Avising The Bright Beams of These Fair Eyes
Avising the bright beams of these fair eyes
Where he is that mine oft moisteth and washeth,
The wearied mind straight from the heart departeth
For to rest in his worldly paradise
And find the sweet bitter under this guise.
What webs he hath wrought well he perceiveth
Whereby with himself on love he plaineth
That spurreth with fire and bridleth with ice.
Thus is it in such extremity brought,
In frozen thought, now and now it standeth in flame.
Twixt misery and wealth, twixt earnest and game,
But few glad, and many diverse thought
With sore repentance of his hardiness.
Of such a root cometh fruit fruitless.
poem by David McKee Wright
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Related quotes
Avising The Bright Beams
Avising the bright beams of these fair eyes
Where he is that mine oft moisteth and washeth,
The wearied mind straight from the heart departeth
For to rest in his worldly paradise
And find the sweet bitter under this guise.
What webs he hath wrought well he perceiveth
Whereby with himself on love he plaineth
That spurreth with fire and bridleth with ice.
Thus is it in such extremity brought,
In frozen thought, now and now it standeth in flame.
Twixt misery and wealth, twixt earnest and game,
But few glad, and many diverse thought
With sore repentance of his hardiness.
Of such a root cometh fruit fruitless.
poem by Sir Thomas Wyatt
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0092 The Signs of Love
What are the inward signs of truest love,
beyond the smile, the kiss, the touch of hand,
that joins our actions to the heaven above;
that constant love which shall for ever stand?
I see two inward signs above all else:
the first, expansion of the bounds of mind
so that no barrier stands 'twixt that and this,
'twixt one and t'other, or 'twixt 'mine' and 'thine';
the second sign, a fine attention brought
to every single action, every need,
as if in loving care, there's but one thought
from constant heart flows into every deed;
these two - a boundless mind and ceaseless care -
pass space and time: the proof that love is here.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Flame
I find myself remembering things I thought I'd forgot
I thought I'd gotten over you but I can see I've not
And seeing you has made me realize how wrong I've been
And the torch I've carried for so long is burning bright again
The flame is burning bright again it just took my seeing you to know
That the flame had not burned out it just had flickered low
Yes I still love you just as much as I ever did before
The flame is burning bright again and I can't fight it anymore
Could it be your seeing me has set your heart on fire
Could it be old memories has filled you with desire
Oh if after all this time you find that you still feel the same
Then come and take my hand and walk with me into the flame
The flame is burning bright again...
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet to My Wife
The curse of Adam, the old curse of all,
Though I inherit in this feverish life
Of worldly toil, vain wishes, and hard strife,
And fruitless thought, in Care's eternal thrall,
Yet more sweet honey than of bitter gall
I taste, through thee, my Eve, my sweet wife.
Then what was Man's lost Paradise!—how rife
Of bliss, since love is with him in his fall!
Such as our own pure passion still might frame,
Of this fair earth, and its delightful bow'rs,
If no fell sorrow, like the serpent, came
To trail its venom o'er the sweetest flow'rs;—
But oh! as many and such tears are ours,
As only should be shed for guilt and shame!
poem by Thomas Hood
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Poem 93
TO whom his mother closely smiling sayd,
twixt earnest and twixt game:
See thou thy selfe likewise art lyttle made,
if thou regard the same.
And yet thou suffrest neyther gods in sky,
nor men in earth to rest:
But when thou art disposed cruelly,
theyr sleepe thou doost molest.
Then eyther change thy cruelty,
or giue lyke leaue vnto the fly.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Lix. _love is a refiner's fire._
Non più ch' 'l foco il fabbro.
It is with fire that blacksmiths iron subdue
Unto fair form, the image of their thought:
Nor without fire hath any artist wrought
Gold to its utmost purity of hue.
Nay, nor the unmatched phoenix lives anew,
Unless she burn: if then I am distraught
By fire, I may to better life be brought
Like those whom death restores nor years undo.
The fire whereof I speak, is my great cheer;
Such power it hath to renovate and raise
Me who was almost numbered with the dead;
And since by nature fire doth find its sphere
Soaring aloft, and I am all ablaze,
Heavenward with it my flight must needs be sped.
poem by Michelangelo Buonarroti
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The Lover Describeth His Restless State
AS oft as I behold, and see
The sovereign beauty that me bound ;
The nigher my comfort is to me,
Alas ! the fresher is my wound.
