The Past
I fling the past behind me, like a robe
Worn threadbare at the seams, and out of date.
I have outgrown it. Wherefore should I weep
And dwell upon its beauty, and its dyes
Of oriental splendor, or complain
That I must needs discard it? I can weave
Upon the shuttles of the future years
A fabric far more durable. Subdued,
It may be, in the blending of its hues,
Where somber shades commingle, yet the gleam
Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through,
While over all a fadeless luster lies,
And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears,
My new robe shall be richer than the old.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Mourners
LOW she lies, who blest our eyes
Through many a sunny day;
She may not smile, she will not rise--
The life hath past away!
Yet there is a world of light beyond,
Where we neither die nor sleep--
She is there, of whom our souls were fond--
Then wherefore do we weep?
The heart is cold, whose thoughts were told
In each glance of her glad bright eye;
And she lies pale, who was so bright,
She scarce seemed made to die.
Yet we know that her soul is happy now,
Where the saints their calm watch keep;
That angels are crowning that fair young brow--
Then wherefore do we weep?
Her laughing voice made all rejoice,
Who caught the happy sound;
There was gladness in her very step,
As it lightly touched the ground.
The echoes of voice and step are gone;
There is silence still and deep:
Yet we know she sings by God's bright throne--
Then wherefore do we weep?
The cheek's pale tinge, the lid's dark fringe;
That lies like a shadow there,
Were beautiful in the eyes of all--
And her glossy golden hair!
But though that lid may never wake
From its dark and dreamless sleep,
She is gone where young hearts do not break--
Then wherefore do we weep?
That world of light with joy is bright,
This is a world of woe:
Shall we grieve that her soul hath taken flight,
Because we dwell below?
We will bury her under the mossy sod,
And one long bright tress we'll keep;
We have only given her back to God--
Ah! wherefore do we weep?
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Years of Tears
Years of tears for no ears to hear, lonely for years am I
Years of tears for no ears to hear in silence they dropp and die
Years of tears, hidden deep, I cannot weep, nor cry.
Years of tears, for many fears of dying alone, I sigh.
Years of tears which no one hears as many years go by.
Years of tears in the lonely sky, my tears grow wings and fly.
Years of tears, my smile shines, through its little lines, I lie.
Years of tears, my somber peers through my melancholy eye
Tears of tears, Years of Years, in my soul, I tie.
Years of tears for no ears to hear my tears weep goodbye….
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Untitled #2
ROBE d'or, mais rien ne veut
Qu'une rose à ses cheveux.
A golden robe, yet will she wear
Only a rose in her golden hair.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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The heart, they say, asks pleasure first
A king is a king by his robe;
A priest is a priest by his robe;
A judge is a judge by his robe;
A nun is a nun by her robe.
Naked, they answer their instincts
Which are not different from yours
04.09.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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My Sage Green Robe
I sit on my bed, and look across at my sage green towelling robe,
hanging on the back of the bedroom door.
Does he still 'fancy' me,
when I'm wearing it,
probably not,
it's not 'sexy', rather 'frumpy' really,
not at all an 'exciting' piece of clothing.
A dowdy bird,
dowdy and unheard!
I think that's me!
A 'new' me, must emerge from that robe.
A butterfly from a chrysalis,
A rose from a bud.
I think I need an overhaul, and a new 'robe',
like you see the 'famous' wearing,
in their 'penthouses'.
A glorious creation of satin and silk,
like flowing cream and milk.
Mind you, my towelling robe, hangs next to his towelling robe,
so perhaps we will do the same, and remain side by side,
and perhaps he loves me for other things than just being,
glamorous.
Hanging there, they look at peace with each other,
so I think I'll stick with my sage green towelling robe,
it cuddles me, just like he does!
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Furness Abbey
I WISH for the days of the olden time,
When the hours were told by the abbey chime,
When the glorious stars looked down through the midnigh dim,
Like approving saints on the choir's sweet hymn:
I think of the days we are living now,
And I sigh for those of the veil and the vow.
