Boccaccio
One day upon a topmost shelf
I found a precious prize indeed,
Which father used to read himself,
But did not want us boys to read;
A brown old book of certain age
(As type and binding seemed to show),
While on the spotted title-page
Appeared the name 'Boccaccio.'
I'd never heard that name before,
But in due season it became
To him who fondly brooded o'er
Those pages a belovèd name!
Adown the centuries I walked
Mid pastoral scenes and royal show;
With seigneurs and their dames I talked--
The crony of Boccaccio!
Those courtly knights and sprightly maids,
Who really seemed disposed to shine
In gallantries and escapades,
Anon became great friends of mine.
Yet was there sentiment with fun,
And oftentimes my tears would flow
At some quaint tale of valor done,
As told by my Boccaccio.
In boyish dreams I saw again
Bucolic belles and dames of court,
The princely youths and monkish men
Arrayed for sacrifice or sport.
Again I heard the nightingale
Sing as she sang those years ago
In his embowered Italian vale
To my revered Boccaccio.
And still I love that brown old book
I found upon the topmost shelf--
I love it so I let none look
Upon the treasure but myself!
And yet I have a strapping boy
Who (I have every cause to know)
Would to its full extent enjoy
The friendship of Boccaccio!
But boys are, oh! so different now
From what they were when I was one!
I fear my boy would not know how
To take that old raconteur's fun!
In your companionship, O friend,
I think it wise alone to go
Plucking the gracious fruits that bend
Wheree'er you lead, Boccaccio.
So rest you there upon the shelf,
Clad in your garb of faded brown;
Perhaps, sometime, my boy himself
Shall find you out and take you down.
Then may he feel the joy once more
That thrilled me, filled me years ago
When reverently I brooded o'er
The glories of Boccaccio!
poem by Eugene Field
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Related quotes
You must read, you must persevere, you must sit up nights, you must inquire, and exert the utmost power of your mind. If one way does not lead to the desired meaning, take another; if obstacles arise, then still another; until, if your strength holds out, you will find that clear which at first looked dark.
Do as we say, and not as we do.
quote by Giovanni Boccaccio
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Human it is to have compassion on the unhappy.
quote by Giovanni Boccaccio
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People tend to believe the bad rather than the good.
quote by Giovanni Boccaccio
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While farmers generally allow one rooster for ten hens, ten men are scarcely sufficient to service one woman.
quote by Giovanni Boccaccio
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Heaven would indeed be heaven if lovers were there permitted as much enjoyment as they had experienced on earth.
quote by Giovanni Boccaccio
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The Garden Of Boccaccio
[exerpt]
Of late, in one of those most weary hours,
When life seems emptied of all genial powers,
A dready mood, which he who ne'er has known
May bless his happy lot, I sate alone ;
And, from the numbing spell to win relief,
Call'd on the Past for thought of glee or grief.
In vain ! bereft alike of grief and glee,
I sate and cow'r'd o'er my own vacancy !
And as I watch'd the dull continuous ache,
Which, all else slumb'ring, seem'd alone to wake ;
O Friend ! long wont to notice yet conceal,
And soothe by silence what words cannot heal,
I but half saw that quiet hand of thine
Place on my desk this exquisite design.
Boccaccio's Garden and its faery,
The love, the joyaunce, and the gallantry !
An Idyll, with Boccaccio's spirit warm,
Framed in the silent poesy of form.
Like flocks adown a newly-bathéd steep
Emerging from a mist : or like a stream
Of music soft that not dispels the sleep,
But casts in happier moulds the slumberer's dream,
Gazed by an idle eye with silent might
The picture stole upon my inward sight.
A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er my chest,
As though an infant's finger touch'd my breast.
And one by one (I know not whence) were brought
All spirits of power that most had stirr'd my thought
In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost
Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost ;
Or charm'd my youth, that, kindled from above,
Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love ;
Or lent a lustre to the earnest scan
Of manhood, musing what and whence is man !
...
And many a verse which to myself I sang,
That woke the tear, yet stole away the pang,
Of hopes, which in lamenting I renew'd :
...
Thanks, gentle artist ! now I can descry
Thy fair creation with a mastering eye,
And all awake ! And now in fix'd gaze stand,
Now wander through the Eden of thy hand ;
...
I see no longer ! I myself am there,
Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet share.
'Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echoing strings,
And gaze upon the maid who gazing sings :
Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells
From the high tower, and think that there she dwells.
With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possest,
And breathe an air like life, that swells my chest.
...
Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks,
...
With that sly satyr peeping through the leaves !
poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Sonetto
BESIDE a fountain in a little grove
That fresh green fronds and pretty flowers did grace,
Three maidens sat and talked methinks of love.
Mid golden locks, o'ershadowing each sweet face,
For coolness was entwined a leaf-green spray,
And all the while a gentle zephyr played
Through green and golden in a tender way,
Weaving a web of sunshine and of shade.
After a while, unto the other two
One spoke, and I could hear her words: "Think you
That if our lovers were to happen by
We would all run away for very fright?"