As flame doth quench by rage of fire,
And running streams consume by rain ;
So doth the sight that I desire
Appease my grief, and deadly pain.
Like as the fly that see'th the flame,
And thinks to play her in the fire ;
That found her woe, and sought her game
Where grief did grow by her desire.
First when I saw those crystal streams,
Whose beauty made my mortal wound ;
I little thought within their beams
So sweet a venom to have found.
But wilful will did prick me forth,
Blind Cupid did me whip and guide ;
Force made me take my grief in worth ;1
My fruitless hope my harm did hide ;
Wherein is hid the cruel bit,
Whose sharp repulse none can resist ;
And eke the spur that strains each wit
To run the race against his list.
As cruel waves full oft be found
Against the rocks to roar and cry ;
So doth my heart full oft rebound
Against my breast full bitterly.
And as the spider draws her line,
With labour lost I frame my suit ;
The fault is her's, the loss is mine :
Of ill sown seed, such is the fruit.
I fall, and see mine own decay ;
As he that bears flame in his breast,
Forgets for pain to cast away
The thing that breedeth his unrest
poem by Henry Howard
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Bitter Sweet
(d. pickerill/p. odonoughue)
Bitter sweet
Bitter sweet
I never thought Id understand
Never thought I could
The way I feel about you
And how much I need your love
How much I need your love
Bitter sweet
If I analysed each feeling
And captured every thought
Id not be any nearer
To the beating of your heart
The beating of your heart
Bridge:
Its neither pain nor pleasure
Ice cold or tropic heat
Your love is hard to measure
But its taste, mmm, its taste
Is bitter sweet
Bitter sweet
Bitter sweet
Now as I think about you
And the way you make me feel
You hurt me and I doubt you
You smile and my heart heals
Smile and my heart heals
Bridge
Bitter sweet (x5)
Bridge (x2)
Bitter sweet (x7)
song performed by by Lisa Stansfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Once More
I had not thought again to be
A dreamer of such dreams as these.
The springtime is no more for me;
My summer died beyond the seas.
From what untimely source begin
These stirrings of the life within?
I had not thought again to taste
The bitter sweet, the joyous pain.
I dreamed that I had trodden waste,
Beyond the power of sun or rain,
The soil that grew the passion fruit;—
Then, whence this blossom underfoot?
I had not thought again to see
Beyond the homely pale of truth;—
The lights and shapes of witchery,
That glorify the skies of youth,
I only know as perished things;—
Whence, then, this flash of angel wings?
How spend the day, yet save the hours?
I had my day; the hours are fled.
How eat the fruit, yet hold the flowers?
I ate the fruit; the flowers are dead.
Oh, what divine or fiendish art
Hath twined fresh tendrils round my heart?
I said, 'tis good to be alone,
No alien hand to urge or check.
I said, my spirit is my own,
To loose or bind, to save or wreck.
I trod on Love, called Reason lord;—
Lo, whence this subtle silken cord?
Oh, who shall tell if this be strength
Re-risen, or ghost of old defect?
The truth of manhood come at length,
Or weakness born of purpose wrecked?
I only know it is the whole
Arch-craving of a hungry soul.
I only know that all the hordes
Of buried hopes and jealousies
Are risen again and crossing swords,
And that 'twas but an armistice,
A breathing time 'twixt strife and strife,
Which I had deemed a peace for life.
Oh! who can tell where duty lies—
To urge, repress, advance, or stay?
To grasp at Good in Beauty's guise,
Or brush the pretty lure away,
Ere doubtful war of hopes and fears
Consume the hoarded strength of years?
poem by James Brunton Stephens
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Mediation
If Thou, Lord God, willest to judge
This, Thy very piteous clay
Which to save Christ did not grudge
His last dying, I shall say:
Lord, I interpose Christ's death
'Twixt these children and Thy wrath.
Then if Thou shouldst say: Their shame
Is as scarlet in Mine eyes--
I shall ask : Who took their blame?
Look, Lord, on this Sacrifice!
Is Thy Son's blood not more bright
Which hath washed their scarlet white?
