The Black Charger
There's a terrible steed that rests not night nor day,
But onward and onward, for ever away,
Through hamlet, through village, through country, through town,
Is heard the dread thud of his hoofs beating down;
Is seen the fierce eye, is felt the hot breath;
And before it, behind it, spreads ruin and death:
By castle, by cottage, by hut, and by hall,
Still faster and fiercer he passes them all.
He breathes on the youth with the face of the morn,
He leaves him a mark for the finger of scorn;
He cries, 'Mount and ride! I will bear you away
To the fair fields of pleasure. Come, mount me, I say!'
And, alas for the youth! he is borne like the wind,
And he leaveth his manhood, his virtue, behind;
And faster, still faster, he speeds down the track,
Where many shall follow, and few shall come back.
He breathes on the heart that is stricken with grief:
'Come, mount me! and fly to the plains of relief.
I will bear you away to the fair fields elysian,
Where your sorrows shall seem but a long-vanished vision.
With the future before you, forgetting the past,
You shall revel in pleasure, rejoicing at last.'
Ah! whoso shall mount shall ride to his doom:
Shall be sunk in the marshes of terror and gloom.
He breathes on the king, and he breathes on the slave;
On the young and the old from the crib to the grave;
On masterly minds, and they wither away
As the flower droops and dies 'neath a torrid sun's ray;
On beautiful souls that are pure as the light,
And they shrivel, polluted with mildew and blight:
The master, the servant, the high and the low,
He bears them all down to the regions of woe.
Ho! ho! temperance clan! rest ye not night nor day:
Watch, watch for the steed! starve him down! block his way!
Throw him into the dust! seize his long, flowing mane!
Bind his terrible limbs till he quivers in pain.
Stab him through to the heart! beat him down till he lies
Stark and stiff on the earth-beat him down till he dies!
Till never by castle, by cottage, by hall,
Shall again pass the black-hearted steed, Alcohol!
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Song Of The Wheelman
Over my desk in a dark office bending.
Dim seems the sunlight and dull seems the day;
But when the afternoon draws toward an ending,
Here waits my steel steed-I mount, and away!
Like cobwebs of silver I see in the distance
The glint of bright wheels, I must follow and find.
What life in the air now! what zest in existence,
As faster and faster I race with the wind.
Down the smooth pavements, and out toward the heather-
Ho! fellows, ho! I am coming you see!
Breast to breast, now let us speed on together-
Who dares try mounting that hillside with me?
Over the bridge I go-past the green meadows,
Au revoir, boys, I will ride on alone!
For in yon cottage half hid in the shadows,
Waiting for me, is my sweetheart-my own.
She watches my wheel as it glitters and glistens
Down the steep crest of the daisy-starred hill.
Fair is her cheek as she waits there and listens
For the sure signal blown tenderly shrill.
Sweetheart, my sweetheart, I'm coming, I'm coming.
Here, sturdy steed, you may stand by the wall.
A bird to her mate has flown swift thro' the gloaming,
Love, youth and summer, thank God for them all.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Destroying Spirit
I sit upon the rocks that frown
Above the rapid Nile;
And on the toil of man look down
With bitter and scornful smile.
My rocks are inaccessible,
And few return their terrors to tell.
My subjects are the birds, whose wings
Never soar'd into other air;
To whose shrill cries each echo rings—
For their nests are hidden there:
They dip their plumes in that mighty river,
Whose course is onward—onward, for ever.
I see the deluge come sweeping on
Where waving corn-fields gleam;
And forests, and cities, and herds are gone,
Like the shadows of a dream:
The rushing tide is an ocean now;
And islands of ruin darken its brow.
But the waters sink, and earth again
Smiles under Nature's gentlest reign:
Where, from scenes of bliss, shall I go?
I—whose existence is terror and woe.
Now I hide in the burning breast
Of some mountain, whose fires are never at rest,
And urge the torrents that downward flow,
Crashing and swallowing all below.
