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Sonnet LXI: The Song-Throe

By thine own tears thy song must tears beget,
O Singer! Magic mirror thou hast none
Except thy manifest heart; and save thine own
Anguish or ardour, else no amulet.
Cisterned in Pride, verse is the feathery jet
Of soulless air-flung fountains; nay, more dry
Than the Dead Sea for throats that thirst and sigh,
That song o'er which no singer's lids grew wet.
The Song-god—He the Sun-god—is no slave
Of thine; thy Hunter he, who for thy soul
Fledges his shaft: to no august control
Of thy skilled hand his quivered store he gave:
But if thy lips' loud cry leap to his smart,
The inspir'd recoil shall pierce thy brother's heart.

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Give to Love

Love came knocking on thy door
With you in sight to love and adore
But thine did give
All that thou have and
need to live?
You gave thine lips for love to speak
You gave thine heart for love's heart's weak
You gave thine face, to love to trace
its tears across thee a sorrowful place
thou give to thy loss when it comes to love!
You gave thine soul to love's control
You gave love thy hand to hold
You gave thy feet for love to kiss
You gave thy happiness to love's bliss
You gave thy breast for love to touch
You gave thine body for love to clutch.
But what did love give thee?
Love took and took and left thee with nothing!
With nothing now you are at peace, thou art free!
This is what love did to me!

poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Nightingale

(mccafferty, sweet, charlton, agnew)
1975 nazareth(dunfermline)ltd.
Sings a sad song for lonely women
Sings about women to lonely men
Sings a peace song to a soldier
Sings about loneliness to a friend
Shes a song, song singer
Let her music touch your heart
Shes a song singer from her heart
Sings a melody to haunt you
And some words to make you cry
If youre sad shell make you happy
When youre down shell take you high
Shes a song, song singer
Let her music touch your heart
Shes a song singer from her heart
Shes a song, song singer
Let her music touch your heart
Shes a song singer from her heart
Shes a song, song singer
Let her music touch your heart
Shes a song singer from her heart

song performed by by Nazareth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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O sweet song of sorrow play thy song in me

O sweet song of sorrow play thy song in me
Lonely, alone with thee, in perfect harmony
Sorrow don't ever leave me; I need thy loyalty
Without thy sweet song, I am nothing, with no sympathy
Without thy empathy, breathing in me, sorrow thou art beauty
The beauty in me, so weep thy soul in me
And in thy sweet cry, my soul shall flow free
To thine heart, to thine love, to thine eternal glory
Sorrow, sweet sorrow, thou play thy song in me
Me as sorrowful, as thy soul's sorrow be…

poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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An enchanting song

I art waiting for the songbird to show it's grace
Perhaps with a song or mere presence
I come from long tired journeys I chase
The lapse of wrong leads to perseverance

So when shall thy merry song embark upon,
Towering yew, spreading greens and collosal hills
I yearn for thy charming song, for it is a spark lit on
The mellowing of sew of harming wrongs and collapsing sills

Thou art evident soaring above the peaks
Is thine song with thou?
How stark it seems without thy song which speaks,
Of mine long folly with woe

At long last I heed to thy enchanting song
The one I hast been waiting for
The song's vast lead on encumbering wrong
Is some seen in blur

I know not what thou wishes in the song
But I craft my own significance
I bow to thine bliss, for long,
Have I been in draft with ignorance

Bar the sins out I art cleansed by thine enchanting song
Been to the murkiest corners in life in strife
Soar the wins prevailed out of ignorance, a charming thong
Hit me on my frailest bothers, wounded by a knife

But, thy song heals mine wounds
I heave a sigh to respite
Tell me why thy sounds
poignant despite
having an enthralling vocation to act
Art I the reason?
Craving for thy song is it a violation pact?
Then art away with my treason

poem by Vittal Vandavasu
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The Grief Of Love

Love, I am sick for thee, sick with an absolute grief,
Sick with the thought of thy eyes and lips and bosom.
All the beauty I saw, I see to my hurt revealed.
All that I felt I feel to--day for my pain and sorrow.

Love, I would fain forget thee, hide thee in deeper night,
Shut thee where no thought is, in the grave with tears.
Love, I would turn my face to the wall and, if needs be, die;
Death less cruel were than thy eyes which have blinded me.

Since thou art gone from me, glory is gone from my life;
Dumb are the woods and streams, and dumb the voice of my soul;
Dead are the flowers we loved, blackened and sere with blight;
Earth is frost--bound under my foot where our footsteps trod.

Give me back for my sorrow the days of senseless peace,
Days when I thought not of thee, or thought in wisdom;
Let me see thee once more as thou to my folly wert,
A woman senseless as sounding brass or as tinkling cymbal.

