Sir John de Vere
Sir John de Vere has took a quill
And set himself to sit and write
The sweetest love that is of men
To take unto his heart's delight.
And he has took a damsel fair
That flitteth by, beseemingly,
And with a strand of golden hair
Begun to weave her mystery.
The hair it flows from quill to sheet
In whorls and ripples it doth flow,
In twists and bends it eddies forth
To settle on the sheet below.
The hair is sweet in light perfume,
The quill it flows from page to page,
The lady's love has settled there
For all to read and all to know.
The lady's hair has bound her love
With golden tresses to the line,
Her heart is caught, it knows not where,
But may not move, and may not go.
Her skin, that of the lightest hue
Is soft to touch and soft to dare,
Sir John de Vere reveals anew
The secrets of her every where.
The more the pen skims on the page
The tighter are the bonds that bind,
The lady swoons in righteous rage
At whorls and eddies in her mind.
In whorls and eddies it doth flow
The golden hair, a flowing stream,
The cheek is caught and now the thigh,
Imprisoned for the world to know.
'You've made my love a whore', said she
'For all to come and take their sup,
My mind is open, disarrayed,
And so my thighs, my kirtle's up'.
Sir John heard not his lover's plea
But worked from day to night his joy
And took another golden strand
To work his quill another ploy.
And so his muse grew forth apace
His verse became a mighty work
And when his quill had run him dry
He went to seek his lover's face.
He sought and searched him far about
But never no sight of her did see,
Then mused apace before he turned
To seek the pages of his creed.
Among the parchment of his room
He found his love within the scrip',
And all the art and all the grace
He'd taken from his lover's lip.
And all the life and all the joy
Imprisoned on the churley sheet
To leave the shadow of his love
Bereft, and for the world to meet.
Sir John de Vere took on the thread
And pulled it from the final line,
That words that tumbled from his head
Should never not, nor now to bind.
And as the muse its thread was broke
A sigh came from his shadow love,
And colour caught in both the cheeks
And life came back in all the blood.
The arms he loosed then gripped him fast
And lips that whispered him to hear,
He will not write his love at last
Nor never again, will John de Vere.
25 April 1978
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Related quotes
The Golden Valley
To perchase his boat and to ppurchase your love,
And like Enoch's white horse to his lover;
But your golden valley of love lay bare,
For i have to overflow it with love.
To purchase her boat and to purchase his love,
And like Eve's baby to her sweet lover;
But your golden valley lay bare,
And i have to water it with my love.
A patient wife,
And to watch them overflow the banks of love;
For the changes seen came out of it.
This love is like a seaman's glass,
And the passion it generates is from her;
But like a caged bird escaping suddenly,
The long and narrow sheet of the valley was noticed.
Let them sing around the old tree,
And let them enjoy the fruits of love;
For it is pleasant to see kind heart in true love.
Icy and chilly,
And birds of rare plume;
Fill the red bowls in the golden valley with love and,
Let me bath you all day long in this sweet muse of love.
A rich and savoury stew to serve in the golden valley,
And of natural beauties to swing with the muse;
But i can still hear the voices from the old trees.
My memory can still retrace your love,
And of your beauty in the golden valley of love;
But with a thankful heart i envy nobody,
Because sweet came out of your world in this valley.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Virtuous Woman
I belong to my lover and my lover belongs to me,
With self-assured words to bind this love forever!
For she's my treasure.
My fair Lady,
You need a royal pampering on this love from my heart;
And pure love is everything on this muse,
With self-assured words from your heart to bind this love!
A virtuous woman is a crown of the husband,
And like an architectural digest to view at times;
For true love is all about this unity that we share,
So flourish yourself like the flowers of love to satisfy me always.
Sincerity with the muse of your love,
A virtuous woman is a crown of the husband;
And you are my fair lady on this love,
But let your words of peace bath my mind always.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Echoes
LADY Clara Vere de Vere
Was eight years old, she said:
Every ringlet, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden thread.
She took her little porringer:
Of me she shall not win renown:
For the baseness of its nature shall have strength to drag her down.
"Sisters and brothers, little Maid?
There stands the Inspector at thy door:
Like a dog, he hunts for boys who know not two and two are four."
"Kind words are more than coronets,"
She said, and wondering looked at me:
"It is the dead unhappy night, and I must hurry home to tea."
poem by Lewis Carroll from Phantasmagoria and Other Poems
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A St. Valentine’s Day Tragedy
Oh! Montmorency Vere de Vere,
To think that one I held so dear
Should use a base deceiver’s art
To trifle with my loving heart.
