En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Thomas Chatterton

WITH Shakspeare's manhood at a boy's wild heart,—
Through Hamlet's doubt to Shakspeare near allied,
And kin to Milton through his Satan's pride,—
At Death's sole door he stooped, and craved a dart;
And to the dear new bower of England's art,—
Even to that shrine Time else had deified,
The unuttered heart that soared against his side,—
Drove the fell point, and smote life's seals apart.
Thy nested home-loves, noble Chatterton;
The angel-trodden stair thy soul could trace
Up Redcliffe's spire; and in the world's armed space
Thy gallant sword-play:—these to many an one
Are sweet for ever; as thy grave unknown
And love-dream of thine unrecorded face.

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Soldier's Grave

THERE'S a white stone placed upon yonder tomb,
Beneath is a soldier lying -
The death-wound came, amid sword and plume,
When banner and ball were flying.

Yet now he sleeps, the turf on his breast,
By wet wild flowers surrounded;
The church shadow falls o'er the place of his rest,
Where the steps of his childhood bounded.

There were tears, that fell from manly eyes,
There was woman's gentle weeping,
And the wailing of age and infant cries,
O'er the grave, where he lies sleeping.

He had left his home in his spirit's pride,
With his father's sword and blessing;
He stood with the valiant, side by side,
His country's wrongs redressing.

He came again, in the light of his fame,
When the red campaign was over;
One heart, that, in secret, had kept his name,
Was claimed by the soldier lover.

But the cloud of strife came upon the sky;-
He left his sweet home for battle;
Left his young child's lisp for the loud war-cry,
And the cannon's long death-rattle.

He came again - but an altered man:
The path of the grave was before him,
And the smile, that he wore, was cold and wan,
For the shadow of death hung o'er him.

He spoke of victory - spoke of cheer:-
These are the words, that are vainly spoken
To the childless mother, or orphan's ear,
Or the widow, whose heart is broken.

A helmet and sword are engraved on the stone,
Half hidden by yonder willow;
There he sleeps, whose death in battle was won,
But he died on his own home pillow.

poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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Lay His Sword By His Side

Lay his sword by his side -- it hath served him too well
Not to rest near his pillow below;
To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell,
Its point was still turn'd to a flying foe.
Fellow-labourers in life, let them slumber in death,
Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave --
That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath,
And himself unsubdued in his grave.

Yet pause -- for, in fancy, a still voice I hear,
As if breathed from his brave heart's remains; --
Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear,
Once sounded the war-word, "Burst your chains."
And it cries, from the grave where the hero lies deep,
"Though the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set,
Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep --
It hath victory's life in it yet!

"Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield,
Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword,
Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman seal'd,
Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord.
But, if grasp'd by a hand that hath learn'd the proud use
Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain,
Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose,
Leap forth from thy dark sheath again!"

poem by Thomas Moore
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Polonius: Good madam, stay awhile; I will be faithful. [Reads.]
‘Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.
‘O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers;
I have not art to reckon my groans: but that
I love thee best, O most best, believe it. Adieu.
‘Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this machine is to him,
HAMLET.’

line from Hamlet, Act II, Scene 2 by William Shakespeare (1599)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Dear Savior Of A Dying World

“The Lord is risen.”

Dear Savior of a dying world,
Where grief and change must be,
In the new grave where Thou wast laid
My heart lies down with Thee.
O, not in cold despair of joy,
Or weariness of pain,
But from a hope that shall not die,
To rise and live again.

I would arise in all Thy strength
My place on earth to fill,
To work out all my time of war
With love's unflinchng will.
Firm against every doubt of Thee
For all my future way —
To walk in Heaven's eternal light
Throughout the changing day.

Ah, such a day as Thou shalt own
When suns have ceased to shine
A day of burdens borne by Thee,
And work that all was Thine.
Speed Thy bright rising in my heart,
Thy righteous kingdom speed, —
Till my whole life in concord say,
“The Lord is risen indeed.”

O for an impulse from Thy love
With every coming breath,
To sing that sweet undying song
Amid the wrecks of death!
A “hail!” to every mortal pang
That bids me take my right
To glory in the blessed life
Which Thou hast brought to light.

I long to see the hallowed earth
In new creation rise,
To find the germs of Eden hid
Where its fallen beauty lies, —
To feel the spring–tide of a soul
By one deep love set free,
Made meet to lay aside her dust
And be at home with Thee.

And then — there shall be yet an end —
An end now full to bless!
How dear to those who watch for Thee
With human tenderness.
Then shall the saying come to pass
That makes our hope complete,
And, rising from the conquered grave,
Thy parted ones shall meet.