Why didst thou show me thy heart, which I thought not of?
Why didst thou bare me thy soul, who to me wert soulless?
Why didst thou kiss my mouth, when my mouth did mock?
Why didst thou speak to my lips of love, ere my lips had spoken?

Love, thou hast made me thine, thine, and in my despite,
Laying thy hand on my heart in the soft Spring weather;
Love, thou hast bought my soul at a price, the price of thine,
Never again to mock at love, ah, never, never!

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Song. YES ....though we've loved so long

YES ....though we've loved so long, so well,
Imperious duty bids us part;
But though thy breast with anguish swell,
A pang more lasting tears my heart.

My grief is dumb,....loquacious thine,
The mournful hoard I sacred keep;
Thou seekest crowds, alone I pine;
My eyes are dry, but thine can weep.

Then, whatsoe'er thy lips have vowed,
A truer sorrow sways my soul;
For shallow streams run bright and loud,
Deep waters darkly silent roll.

poem by Amelia Opie
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Its The Singer Not The Song

Its just another summer,
You hear a different drummer
Youre looking for a way to check out from this grind
You wrestle with temptation,
Your job is sheer frustration
cause theres a lifetime chance youve yet to find
Still you wonder if youve got the clout
To make it happen in this cold-hearted town
And youre feelin that youre trapped
You wonder should you just stop tryin
Well take a message from the man
Whos not afraid to come on strong
When theres magic in the music
Its the singer not the song
When its comin from the heart
All the people sing along
Its the man behind the music
Its the singer not the song
Inside you heart is achin
Theres challenge for the taking
So shoot it from the hip
Believe in what you say
Youre calling this your best fight
Youre looking for the limelight
Reachin for a star to guide you on your way
Well give the glory to the man
Whos not afraid to come on strong
When theres magic in the music
Its the singer not the song
When its comin from the heart
All the people sing along
Its the man behind the music
Its the singer not the song

song performed by by Survivor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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O Singer of the epic war history

O Singer of the epic war history,
O Singer of life, of liberation hoary,
Of brazen battlefields, long desolate,
O Singer of Gita's ageless glory.

Outlived hast the song thine endless story,
Though war heroes survive still in state,
Frustrated of fate but scarce sorry,
O Singer of the epic war history.

Yudhishthir's dharma, Arjun's archery,
Bheeshma's oath, Bhima's bravery,
Scarce confined remain to Pearly Gate,
And sung are with Gita's ageless glory.

And ye O bard, two roles in one carry:
Of poet laureate and progenitor great,
O ye born in a river ferry,
O Singer of the epic war history

Ye sang thine epic in such swell flurry,
Ganesha, if not quite inadequate,
Lost in thought, felt somewhat weary,
O Singer of ancient ageless glory,

Not mine ‘lone, any pen-pusher's worry
‘Tis to try even to translate,
O Singer of the epic war history,
O Singer of ancient ageless glory.
_______________________________________ __
This is a Villanelle a bit way out. The tercet,
that normally becomes a quatrain only in the last
stanza, is here so in all. Also, the first and the third
lines of the first stanza are repeated with some
modifications.
_____________________________________________ ______
- Villanelle | 02.10.11 |

poem by Aniruddha Pathak
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Sonnet 12

What gossamer lures thee now? What hope, what name
Is on thy lips? What dreams to fruit have grown?
Thou who hast turned ONE Poet-heart to stone,
Is thine yet burning with its seraph flame?
Let me give back a warning of thine own,
That, falling from thee many moons ago,
Sank on my soul like the prophetic moan
Of some young Sibyl shadowing her own woe.
The words are thine, and will not do thee wrong,
I only bind their solemn charge to song.
Thy tread is on a quicksand -- oh! be wise!
Nor, in the passionate eagerness of youth,
MISTAKE THY BOSOM-SERPENT'S GLITTERING EYES
FOR THE CALM LIGHTS OF REASON AND OF TRUTH.

poem by Henry Timrod
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The Chamois Hunter's Love

Thy heart is in the upper world, where fleet the chamois bounds;
Thy heart is where the mountain-fir shakes to the torrent-sounds;
And where the snow-peaks gleam like stars, through the stillness of the air,
And where the Lauwine's peal is heart - Hunter! thy heart is there!

I know thou lovest me well, dear friend! but better, better far,
Thou lovest that high and haughty life, with rocks and storms at war;
In the green sunny vales with me, thy spirit would but pine,
And yet I will be thine, my love! and yet I will be thine!

