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
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Related quotes
Violet De Vere
You've heard of Violet de Vere, strip-teaser of renown,
Whose sitting-base out-faired the face of any girl in town;
Well, she was haled before the Bench for breachin' of the Peace,
Which signifies araisin' Cain, an' beatin' up the police.
So there she stood before the Court of ruddy Judge McGraw
Whom folks called Old Necessity, because he knew no law.
Aye, crackin' in a silken gown, an' sheddin' of a tear,
Ashine wi' gold an' precious stones sat Violet de Vere.
Old Judge McGraw looked dourly down an' stroked his silver beard.
Says he: "Although the Sheriff's bruised, the lady should be heared.
What can you say in your defence? We'll give you a square deal."
"I jest forget," said Violet. "Maybe it was my heel.
I always want to kick the gong when I am feelin' gay;
It's most unfortunate, I guess, his face was in the way."
Then scratchin' of his snowy pow the Judge looked down severe,
Where bright wi' paint like plaster saint sat Violet de Vere.
Says he: "I'm going to impose a twenty dollar fine."
Says Violet: "Your Honour, to your judgement I resign.
I realize I should not my agility reveal:
Next time I'll kick the Sheriff with my toe and not my heel.
I'm grateful to the Court because I'm not put in the clink;
There's twenty plunks to pay my fine,--but now I come to think:
Judge, darlin', you've been owin' me five bucks for near a year:
Take fifteen,--there! We'll call it square," said Violet de Vere.
poem by Robert William Service
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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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Man should be ever better than he seems.
quote by Aubrey de Vere
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Memory, in widow's weeds, with naked feet stands on a tombstone.
quote by Aubrey de Vere
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Vere
Wisdom and protection,
It is just like the power of love!
And we will always meet to iron out things,
Because Vere is ready to learn from us!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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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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Death Whispers in My Ear
The doctors said: ‘Take her away,
There's nothing we can do,
The life is seeping from her blood
Her soul is weeping too,
But keep her in a darkened room
And hidden from the light,
Perhaps you'll gain a week or two
Before her soul takes flight! '
I drove her to ‘The Grange' at that,
Post haste, in coach and four,
I veiled her in black crepe and lace,
She fainted at the door.
I carried her, she was so slight
I feared she might be dead,
And laid her on the davenport
A pillow at her head.
I covered her with red damask
And drew the velvet drapes,
There'd be no light for her again
This side of heaven's gates,
She stirred in her delirium
And sighed with every tear,
‘Once you were mine, but now I find
Death whispers in my ear! '
I lit a single candle, and
The beam fell on her face,
Though she was in extremis she
Had lost but little grace,
If only she had looked at me
To whisper words of love,
But he was near, Sir Ralph de Vere,
And ruled her from above.
He'd lured her from our marriage bed
And had his way with her,
He'd dazzled her with sweet perfumes
And trinkets by the score,
He'd danced her off her pretty feet
And turned her face from me,
And like a fool, I fought a duel
With aristocracy.
Two pistols primed, he turned and fired
But most erratically,
His Second begged to cease it there
But I aimed carefully,
My first had pinged his shoulder
But he stood his ground, and stared,
The second bullet, true and straight
Left Ralph de Vere quite dead!
The Seconds swore it legal when
The Magistrate was called,
But not so my Elizabeth;
No! - She was quite appalled.
She sank into a stupor there
Of shock and binding grief,
‘You've taken all my love, ' she cried,
‘You're just a petty thief! '
A week she lay within these walls
A week of no respite,
I heard some ghostly mutterings
Around The Grange at night,
And then an apparition formed
Beside that davenport,
That wraithlike Peer, Sir Ralph de Vere
That I had set at naught.
The wraith leant over where she lay,
Held out a bony hand,
She rose up from the davenport
And laughed that she could stand,
They drifted from that hateful room,
Where I would have to stay,
Her body on the davenport
They faded both away.
I paced about that fateful night
And raged there in the gloom,
Her stolen soul had taken flight
From dearth, within that room.
And now I find my nightly plight
Is worse than dreamless fear,
Its bony hands caught at my throat,
Death whispers in my ear!
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Legs And The Man
Alas, my dear, be you high-born,
Or just a Sydney cutie,
I fear you've earned a he-man's scorn
Thro' failing in your duty.
A lady would avert her eyes,
Taught by her caste to realise
That the male leg without disguise
Is not a thing of beauty.