Yes — they shall meet, and face to face
By heart to heart be known,
Clothed with Thy Likeness, Lord of Life,
And perfect in their own.
For this corruptible must rise
From its corruption free,
And this frail mortal must put on
Thine immortality.

Shine then, Thou Resurrection Light,
Upon our sorrows shine!
The fulness of Thy joy be ours,
As all our griefs were Thine.
Now in this changing, dying life
Our faded hopes restore,
Till, in Thy triumph perfected,
We taste of death no more.

poem by Anna Laetitia Waring
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The Christmas Homes of England

The Christmas homes of England!
How far-famed and how dear;
In bright array they ever stand,
That glad day of the year;
When gathered round the hearth-stone,
The loved ones joyful meet,
With one accord from far and near,
The circle glad to greet.
The Christmas homes of England!
O, many a joyous brow,
Which ever yet hath hailed that day,
Will sorrowfully bow,
When this one now returneth;
For they look, but look in vain,
The pride and joy of that glad home,
They ne'er shall see again!

The Christmas homes of England!
In manhood's noblest bloom,
On Alma's bloody fields thy lords
Have found their lowly tomb;
The warrior grey, whose stalwart arm
Had prostrate laid the foe;
And gallant sons of noble sires,
By them in death lie low!

The Christmas homes of England!
Alike in peasant's cot,
Where hath the death-wail not been heard,
Where hath it entered not?
And the widowed mother silent weeps,
And sheds the bitter tear,
As fancy sees her gallant boy,
The cold ground for his bier!

The Christmas homes of England!
In that far-off Eastern land,
What thoughts will be awakened
Among that gallant band?
How from scenes so dark and fearful,
Their spirit will take flight
To the bright home of their childhood,
And the happy Christmas night!

The Christmas homes of England!
The love of many years
Is turned into a ceaseless fount
Of bitterness and tears;
The mother and the widow,
The maiden and the child,
They call; but none shall answer,
Those loving accents mild!

O, Christmas homes of England!
There's One, the widow's God!
Who, while He chastens, pitieth
The sad ones 'neath His rod;
His arm beneath supported
Thy loved ones in the field,
And whispered, "Leave thy little ones
To me, their God, their shield!

O, Christmas homes of England!
Let all unite in prayer,
That He, the widow's God, may take
Such to His special care;
And we to whom he spareth
Our hearts best treasure yet;
The widow and the orphan,
O let us not forget!

poem by Caroline Hayward
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The Death-Day Of Korner

A song for the death-day of the brave
A song of pride!
The youth went down to a hero's grave,
With the sword, his bride.

He went, with his noble heart unworn,
And pure, and high;
An eagle stooping from clouds of morn,
Only to die!

He went with the lyre, whose lofty tone
Beneath his hand
Had thrill'd to the name of his God alone,
And his Father-land.

And with all his glorious feelings yet
In their first glow,
Like a southern stream that no frost hath met
To chain its flow.

A song for the death-day of the brave
A song of pride!
For him that went to a hero's grave,
With the sword, his bride.

He hath left a voice in his trumpet-lays
To turn the flight,
And a guiding spirit for after days,
Like a watch-fire's light.

And a grief in his father's soul to rest,
Midst all high thought;
And a memory unto his mother's breast,
With healing fraught.

And a name and fame above the blight
Of earthly breath,
Beautiful beautiful and bright,
In life and death!

A song for the death-day of the brave
A song of pride!
For him that went to a hero's grave,
With the sword, his bride!

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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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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Heart & Soul

Love in a vacuum, love in space.
Love without even a little hint of a trace.
Love in confusion and love doesnt show on your face.
Love is a stranger, love is a box.
Love is the key that fits a million locks.
Love is a mystery when love is the devil you go.
Put your heart and soul where I can see them shine.
I wish youd put your heart and soul
Where I can think theyre mine.
I wish you put your heart and soul
Where I can see them shine.
Love in a distance, love in a walk.
Love in the limit if only people could talk.
Love for the moment till it swings like a hawk.
Love for tomorrow, love for today.
Love for the hour it could be coming your way.
Love for a puzzle you need a solution to play.
Put your heart and soul where I can see them shine.
I wish you put your heart and soul
Where I can think theyre mine.
I wish you put your heart and soul
Where I can see them shine.
I wish you put your heart and soul
Where I can think theyre mine
I wish you put your heart and soul
Where I can see them shine.
I wish you put your heart and soul
Where I can think theyre mine...

song performed by by Monkees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In Praise Of England

From tangled brake and trellised bower
Bring every bud that blows,
But never will you find the flower
To match an English rose.
It blooms with more than city grace,
Though rustic and apart;
It has a smile upon its face,
And a dewdrop in its heart.