And I will not seek to woo thee down from those thy native heights,
With the sweet song, our land's own song, of pastoral delights;
For thou must live as eagles live, thy path is not as mine,
And yet I will be thine, my love! and yet I will be thine!

And I will leave my blessed home, my father's joyous hearth,
With all the voices meeting there in tenderness and mirth,
With all the kind and laughing eyes that in its firelight shine,
To sit forsaken in thy hut, yet know that thou art mine!

It is my youth, it is my bloom, it is my glad free heart,
That I cast away for thee - for thee, all reckless as thou art!
With tremblings and with vigils lone, I bind myself to dwell,
Yet, yet I would not change that lot, oh no! I love too well!

A mournful thing is love which grows to one so wild as thou,
With that bright restlessness of eye, that tameless fire of brow.
Mournful! - but dearer far I call its mingled fear and pride,
And the trouble of its happiness, than aught on earth beside.

To listen for thy step in vain, to start at every breath,
To watch through long long nights of storm, to sleep and dream of death,
To wake in doubt and loneliness - this doom I know is mine
And yet I will be thine, my love! and yet I will be thine!

That I may greet thee from thine Alps, when thence thou comest at last,
That I may hear thy thrilling voice tell o'er each danger past,
That I may kneel and pray for thee, and win thee aid divine -
For this I will be thine, my love! for this I will be thine!

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Saint Elizabeth Of Bohemia

I NEVER lay me down to sleep at night
But in my heart I sing that little song:
The angels hear it as, a pitying throng,
They touch my burning lids with fingers bright
As moonbeams, pale, impalpable, and light:
And when my daily pious tasks are done,
And all my patient prayers said one by one,
God hears it. Seems it sinful in His sight
That round my slow burnt-offering of quenched will
One quivering human sigh creeps wind-like still?
That when my orisons celestial fail
Rises one note of natural human wail?
Dear lord, spouse, hero, martyr, saint! erelong,
I trust, God will forgive my singing that poor song.

II.

A YEAR ago I bade my little son
Bear upon pilgrimage a heavy load
Of alms; he cried, half-fainting on the road,
'Mother, O mother, would the day were done!'
Him I reproved with tears, and said, 'Go on!
Nor pause nor murmur till thy task be o'er.'--
Would not God say to me the same, and more?
I will not sing that song. Thou, dearest one,
Husband--no, brother!--stretch thy steadfast hand
And let mine grasp it. Now, I also stand,
My woman weakness nerved to strength like thine;
We'll quaff life's aloe-cup as if 't were wine
Each to the other; journeying on apart,
Till at heaven's golden doors we two leap heart to heart.

poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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I Am Your Singer

You are my love, you are my song, liger on,
You are my song, I am your singer.
You are my one, you are my own melody,
You are my song, I am your singer.
Someday when were singing
We will fly away, going winging.
Sing, singing my love song to you.
My song is sung,
When day is done harmonies willinger on,
I am your singer,
I am your singer,
Singing my love song to you.

song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet LII: What? Dost Thou Mean

What? Dost thou mean to cheat me of my heart?
To take all mine and give me none again?
Or have thine eyes such magic or that art
That what they get they ever do retain?
Play not the tyrant, but take some remorse;
Rebate thy spleen, if but for pity's sake;
Or, cruel, if thou canst not, let us 'scourse,
And, for one piece of thine, my whole heart take.
But what of pity do I speak to thee,
Whose breast is proof against complaint or prayer?
Or can I think what my reward shall be
From that proud beauty, which was my betrayer?
What talk I of a heart, when thou hast none?
Or, if thou hast, it is a flinty one.

poem by Michael Drayton
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To thy heart so sweetly its wrong..

To a memory of happiness thine heart doth yield
Rousing thine sweet face to be kissed by love first
Dreamy thy power behind thy strength's shield
Drinking the dreams of love, thine soul doth thirst
For the love that did first make thee
Is the love thy face doth subtly gleam
Into the springs of thy soul's glee
Wert thy past love reflect and thy heart beam
But thy love is in thy dreams, now thy love not
Rejected and abandoned to thy only love thou hope
As loneliness and despair forge a their Gordian knot
Around thy heart, thy still dream for love to cope
For the love which is lost in thy memory song
Unconsciously playing to thy heart so sweetly its wrong..

poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Psalm 31 part 1

v.5,13-19,22,23
C. M.
Deliverance from death.

Unto thine hand, O God of truth,
My spirit I commit;
Thou hast redeemed my soul from death,
And saved me from the pit.

The passions of my hope and fear
Maintained a doubtful strife,
While sorrow, pain, and sin conspired
To take away my life.

"My times are in thine hand," I cried,
"Though I draw near the dust;
Thou art the refuge where I hide,
The God in whom I trust.