I would be content alone to dwell
Where the ivy shut out the sun from my cell,
With the death's-head at my side, and the missal on my knee,
Praying to that heaven which was opening to me:
Fevered and vain are the days I lead now,
And I sigh for those of the veil and the vow.
Silken broidery no more would I wear,
Nor golden combs in my golden hair;
I wore them but for one, and in vain they were worn;
My robe should be of serge, my crown of the thorn:
'Tis a cold false world we dwell in now,
And I sigh for the days of the veil and the vow.
I would that the cloister's quiet were mine;
In the silent depths of some holy shrine.
I would tell my blessed beads, and would weep away
From my inmost soul every stain of clay:
My heart's young hopes they have left me now,
And I sigh for the days of the veil and the vow.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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The Somber night
Somber night,
grew us apart,
but the truth
of the world.
Is that we all are,
one unique Artifact
we make history
we make lies
but we realize
it no use
to pretend
The Somber night
makes us tired
sleep on guilt
which will make you a liar
Th tears of somber night,
grew us weaker
sky's eyes
warn me
to tell
or yell the truth
it is said
to set you free
Somber night
grew apart
new history
has been made
lies are old
and the truth renewls
my guilt of somber night.
4/8/2011
Weave In, Weave In, My Hardy Life
WEAVE in! weave in, my hardy life!
Weave yet a soldier strong and full, for great campaigns to come;
Weave in red blood! weave sinews in, like ropes! the senses, sight
weave in!
Weave lasting sure! weave day and night the weft, the warp, incessant
weave! tire not!
(We know not what the use, O life! nor know the aim, the end--nor
really aught we know;
But know the work, the need goes on, and shall go on--the death-
envelop'd march of peace as well as war goes on;)
For great campaigns of peace the same, the wiry threads to weave;
We know not why or what, yet weave, forever weave.
poem by Walt Whitman
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To Primroses Filled With Morning Dew
Why do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears
Speak grief in you,
Who were but born
just as the modest morn
Teem'd her refreshing dew?
Alas, you have not known that shower
That mars a flower,
Nor felt th' unkind
Breath of a blasting wind,
Nor are ye worn with years;
Or warp'd as we,
Who think it strange to see,
Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,
To speak by tears, before ye have a tongue.
Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known
The reason why
Ye droop and weep;
Is it for want of sleep,
Or childish lullaby?
Or that ye have not seen as yet
The violet?
Or brought a kiss
From that Sweet-heart, to this?
--No, no, this sorrow shown
By your tears shed,
Would have this lecture read,
That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,
Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.
poem by Robert Herrick
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Sonnet 138: When my love swears that she is made of truth
When my love swears that she is made of truth
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutored youth,
Unlearnèd in the world's false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue;
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love, loves not to have years told.
Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flattered be.
poem by William Shakespeare
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Legacy of the Purple Robe
The legacy of the purple robe,
Worn by the most powerful of kings, Gods, and highest of lords,
The purple robe of majesty, embedded with diamond galore,
The legacy of the apparel and the creator never seen before,
In correlation with the platinum crown,
The Creator of everything wearing the magic gown,
Beyond the planet Earth, the creator beyond the renowned,
Creator of the nine planets and the galaxy all around,
Beyond the sky, the solar system painted by the creator,
The creator without a name, the universe’s dictator,
Higher than Zeus, God, Allah, something much greater,
The creator with portraits of the universe, the painter,
Wearing the purple gown and the platinum crown, the God of all,
Within the asteroid belt, the universe’s wall,
In the creator’s portrait, the solar system enthralled,
Not a religion, but something higher than the skies,
Something invisible, looking down on the Earth with blue eyes,
Beyond religion, the highest of the power of gods refined,
The artist of the universe’s blueprint that’s intricately designed,
Creator of the moon, the grass, the mountains, and the sun that shines,
The purple robe beyond the stars, worn by the creator in the royal shrine,
The purple robe and the platinum crown, only worn by the most creative of mind,
For this creator was truly a painter, an artist of the universe,
Inflicted by hypergraphia and insanity of mind, the artist’s curse,
That sits above the realm of space when the planets dispersed,
At one point everything was one planet cluttered in space,
Until he created boundaries within the realm that separated planets in a linear trace,
Above the galaxy in the darkened realm beyond the stars the creator’s place,
Until he created the new portrait of the big bang, and the old blueprint was replaced,
Within one shattering boom of the storm, the portraits transformed in haste,
And the cluttered planet was forgotten forever without a trace,
Now separated in the solar system,9 planets are spread in space,
The purple robe, only worn by the artist and the God of everything,
Compulsively observing his portrait sitting on the different sections of the asteroid ring,
The platinum crown, and the purple robe, worn by the ultimate king,
Beyond religion, the highest power humans never seen,
The creator, that painted everything.