Though wide the goodly world around
Your fancy may have strayed,
Where was the woman ever found
To match an English maid?
At work she smiles, through play she sings,
She doubts not nor denies;
She'll cling to you as woodbine clings,
And love you till she dies.

If you would put it to the proof,
Then round the zodiac roam;
But never will you find the roof
To match an English home.
You hear the sound of children's feet
Still pattering on the stair:
'Tis made by loving labour sweet,
And sanctified by prayer.

Go traverse tracts sublime or sweet,
Snow-peak or scorched ravine,
But where will you the landscape meet
To match an English scene?
The hamlet hallowed by its spire,
The wildwood fresh with flowers,
Garden and croft and thorp and byre
Gleaming through silvery showers.

Across the wave, along the wind,
Flutter and plough your way,
But where will you a Sceptre find
To match the English Sway?
Its conscience holds the world in awe
With blessing or with ban;
Its Freedom guards the Reign of Law,
And majesty of Man!

poem by Alfred Austin
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The Emigrant Mother

ONCE in a lonely hamlet I sojourned
In which a Lady driven from France did dwell;
The big and lesser griefs with which she mourned,
In friendship she to me would often tell.
This Lady, dwelling upon British ground,
Where she was childless, daily would repair
To a poor neighbouring cottage; as I found,
For sake of a young Child whose home was there.

Once having seen her clasp with fond embrace
This Child, I chanted to myself a lay,
Endeavouring, in our English tongue, to trace
Such things as she unto the Babe might say:
And thus, from what I heard and knew, or guessed,
My song the workings of her heart expressed.

I

'Dear Babe, thou daughter of another,
One moment let me be thy mother!
An infant's face and looks are thine,
And sure a mother's heart is mine:
Thy own dear mother's far away,
At labour in the harvest field:
Thy little sister is at play;--
What warmth, what comfort would it yield
To my poor heart, if thou wouldst be
One little hour a child to me!

II

'Across the waters I am come,
And I have left a babe at home:
A long, long way of land and sea!
Come to me--I'm no enemy:
I am the same who at thy side
Sate yesterday, and made a nest
For thee, sweet Baby!--thou hast tried,
Thou know'st the pillow of my breast;
Good, good art thou:--alas! to me
Far more than I can be to thee.

III

'Here, little Darling, dost thou lie;
An infant thou, a mother I!
Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears;
Mine art thou--spite of these my tears.
Alas! before I left the spot,
My baby and its dwelling-place;
The nurse said to me, 'Tears should not
Be shed upon an infant's face,
It was unlucky'--no, no, no;
No truth is in them who say so!

IV

'My own dear Little-one will sigh,
Sweet Babe! and they will let him die.
'He pines,' they'll say, 'it is his doom,
And you may see his hour is come.'
Oh! had he but thy cheerful smiles,
Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay,
Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles,
And countenance like a summer's day,
They would have hopes of him;--and then
I should behold his face again!

V

''Tis gone--like dreams that we forget;
There was a smile or two--yet--yet
I can remember them, I see
The smiles, worth all the world to me.
Dear Baby! I must lay thee down;
Thou troublest me with strange alarms;
Smiles hast thou, bright ones of thy own;
I cannot keep thee in my arms;
For they confound me;--where--where is
That last, that sweetest smile of his?

VI

'Oh! how I love thee!--we will stay
Together here this one half day.
My sister's child, who bears my name,
From France to sheltering England came;
She with her mother crossed the sea;
The babe and mother near me dwell:
Yet does my yearning heart to thee
Turn rather, though I love her well:
Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here!
Never was any child more dear!

VII

'--I cannot help it; ill intent
I've none, my pretty Innocent!
I weep--I know they do thee wrong,
These tears---and my poor idle tongue.
Oh, what a kiss was that! my cheek
How cold it is! but thou art good;
Thine eyes are on me--they would speak,
I think, to help me if they could.
Blessings upon that soft, warm face,
My heart again is in its place!

VIII

'While thou art mine, my little Love,
This cannot be a sorrowful grove;
Contentment, hope, and mother's glee,
I seem to find them all in thee:
Here's grass to play with, here are flowers;
I'll call thee by my darling's name;
Thou hast, I think, a look of ours,
Thy features seem to me the same;
His little sister thou shalt be;
And, when once more my home I see,
I'll tell him many tales of Thee.'

poem by William Wordsworth
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Sonnet XCVII: A Superscription

Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been;
I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell;
Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell
Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between;
Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen
Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my spell
Is now a shaken shadow intolerable,
Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen.
Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart
One moment through thy soul the soft surprise
Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs
Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart
Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart
Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes.