A brand new ten-cent valentine
With lace and hearts and verses fine,
I sent to show my love for thee
And in return you send to me
The one I sent to you last year,
Oh! Montmorency Vere de Vere.
poem by Ellis Parker Butler
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Skin Hair
Skin Hair…
Where else does the earth rise?
settle down with a fall,
cover with strand...
after other strand,
of hair curl,
loom adversely,
along the length,
along the breadth....
of a man, woman
where it is delicate, where it is private...
pronounced an' concealed.
on the face above the eyes,
like a brush of feathers,
above the lip,
a moustache…
eloquently trim,
tweezed eye browses,
hair flock grace the neck,
onto the back.
Along the shin,
Along the skin,
Smooth touch rendered,
Chill rising the hair follicles,
Desire burn,
In the shower wet with soap,
Silk fiber strand,
Run through fingers of a lover,
Relishing the sensations erect,
Tiny hair, almost as fur…
Souring along the back,
Trough upon the skin,
Collect scent of a love scene.
The skin here dark,
Chocolate born,
Wind caress these, both hair an' skin
Creature so supreme,
Conquer all but this, delicate
Feather brush of skin against skin,
Hair rise here thin,
Space of a love gaze seen,
Hair on skin….
poem by Merlin Mwaura
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Skin Hair…
Skin Hair…
Where else does the earth rise?
settle down with a fall,
cover with strand...
after other strand,
of hair curl,
loom adversely,
along the length,
along the breadth....
of a man, woman
where it is delicate, where it is private...
pronounced an' concealed.
on the face above the eyes,
like a brush of feathers,
above the lip,
a moustache…
eloquently trim,
tweezed eye browses,
hair flock grace the neck,
onto the back.
Along the shin,
Along the skin,
Smooth touch rendered,
Chill rising the hair follicles,
Desire burn,
In the shower wet with soap,
Silk fiber strand,
Run through fingers of a lover,
Relishing the sensations erect,
Tiny hair, almost as fur…
Souring along the back,
Trough upon the skin,
Collect scent of a love scene.
The skin here dark,
Chocolate born,
Wind caress these, both hair an' skin
Creature so supreme,
Conquer all but this, delicate
Feather brush of skin against skin,
Hair rise here thin,
Space of a love gaze seen,
Hair on skin….
poem by Merlin Mwaura
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Love's Secret
LOVE found them sitting in a woodland place,
His amorous hand amid her golden tresses;
And Love looked smiling on her glowing face
And moistened eyes upturned to his caresses.
'O sweet,' she murmured, 'life is utter bliss!'
'Dear heart,' he said, 'our golden cup runs over!'
'Drink, love,' she cried, 'and thank the gods for this!'
He drained the precious lips of cup and lover.
Love blessed the kiss; but, ere he wandered thence,
The mated bosoms heard this benediction:
“Love lies within the brimming bowl of sense:
Who Jceeps this full has joy—who drains, affliction.”
They heard the rustle as he smiling fled:
She reached her hand to pull the roses blowing.
He stretched to take the purple grapes o'erhead;
Love whispered back, 'Nay, Keep their beauties growing.'
They paused, and understood: one flower alone
They took and kept, and Love flew smiling over.
Their roses bloomed, their cup went brimming on—
She looked for love within, and found her lover.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An Answered Prayer
I prayed a lover's prayer and prayers sent me
A beautiful lady of art and life in perfect harmony.
Her eyes of Burmese jade, her lips of amorous African ruby
Her skin of Chinese silk, her heart a refined piece of jewelry
As rare as rare, and as sweet as sweet
This lady is beauty whole and beauty complete.
Her slim delicate tenderness lies between beauty and love
And in mine heart her beauty is be love
By mine senses, my soul, my spirit, my will
Made light by her soul, as light and colorful of a peacock's quill
I do but for a moment touch her loin
And our eyes, my prayers, do finally adjoin
Love has sent me a scion of pleasure
In one moment of love's eternity
Did I possess a Goddess and I did see love's tremendous treasure
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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The Writer and the Blood Inked Quil
The Writer and the Blood Inked Quill
By: Adam M. Snow
The candle flickered by a passing gentle breeze;
My quill dries up leaving not I at ease.
My words upon page now left to hang.
A reader's disappointment, now a writer's pang.
Misery held me as time stood still,
My heart has fallen because my mind is ill.
I stare at blank page as all words elude me,
I can't help to wonder, 'How could this be? '
Torment follows as night falls victim to dread;
My ink once black now turns blood red.
I wrote my soul upon each page,
As time ticks by with every age.
The word itself scream an agony scream;
I, the writer without a dream.
But what bedevils myself to write,
Elude me once more with the fall of night.
My nightly whimper comes with a toll,
My life upon the page, now bearing my soul.
poem by Adam M. Snow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Poet To Be
A poet I claim not to be,
For words are never there.
In all the years I've tried to write,
I have no words to share.
