A Dream
Amid the mystic fields of Love
I wander'd, and beheld a grove.
Breathlessly still was part, and part
Was breathing with an easy heart;
And there below, in lamblike game,
Were virgins, all so much the same,
That each was all. A youth drew nigh,
And on them gazed with wandering eye,
And would have pass'd, but that a maid,
Clapping her hands above her, said,
‘My time is now!’ and laughing ran
After the dull and strange young man,
And bade him stop and look at her.
And so he call'd her lovelier
Than any else, only because
She only then before him was.
And, while they stood and gazed, a change
Was seen in both, diversely strange:
The youth was ever more and more
That good which he had been before;
But the glad maiden grew and grew
Such that the rest no longer knew
Their sister, who was now to sight
The young man's self, yet opposite,
As the outer rainbow is the first,
But weaker, and the hues reversed.
And whereas, in the abandon'd grove,
The virgin round the Central Love
Had blindly circled in her play,
Now danced she round her partner's way;
And, as the earth the moon's, so he
Had the responsibility
Of her diviner motion. ‘Lo,’
He sang, and the heavens began to glow,
‘The pride of personality,
Seeking its highest, aspires to die,
And in unspeakably profound
Humiliation Love is crown'd!
And from his exaltation still
Into his ocean of good-will
He curiously casts the lead
To find strange depths of lowlihead.’
To one same tune, but higher, ‘Bold,’
The maiden sang, ‘is Love! For cold
On Earth are blushes, and for shame
Of such an ineffectual flame
As ill consumes the sacrifice!’
poem by Coventry Patmore
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The Lack Thereof
Amid the mystic fields of dreams
I wandered, and came on a grave.
Breathlessly still was all around
Yet breathin' with an easy heart;
And there beyond, in wooded grove,
Were visions, all so much the same,
That they became one. A girl drew near,
And on me gazed with wanderin' eye,
And would have passed, but that I called,
Clappin' my hands above my head,
‘My time is now! ' and I followed
After the beautiful spirit
And bade her stop and look at me.
And so I called her lovelier
Than any else, only because
She only then before me was.
And, while we stood and gazed, a change,
Diversely strange, was seen in her:
She became ever more and more
The one I loved before, ago;
Could this be true, could this angel,
Such that I could no longer doubt,
Be the same, who was now to sight
My muse, as lovely as last seen,
As outer darkness starts to fall,
Is this her or the lack therof.
And what of, the abandoned grave,
The girl now walks slowly towards
And blindly circles, in half-turns,
Now dances she round the tomb site;
And, as the light of the moon glows
Illuminatin' her movements
Of diviner motion, she said,
"Come, come and see, see what awaits.
‘That which could not be kept or held,
Seekin' reason, aspires to die,
And, unspeakably, profoundly
Unrequited desire is crowned! "
From this exaltation I stir
As my eyes look at the marker
And comprehend the epitaph
Here Lies Love and the Lack Thereof!
To the same old tune, but softer
The maiden sang, ‘What did you do,
Then, for love and the lack thereof
Of such an ineffectual flame
As ill consumes the sacrifice! '
poem by MacGregor Tagliaferro
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The Roussalka
A LEGEND OF THE WATER-SPRITE
In forest depths, beside a mere,
A monk once made his habitation ;
Absorbed in penances severe,
In fast and prayer he sought salvation.
Already by his own poor spade
His grave was hollowed to receive him,
And every day the good saint prayed
That Heaven from earth would soon relieve him.
One summer's eve, the hermit poor,
At prayer within his narrow room,
Looked out beyond his humble door
And saw the forest wrapped in gloom ;
Night-mists were rising from the mere,
Between the clouds the moon 'gan peep;
The monk unto the pool drew near
And gazed into its waters deep.
He saw himself—drew back perturbed
By fears he ne'er had known before ;
For, lo, the waters were disturbed,
Then suddenly grew calm once more ;
'While fitful as a twilight shade,
Than virgin snow more purely white,
From out the pool appeared a maid
Approaching in the silver light.
She shook the bright drops from her hair
And gazed upon the anchorite ;
To look upon her form so fair
The good monk trembled with affright.
And he beheld her from afar
With head and hand strange signals make,
Then swifter than a shooting star
Dive back into the silent lake.