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Love-Song

If Death should claim me for her own to-day,
And softly I should falter from your side,
Oh, tell me, loved one, would my memory stay,
And would my image in your heart abide?
Or should I be as some forgotten dream,
That lives its little space, then fades entire?
Should Time send o'er you its relentless stream,
To cool your heart, and quench for aye love's fire?

I would not for the world, love, give you pain,
Or ever compass what would cause you grief;
And, oh, how well I know that tears are vain!
But love is sweet, my dear, and life is brief;
So if some day before you I should go
Beyond the sound and sight of song and sea,
'T would give my spirit stronger wings to know
That you remembered still and wept for me.

poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Image worship

Why mounts my blood to cheek and brow,
Like an ascending flame,
Whene'er from careless lips I hear
The accents of thy name?

Why, when my idle fancy seeks
Some pictured form to trace,
Beneath my pencil still will grow
The features of thy face?

Why comes thy haunting shadow thus
Between the world and me,
To bind my spirit with a charm
That blinds to all but thee?

To bid me watch thine upward course,
Thy path from mine so far;
As earth, 'mid all the hosts of heaven,
Watches the polar star?

Thy cold and polished courtesy,
Each look and tone of thine,
Might well have roused the woman's pride
In duller souls than mine.

They tell me, too, thy heart is light, --
That more than once thou'st loved;
And 'mid all flowers of loveliness
That bee-like thou hast roved.

Why is it, then, while o'er thy heart
There comes no thought of me,
The good, the true, the beautiful,
All speak to me of thee?

Think'st thou 'tis what the world calls love,
Love that return is seeking?
No -- I would scorn a love I sought,
Although my heart were breaking.

It is because within the human heart
There is an altar to an Unknown God,
Who from the gods of this world dwells apart,
And in the Unseen, the Unreal, has his abode.

This disembodied thought the soul pursues,
And seeking in the visible a sign,
She moulds an image, like the apostate Jews,
And sets her idol on the vacant shrine.

Thus worshipped once an Indian maid the sun;
Thus was an Arab boy won by a star;
Thus loved a maid of France the god in stone;
And thus did Numa love a shape of air.

What were the sun, the star, the god, to them,
The fond idolators! thou art to me;
And rapturous as a poet's earliest dream,
Is the sweet worship that I give to thee.

The world around me is so dark and cold,
Life hath for me such draughts of bitter sadness,
Oh, bid me not the mocking Real behold!
Oh, wake me not from this delicious madness!

poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Troubadour

Glowing with love, on fire for fame
A Troubadour that hated sorrow
Beneath his lady's window came,
And thus he sung his last good-morrow:
'My arm it is my country's right,
My heart is in my true-love's bower;
Gaily for love and fame to fight
Befits the gallant Troubadour.'

And while he marched with helm on head
And harp in hand, the descant rung,
As faithful to his favourite maid,
The minstrel-burden still he sung:
'My arm it is my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
Resolved for love and fame to fight
I come, a gallant Troubadour.'

Even when the battle-roar was deep,
With dauntless heart he hewed his way,
'Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep,
And still was heard his warrior-lay:
'My life it is my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
For love to die, for fame to fight,
Becomes the valiant Troubadour.'

Alas! upon the bloody field
He fell beneath the foeman's glaive,
But still reclining on his shield,
Expiring sung the exulting stave:-
'My life it is my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
For love and fame to fall in fight
Becomes the valiant Troubadour.'

poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Sweet Home

My home is calling
And my heart; responding
The abode of pleasures and exhilaration
Where my mind prepares for some missions
My home, my home
My sweet, lovely home
I call on thee
Give me a space to sleep

Am not among those who cry
Seeking for hope, but it's dry
Am a free man
Facing difficulties which is so hard
My home, my home
My sweet, lovely home
I call on thee
Give me a space to sleep

Do i look like a convict?
The one who cries in the prison
Or like the bee that flies
And returns with joy to it hive
No! But no! I am not
I don't crave for the monastery, I'm not a monk
All i want is to return back home
To stay with folks but not alone
My home, my home
My sweet, lovely home
I call on thee
Give me a space to sleep