Then, if Thou Thy wrath should'st keep
And Thy gaze should'st still avert
From Thy Son's most piteous sheep,
I shall ask : Who bare the hurt?
I Present Christ's death and Pain
'Twixt Thine anger and these men.
Lord, they die by millions
And they look to Thee--take thought!--
This dear flock, that is Thy Son's,
By the richest ransom bought.
See, Thy dead Son lies between,
Thee, the High judge, and their sin.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Complaint of a Lover that Defied Love
WHEN Summer took in hand the winter to assail,
With force of might, and virtue great, his stormy blasts to quail :
And when he clothed fair the earth about with green,
And every tree new garmented, that pleasure was to seen :
Mine heart gan new revive, and changed blood did stir,
Me to withdraw my winter woes, that kept within the dore. 1
'Abroad,' quoth my desire, 'assay to set thy foot ;
Where thou shalt find the savour sweet ; for sprung is every root.
And to thy health, if thou were sick in any case,
Nothing more good than in the spring the air to feel a space.
There shalt thou hear and see all kinds of birds y-wrought,
Well tune their voice with warble small, as nature hath them taught.'
Thus pricked me my lust the sluggish house to leave,
And for my health I thought it best such counsel to receive.
So on a morrow forth, unwist of any wight,
I went to prove how well it would my heavy burden light.
And when I felt the air so pleasant round about,
Lord ! to myself how glad I was that I had gotten out.
There might I see how Ver 2 had every blossom hent, 3
And eke the new betrothed birds, y-coupled how they went ;
And in their songs, methought, they thanked Nature much,
That by her license all that year to love, their hap was such,
Right as they could devise to choose them feres 4 throughout :
With much rejoicing to their Lord, thus flew they all about.
Which when I gan resolve, and in my head conceive,
What pleasant life, what heaps of joy, these little birds receive ;
And saw in what estate I, weary man, was wrought,
By want of that, they had at will, and I reject at nought ;
Lord ! how I gan in wrath unwisely me demean !
I cursed Love, and him defied ; I thought to turn the stream.
But when I well beheld, he had me under awe,
I asked mercy for my fault, that so transgrest his law :
' Thou blinded God,' quoth I, ' forgive me this offence,
Unwittingly I went about, to malice thy pretence.'
Wherewith he gave a beck, and thus methought he swore :
' Thy sorrow ought suffice to purge thy fault, if it were more.'
The virtue of which sound mine heart did so revive,
That I, methought, was made as whole as any man alive.
But here I may perceive mine error, all and some,
For that I thought that so it was ; yet was it still undone ;
And all that was no more but mine expressed mind,
That fain would have some good relief, of Cupid well assign'd.
I turned home forthwith, and might perceive it well,
That he aggrieved was right sore with me for my rebel.
My harms have ever since increased more and more,
And I remain, without his help undone, for ever more.
A mirror let me be unto ye lovers all ;
Strive not with love ; for if ye do, it will ye thus befall.
poem by Henry Howard
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Twilight
'Twixt a smile and a tear,
'Twixt a song and a sigh,
'Twixt the day and the dark,
When the night draweth nigh.
Ah, sunshine may fade
From the heavens above,
No twilight have we
To the day of our love.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Concord
Tremulous with love thy soul's hand pressures mine heart
So gently thy squeeze an impulse in me and I think of thee
Irresistible dost mine blood rush to mine mind smart
And in my mind, thy beauty with my intelligence I see.
Thy timid and shy engraved on mine love's ornament so faint
Impressing color on mine gray thoughts humorously and keen
With a palette of colors, thy beauty doth weave with thine perfect paint
The most magical charm one's thought hath ever seen.
As though thou read mine mind and played thy part
In harmony with thy gentle hand streaming blood to mine thought
Mine mind in concord with mine tremulous heart
Sincerely revels as thy soul designed from soul and wrought
A noble woman endowed with love's strength and mind
A gentlewoman like thee, understanding and kind..
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Whoso List to Hunt, I Know Where is an Hind
Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
But as for me, hélas, I may no more.
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
I am of them that farthest cometh behind.
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore
Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,
Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,
As well as I may spend his time in vain.
And graven with diamonds in letters plain
There is written, her fair neck round about:
Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am,
And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.
poem by Sir Thomas Wyatt
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Whoso List To Hunt, I Know Where Is an Hind
Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
But as for me, hélas, I may no more.