All night the hermit could not sleep,
All day in agony he prayed ;
But still he could not choose but keep
The image of that wondrous maid
Before him. So, when day did wane,
And overhead the moon was bright,
He watched, and saw her come again
In all her beauty, dazzling white.
She beckoned to him where he stood,
And gave him greeting glad and free.
She played and splashed about the flood,
She laughed and danced in childish glee,
As softly to the monk she cried :
' Come hither, monk, and join me here!'
Then suddenly she dipped to hide
Her beauty in the darkling mere.
The third day came—grown mad with love,
The hermit sought th' enchanted shore
Ere yet night's veil was drawn above,
And waited for the maid once more.
Dawn broke—the monk had disappeared . . .
And now the frightened children say
He haunts the pool: and lo! his beard
Floats on the water night and day.
poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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Long Ago
I loved a maiden, long ago,
She held within her hand my fate;
And in the ruddy sunset glow
We lingered at the garden gate.
The splendor of the western skies
Lay in a halo on her hair.
I gazed with worship in her eyes,
And deemed her true and knew her fair.
'Good night,' I said, and turned away;
She held me with her subtle smile.
I saw her red lips whisper 'stay,'
And so I lingered yet awhile.
'I love you, love you, sweet!' I said,
She laughed, and whispered, 'I love you.'
I kissed her small mouth, ripe and red,
And knew her fair, and deemed her true.
'Twas very, very long ago,
And I was young, and so was she;
My faith as love was strong, for oh!
The maid was all the world to me.
But as the sunset died away
And left the heavens cold and blue,
So died my dream of love one day.
The maid was only fair,
not
true.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Wooing
A YOUTH went faring up and down,
Alack and well-a-day.
He fared him to the market town,
Alack and well-a-day.
And there he met a maiden fair,
With hazel eyes and auburn hair;
His heart went from him then and there,
Alack and well-a-day.
She posies sold right merrily,
Alack and well-a-day;
But not a flower was fair as she,
Alack and well-a-day.
He bought a rose and sighed a sigh,
'Ah, dearest maiden, would that I
Might dare the seller too to buy!'
Alack and well-a-day.
She tossed her head, the coy coquette,
Alack and well-a-day.
'I'm not, sir, in the market yet,'
Alack and well-a-day.
'Your love must cool upon a shelf;
Tho' much I sell for gold and pelf,
I'm yet too young to sell myself,'
Alack and well-a-day.
The youth was filled with sorrow sore,
Alack and well-a-day;
And looked he at the maid once more,
Alack and well-a-day.
Then loud he cried, 'Fair maiden, if
Too young to sell, now as I live,
You're not too young yourself to give,'
Alack and well-a-day.
The little maid cast down her eyes,
Alack and well-a-day,
And many a flush began to rise,
Alack and well-a-day.
'Why, since you are so bold,' she said,
'I doubt not you are highly bred,
So take me!' and the twain were wed,
Alack and well-a-day.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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The Change
She leaned out into the soft June weather,
With her long loose tresses the night breeze played;
Her eyes were as blue as the bells on the heather:
Oh, what is so fair as a fair young maid!
She folded her hands, like the leaves of a lily,
'My life, ' she said, 'is a night in June,
Fair and quiet, and calm and stilly;
Bring me a change, O changeful moon!
'Who would drift on a lake forever?
Young hearts weary - it is not strange,
And sigh for the beautiful bounding river;
New moon, true moon, bring me a change! '
The rose that rivalled her maiden blushes
Dropped from her breast, at a strangers feet;
Only a glance; but the hot blood rushes
To mantle a fair face, shy and sweet.
To and fro, while the moon is waning,
They walk, and the stars shine on above;
And one is in earnest, and one is feigning -
Oh, what is so sweet as a sweet young love?
A young life crushed, and a young heart broken,
A bleak wind blows through the lovely bower,
And all that remains of the love vows spoken -
Is the trampled leaf of a faded flower.
The night is dark, for the moon is failing -
And what is so pale as a pale old moon?
Cold is the wind through the tree tops wailing -
Woe that the change should come so soon.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Is It So Strange
(words & music by faron young)
Oh, if you tell a lie
You know that Ill forgive you
Though you say our love is just a game
And when you hear my name
Youll say Im from a strange world
But is it so strange to be in love with you
Is it so strange
That I love you more than all the world
Is it so strange
I have no eyes for any other girl
Oh wont you take me back
And say that you still love me
To waste a love like ours would be a sin
Let us kiss again
Let me hold you near
And take me from this strange world
That Im living in
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Goddess Of The Moon
I'll not forget that awesome night
When I beheld the winsome sight
Of she who held the silvered moon
As though a beach ball caught one June!