Then, through the air—away!—away!
Till I check my course on the dread Himmaleh:
Down to its deepest valleys I dive,
Which no mortal can ever see and live,
To visit the evil spirits who dwell
In the ceaseless gloom of that murky dell.
With them, from their rocky temples I roam,
To lure the traveller from his home:
When he rests beneath some charmed tree
With dreams we vex his mind;
And he wakes our hideous forms to see,
As we hover upon the wind;
And our voices howl in the hurrying blast,
Till in frantic fear he breathes his last:
Then we bear him to our dismal cave,
And his tortured spirit we claim as our slave!
I dwell where tempests are loud and dread—
I ride on the billow's foam;
And wherever terror is widest spread
There is the Spirit's home.
poem by Louisa Stuart Costello
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The Arab's Farewell To His Horse
MY beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by
With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye;
Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy winged speed-
I may not mount on thee again-thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!
Fret not with that impatient hoof-snuff not the breezy wind-
The further that thou fliest now, so far am I behind;
The stranger hath thy bridle rein-thy master hath his gold-
Fleet-limbed and beautiful! farewell! -thou'rt sold, my steed-thou'rt sold!
Farewell! those free untired limbs, full many a mile must roam,
To reach the chill and wintry sky, which clouds the stranger's home;
Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare;
The silky mane I braided once, must be another's care!
The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee
Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont to be:
Evening shall darken on the earth; and o'er the sandy plain
Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.
Yes, thou must go! the wild free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,
Thy master's home-from all of these, my exiled one must fly.
Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,
And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master's hand to meet.
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye, glancing bright
Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light:
And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed,
Then must I starting wake, to feel-thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!
Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,
Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side:
And the rich blood, that is in thee swells, in thy indignant pain,
Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started vein.
Will they ill-use thee? If I thought-but no, it cannot be-
Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed; so gentle, yet so free.
And yet, if haply when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn-
Can the hand which casts thee from it now, command thee to return?
Return! -alas! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do,
When thou who wert his all of joy, hast vanished from his view?
When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gath'ring tears
Thy bright form, for a moment, like the false mirâge appears.
Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary foot alone,
Where with fleet step, and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me on;
And, sitting down by that green well, I'll pause and sadly think,
'It was here he bowed his glossy neck, when last I saw him drink! '
When last I saw thee drink! -away! the fevered dream is o'er-
I could not live a day, and know, that we should meet no more!
They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong-
They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.
Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou wert sold?
'Tis false-'tis false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold!
Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains;
Away! who overtakes us now, shall claim thee for his pains!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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The Faithless Knight
THE lady she sate in her bower alone,
And she gaz'd from the lattice window high,
Where a white steed's hoofs were ringing on,
With a beating heart, and a smother'd sigh.
Why doth she gaze thro' the sunset rays--
Why doth she watch that white steed's track--
While a quivering smile on her red lip plays?
'Tis her own dear knight--will he not look back?
The steed flew fast--and the rider past--
Nor paus'd he to gaze at the lady's bower;
The smile from her lip is gone at last--
There are tears on her cheek--like the dew on a flower!
And 'plague on these foolish tears,' she said,
'Which have dimm'd the view of my young love's track;
For oh! I am sure, while I bent my head,
It was then--it was then that my knight look'd back.'
On flew that steed with an arrow's speed;
He is gone--and the green boughs wave between:
And she sighs, as the sweet breeze sighs through a reed,
As she watches the spot where he last has been.
Oh! many a sun shall rise and set,
And many an hour may she watch in vain,
And many a tear shall that soft cheek wet,
Ere that steed and its rider return again!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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The Flower.
I.
The flower in its own scent breathes till it dies
As if the scent its very birth-breath were
(As love is life's) which, while it occupies
Like a mesmeric light the living air,
Feeds every portion of the tender hue
In which it manifests so subtly fair
The faery form, which as in a dream grew
Out of the dark earth with ethereal power
Quickening its limbs, as those of a babe who
Draws from its mother's life a vital dower
Of warmth and beauty, thrilling breast and brain
Till it too comes to birth — a perfect flower
With its own aura, like a subtle strain
Which must vibrate to every joy and pain.