Even when used to underpin
A dress-reforming dandy,
‘Tis still a prop of reddened skin,
Mostly knock-kneed, or bandy.
And, oh, my dear, you must have known
How sensitive are those who own
These knobby knuckles thickly sown
With ebon hairs, or sandy.
And oh, my dear, be you de Vere,
Or just some saucy Sadie,
To goggle when male shanks appear
Is positively shady.
But should you giggle - Oh, dear! Oh!
No matter how grotesque the show,
All proper gentlemen must know
You're low. You ain't no lady.
But oh, my dear, and ah, my dear,
Learn etiquette. For when, dear,
You in those fetching shorts appear
At tennis now and then, dear;
Men may stare hard, they may stare long,
Their heads a-whirl, their hearts a song;
Yet, save your scorn. There's nothing wrong.
They still are gentlemen, dear.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Robin Hood, A Child.
It was the pleasant season yet,
When the stones at cottage doors
Dry quickly, while the roads are wet,
After the silver showers.
The green leaves they looked greener still,
And the thrush, renewing his tune,
Shook a loud note from his gladsome bill
Into the bright blue noon.
Robin Hood's mother looked out, and said
"It were a shame and a sin
For fear of getting a wet head
To keep such a day within,
Nor welcome up from his sick bed
Your uncle Gamelyn."
And Robin leaped, and thought so too;
And so he has grasped her gown,
And now looking back, they have lost the view
Of merry sweet Locksley town.
Robin was a gentle boy,
And therewithal as bold;
To say he was his mother's joy,
It were a phrase too cold.
His hair upon his thoughtful brow
Came smoothly clipped, and sleek,
But ran into a curl somehow
Beside his merrier cheek.
Great love to him his uncle too
The noble Gamelyn bare,
And often said, as his mother knew,
That he should be his heir.
Gamelyn's eyes, now getting dim,
Would twinkle at his sight,
And his ruddy wrinkles laugh at him
Between his locks so white:
For Robin already let him see
He should beat his playmates all
At wrestling, running, and archery,
Yet he cared not for a fall.
Merriest he was of merry boys,
And would set the old helmets bobbing;
If his uncle asked about the noise,
'Twas "If you please, Sir, Robin."
And yet if the old man wished no noise,
He'd come and sit at his knee,
And be the gravest of grave-eyed boys;
And not a word spoke he.
So whenever he and his mother came
To brave old Gamelyn Hall,
'Twas nothing there but sport and game,
And holiday folks all:
The servants never were to blame,
Though they let the physic fall.
And now the travellers turn the road,
And now they hear the rooks;
And there it is, — the old abode,
With all its hearty looks.
Robin laughed, and the lady too,
And they looked at one another;
Says Robin, "I'll knock, as I'm used to do,
At uncle's window, mother."
And so he pick'd up some pebbles and ran,
And jumping higher and higher,
He reach'd the windows with tan a ran tan,
And instead of the kind old white-haired man,
There looked out a fat friar.
"How now," said the fat friar angrily,
"What is this knocking so wild?"
But when he saw young Robin's eye,
He said "Go round, my child.
"Go round to the hall, and I'll tell you all."
"He'll tell us all!" thought Robin;
And his mother and he went quietly,
Though her heart was set a throbbing.
The friar stood in the inner door,
And tenderly said, "I fear
You know not the good squire's no more,
Even Gamelyn de Vere.
"Gamelyn de Vere is dead,
He changed but yesternight:"
"Now make us way," the lady said,
"To see that doleful sight."
"Good Gamelyn de Vere is dead,
And has made us his holy heirs:"
The lady stayed not for all he said,
But went weeping up the stairs.
Robin and she went hand in hand,
Weeping all the way,
Until they came where the lord of that land
Dumb in his cold bed lay.
His hand she took, and saw his dead look,
With the lids over each eye-ball;
And Robin and she wept as plenteously,
As though he had left them all.
"I will return, Sir Abbot of Vere,
I will return as is meet,
And see my honoured brother dear
Laid in his winding sheet.
And I will stay, for to go were a sin,
For all a woman's tears,
And see the noble Gamelyn
Laid low with the De Veres."
The lady went with a sick heart out
Into the kind fresh air,
And told her Robin all about
The abbot whom he saw there:
And how his uncle must have been
Disturbed in his failing sense,
To leave his wealth to these artful men,
At her's and Robin's expense.