The vision I observed was rare
And who was I this dream to share?
Yet there she was, as large as life!
Smiling like a new-made wife!
Adorned like Virgin Mary blessed
And by her touch the moon caressed...
It was as if she saw its worth,
While we just watched it here on Earth...
And merely thought it good as dead,
While she displayed true love instead!
Why should we love the moon at all?
It's hardly worth the time to stall...
It just reflects the sun at night...
And causes tides to move with might...
And gets the poets hooked on love...
And yet I'd ask, is that enough?
Who knows if we will colonise?
For now, her beauty filled my eyes
And bid me stop to tell the tale -
As if I were the only male
To wish upon a distant star,
Then praise the Lord or shout hoorah!
Think of Mary near November!
Mary Christmas in December!
Why should I see a maiden thus?
Reveal such visions or discuss
The Mystic Maiden? Goddess? Friend?
God grant me time... to comprehend...
poem by Denis Martindale
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Strange Pursuit
Intersecting love lines
Drew us closer every day
Always kept your distance
When you felt my presence near you
Love keeps on rolling over
Fly in retreat
I would follow without shame
A stupid spud staggering to the flame
To be had and rehad
Be a victim of the pain
Now its strange, its so strange
Its a strange pursuit
Its a strange pursuit
Its a strange pursuit
I come running like a fatboy
In lead shoes
But like a fatboy
Huff puffing after you
Its hopeless to hope for
The one thing that Im wanting
cause its strange
Its so very strange
Its a strange pursuit
Darling, Im dazzled
But you know Im too frazzled
Its a strange pursuit
Makin my mind up
While it lies in little pieces
Its a strange pursuit
You know its getting tough
When youre getting real rough
Its a strange pursuit
Darling, Im dazzled
But you know Im too frazzled
Its a strange pursuit
Makin my mind up
While it lies in little pieces
It s a strange pursuit
song performed by by Devo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Dancing Seal
When we were building Skua Light--
The first men who had lived a night
Upon that deep-sea Isle--
As soon as chisel touched the stone,
The friendly seals would come ashore;
And sit and watch us all the while,
As though they'd not seen men before;
And so, poor beasts, had never known
Men had the heart to do them harm.
They'd little cause to feel alarm
With us, for we were glad to find
Some friendliness in that strange sea;
Only too pleaed to let them be
And sit as long as they'd a mind
To watch us: for their eyes were kind
Like women's eyes, it seemed to me.
So, hour on hour, they sat: I think
They liked to hear the chisels clink:
And when the boy sang loud and clear,
They scrambled closer in to hear;
And if he whistled sweet and shrill,
The queer beasts shuffled nearer still:
But every sleek and sheeny skin
Was mad to hear his violin.
When, work all over for the day,
He'd take his fiddle down and play
His merry tunes beside the sea,
Their eyes grew brighter and more bright,
And burned and twinkled merrily:
And as I watched them one still night,
And saw their eager sparkling eyes,
I felt those lively seals would rise
Some shiny night ere he could know,
And dance about him, heel and toe,
Unto the fiddle's headdy tune.
And at the rising of the moon,
Half-daft, I took my stand before
A young seal lying on the shore;
And called on her to dance with me.
And it seemed hardly strange when she
Stood up before me suddenly,
And shed her black and sheeny skin;
And smiled, all eager to begin . . .
And I was dancing, heel and toe,
With a young maiden, white as snow,
Unto a crazy violin.
We danced beneath the dancing moon
All night, beside the dancing sea,
With tripping toes and skipping heels:
And all about us friendly seals
Like Christian folk were dancing reels
Unto the fiddle's endless tune
That kept on spinning merrily
As though it never meant to stop.
And never once the snow-white maid
A moment stayed
To take a breath,
Though I was fit to drop:
And while those wild eyes challenged me,
I knew as well as well could be
I must keep step with that young girl,
Though we should dance to death.
Then with a skirl
The fiddle broke:
The moon went out:
The sea stopped dead:
And, in a twinkling, all the rout
Of dancing folk had fled . . .
And in the chill bleak dawn I woke
Upon the naked rock, alone.
They've brought me far from Skua Isle . . .