II.
The seeing eye and hearing ear are fed
With nature's nurture, and the mind imbues
Earth and all things within it, even the dead,
With its own sap that with thought's mystic hues
Bourgeons in every waking hour, and e'en
When sleep does all the inner life transfuse
With its own radiance, and the unseen
Becomes a part of us too, as we were
Back in some other sphere where we had been
Before the new thought breathed in the old air,
And the new body budded into birth,
Making us all that we are now who bear
The signs in us of all the woe and mirth
That came and has gone on with man on earth.
III.
Far back in the unstoried past, whose rune
No sage has ciphered and no bard has sung,
In the beginning of the sun and moon
When e'en the oldest hill was very young —
Ah! then perchance the seed that was us first
Took root in th' mystic soil whence we have (Unclear
Under the very hand of God, and burst
Into the secret being it has had,
All through the enchanted aeons strangely nursed
From death to life between the good and bad;
E'en as it were a spirit-germ that grew
By some mysterious process, and was clad
E'en like the flowers with varying form and hue,
Till it ends in what all may end in too!
poem by Robert Crawford
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One Bumper at Parting
One bumper at parting! -- though many
Have circled the board since we met,
The fullest, the saddest of any
Remains to be crown'd by us yet.
The sweetness that pleasure hath in it
Is always so slow to come forth,
That seldom, alas, till the minute
It dies, do we know half its worth.
But come -- may our life's happy measure
Be all of such moments made up;
They're born on the bosom of Pleasure,
Thy die 'midst the tears of the cup.
As onward we journey, how pleasant
To pause and inhabit awhile
Those few sunny spots, like the present,
That 'mid the dull wilderness smile!
But Time, like a pitiless master,
Cries "Onward!" and spurs the gay hours --
Ah, never doth Time travel faster
Than when his way lies among flowers.
But come -- may our life's happy measure
Be all of such moments made up;
They're born on the bosom of Pleasure,
They die 'midst the tears of the cup.
We saw how the sun look'd in sinking,
The waters beneath him how bright;
And now, let our farewell of drinking
Resemble that farewell of light.
You saw how he finish'd by darting
His beam o'er a deep billow's brim --
So, fill up, let's shine at our parting,
In full liquid glory, like him.
And oh! may our life's happy measure
Of moments like this be made up,
'Twas born on the bosom of Pleasure,
It dies 'mid the tears of the cup.
poem by Thomas Moore
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Between My Horse's Wings (Expanded)
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
The wind rushing forcefully
Through my long dark hair
The feel of the cool air
Beneath the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy
The muscles work powerfully
To drive us into the night
The stars wink like little lights
Above the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
As I ride over the ocean and sea
My muscles tense as I hold
My skin red from the windy cold
Flowing past the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
I revel in this dangerous ecstasy
A silvery mane blows in my face
Blown back, by the wind we race
Born on by the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
As we fly through the air swiftly
My face is lifted toward the sky
Arms outstretched, wind rushing by
The beating of the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
Faster and faster, we seem to fly
The wind tugging at my body
As I look to the heavenly bodies
Shining on the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
My horse flies gracefully
Over the fields and streams
Are these things only my dreams?
Sitting between the horse’s wings
Between My Horse's Wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
The wind rushing forcefully
Through my long dark hair
The feel of the cool air
Beneath the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy
The muscles work powerfully
To drive us into the night
The stars wink like little lights
Above the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
As I ride over the ocean and sea
My muscles tense as I hold
My skin red from the windy cold
Flowing past the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
I revel in this dangerous ecstasy
A silvery mane blows in my face
Blown back, by the wind we race
Born on by the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
As we fly through the air swiftly
My face is lifted toward the sky
Arms outstretched, wind rushing by
The beating of the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
Faster and faster, we seem to fly
The wind tugging at my body
As I look to the heavenly bodies
Shining on the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
My horse flies gracefully
Over the fields and streams
Are these things only my dreams?