I sit and think but nothing comes,
No inspiration here.
I want to write of anything,
But still no words I fear.
I read the works of other poets,
I wish I were like them.
How do they write such beautiful lines,
A poet, I'm not him.
I try to write from the heart,
From deep within my soul.
I try to write of the love I have,
But cannot reach my goal.
But why I ask, why can't I write,
Of love so pure and true.
Why can't I write about her eyes,
A mix of green and blue.
I want to write about her smile,
It brightens up my day.
I try to think of anything,
But words I cannot say.
I wish I knew how to write,
A poem with such bliss.
I wish I knew how to describe,
Her soft but tender kiss.
I cannot even begin to write,
How she holds me tight.
How her arms around me,
Makes everything just right.
A poet does not have to think,
The words flow right out.
When I sit and try to write,
I want to scream and shout.
I mean come on, how hard can it be,
To write about her hair.
Such long beautiful natural blonde,
That flows in the air.
I try to write about her laugh,
The words will not fly.
Time passes and finally,
I say it's soft and high.
It's been an hour and a half,
I'm here on verse twelve.
I had to go to Rhymezone,
To find out the rhyme is shelve.
A poet does not do that,
Go online to find a rhyme.
A poet has it in his head,
And can write at any time.
But a poet I am not,
For I cannot write of love.
How the girl I am with,
Is an angel from up above.
How I love her with all my heart,
And want to spend my life with her.
How her love for me is more,
Than I can ever be for sure.
As I draw near the end,
My mind is not so numb.
I realize I've just written of love,
A poet I have become.
poem by Adam McKim
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Love Letter
She wonders how to begin her letter
She knows he will read each word
Greedily for any hint of love. She knows
He will sniff the paper for any scent of her
She leans an elbow on her writing desk
And clutches her pen tight. She has got
As far as, Dear John, but then the words
Stopped coming. Before she had sat down
To write, the words flowed through her
Mind like a rushing stream, now nothing
She sucks the end of the pen. Say what
You would if you were face to face, her
Mother always said. She tries to imagine
He is there before her and what she would
Say if he was, but still no words will come
He writes to her so fluently when he writes
He always seems to know what to write
And how to put it into words. She tries again
Puts the pen nib onto the paper, gripping
The pen tighter. She reads what she’s written
Dear John. The pen moves, the words begin
To flow, her hand moves across the page
The images come into her mind as she writes
The things that they said last time they met
The things they did, she blushes slightly
That almost being caught out by the maid
In a state of undress. She pauses the pen
And sits gazing at the painting on the wall.
She looks back at the paper and starts again
The words tripping over themselves to be put
Down in ink upon a page; the images open up
In her mind, the colours, the smells, the events
The pen now stops. The love letter is written
The writing done. She looks at the words
Then she seals it in an envelope and writes
His address. She pictures him reading it: in bed
In his room, sleepy, in a state of his usual undress
poem by Terry Collett
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A Leave-Taking
She will not smile;
She will not stir;
I marvel while
I look on her.
The lips are chilly
And will not speak;
The ghost of a lily
In either cheek.
Her hair--ah me!
Her hair--her hair!
How helplessly
My hands go there!
But my caresses
Meet not hers,
O golden tresses
That thread my tears!
I kiss the eyes
On either lid,
Where her love lies
Forever hid.
I cease my weeping
And smile and say:
I will be sleeping
Thus, some day!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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I love my hair
I love my hair
I always toss it around in the air
As if without a care!
I love my hair
Once I caught the super hair bug
Caught it whilst I slept on an old rug
The super lice were playing scratch, scratch, and scratch
While my fingernails were playing catch, catch and catch
Finally my hair was shaven as there was no cure, no other drug
I wore my head on my shoulder for a while with a distasteful shrug
Hiding underneath a cap with obvious bald patches that seemed to match
I love my hair
Long, golden plaited and brown
Enough to move heads around in town
People just want to come near
And stare! Stare at me! Who is that alien from elsewhere?
My hair is beautifully plaited in strands
This kind of hair fashion is high in demand
So many different styles to experiment with and expand
Today a woman needs to look good, do you understand?
I talk to my hair with oils
I say today I need you to curl
And when I style you,
Stay in place, do not spoil!
I wash my hair twice a day
Maybe when I am old, it would go grey
But for now the beauty is here to stay
I hope so, I definitely pray!
Beware all, take care
I love my hair, I love my hair
Don’t touch! But you can stare
You can stare at how I wear
My beautiful hair!
Try and out-do me if you dare!
I love my hair
I like to show it off
Around me do not sneeze or cough
Or with you I can be horribly tough
Around me do not sneeze or cough
If you don’t want to know the meaning of rough
I mean it, this isn’t a bluff!
I love my hair!
Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Take Care, Take Care
Bind up, bind up your dark bright hair
And hide the smouldering sunken fire.
Let it be held no more than fair,
Nor yourself guess how rare, how rare
Its movement, colour and deep fire.
Your eyes they have their consciousness,
Your lips their grave reflective smile,
Your hands their cunning for distress:
Your hair has only beauteousness
And hid flame for its only guile.
That glowing hair on shoulders white
Is pride past sum: take care, take care!
Even to dream of wish'd delight
Too much perturbs the ebb of night--
Bind up, bind up your burning hair!
poem by John Freeman
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Mind The Roses
It's not like me to feel like this
Those empty arms and now the lover's kiss
And every day seems worthwhile.
It's not like life to dress so fair
As sunlight shatters on golden hair.
Diamond beauty lying everywhere
Mind the roses everyone.
Everything beautiful is fleeting
Temptress candle burns away the night
While rain on rooftop, beating, inspires
As drunken poets write.
So mind the roses everyone
And leave the spider and the fly
They have their purpose and the sun
And very little to get by.
And as we claw at the night air
Just stray cats that have no care
The flower of love blooms unseen
In a place our souls have never been
Now i just see faces on busy streets
But i see you in the moon
Understanding Shelley and Keats
And whistling love's tune.
So mind the roses everyone
And paint the lights upon the lake
Now this awareness has begun
Her love for you will now awake.
God bless the man and woman who never
Meet to love.
poem by Kevin East
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A Ballade of Waiting
No girdle hath weaver or goldsmith wrought
So rich as the arms of my love can be;
No gems with a lovelier lustre fraught
Than her eyes, when they answer me liquidly.
Dear lady of love, be kind to me
In days when the waters of hope abate,
And doubt like a shimmer on sand shall be,
In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.
Sweet mouth, that the wear of the world hath taught
No glitter of wile or traitorie,
More soft than a cloud in the sunset caught,
Or the heart of a crimson peony;
Oh turn not its beauty away from me;
To kiss it and cling to it early and late
Shall make sweet minutes of days that flee,
In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.
Rich hair, that a painter of old had sought
For the weaving of some soft phantasy,
Most fair when the streams of it run distraught
On the firm sweet shoulders yellowly;
Dear Lady, gather it close to me,
Weaving a nest for the double freight
Of cheeks and lips that are one and free,
For the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.
Envoi.
So time shall be swift till thou mate with me,
For love is mightiest next to fate,
And none shall be happier, Love, than we,
In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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Day In Day Out
in the morning you work
the work is dull till you see her
with hair as golden as the sun
a face that only compairs to the gods
the day gose quickly and you go home
though you only think of her
the worker known as the boss
you see her in the dark and
in the light but you are sleeping
next to your wife
the next day you go to work
though you find know one
that has a face that more
gorgeous as a god
or hair as golden as the sun
insted you find that the goddess
with the hair as golden as the sun
the face that makes even the god jelouse
never egsisted but in your mind
though when you get home
your eye go as wide as tho sun
when you see the face that make god jelouse
is the one that you married shes your wife
so you see her every night with flower in hand
for the ladie with the golden hair
poem by Daniel Thompson
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Swan Song
A poets quill lies on his desk
Atop a sheet of coffee-stained
Paper containing stylish script-
An Edwardian handwriting.
The quills point appeared to be dry
For sometime, likewise the inkwell.
On closer inspection the words
On the page became legible:
“My Swan Song” the title began.
It continued: “The flame of life
Grows dim and everything I have
Seen in this light was through the eyes
Of love. Love was writing verses
With this pen.” The words ended there.
Further searching found a yellowed,
Crinkled obituary clip:
“Today the town is saddened by
The loss of its poet Albert__...”
poem by Albert Ahearn
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My Love, My Love!
My love, my love! Your love is so pure
My love, my love! Your kiss is so sweet
My love, my love! Your touch is so grand
My love, my love! You have me at your hands
My love, my love! Your faith is so real
My love, my love! Your face do appeal
My love, my love! Your hair is so soft
My love, my love! You make my heart froth
My love, my love! Your voice is so melodic
My love, my love! Your skin is so smooth
My love, my love! You make my heart swoon
My love, my love! You are my love it's true
poem by Alex Fischer
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Want More Hair?
I'd love
I think
more hair
more hair
like a big
old grizzly bear
more hair makes
you manly
more hair
makes you tough
more hair feels
like carpet
more hair keeps
you rough
more hair
for pretty ladies
to rub their faces on
more hair for
guys to jealous of
and more locks that can
be flung
I think more hair would be awesome
but I wouldn't wanna overdo it
because too much hair would make
me like a little furry blanket
and I couldn't cover both of us
just you and that ain't fair
more hair!
poem by John W. McEwers
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