I laugh to think they do not know
That as, all day I chip the stone,
Among my fellows here inland,
I smell the sea-wrack on the shore . . .
And see her snowy-tossing hand,
And meet again her merry smile . . .
And dream I'm dancing all the while,
I'm dancing ever, heel and toe,
With a seal-maiden, white as snow,
On that moonshiny Island-strand,
For ever and for evermore.
poem by Wilfred Wilson Gibson
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A Black Cat Crossed My Path
A black cat crossed my path
On a night of a full moon
He was carrying a pack on his back
And dancing around like a loon.
I thought it was a funny sight
I couldn’t believe my eyes
Then I saw a ghostly cat
In a transparent disguise.
His eyes glowed like fire
In the darkened night
My hands grew cold
I was filled with fright.
Just then the ghostly cat
Found the black cat by a tree
They both did a jig
And started singing merrily.
I was no longer scared
As they danced ‘round and ‘round
It was an unusual scene
And an unusual sound.
They sang Halloween songs
About pumpkins and goblins and bats
And as they sang
Along came about fifty other cats.
They all joined in
The sound grew so loud
But it was a happy sound
From a jolly crowd.
All of the cats were dancing
And having a good time
Then the ghostly cat invited me
To have a bite of a lime.
I told him it would be sour
He said “Well, come dance instead”
So I joined the singing cats
And danced with a cat named Fred.
He moved around quite fast
Hopping left and right
We both danced and danced
Deep into the night.
At last I had enough
I couldn’t dance anymore
So I said good-bye to all the cats
And Fred walked me to my door.
He asked if he could come in
I said “my two cats would probably mind”
So he said “I’ll see you around”
I said “I had a nice time.”
One year went by
Halloween was here again
A black cat crossed my path
I knew the party was about to begin.
Happy Halloween.
poem by Connie Webb
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Barbara Allen's Cruelty
IN Scarlet town, where I was born,
There was a fair maid dwellin',
Made every youth cry Well-a-way!
Her name was Barbara Allen.
All in the merry month of May,
When green buds they were swellin',
Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay,
For love of Barbara Allen.
He sent his man in to her then,
To the town where she was dwellin',
'O haste and come to my master dear,
If your name be Barbara Allen.'
So slowly, slowly rase she up,
And slowly she came nigh him,
And when she drew the curtain by--
'Young man, I think you're dyin'.'
'O it 's I am sick and very very sick,
And it 's all for Barbara Allen.'
'O the better for me ye'se never be,
Tho' your heart's blood were a-spillin'!
'O dinna ye mind, young man,' says she,
'When the red wine ye were fillin',
That ye made the healths go round and round,
And slighted Barbara Allen?'
He turn'd his face unto the wall,
And death was with him dealin':
'Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all,
And be kind to Barbara Allen!'
As she was walking o'er the fields,
She heard the dead-bell knellin';
And every jow the dead-bell gave
Cried 'Woe to Barbara Allen.'
'O mother, mother, make my bed,
O make it saft and narrow:
My love has died for me to-day,
I'll die for him to-morrow.
'Farewell,' she said, 'ye virgins all,
And shun the fault I fell in:
Henceforth take warning by the fall
Of cruel Barbara Allen.'
The Shepherdess Of The Arno
’Tis no wild and wond’rous legend, but a simple pious tale
Of a gentle shepherd maiden, dwelling in Italian vale,
Near where Arno’s glittering waters like the sunbeams flash and play
As they mirror back the vineyards through which they take their way.
She was in the rosy dawning of girlhood fair and bright,
And, like morning’s smiles and blushes, was she lovely to the sight;
Soft cheeks like sea-shells tinted and radiant hazel eyes;
But on changing earthly lover were not lavished smiles or sighs.
Still, that gentle heart was swelling with a love unbounded, true,
Such as worldly breast, earth harden’d, passion-wearied, never knew;
And each day she sought the chapel of Our Lady in the dell,
There to seek an hour’s communing with the Friend she loved so well.
Often, too, she brought a garland of wild flowers, fragrant, fair,
Which she culled whilst onward leading her flock with patient care;
The diamond dew-drops clinging to every petal sweet,—
For the mystic Rose of Heaven was it not a tribute meet?
The white statue of the Virgin boasted neither crown nor gem;
On its head she placed her chaplet instead of diadem,
Murm’ring, “O, my gentle Mother, would that it were in my power
To give Thee pearl or diamond instead of simple flower!”