Sitting between the horse’s wings
poem by Horse Poet
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The scene shall never fit the deed. Grotesquely wonders come to pass. The fool shall mount an Arab steed And Jesus ride upon an ass.
quote by Joyce Kilmer
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Hayloft
Through all the pleasant meadow-side
The grass grew shoulder-high,
Till the shining scythes went far and wide
And cut it down to dry.
Those green and sweetly smelling crops
They led the waggons home;
And they piled them here in mountain tops
For mountaineers to roam.
Here is Mount Clear, Mount Rusty-Nail,
Mount Eagle and Mount High;--
The mice that in these mountains dwell,
No happier are than I!
Oh, what a joy to clamber there,
Oh, what a place for play,
With the sweet, the dim, the dusty air,
The happy hills of hay!
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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My Comrade
Out from my window westward
I turn full oft my face;
But the mountains rebuke the vision
That would encompass space;
They lift their lofty foreheads
To the kiss of the clouds above,
And ask, "With all our glory,
Can we not win your love?"
I answer, "No, oh mountains!
I see that you are grand;
But you have not the breadth and beauty
Of the fields in my own land;
You narrow my range of vision
And you even shut from me
The voice of my old comrade,
The West Wind wild and free."
But to-day I climbed the mountains
On the back of a snow-white steed,
And the West Wind came to greet me--
He flew on the wings of speed.
His charger, and mine that bore me,
Went gaily neck to neck,
Till the town in the valley belkow us
Looked like a small, dark speck.
And oh! what tales he whispered
As he rode there by me,
Of friends whose smiling faces
I am so soon to see.
And the mountains frowned in anger,
Because I balked their spite,
And met my old-time comrade
There on their very height;
But I laughed up in their faces,
As I rode slowly back,
While the Wind went faster and faster,
Like a race-horse on the track.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Days Of Our Youth
These are the days of our youth, our days of glory and honour.
Pleasure begotten of strength is ours, the sword in our hand.
Wisdom bends to our will, we lead captivity captive,
Kings of our lives and love, receiving gifts from men.
Why do I speak of wisdom? The prize is not for the wisest.
Reason, the dull ox, ploughs a soil which no joy shall reap.
Folly is fleeter far 'neath the heel of the fearless rider,
Folly the bare--backed steed we bestride, the steed of the plains.
Mine is a lofty ambition, as wide as the world I covet.
Vast is the empire I claim for thee, thou spouse of my soul.
Show me new lands to win, and, by God in heaven, I swear it:
These shall be mine and thine to--night for all time to hold.
Time is our slave and Fortune's. We need not years for fruition.
Here in our hands behold a key which unlocks the world.
Each new day is a life. For us there is no to--morrow.
Love no yesterday knows nor we, but to--day is ours.
See, what a wealth I bring thee, what treasure of myrrh and spices!
Every kingdom of Earth have I sacked to procure thee gold.
All the knowledge that fools have learned at the feet of women,
All that the wise have been taught in tears for thy sake I know.
Give thyself up to Love. There is naught divine but madness.
Give thyself up to me Love's priest in his inmost shrine.
Shut thy eyes on the world, sublime in thy abnegation.
Only the wise who have bowed their will shall receive the prize.
Shut thy eyes on the light. I have nobler dreams to read thee,
Here in the shades of this darkened room, than the sun can show.
Is there not light in my eyes to--night more light than the dreamlight?
See it breaks in streams on thy face; it illumes thy soul.
Let me persuade thy weakness. I sue thee here with my reason.
Let me convince thee of love with my lips till thou cease to think.
Let me enfold thee with words more sweet than the prayers of angels,
Speaking thus with my hand on thy heart till it cease to beat.