I traveled abroad
I had much fun
I visited the queen
She offered me a tea
With all these pleasures
Without doubt cos am so sure
The home holds lot in hand
Treasures, happiness, so much to count
My home, my home
My sweet, lovely home
I call on thee
Give me a space to sleep

I went to Brazil
I saw their windmills
I ate their food
Which made me cool
Delicious was it their fried fish
The one i ate which made me wishing
Then i remember the panla which we eat at home
So delicious and irresistible for the hungry throat
My home, my home
My sweet, lovely home
I call on thee
Give me a space to sleep

I journeyed to Kenya
I saw a tiger
Its eyes scared me
Its claws; waiting for a meal
I rode on an elephant
So huge; so large
I saw lot of things
The zoo, the views
But still i craved
For my home; for my space
My home, my home
My sweet, lovely home
I call on thee
Give me a space to sleep

I traveled all around the world
And everything seemed so bored
My eyes craved only for my beautiful home
My hands, my mouth and my little nose
They are all wishing to see
My house, my room, my folks in the street
All i have to do is go back home
To stay with folks and sleep on their foams
For wherever you are meant to be
Your home provides a beautiful space to sleep
My home, my home
My sweet, lovely home
I call on thee
Give me a space to sleep.

poem by Yahaya Habeeb Jprof Kayode
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To the girl I call thee

Passion's sword cut thy lines for beauty to trace
And beauty did trace with all loves fever
Thou art a woman whose dream is to dream forever
So in other dreams you dream with them too
And make all dreams dreams come true..
Lost for words I'll let love speak
My love for you, my love you make
With passion's sword thy slice my soul
For thou to wear, for love's sake
Two thousand tears for one moment of love
Doth not quench the thirst of my melancholic palette
I love you as next to me I subtly taste
Thy soul, with my soul's love in love chaste
Beauty in my limpid tears, thou love's mirror
In my tears, thou tears do sear
Thy burnt tears emblazon love to me
My beloved, my heart, the girl I call thee

poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Wide Open Space

I wonder if after all this time
You think of me.
Do you ever miss my company?
You never could doubt about
The way that I feel.
Tell me: dyou feel it too?
Its funny how after all this time
Youre all I see.
I wonder if you still keep your key.
And now that youre gone
Theres nothing left for me here,
Just a wide open space.
And I cant forget that smile on your face.
Theres a wide open space,
And noone else can stand in your place.
Theres a wide open space here in my heart.
Its funny how all at once
The world can turn around,
Taking you up to bring you down.
And suddenly life has passed me by
And Im left with a wide open space.
You know I cant forget that smile...
... wide open space here in my heart.
I couldnt believe it when I thought
I heard you say
Youd never be coming back this way.
And since youve been gone
Theres been no love for my heart,
No, not a trace.
And I cant forget that smile...
... wide open space here in my heart.

song performed by by Cliff Richard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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John Bunny, Motion Picture Comedian

In which he is remembered in similitude, by reference to Yorick,
the king’s jester, who died when Hamlet and Ophelia were children.

Yorick is dead. Boy Hamlet walks forlorn
Beneath the battlements of Elsinore.
Where are those oddities and capers now
That used to “set the table on a roar”?

And do his bauble-bells beyond the clouds
Ring out, and shake with mirth the planets bright?
No doubt he brings the blessed dead good cheer,
But silence broods on Elsinore tonight.

That little elf, Ophelia, eight years old,
Upon her battered doll’s staunch bosom weeps.
(”O best of men, that wove glad fairy-tales.”)
With tear-burned face, at last the darling sleeps.

Hamlet himself could not give cheer or help,
Though firm and brave, with his boy-face controlled.
For every game they started out to play
Yorick invented, in the days of old.

The times are out of joint! O cursed spite!
The noble jester Yorick comes no more.
And Hamlet hides his tears in boyish pride
By some lone turret-stair of Elsinore.

poem by Vachel Lindsay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hymn 155

Christ our passover.

Lo, the destroying angel flies
To Pharaoh's stubborn land;
The pride and flower of Egypt dies
By his vindictive hand.

He passed the tents of Jacob o'er,
Nor poured the wrath divine;
He saw the blood on every door,
And blessed the peaceful sign.

Thus the appointed Lamb must bleed,
To break the Egyptian yoke;
Thus Isr'el is from bondage freed,
And 'scapes the angel's stroke.

Lord, if my heart were sprinkled too
With blood so rich as thine,
Justice no longer would pursue
This guilty soul of mine.

Jesus our passover was slain,
And has at once procured
Freedom from Satan's heavy chain,
And God's avenging sword.

poem by Isaac Watts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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