But for earth she was too winsome, that fair child of faith and love,
One of those whom God culls early for His gardens bright above;
And the hand of sickness touched her till she faded day by day,
And to Our Lady’s chapel she came no more to pray.
One evening, in the valley, after journeying many a mile,
Two pious men in holy garb lay down to rest a while,
And in sleep to both a vision of most wond’rous beauty came,
Such as only visit souls which burn with heav’nly love’s pure flame.
Amid clouds of golden brightness they saw to earth float down
A band of fair young virgins, wearing each a glittering crown;
And surpassing them in beauty, as the day outshines the night,
Was high Heaven’s regal Mistress—Our Lady, fair and bright.
Then the pious brothers knew at once that she was on her way
To see a dying maiden, and her love through life repay;
And when, from slumber waking, they told their vision true,
They said: “Let us go visit this child of Mary, too!”
High instinct lent by Heaven guided on their feet aright,
And in silence grave they journeyed till a cottage came in sight;
’Neath its humble porch they entered, with bow’d and reverent head,
And found themselves in presence of the peaceful, holy dead.
Oh! most fair the sight! No maiden with bridal wreath on brow
Ever looked one half so lovely as the one they gazed on now;
As a lily, fair and spotless, bright and pure each feature shone,
Bearing impress of that Heaven to which Mary’s child had gone.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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The Second Time Around
Love is lovelier, the second time around
Just as wonderful, with both feet on the ground
It's that second time you hear your love song sung
Makes you think perhaps that love, like youth, is wasted on the young
Love's more comfortable the second time you fall
Like a friendly home the second time you call
Who can say, what led us to this miracle we've found
There are those who'd bet
Love comes but once - and yet
I'm oh so glad we met
The second time around
Who can say, what led us to this miracle we've found
There are those who'd bet
Love comes but once - and yet
I'm oh so glad we met
The second time around
Love is lovelier
Second time around
song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For Lori Lynn
Once in my youth I saw her face
That's how my story begins-
I met a young maiden of stunning grace,
She called herself Lori Lynn.
Sprinkles of stardust danced in her eyes,
As my mind would meander and spin,
And her hair would shimmer in the moonlit sky,
Caressing her delicate skin.
She made me act like a little child,
And my feelings I couldn't contain,
So I wrote this poem to make her smile
Because I was slightly insane.
But, all of a sudden, a strange little bird
Snatched my poem, as I finished my gin,
Then it flew away and I never heard
From my beautiful Lori Lynn.
Many years passed, I grew tired and old,
And I couldn't write poems again,
As my world grew dull and my heart turned cold,
And I felt like a dying man.
But then one night, when I was alone
With my usual bottle of gin,
I dreamt that same bird, and it read me a poem
By my beautiful Lori Lynn.
Then I woke up and somehow I knew
That the answer was always within,
So I wrote this poem addressed to you,
O my beautiful Lori Lynn!
poem by Alexander Shaumyan
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Who Gave It To You?
I was not using it and,
You were not using it either!
But, who gave it to you?
Hew, dew, few, brew, drew, threw;
But this story started long ago!
And your lips are now red,
So, who gave it to you?
Slew, sew, stew, pew, spew, mew;
Strange food,
Strange meat,
Strange people,
Strange land,
Strange culture,
Strange love,
Crew, grew, new, strew, screw;
But, with your red lips! !
So, who gave it to you?
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Poet's Song
I HID in the world and sang,
And I sang so loud and long
That all the ages rang
With the music of my song.
I sang of the earth and sky,
5
I sang of the whispering seas,
I sang of the mountains high,
And I sang of the flowers and trees;
I sang of the early spring,
I sang of the dawning day,
10
I sang, for I had to sing
As the young lambs have to play;
Till heaven and earth were ringing,
And all the people heard,
And they said, "We love his singing,
15
For his song is the song of the bird."
poem by Frederick George Scott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Master of the Dance
A chant to which it is intended a group of children shall dance and improvise pantomime led by their dancing-teacher.
I
A master deep-eyed
Ere his manhood was ripe,
He sang like a thrush,
He could play any pipe.
So dull in the school
That he scarcely could spell,
He read but a bit,
And he figured not well.
A bare-footed fool,
Shod only with grace;
Long hair streaming down
Round a wind-hardened face;
He smiled like a girl,
Or like clear winter skies,
A virginal light
Making stars of his eyes.