Let me assuage thy grief with laughter, thy fear with kisses.
Let me cajole thy doubts with surprise, thy pride with tears.
Let me outshame the shame of thy face, outblush thy blushes.
Let me teach thee what Love can dare and yet dream no shame.
Let me uncover thy bosom and prove to thee its glory.
Let me preach to thee of thyself the live night long.
Let me chaunt new hymns to thy praise as I kneel and worship,
Rising still like a god from my knees from eve till morn.
Let me discourse of love with my hands and lips and bosom.
Let me explain with my limbs the joy that a soul can feel.
Let me unveil to thy bodily sense thy god incarnate
Taking flesh in a visible form for thy body's need.
Lo, on the mount of Love, the holiest place of holies,
Incense and prayer and the people's shout and the fires have risen.
Love descends on the feast. He mounts the pyre in silence,
Victim and priest and god in one, to thy dreams revealed.
There, the rite is accomplished. Whatever Love knows thou knowest.
Sudden the victim staggers and falls. In the dust it lies.
See the hot blood flows for thy sake, it o'erflows the altar.
Dost thou not feel it stream in thy veins? It still lives in thee.
These are the days of our youth, the days of our dominion.
All the rest is a dream of death and a doubtful thing.
Here we at least have lived, for love is all life's wisdom,
Joy of joys for an hour to--day; then away, farewell!
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Over The Alley
Here in my office I sit and write
Hour on hour, and day on day,
With no one to speak to from morn till night,
Though I have a neighbour just over the way.
Across the alley that yawns between
A maiden sits sewing the whole day long;
A face more lovely is seldom seen
In hall or castle or country throng.
Her curling tresses are golden brown;
Her eyes, I think, are violet blue,
Though her long, thick lashes are always down,
Jealously hiding the orbs from view;
Her neck is slender, and round, and white,
And this way and that way her soft hair blows,
As there in the window from morn till night,
She sits in her beauty, and sings and sews.
And I in my office chair, lounge and dream,
In an idle way, of a sweet 'might be, '
While the maid at her window sews her seam,
With never a glance or a thought for me.
Perhaps she is angry because I look
So long and so often across the way,
Over the top of my ledger-book;
But those stolen glances brighten the day.
And I am blameless of any wrong; -
She is the transgressor, by sitting there
And making my eyes turn oft and long
To a face so delicate, pure and fair.
Work is forgotten; the page lies clean,
Untouched by the pen, while hours go by.
Oh, maid of the pensive air and mien!
Give me one glance of your violet eye.
Drop your thimble or spool of thread
Down in the alley, I pray, my sweet,
Or the comb or ribbon from that fair head,
That I may follow with nimble feet;
For how can I tell you my heart has gone
Across the alley, and lingers there,
Till I know your name, my beautiful one?
How could I venture, and how could I dare?
Just one day longer I'll wait and dream,
And then, if you grant me no other way,
I shall write you a letter: 'Maid of the seam,
You have stolen my property; now give pay,
Beautiful robber and charming thief!
Give me one glance for the deed you've done.'
Thus shall I tell you my loss and grief,
Over the alley, my beautiful one.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Galileo
Galileos head was on the block
The crime was looking up for truth
And as the bombshells of my daily fears explode
I try to trace them to my youth
And then you had to bring up reincarnation
Over a couple of beers the other night
And now Im serving time for mistakes
Made by another in another lifetime
How long till my soul gets it right
Can any human being ever reach that kind of light
I call on the resting soul of galileo
King of night vision, king of insight
And then I think about my fear of motion
Which I never could explain
Some other fool across the ocean years ago
Must have crashed his little airplane
How long till my soul gets it right
Can any human being ever reach that kind of light
I call on the resting soul of galileo
King of night vision, king of insight
Im not making a joke, you know me
I take everything so seriously
If we wait for the time till all souls get it right
Then at least I know therell be no nuclear annihilation
In my lifetime Im still not right
I offer thanks to those before me
Thats all Ive got to say
cause maybe you squandered big bucks in your lifetime
Now I have to pay
But then again it feels like some sort of inspiration
To let the next life off the hook
But shell say look what I had to overcome from my last life
I think Ill write a book
How long till my soul gets it right
Can any human being ever reach the highest light
Except for galileo God rest his soul
(except for the resting soul of galileo)
King of night vision, king of insight
How long
(till my soul gets it right)
[til we reach the highest light]
How long
(till my soul gets it right)
[til we reach the highest light]
How long
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Oh! Blame Not the Bard
Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers
Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame;
He was born for much more, and in happier hours
His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame.