poem by Kurt Kacich
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Yes, threadbare seem his songs, to lettered ken - they were worn threadbare next the hearts of men.
quote by William Watson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fantasia
THE YOUNG GIRL'S POEM
KISS mine eyelids, beauteous Morn,
Blushing into life new-born!
Lend me violets for my hair,
And thy russet robe to wear,
And thy ring of rosiest hue
Set in drops of diamond dew!
Kiss my cheek, thou noontide ray,
From my Love so far away
Let thy splendor streaming down
Turn its pallid lilies brown,
Till its darkening shades reveal
Where his passion pressed its seal!
Kiss my lips, thou Lord of light,
Kiss my lips a soft good-night!
Westward sinks thy golden car;
Leave me but the evening star,
And my solace that shall be,
Borrowing all its light from thee!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Grondad's Lullaby
Sleep bonny babby, thi grondad is near,
Noa harm can touch thee, sleep withaat fear;
Innocent craytur, soa helpless an waik,
Grondad wod give up his life for thy sake,
Sleep little beauty,
Angels thee keep,
Grondad is watchin,
Sleep, beauty, sleep.
Through the thick mist of past years aw luk back,
Vainly aw try to discover the track
Buried, alas! for no trace can aw see,
Ov the way aw once trod when as sinless as thee,
Sleep little beauty,
Angels thee keep,
Grondad is watchin,
Sleep, beauty, sleep.
Smilin in slumber,--dreamin ov bliss,
Feelin in fancy a fond mother's kiss;
Richer bi far nor a king on his throne,
Fearlessly facing a future unknown.
Sleep little beauty,
Angels thee keep,
Grondad is watchin,
Sleep, beauty, sleep.
What wod aw give could aw once agean be,
Innocent, spotless an trustin as thee;
May noa grief give thee occasion to weep,
Blessins attend thee!--Sleep, beauty, sleep.
Sleep little beauty,
Angels thee keep,
Grondad is watchin,
Sleep, beauty, sleep.
poem by John Hartley
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Psalm 110
You sit at the right hand of the Father
You are clothed in majesty
The train of your robe fills the temple
Our High priest forever you shall be
You dwell in the beauty of Holiness
You are clothed in magnificent light
You stand upon grace and mercy
And your throne is an incredible sight
All men shall fall down before you
And every tongue on earth shall confess
That you are Lord to the glory of God
And we shall dwell in your Holiness
You are Commander of the heavenly hosts
And God the Father is your shield
And every king that comes against you
Is destroyed on the battle-field
poem by Frank McEleny
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The Throne Of God
You sit at the right hand of the Father
You are clothed in majesty
The train of your robe fills the temple
Our High priest forever you shall be
You dwell in the beauty of Holiness
You are clothed in magnificent light
You stand upon grace and mercy
And your throne is an incredible sight
All men shall fall down before you
And every tongue on earth shall confess
That you are Lord to the glory of God
And we shall dwell in your Holiness
You are Commander of the heavenly hosts
And God the Father is your shield
And every king that comes against you
Is destroyed on the battle-field
poem by Frank McEleny
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Appreciation
Stop for a moment.
Open up your eyes
and see the entire splendor
under the skies.
