear Hilary,
would submit to your devilry,
and bravely bare up
under your terrible curse.
For love comes, my dear Hilary,
like the drum of artillery,
though it too can be vanquished
in bloody defeat.
Love comes, my dear Hilary,
not as the White Knight of chivalry,
but as a war of emotions,
both bitter and sweet.
But if, my dear Hilary,
I speak a tad too familiarly,
then you have my permission
to tear up this page.
For it is your choice, my dear Hilary,
to dismiss this as villainy,
or the ramblings of a mind
grown feeble with age!
For you, my dear Hilary,
should be paid a large salary,
to compensate truly,
for reading this tripe.
For alas, my dear Hilary,
I can only tender apology,
the worthless coin and the currency,
for this twaddle and hype!
poem by David SmithWhite
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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William Bond
I wonder whether the Girls are mad
And I wonder whether they mean to kill
And I wonder if William Bond will die
For assuredly he is very ill
He went to Church in a May morning
Attended by Fairies one two and three
But the Angels Of Providence drove them away
And he returnd home in Misery
He went not out to the Field nor Fold
He went not out to the Village nor Town
But he came home in a black black cloud
And took to his Bed and there lay down
And an Angel of Providence at his Feet
And an Angel of Providence at his Head
And in the midst a Black Black Cloud
And in the midst the Sick Man on his Bed
And on his Right hand was Mary Green
And on his Left hand was his Sister Jane
And their tears fell thro the black black Cloud
To drive away the sick mans pain
O William if thou dost another Love
Dost another Love better than poor Mary
Go and take that other to be thy Wife
And Mary Green shall her Servant be
Yes Mary I do another Love
Another I Love far better than thee
And Another I will have for my Wife
Then what have I to do with thee
For thou art Melancholy Pale
And on thy Head is the cold Moons shine
But she is ruddy and bright as day
And the sun beams dazzle from her eyne
Mary trembled and Mary chilld
And Mary fell down on the right hand floor
That William Bond and his Sister Jane
Scarce could recover Mary more
When Mary woke and found her Laid
On the Right hand of her William dear
On the Right hand of his loved Bed
And saw her William Bond so near
The Fairies that fled from William Bond
Danced around her Shining Head
They danced over the Pillow white
And the Angels of Providence left the Bed
I thought Love livd in the hot sun Shine
But O he lives in the Moony light
I thought to find Love in the heat of day
But sweet Love is the Comforter of Night
Seek Love in the Pity of others Woe
In the gentle relief of anothers care
In the darkness of night and the winters snow
In the naked and outcast Seek Love there
poem by William Blake from Songs and Ballads (1794)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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As We Spoke
As I was listening, your lips they were glistening
I remember that day that we spoke
I smiled and I agreed, your words I did heed
As I took them seriously, and never as a joke,
All your words I did hear, about your life and career
I was anxious and excited from every word you said
So I waited for your words, as though listening to songbirds
As you spoke, I listened to your feelings instead.
I began to converse, sometimes in text or in verse
What was going through my thoughts and my brain
You just nodded your head, from the stories that I read
As though I was alone and I talked from pain,
With me you were bored, so my stories you ignored
I felt so sad that I almost began weeping
You just didn't care, if I was here or over there
But then when I looked at you, you now were sleeping.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Speak easy
Ever had so much to say but cannot find the words, when you do you just do not have the nerve.
Waste time, time wasted over what might be said, conversations played out only in your head.
Silence is golden so they say, time keeps ticking its running away.
Never runs back just out of control, do soul searching to find the know.
The words you find seam just too few, say nothing at all keep it in you.
If spoken aloud could set you free, there inside, somewhere in me.
Maybe a magician could bring it to light, maybe a strong man to fight this fight.
Speak easy when spoken, say it so clear, I fear, these words, never hear.
The less you speak the more that is herd, screaming out loud not saying a word.