The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre,
Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart;
And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire
Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart.
But alas for his country! -- her pride is gone by,
And that spirit is broken which never would bend;
O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,
For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend.
Unprized are her sons, till they've learn'd to betray;
Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their sires;
And the torch, that would light them through dignity's way,
Must be caught from the pile where their country expires.
Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream
He should try to forget what he never can heal:
Oh! give but a hope -- let a vista but gleam
Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel!
That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down
Every passion it nursed, every bliss it adored;
While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown,
Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword.
But though glory be gone, and though hope fade away,
Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs;
Not even in the hour when his heart is most gay
Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs.
The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains;
The sign of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep,
Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains,
Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep!
poem by Thomas Moore
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John Marston: XII
THE BITTERNESS of death and bitterer scorn
Breathes from the broad-leafed aloe-plant whence thou
Wast fain to gather for thy bended brow
A chaplet by no gentler forehead worn.
Grief deep as hell, wrath hardly to be borne,
Ploughed up thy soul till round the furrowing plough
The strange black soil foamed, as a black beaked prow
Bids night-black waves foam where its track has torn.
Too faint the phrase for thee that only saith
Scorn bitterer than the bitterness of death
Pervades the sullen splendour of thy soul,
Where hate and pain make war on force and fraud
And all the strengths of tyrants; whence unflawed
It keeps this noble heart of hatred whole.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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O'Donohue's Mistress
Of all the fair months, that round the sun
In light-link'd dance their circles run,
Sweet May, shine thou for me;
For still, when thy earliest beams arise,
That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies,
Sweet May, returns to me.
Of all the bright haunts, where daylight leaves
Its lingering smile on golden eves,
Fair lake, thou'rt dearest to me;
For when the last April sun grows dim
Thy Naiads prepare his steed for him
Who dwells, bright lake, in thee.
Of all the proud steeds that ever bore
Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore,
White Steed, most joy to thee;
Who still, with the first young glance of spring,
From under that glorious lake dost bring
My love, my chief, to me.
While, white as the sail some bark unfurls,
When newly launch'd, thy long mane curls,
Fair Steed, as white and free;
And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers,
Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers,
Around my love and thee.
Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die,
Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie,
Most sweet that death will be,
Which, under the next May evening's light,
When thou and thy steed are lost to sight,
Dear love, I'll die for thee.
poem by Thomas Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Forgotten
Lords of the Nursery
Wait in a row,
Five on the high wall,
And four on the low;
Big Kings and Little Kings,
Brown Bears and Black,
All of them waiting
Till John comes back.
Some think that John boy
Is lost in the wood,
Some say he couldn’t be,
Some say he could.
Some think that John boy
Hides on the hill;
Some say he won’t come back,
Some say he will.
High was the sun, when
John went away . . .
Here they’ve been waiting
All through the day;
Big Bears and Little Bears,
White Kings and Black,
All of them waiting
Till John comes back.
Lords of the Nursery
Looked down the hill,
Some saw the sheep-fold,
Some say the mill;
Some saw the roofs
Of the little grey town . . .
And their shadows grew long
As the sun slipt down.
Gold between the poplars
An old moon shows;
Silver up the star-way
The full moon rose;
Silver down the star-way
The old moon crept . . .
And, one by another,
The grey fields slept.