O make thy reconciled face
Upon thy servant shine,
And save me for thy mercy's sake,
For I'm entirely thine.

PAUSE.

['Twas in my haste my spirit said,
"I must despair and die,
I am cut off before thine eyes;
But thou hast heard my cry.]

Thy goodness how divinely free!
How wondrous is thy grace
To those that fear thy majesty,
And trust thy promises!

O love the Lord, all ye his saints,
And sing his praises loud;
He'll bend his ear to your complaints,
And recompense the proud.

poem by Isaac Watts
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Australian Anthem

Maker of earth and sea,
What shall we render Thee?
All things are Thine!
Ours but from day to day
Still with one heart to pray,
“God bless our land alway,”
This land of Thine.

Mighty in brotherhood,
Mighty for God and good,
Let us be Thine.
Here let the nations see
Toil from the curse set free,
Labour and Liberty
One cause—and Thine.

Here let glad Plenty reign;
Here let none seek in vain
Our help and Thine—
No heart for want of friend
Fail ere the timely end,
But love for ever blend
Man's cause and Thine

Here let Thy peace abide;
Never may strife divide
This land of Thine.
Let us united stand,
One great Australian band,
Heart to heart, hand in hand,
Heart and hand Thine

Strong to defend our right,
Proud in all nations' sight,
Lowly in Thine—
One in all noble fame,
Still be our path the same,
Onward in Freedom's name,
Upward in Thine

poem by James Brunton Stephens
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Sonnet: Man, Thou Must Atone Now

Harass me not, Brother, harass me not;
Thou hast made blunder again, once again;
To have redressed my grievances, Thou ought,
Alas! Thou caused my heart to break with pain.

May be, Thou couldst create my file thine way;
Each person's file is maintained by One Boss;
None can prevent Truth's final Win some day;
Thine paper-work will soon be proved as farce.

Please rectify thine past mistakes somehow,
Lest God's punishment should descend on Thee;
Atone thine sin in action now and Now;
Man's cleverness can fai1 him miserably.

Why pick on me when I had done no wrong?
Canst Thou pay damages for suff 'rings long?

poem by John Celes
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To My Inconstant Mistress

When thou, poor excommunicate
From all the joys of love, shalt see
The full reward and glorious fate
Which my strong faith shall purchase me,
Then curse thine own inconstancy.

A fairer hand than thine shall cure
That heart which thy false oaths did wound;
And to my soul a soul more pure
Than thine shall by Love's hand be bound,
And both with equal glory crowned.

Then shalt thou weep, entreat, complain
To Love, as I did once to thee;
When all thy tears shall be as vain
As mine were then, for thou shalt be
Damned for thy false apostasy.

poem by Thomas Carew
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To Thyrza

Without a stone to mark the spot,
And say, what Truth might well have said,
By all, save one, perchance forgot,
Ah! wherefore art thou lowly laid?

By many a shore and many a sea
Divided, yet beloved in vain;
The past, the future fled to thee,
To bid us meet no ne'er again!

Could this have been--a word, a look,
That softly said, 'We part in peace,'
Had taught my bosom how to brook,
With fainter sighs, thy soul's release.

And didst thou not, since Death for thee
Prepared a light and pangless dart,
Once long for him thou ne'er shaft see,
Who held, and holds thee in his heart?

Oh! who like him had watch'd thee here?
Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye,
In that dread hour ere death appear,
When silent sorrow fears to sigh,

Till all was past; But when no more
'Twas thine to reek of human woe,
Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er,
Had flow'd as fast--as now they flow.

Shall they not flow, when many a day
In these, to me, deserted towers,
Ere call'd but for a time away,
Affection's mingling tears were ours?

Ours too the glance none saw beside;
The smile none else might understand;
The whisper'd thought of hearts allied,
The pressure of the thrilling hand;

The kiss, so guiltless and refined,
That Love each warmer wish forbore;
Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind,
Even Passion blush'd to plead for more.

The tone, that taught me to rejoice,
When prone, unlike thee, to repine;
The song, celestial from thy voice,
But sweet to me from none but thine;

The pledge we wore--I wear it still,
But where is thine?--Ah! where art thou?
Oft have I borne the weight of ill,
But never bent beneath till now!

Well hast thou left in life's best bloom
The cup of woe for me to drain.
If rest alone be in the tomb,
I would not wish thee here again.

But if in worlds more blest than this
Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere,
Impart some portion of thy bliss,
To wean me from mine anguish here.

Teach me--too early taught by thee!
To bear, forgiving and forgiven:
On earth by love was such to me--
It fain would form my hope in heaven!

October 11, 1811.

poem by Byron
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