Speak easy to you, few words need say, speak easy to me, time slipping away.
poem by Gary Kedron
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Words
You treat my words
As if they were Sacred Text
Kneeling in Reverence
At my un-holy adjectives
In prayer at my altar
While candle flicker
Shadow flashes your face
Waiting for my sermon
Chapter and verse
Your prayers answered
With an: Amen!
poem by Theodora Onken
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In Other Words
Youve got my heart in unfamiliar territory
Its never been out here on my sleeve
Here tonight with you its quite a diffrent story
You bring out a side of me no one has ever seen.
Theres somethin Im afraid to say to you too early
But Id be a fool to wait too late
My mind is cautious but my heart is in a hurry
Which ones right is really hard to say
Chorus:
In other words
I cant put I love you
In other words
When I look into your eyes
No other words
Can capture what Im feelin
My heart tells my head
Some things cant be said
In other words
Better men then i, have tried to find a better phrase
Still I love you has a ring Ive never heard
In other words
What we got here is a touchy situation
You smile as if you read my mind
Pair of I love yous gently ends this conversation
cause matters of the heart cant be defined
Chorus:
In other words
I cant put I love you
In other words
When I look into your eyes
No other words
Can capture what Im feelin
My heart tells my head
Some things cant be said
In other words
Better men then i, have tried to find a better phrase
Still I love you has a ring Ive never heard.....
In other words
Better men then i, have tried to find a better phrase
Still I love you has a ring Ive never heard
In other words
song performed by by Toby Keith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Writing Frustrations I've Known
-It would seem, I've run out of words.
Nothing left to say.
I have lost my inner voice.
It's gone, completely astray.
Perhaps I should lay down pen and pad.
Never more write a rhyme.
On this poetry that I love
I shall spend no further time.
... not that I was ever truly a poet anyway
... it's just that, well, I did love it so;
... still, it feels the well is dry
... time to just let it go.
- So now, what of me shall be
Feeling empty in heart and head?
What purpose-without a word-shall be heard
With no way to express both hope and dread?
Where have the words gone
Must they ever stay away?
Who has taken my spirit's song
Why has the music of my soul nothing more to say?
... I try... seems of no use...
My mind torn asunder, literary abuse.
(this next part wrote a couple months later)
Listen, what do I hear?
Something is knocking at my gate!
A few months later now
But, not altogether too late.
A lonesome thought comes strolling in
From whence I cannot declare,
Just that it has arrived
With this simple message to share:
' What's a dime
To a lover of verse and rhyme,
And what's to fear
Of criticism drawing near?
For to write only for income
Would soon turn quite burdensome,
As surely as to not write for fear of ridicule
Would be to deny the voice within you.
The words may never turn a single head
But, don't dare believe they'll ever be dead!
God gives meaning to what he wants
Whether anyone else listens or not.
The way it is all spoke
By darling bards, or simple country folk,
Is well worth hearing
And so oft more than a bit endearing.
Don't worry about the rhyme
The perfect place or time,
Just give your soul in words as best you can
And those who should, will understand.
Those who don't
Just won't,
And that's o.k.
God speaks to them in other ways.
Trust his Spirit in all you do
Yes, this includes writing too,
Remember he promised he'd never leave you alone
Even in the simple words of your poems. '
-Pondering it over
I suppose this I've known all along,
Though thoughts may wander
True words are never gone.
Well, ya know what:
I believe I just might pick up paper and pen,
Good or bad, right or wrong...
Give it a go, once again!
poem by Smoky Hoss
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Please Be Quiet
He spoke and spoke so many words
and she just silently thought.
He had an opinion on everything.
She listened and then she sought
silence again, just said Amen
to all those words he said,
Soon thoughts came to her head.
She thought about life.
She thought about love.
She thought about
all he was speaking of.
She thought about nights
where silence prevailed.
She thought about days
where the speaking assailed
her ears.
She'd been thinking and thinking
for too many years.
The quietness was peaceful
but now brought her to tears.
For she missed the sound
of all his words.
She missed everything he said.
He was gone and all was quiet
for all his words were dead.
The thoughts were still there.
The words were not.
And what was it he said?