In swiftness and poise,
A proud child of the deer,
A white fawn he was,
Yet a fwn without fear.
No youth thought him vain,
Or made mock of his hair,
Or laughed when his ways
Were most curiously fair.
A mastiff at fight,
He could strike to the earth
The envious one
Who would challenge his worth.
However we bowed
To the schoolmaster mild,
Our spirits went out
To the fawn-looted child.
His beckoning led
Our troop to the brush.
We found nothing there
But a wind and a hush.
He sat by a stone
And he looked on the ground,
As if in the weeds
There was something profound.
His pipe seemed to neigh,
Then to bleat like a sheep,
Then sound like a stream
Or a waterfall deep.
It whispered strange tales,
Human words it spoke not.
Told fair things to come,
And our marvellous lot
If now with fawn-steps
Unshod we advanced
To the midst of the grove
And in reverence danced.
We obeyed as he piped
Soft grass to young feet,
Was a medicine mighty,
A remedy meet.
Our thin blood awoke,
It grew dizzy and wild,
Though scarcely a word
Moved the lips of a child.
Our dance gave allegiance,
It set us apart,
We tripped a strange measure,
Uplifted of heart.
II
We thought to be proud
Of our fawn everywhere.
We could hardly see how
Simple books were a care.
No rule of the school
This strange student could tame.
He was banished one day,
While we quivered with shame.
He piped back our love
On a moon-silvered night,
Enticed us once more
To the place of delight.
A greeting he sang
And it made our blood beat,
It tramped upon custom
And mocked at defeat.
He builded a fire
And we tripped in a ring,
The embers our books
And the fawn our good king.
And now we approached
All the mysteries rare
That shadowed his eyelids
And blew through his hair.
That spell now was peace
The deep strength of the trees,
The children of nature
We clambered her knees.
Our breath and our moods
Were in tune with her own,
Tremendous her presence,
Eternal her throne.
The ostracized child
Our white foreheads kissed,
Our bodies and souls
Became lighter than mist.
Sweet dresses like snow
Our small lady-loves wore,
Like moonlight the thoughts
That our bosoms upbore.
Like a lily the touch
Of each cold little hand.
The loves of the stars
We could now understand.
O quivering air!
O the crystalline night!
O pauses of awe
And the faces swan-white!
O ferns in the dusk!
O forest-shrined hour!
O earth that sent upward
The thrill and the power,
To lift us like leaves,
A delirious whirl,
The masterful boy
And the delicate girl!
What child that strange night-time
Can ever forget?
His fealty due
And his infinite debt
To the folly divine,
To the exquisite rule
Of the perilous master,
The fawn-looted fool?
III
Now soldiers we seem,
And night brings a new thing,
A terrible ire,
As of thunder awing.
A warrior power,
That old chivalry stirred,
When knights took up arms,
As the maidens gave word.
THE END OF OUR WAR,
WILL BE GLORY UNTOLD.
WHEN THE TOWN LIKE A GREAT
BUDDING ROSE SHALL UNFOLD!
Near, nearer that war,
And that ecstasy comes,
We hear the trees beating
Invisible drums.
The fields of the night
Are starlit above,
Our girls are white torches
Of conquest and love.
No nerve without will,
And no breast without breath,
We whirl with the planets
That never know death!
poem by Vachel Lindsay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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So Strange
Love's so strange.
It's really quite deranged.
About you all things change.
You'll do anything for a flame.
Even grow your hair and change your name.
It drives me mad with sickness grand.
When in love nothing is ever bland.
You feel alive.
Where every nerve does juke and jive.
Even simple things make you cry.
For your love you'd gladly die.
It is so strange. I truly can't explain.
The utter insanity of this game.
So when you find that speacial dame.
You'll truly understand what is so strange.
poem by Michael McParland
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Grave Of A Poetess
I stood beside thy lowly grave;
Spring-odours breath'd around,
And music, in the river-wave,
Pass'd with a lulling sound.
All happy things that love the sun,
In the bright air glanc'd by,
And a glad murmur seem'd to run
Thro' the soft azure sky.
Fresh leaves were on the ivy-bough
That fring'd the ruins near;
Young voices were abroad–but thou
Their sweetness couldst not hear.
And mournful grew my heart for thee,
Thou in whose woman's mind
The ray that brightens earth and sea,
The light of song was shrined.
Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low,
With a dread curtain drawn
Between thee and the golden glow
Of this world's vernal dawn.
Parted from all the song and bloom
Thou wouldst have lov'd so well,
To thee the sunshine round thy tomb
Was but a broken spell.
The bird, the insect on the wing,
In their bright reckless play,
Might feel the flush and life of spring,–
And thou wert pass'd away!
But then, ev'n then, a nobler thought
O'er my vain sadness came;
Th' immortal spirit woke, and wrought
Within my thrilling frame.
Surely on lovelier things, I said,
Thou must have look'd ere now,
Than all that round our pathway shed
Odours and hues below.
The shadows of the tomb are here,
Yet beautiful is earth!
What see'st thou then where no dim fear,
No haunting dream hath birth?
Here a vain love to passing flowers
Thou gav'st–but where thou art,
The sway is not with changeful hours,
There love and death must part.
Thou hast left sorrow in thy song,
A voice not loud, but deep!
The glorious bowers of earth among,
How often didst thou weep!
Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground
Thy tender thoughts and high?–
Now peace the woman's heart hath found,
And joy the poet's eye.
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Princess And The Page
There is a legend—you have read it—
Of a fair page whom evil spells
Held in deep sleep; and men of credit
Tried all in vain, the story tells,
Week after week, by night and noon,
To wake him from his sombre swoon.
Till one, more knowing than the others,
Took counsel of the stars, and said:
'We may not rouse this youth, my brothers;
But if the queen will bow her head
And kiss him on the lips, his soul
Straight shall escape the fiend's control.'
'Then he must perish !' in loud chorus
The learned men lamenting cried;
'Better to let him die before us
Than see our queen abase her pride
And shame her fame from north to south,
Kissing a page upon the mouth.'
And so in sorrow they departed
And through the travelled highways passed.
But the strange news their story started
Filled all the land, and reached at last
The crowded hall where sate alone
The fair young monarch on her throne.
And she, being royal, rose in beauty
Like dawn over a leafy hill.
'Would you then teach your queen her duty?—
Now lead me forth to do God's will.
Know, were this youth my meanest slave,
He should not die whom I could save.'
So forth they led her through the palace,
Beyond the park and past the gate,
Silent as when a sacred chalice
Uplifts the rich wine consecrate.
In royal pomp of robe and crown
Through field and wood they led her down.
There in a mossy glade lay sleeping
A youth so beautiful, 'tis said,
That the still trees were softly keeping
A solemn vigil round his bed;
And the birds sang sweet lullabies,
Fearing lest he should wake and rise.
Then silken-vestured lords and ladies
Circled him like a garland there,
Thinking, 'Thrice blest our royal maid is
To kiss to life a thing so fair.'
And many a damsel envied her,
Feeling the aching pulses stir.
Simply, divinely, like one praying,
The crowned queen passed their shadowed eyes,
And knelt beside the youth, and saying,
'Now in God's name I bid thee rise,'
She bowed and kissed the parted lips,
Like a white cloud that moonward dips.
And as she rose the pale lids lifted
Over his dark eyes veiled and drowned,
That slowly back to being drifted
And in her gaze their refuge found.
Then slowly, bold with rapture sweet,
He turned and sank before her feet.
'Give me thy love—I love thee only!'—
The bold words fluttered like a song.
'Thy love!' and from her station lonely
The young queen heard and took no wrong,
But lifted one white hand to still
Murmurs that dared rebuke her will.
'Blest is thy love, so freely given,
As all things freely given are blest.
Yea, not in vain thy soul hath striven
Even though I grant not thy behest.
Over the hills, across the sea,
The prince comes who my lord shall be.'
'Over the hills, across the ocean—'
The bowed youth echoed, murmuring:
Then rose, reeling with dark emotion,
And striving to his dream to cling.
'Nay, if thou love me not, ah why
Didst thou not leave me here to die?'
'Now, by my crown, thou art not noble
But basely born,' the queen made moan.
'Do penance for thy words ignoble—
Life is not given for love alone.
Oh, purge thee in Christ's altar-flame,
And go to battle in His name.'
So saying, from the forest hoary
She passed, with all who marvelled there;
Nor once gazed back—so runs the story—
To see him on his knees in prayer.
But all this came to pass, they say,
Long, long ago, and far away.
poem by Harriet Monroe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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