Lords of the Nursery
Their still watch keep . . .
They hear from the sheep-fold
The rustle of sheep.
A young bird twitters
And hides its head;
A little wind suddenly
Breathes, and is dead.
Slowly and slowly
Dawns the new day . . .
What’s become of John boy?
No one can say.
Some think that John boy
Is lost on the hill;
Some say he won’t come back,
Some say he will.
What's become of John boy?
Nothing at all,
He played with his skipping rope,
He played with his ball.
He ran after butterflies,
Blue ones and red;
He did a hundred happy things—
And then went to bed.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Shemselnihar
O my lover! the night like a broad smooth wave
Bears us onward, and morn, a black rock, shines wet.
How I shuddered-I knew not that I was a slave,
Till I looked on thy face:- then I writhed in the net.
Then I felt like a thing caught by fire, that her star
Glowed dark on the bosom of Shemselnihar.
And he came, whose I am: O my lover! he came:
And his slave, still so envied of women, was I:
And I turned as a hissing leaf spits from the flame,
Yes, I shrivelled to dust from him, haggard and dry.
O forgive her:- she was but as dead lilies are:
The life of her heart fled from Shemselnihar.
Yet with thee like a full throbbing rose how I bloom!
Like a rose by the fountain whose showering we hear,
As we lie, O my lover! in this rich gloom,
Smelling faint the cool breath of the lemon-groves near.
As we lie gazing out on that glowing great star -
Ah! dark on the bosom of Shemselnihar.
Yet with thee am I not as an arm of the vine,
Firm to bind thee, to cherish thee, feed thee sweet?
Swear an oath on my lip to let none disentwine
The life that here fawns to give warmth to thy feet.
I on thine, thus! no more shall that jewelled Head jar
The music thou breathest on Shemselnihar.
Far away, far away, where the wandering scents
Of all flowers are sweetest, white mountains among,
There my kindred abide in their green and blue tents:
Bear me to them, my lover! they lost me so young.
Let us slip down the stream and leap steed till afar
None question thy claim upon Shemselnihar.
O that long note the bulbul gave out-meaning love!
O my lover, hark to him and think it my voice!
The blue night like a great bell-flower from above
Drooping low and gold-eyed: O, but hear him rejoice!
Can it be? 'twas a flash! that accurst scimiter
In thought even cuts thee from Shemselnihar.
Yes, I would that, less generous, he would oppress,
He would chain me, upbraid me, burn deep brands for hate,
Than with this mask of freedom and gorgeousness
Bespangle my slavery, mock my strange fate.
Would, would, would, O my lover, he knew-dared debar
Thy coming, and earn curse of Shemselnihar!
poem by George Meredith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Little Honda
Go!
Im gonna wake you up early
Cause Im gonna take a ride with you
Were going down to the honda shop
Ill tell you what were gonna do
Put on a ragged sweatshirt
Ill take you anywhere you want me to
First gear (honda honda) its alright (faster faster)
Second gear (little honda honda) I lean right (faster faster)
Third gear (honda honda) hang on tight (faster faster)
Faster its alright
Its not a big motorcycle
Just a groovy little motorbike
Its more fun that a barrel of monkeys
That two wheel bike
Well ride on out of the town
To any place I know you like
First gear (honda honda) its alright (faster faster)
Second gear (little honda honda) I lean right (faster faster)
Third gear (honda honda) hang on tight (faster faster)
Faster its alright
It climbs the hills like a matchless
Cause my hondas built really light
When I go into the turns
Lean [tilt] with me and hang on tight
I better turn on the lights
So we can ride my honda tonight
First gear (honda honda) its alright (faster faster)
Second gear (little honda honda) I lean right (faster faster)
Third gear (honda honda) hang on tight (faster faster)
Faster its alright
First gear (honda honda) its alright (faster faster)
Second gear (little honda honda) I lean right (faster faster)
Third gear (honda honda) hang on tight (faster faster)
Faster its alright
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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