She forgot.
poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Radio Adelaide
you'll never see a straight face from me
i've got a problem showing emotion
and sucking up my guts
you'll never get an answer from me
i always keep it stuck in my head
a million words i could have said
you say you're so overwhelmed with me
and it's because of me
don't you say, you know i heard you said you know
don't you say, you know anything about me
don't you say, you know i heard you said you know
don't you say, you know anything about me
i'll never show you my frustrations
are left to guarding me to hold it back
i find it hard to just relax
please disriguard my opinion
i try to only care when i'm asked
it helps to get off my chest
you say you're so overwhelmed with grief
and it's because of me
so,
don't you say, you know i heard you said you know
don't you say, you know anything about me
don't you say, you know i heard you said you know
don't you say, you know anything about me
the point has been right in front of you, in plain view
the past it does not only repeat
it holds you,
i can't
get you the words you say,out of my head
out of my head
don't you say, you know i heard you said you know
don't you say, you know anything about me
don't you say, you know i heard you said you know
don't you say, you know anything about me
song performed by by New Found Glory
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Words
So many words are there in our speech,
they can be very poor, they can be rich.
No one can be indifferent to their meaning
as they are alive and express your feeling.
Spoken word is not just a sound,
it can’t be found on the ground,
it’s always in your head, sometimes in your soul.
When it is spoken it becomes a parole.
A word is an energy of your spirit,
it was presented to you by God, it’s His merit.
A word is a tool of communication,
A word is a source of information.
“A word spoken is past recalling”.
Strolling all around it can’t be found,
returned back and kept in your sack.
“The pen is mightier than the sword”,
that was told about a written word.
Words, words, words………………
They are love and seduction,
each one with a certain function.
They are wonders of sin
and songs of education.
They are salvation, temptation, affectation…
They can be an executioner,
they can be the owner of a whiner.
A word can be a treatment,
It helps when you are ill.
A kind word is better than a pill.
But…there are words that just kill.
They sound like a horrible drill.
Words, words, words…………
They are triumph and defeat,
They can be pleasant and sweet.
At the end of my message
I would like everyone to acknowledge:
Each word has a strength
and it doesn’t depend on its length.
So, think before saying a word,
as it is quite well heard even by walls,
it touches someone’s soul,
it shouldn’t be a wicked foul.
“Better the foot to slip than the tongue”.
And… there is no exception for the young.
Larisa R (Odessa, Ukraine)
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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William Upson
Air -- "The Major's Only Son"
Come all good people, far and near,
Oh, come and see what you can hear,
It's of a young man, true and brave,
Who is now sleeping in his grave.
Now, William Upson was his name --
If it's not that it's all the same --
He did enlist in the cruel strife,
And it caused him to lose his life.
He was Jesse Upson's eldest son,
His father loved his noble son;
This son was nineteen years of age,
In the rebellion he engaged.
His father said that he might go,
But his dear mother she said no.
"Stay at home, dear Billy," she said,
But oh, she could not turn his head.
For go he would, and go he did --
He would not do as his mother bid,
For he went away down South, there
Where he could not have his mother's care.
He went to Nashville, Tennessee,
There his kind friends he could not see;
He died among strangers, far away,
They knew not where his body lay.
He was taken sick and lived four weeks,
And oh, how his parents weep,
But now they must in sorrow mourn,
Billy has gone to his heaven home.
If his mother could have seen her son,
For she loved him, her darling one,
If she could heard his dying prayer,
It would ease her heart till she met him there.
It would relieved his mother's heart,
To have seen her son from this world depart,
And hear his noble words of love,
As he left this world for that above.
It will relieve his mother's heart,
That her son is laid in our grave yard;
Now she knows that his grave is near,
She will not shed so many tears.
She knows not that it was her son,
His coffin could not be opened --
It might be some one in his place,
For she could not see his noble face.
He enrolled in eighteen sixty-three,
The next day after Christmas eve;
He died in eighteen sixty-four,
Twenty-third of March, as I was told.
poem by Julia A Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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