Sad was the stately day for all
But the Vere Abbey friars,
When the coffin was stript of its hiding pall,
Amidst the hushing choirs.
Sad was the earth-dropping "dust to dust,"
And "our brother here departed;"
The lady shook at them, as shake we must,
And Robin he felt strange-hearted.
That self-same evening, nevertheless,
They returned to Locksley town,
The lady in a dumb distress,
And Robin looking down.
They went, and went, and Robin took
Long steps by his mother's side,
Till she asked him with a sad sweet look
What made him so thoughtful-eyed.
"I was thinking, mother," said little Robin,
And with his own voice so true
He spoke right out, "That if I was a king,
I'd see what those friars do."
His mother stooped with a tear of joy,
And she kissed him again and again,
And said, "My own little Robin boy,
Thou wilt be a King of Men!"
poem by James Henry Leigh Hunt
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Tender And Astringent
You’re tender, I’m astringent,
few detours to the sweet.
Our love is not contingent
on synchrony of beat,
the marriage of two true minds
some say that Shakespeare praised––
perhaps De Vere, but who minds? ––
the thought is sweetly phrased,
for marriage is a mélange
that thrives when two are polar,
immune to every challenge
as canine is to molar.
So love me, being tender,
astringent though I am;
be victor, and surrender,
when battered by a ram.
10/21/05
poem by Gershon Hepner
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De Suo In Lesbiam Amore Ep. 88.
DE SUO IN LESBIAM AMORE. EP. 88.
Nulla potest mulier tantum se dicere amatam
Vere, quantum a me Lesbia amata mea est;
Nulla fides ullo fuit unquam faedere tanta,
Quanta in amore suo ex parte reperta mea est.
ENGLISHED.
No one can boast her self so much belov'd,
Truely as Lesbia my affections prov'd;
No faith was ere with such a firm knot bound,
As in my love on my part I have found.
poem by Richard Lovelace
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A Sweetheart's Holiday
There'll always be a Valentine's Day
On the fourteenth of February of every year,
A day of festival romance and affection
And a Holiday for a sweetheart lovely and dear.
Special greeting cards are distributed
To friends and a sweetheart to keep in line.
Verses are embossed with tender thoughts,
But almost all say, ' Be My Valentine. '
The cards are adorned with satin, red ribbon
And white lace trimmings setting them apart
With a colorful and an attractive Valentine scene,
Or a cupid whose arrows pierce a heart.
Girls receive gifts of flowers or jewelry,
A large box of candy shaped like a heart,
Attending Valentine's Day dances and parties
With their favorite Valentine doing their part.
There'll always be a Valentine's Day
When the words of engagement are in the air,
And a sparkling diamond ring is placed on a finger -
A dream comes true - thanks for prayer.
poem by Joseph T. Renaldi
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A Valentine's Day Message
May the Valentine's Day spirit fill your heart
With love and joy on this special day.
A time to exchange messages - a spirit of love,
Sentimental verses sent in a poetic way.
Valentine's Day has long been a day of romance,
A sparkle of love glowing in the heart,
A tribute to your love one so precious and dear,
Where the tradition of Saint Valentine plays a part.
May Valentine's Day be extra special to you
With the beauty of red roses to proudly show,
And the symbol of a heart and cupid with arrow and bow
That will enlighten your heart with a festive glow.
May you have joy and satisfaction unending
Bestowing to love one jewelry, candy or flowers
To prove your sincere affection on Valentine's Day
With memorable, happy and unforgettable hours.
May those you love surround you
To share and cherish this Valentine's Day,
May the spirit of Saint Valentine, the patron saint,
Come into your life and forever stay.
poem by Joseph T. Renaldi
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Me Rindo Ante Ti
Mi amor por que? que nos paso?
Tuvimos lo mejor y lo echamos a perder
Si me das una oportunidad
De probar mi amor por ti
Si me dices que si
Te puedo jurar
Que jamas te iras de mi
Chorus:
Por que no recuperamos nuestro amor?
Por que no olvidamos lo que nos paso?
Por que no me dices como puedo conquitstarte una vez mas?
Mi amor aqui me tienes
Rendido ante ti
Que mas puedes pedir
Estoy de nuevo aqui
Rendido anti ti.........