The shades of green
covering the land,
The shades of blue water
in front of the sand,
The shades of red
that come at night
when you are viewing
a sunset's light,
The shades of yellow
in a glorious field
when daffodils bloom
in a springtime yield.
Now close your eyes
and keep them in mind
and the splendor stays with you
you will find.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Recollect Church
Quickly are crumbling the old gray walls,
Soon the last stone will be gone,
The olden church of the Recollects,
We shall look no more upon;
And though, perchance, some stately pile
May rise its place to fill,
With carven piers and lofty towers,
Old Church, we shall miss thee still!
Though not like Europe’s ancient fanes,
Moss-grown and ivied o’er
Bearing long centuries’ darkened stains
On belfry and turrets hoar—
A hundred years and more hast thou
Thy shadow o’er us cast;
And we claim thee in our country’s youth
As a land-mark of the past.
Thou’st seen the glittering Fleur-de-lys
Fling out its folds on high
From old Dalhousie’s fortress hill,
Against the morning sky;
And, later, the gleam of an English flag
From its cannon-crowned brow,—
That flag which, despite the changing years,
Floateth proudly o’er us now.
Thou’st seen the dark-browed Indians, too,
Thronging each narrow street,
In their garb so strangely picturesque,
Their gaily moccassined feet;
And beside them gentle helpmates stood,
Dark-hued, with soft black eyes,
In blanket robes, with necklets bright—
Large beads of brilliant dyes.
Thou’st seen our city far outgrow
The bounds of its ancient walls,
In beauty growing and in wealth,
And free from early thralls,
Till round Mount Royal’s queenly heights,
That stretch toward the sky,
In pomp and splendor, beauteous homes
Of luxury closely lie.
Within this time-worn portal prayed
The sons of differing creeds,
And unto God, in various ways,
Made known their various needs.
Better dwell thus in brotherly love,
All seeking one common weal,
Than stir the stormy waters of strife
Through hasty and misjudged zeal.
And for many years the exiles lone,
Who landed upon our shore
From Erin’s green and sunny isle,
Did here their God adore;
And laid their aching sad hearts bare
To His kind, pitying gaze,
And prayed to Him in this new strange land
For better and brighter days.
And humble Recollect Friars here
Their matins recited o’er,
And glided with noiseless, sandalled feet
O’er the chapel’s sacred floor;
Again, at the close of day they met,
Amid clouds of incense dim
And the softened, rays of tapers’ blaze,
To sing their evening hymn.
They and their order have passed away
From among their fellow-men.
Little recked they for earth’s joys or gains,
On heaven bent their ken.
The lowly church that has borne their name
So faithfully to the last,
Linked with our city’s young days, like them,
Will henceforth be of the past.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Hymn 20
Spiritual apparel.
Isa. 61:10.
Awake, my heart; arise, my tongue,
Prepare a tuneful voice;
In God, the life of all my joys,
Aloud will I rejoice.
'Tis he adorned my naked soul,
And made salvation mine;
Upon a poor polluted worm
He makes his graces shine.
And lest the shadow of a spot
Should on my soul be found,
He took the robe the Savior wrought,
And cast it all around.
How far the heav'nly robe exceeds
What earthly princes wear
These ornaments, how bright they shine!
How white the garments are!
The Spirit wrought my faith, and love,
And hope, and every grace;
But Jesus spent his life to work
The robe of righteousness.
Strangely, my soul, art thou arrayed
By the great Sacred Three!
In sweetest harmony of praise
Let all thy powers agree.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Sonnet On An Alpine Night
My hand, a little raised, might press a star-
Where I may look, the frosted peaks are spun,
So shaped before Olympus was begun,
Spanned each to each, now, by a silver bar.
Thus to face Beauty have I traveled far,
But now, as if around my heart were run
Hard, lacing fingers, so I stand undone.
Of all my tears, the bitterest these are.
Who humbly followed Beauty all her ways,
Begging the brambles that her robe had passed,
Crying her name in corridors of stone,
That day shall know his weariedest of days -
When Beauty, still and suppliant at last,
Does not suffice him, once they are alone.
poem by Dorothy Parker
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