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
I am of them that farthest cometh behind.
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore
Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,
Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,
As well as I may spend his time in vain.
And graven with diamonds in letters plain
There is written, her fair neck round about:
Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am,
And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.
poem by David McKee Wright
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Air and Angels
Twice or thrice had I loved thee,
Before I knew thy face or name;
So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame
Angels affect us oft, and worshipp'd be.
Still when, to where thou wert, I came,
Some lovely glorious nothing did I see.
But since my soul, whose child love is,
Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do,
More subtle than the parent is
Love must not be, but take a body too;
And therefore what thou wert, and who,
I bid Love ask, and now
That it assume thy body, I allow,
And fix itself in thy lip, eye, and brow.
Whilst thus to ballast love I thought,
And so more steadily to have gone,
With wares which would sink admiration,
I saw I had love's pinnace overfraught;
Thy every hair for love to work upon
Is much too much; some fitter must be sought;
For, nor in nothing, nor in things
Extreme, and scattering bright, can love inhere;
Then as an angel face and wings
Of air, not pure as it, yet pure doth wear,
So thy love may be my love's sphere;
Just such disparity
As is 'twixt air's and angels' purity,
'Twixt women's love, and men's, will ever be.
poem by John Donne
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Constant Lover Lamenteth.
SINCE fortune's wrath envieth the wealth
Wherein I reigned, by the sight
Of that, that fed mine eyes by stealth
With sour, sweet, dread, and delight ;
Let not my grief move you to moan,
For I will weep and wail alone.
Spite drave me into Boreas' reign,
Where hoary frosts the fruits do bite,
When hills were spread, and every plain
With stormy winter's mantle white ;
And yet, my dear, such was my heat,
When others froze, then did I sweat.
And now, though on the sun I drive,
Whose fervent flame all things decays ;
His beams in brightness may not strive
With light of your sweet golden rays ;
Nor from my breast his heat remove
The frozen thoughts, graven by Love.
Ne may the waves of the salt flood
Quench that your beauty set on fire ;
For though mine eyes forbear the food,
That did relieve the hot desire ;
Such as I was, such will I be ;
Your own ; what would ye more of me ?
poem by Henry Howard
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Morning Prayer
Let me to-day do something that shall take
A little sadness from the world’s vast store,
And may I be so favoured as to make
Of joy’s too scanty sum a little more.
Let me not hurt, by any selfish deed
Or thoughtless word, the heart of foe or friend;
Nor would I pass, unseeing, worthy need,
Or sin by silence when I should defend.
However meagre be my worldly wealth,
Let me give something that shall aid my kind –
A word of courage, or a thought of health,
Dropped as I pass for troubled hearts to find.
Let me to-night look back across the span
‘Twixt dawn and dark, and to my conscience say –
Because of some good act to beast or man –
“The world is better that I lived today.”
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Raven And The King's Daughter
King’s daughter sitting in tower so high,
Fair summer is on many a shield.
Why weepest thou as the clouds go by?
Fair sing the swans ’twixt firth and field.
Why weepest thou in the window-seat
Till the tears run through thy fingers sweet?
The King’s Daughter.
I weep because I sit alone
Betwixt these walls of lime and stone.
Fair folk are in my father’s hall,
But for me he built this guarded wall.
And here the gold on the green I sew
Nor tidings of my true-love know.
The Raven.
King’s daughter, sitting above the sea,
I shall tell thee a tale shall gladden thee.
Yestreen I saw a ship go forth
When the wind blew merry from the north.
And by the tiller Steingrim sat,
And O, but my heart was glad thereat!
For ’twixt ashen plank and dark blue sea
His sword sang sweet of deeds to be.
The King’s Daughter.
O barren sea, thou bitter bird,
And a barren tale my ears have heard.
The Raven.
Thy father’s men were hard thereby
In byrny bright and helmet high.
The King’s Daughter.
O worser waxeth thy story far,
For these drew upon me bolt and bar.
Fly south, O fowl, to the field of death
For nothing sweet thy grey neb saith.
The Raven.
O, there was Olaf the lily-rose,
As fair as any oak that grows.
The King’s Daughter.
O sweet bird, what did he then
Among the spears of my father’s men?