Sonando asi pensado asi
Te extrano tanto amor
Que no se, que ya no se, vivir sin ti
Llegara el amancer
Y vere que no estas tu
Que no puedo resistir
La realidad, ni la luz
Rendido te pido que vuelas a mi
Chorus
Por que.......
song performed by by Boyz II Men
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Anonymous Valentine
A Valentine for You
Charles Garcia
Another year has passed,
My secret I can no longer hide,
I send this card of love,
Hopefully you’ll understand.
Year after year swiftly passes by.
I sent you, anonymously, a valentine.
Although I know you were never mine.
You belong to someone else, that’s fine,
I wait my time to say
I love you:
You are mine: you are forever
My Valentine
poem by Charles Garcia
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To Be My Valentine
If you call all the time.
Place your love on the line.
I'll hear your voice in my ear.
You'll find it's perfectly clear.
To be my Valentine..
If you send me your heart.
It will give me a start.
Send your love if you dare.
You will find that it's fair.
To be my Valentine..
If you show me your love.
I will fly like a dove.
I will show no fear.
You will find it sincere.
To be my Valentine..
poem by Kim Robin Edwards
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That Special Day
The day you show your family that you still think of them and care.
The day you share your thoughts with them about how much you love them.
That special day that comes once a year Valentine's Day.
The day you show your friends what a true friend you really are just by thinking of them.
The day you show them that you just don't think of yourself.
That specail day that comes once a year Valentine's Day.
The day you show that special someone just how special they really are to you.
The day you show that person just how much they mean to you.
The day you show this special person just how much love you really have for him/her.
That special day that comes once a year Valentine's Day.
Happy Valentine's Day! !
poem by Loretta Doyle Smalley
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Song of Snobs
When Leonardo was a lad there was a certain set
Who snubbed him most outrageously - in fact, they snub him yet
He wasn't in the fashion, so he wasn't in the fold;
Before his death he was too new, and now he grows too old.
Because his art was new to them the snobs of Florence laughed;
And now, because he isn't new, the moderns scorn his craft.
'Da Vinci? Don't be crude, my dear! Call him an artist? Pshaw!
Why that old anachronism, so they say, knew how to draw!'
They have wandered thro' the ages, mouthing cliches as they go.
At first nights, and private views, 'mid the people 'one should know.'
But the artist goes on laughing as thro' every age he's laughed
At snobs who patronise the 'Arts,' but boggle at the craft.
When Shakespeare sought draw the crowds and please the taste of town
And watched box office takings with a worn and worried frown,
Kit Marlowe knew, Ben Jonson knew what stuff was in the lad;
But the dilettanti voted him quite definitely bad.
The fellow simply stole his plots, they said with lofty sneers,
And served them up most vulgarly to tickle groundling's ears.
'Will Shakespeare? That cheap showman!
Why the man's quite gauche, my dear!
I prefer them cultivated like dear Bacon and de Vere. '
So reputations surge and sink as lifts and ebbs the tide,
Now wallowing within the trough, now on the crest they ride.
But the snobs are ever with us, snobs of art, of place, of pelf.
And reading this, I rather think I might be one myself.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Broken Heart
He is stark mad, whoever says,
That he hath been in love an hour,
Yet not that love so soon decays,
But that it can ten in less space devour;
Who will believe me, if I swear
That I have had the plague a year?
Who would not laugh at me, if I should say
I saw a flash of powder burn a day?
Ah, what a trifle is a heart,
If once into love's hands it come!
All other griefs allow a part
To other griefs, and ask themselves but some;
They come to us, but us love draws;
He swallows us and never chaws;
By him, as by chain'd shot, whole ranks do die;
He is the tyrant pike, our hearts the fry.
If 'twere not so, what did become
Of my heart when I first saw thee?
I brought a heart into the room,
But from the room I carried none with me.
If it had gone to thee, I know
Mine would have taught thine heart to show
More pity unto me; but Love, alas!
At one first blow did shiver it as glass.
Yet nothing can to nothing fall,
Nor any place be empty quite;
Therefore I think my breast hath all
Those pieces still, though they be not unite;
And now, as broken glasses show
A hundred lesser faces, so
My rags of heart can like, wish, and adore,
But after one such love, can love no more.
poem by John Donne
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Dear Valentine
Dear valentine
Will you be mine
Always wondered
How you maintain
To stay so fine
You and me
Our hearts combine
To form a bond
Wonderful and sublime
Heavenly skies
Love never dies
Dear valentine
Will you be mine
poem by Ahmed Da Lost Nomad
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