The Raven.
’Twixt ashen plank and dark blue sea,
He sang: My true love waiteth me.
The King’s Daughter.
As well as this dull floor knows my feet,
I am not weary yet, my sweet.
The Raven.
He sang: As once her hand I had,
Her lips at last shall make me glad.
The King’s Daughter.
As once our fingers met, O love,
So shall our lips be fain thereof.
The Raven.
He sang: Come wrack and iron and flame,
For what shall breach the wall but fame?
The King’s Daughter.
Be swift to rise and set, O Sun,
Lest life ’twixt hope and death be done.
The Raven.
King’s daughter sitting in tower so high,
A gift for my tale ere forth I fly,
The gold from thy finger fair and fine,
Thou hadst it from no love of thine.
The King’s Daughter.
By my father’s ring another there is,
I had it with my mother’s kiss.
Fly forth, O fowl, across the sea
To win another gift of me.
Fly south to bring me tidings true,
Fair summer is on many a shield.
Of the eve grown red with the battle-dew,
Fair sing the swans ’twixt firth and field.
The Raven.
King’s daughter sitting in tower so high,
Fair summer is on many a shield.
Tidings to hearken ere thou die,
Fair sing the swans ’twixt firth and field.
In the Frankish land the spear points met,
And wide about the field was wet.
And high ere the cold moon quenched the sun,
Blew Steingrim’s horn for battle won.
The King’s Daughter.
Fair fall thee fowl! Tell tidings true
Of deeds that men that day did do.
The Raven.
Steingrim before his banner went,
And helms were broke and byrnies rent.
The King’s Daughter.
A doughty man and good at need;
Tell men of any other’s deed?
The Raven.
Where Steingrim through the battle bore
Still Olaf went a foot before.
The King’s Daughter.
O fair with deeds the world doth grow!
Where is my true-love gotten now?
The Raven.
Upon the deck beside the mast
He lieth now, and sleepeth fast.
The King’s Daughter.
Heard’st thou before his sleep began
That he spake word of any man?
The Raven.
Methought of thee he sang a song,
But nothing now he saith for long.
The King’s Daughter.
And wottest thou where he will wend
With the world before him from end to end?
The Raven.
Before the battle joined that day
Steingrim a word to him did say:
“If we bring the banner back in peace,
In the King’s house much shall my fame increase;
Till there no guarded door shall be
But it shall open straight to me.
Then to the bower we twain shall go
Where thy love the golden seam doth sew.
I shall bring thee in and lay thine hand
About the neck of that lily-wand.
And let the King be lief or loth
One bed that night shall hold you both.”
Now north belike runs Steingrim’s prow,
And the rain and the wind from the south do blow.
The King’s Daughter.
Lo, fowl of death, my mother’s ring,
But the bridal song I must learn to sing.
And fain were I for a space alone,
For O the wind, and the wind doth moan.
And I must array the bridal bed,
Fair summer is on many a shield.
For O the rain, and the rain drifts red!
Fair sing the swans ’twixt firth and field.
Before the day from the night was born,
Fair summer is on many a shield.
She heard the blast of Steingrim’s horn,
Fair sing the swans ’twixt firth and field.
Before the day was waxen fair
Were Steingrim’s feet upon the stair.
“O bolt and bar they fall away,
But heavy are Steingrim’s feet to-day.”
“O heavy the feet of one who bears
The longing of days and the grief of years!
Lie down, lie down, thou lily-wand
That on thy neck I may lay his hand.
Whether the King be lief or loth
To-day one bed shall hold you both.
O thou art still as he is still,
So sore as ye longed to talk your fill.
And good it were that I depart,
Now heart is laid so close to heart.
For sure ye shall talk so left alone
Fair summer is on many a shield.
Of days to be below the stone.”
Fair sing the swans ’twixt firth and field.
poem by William Morris
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O Friend
O friend, tickle the strings of thy voluptuous lyre
And rend all air with musical sound-
Such sound, that I might drown
All my misery, my universe and my love
Yes, this love that cans't be mine
That gold will buy love matters not,
A fair foul fancy, if love were aught.
O friend play - dispel misery in the air,
Revive agonies, set my heart on fire
Play o play upon thy lyre,
that I may have extremity of despair. [1960]