The others answered her: "From such delight
She were a little fool who'd wish to fly!"
poem by Giovanni Boccaccio
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Emmy
Emmy's exquisite youth and her virginal air,
Eyes and teeth in the flash of a musical smile,
Come to me out of the past, and I see her there
As I saw her once for a while.
Emmy's laughter rings in my ears, as bright,
Fresh and sweet as the voice of a mountain brook,
And still I hear her telling us tales that night,
Out of Boccaccio's book.
There, in the midst of the villainous dancing-hall,
Leaning across the table, over the beer,
While the music maddened the whirling skirts of the ball,
As the midnight hour drew near,
There with the women, haggard, painted and old,
One fresh bud in a garland withered and stale,
She, with her innocent voice and her clear eyes, told
Tale after shameless tale.
And ever the witching smile, to her face beguiled,
Paused and broadened, and broke in a ripple of fun,
And the soul of a child looked out of the eyes of a child,
Or ever the tale was done.
O my child, who wronged you first, and began
First the dance of death that you dance so well?
Soul for soul: and I think the soul of a man
Shall answer for yours in hell.
poem by Arthur Symons
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Balleta
I AM young and fain to sing
In this happy tide of spring
Of love and many a gentle thing,
I wander through green meadows dight
With blossoms gold and red and white;
Rose by the thorn and lily fair,
Both one and all I do compare
With him who, worshipping my charms,
For aye would fold me in his arms
As one unto his service sworn.
Then, when I find a flower that seems
Like to the object of my dreams,
I gather it and kiss it there,
I flatter it in accents fair,
My heart outpour, my soul stoop down,
Then weave it in a fragrant crown
Among my flaxen locks to wear.
The rapture nature's floweret gay
Awakes in me doth last alway,
As if I tarried face to face
With him whose true love is my grace;
Thoughts which its fragrancy inspires
I cannot frame to my desires,
My sighs their pilgrimage do trace.
My sights are neither harsh nor sad
As other women's are, but glad
And tender; in so fond a wise
They seek my love that he replies
By coming hither, and so gives
Delight to her who in him lives
Yet almost wept: "Come, for hope dies."
poem by Giovanni Boccaccio
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Book Of Days
Your life is as a book
Written on the pages are the weeks
For you would give anything to take just one look
Into the next chapter, the next page
Each page is a new thought, a new dream
Sometimes it takes so long to pass that page
And sometimes nothing is as it seams
For you know you can not go ahead or back
You know you are where you are
You know you can't change that
As you read page to page, so near to fear
You write the chapters as you go, with each turn
Each turn, each move changes what's to come
And you know each moment could be the last
With this in mind you go so mumb
So numb to the touch, to the thought
You turn page after page
until you reach the 'end'
And only then, you are freed from the title
The title that has kept your thoughts bound, and tight
You turn the pages one by one
You take the pain, take the joy
Until you are done
And your story becomes another on the shelf of eternity
(1/24/2008)
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Mr Paddy's Capers.
Just when she thought
She'd found a place alone
To read her book, Mr Paddy
poked his nose between
Her and the open book, so
That pages are blanked out
By his huge head. Mr Paddy
Go off and annoy another,
She said, but he stood there
Determined to be where he
Was, between her and the
Brown covered book, held
Out in her small hands. Oh
Mr Paddy I cannot see the
Pages. Please go off and run
In the garden or in the kitchen
And steal a bone, she said. But
He wouldn't leave her alone,
He pushed his head against her
Young girl body, his damp nose
Dampening her wrist and her
White dress with blue sash, and
Dribble from his lips was wetting
The pages. Mr Paddy please let
Me be, I'm trying to read can't
You see? Mr Paddy's brown eyes
Scanned the pages, nothing there
But scribbled lines upon white paper,
And still he stood wet mouthed with
Big brown eyes and his silly old caper.
poem by Terry Collett
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All of us can think of a book... that we hope none of our children have taken off the shelf. But if I have the right to remove that book from the shelf -that work I abhor- then you also have exactly the same right and so does everyone else. And then we have no books left on the shelf for any of us.
quote by Katherine Paterson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Write Yours Now
The 'Journal of Death Studies' for April2004
(maybe you read it? It's in the
hospital library, top shelf
just out of wheelchair reach,
on the shelf labelled 'Reference')
observed that
nonfiction writers tend to die, factually, at sixty-eight;
novelists tie it all up at sixty-six;
playwrights lower the curtain at sixty-three,
and poets close their stanzas at sixty-two.
Well, thanks..
six years - looking on the bright side -
for your favourite biographer to write you up;
four years for novelists to borrow
your untidy life and win the Booker Prize;
a year for playwrights to emulate
the bitter dialogue of your later,
less romantic household years
with less fear of being sued.
Those whom the gods love, die young,
said the optimistic poet
shortly before he died.
for PoHo, who gave me the damn book with the reference in.
And yes, I wondered too..
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Ballad Of Go-go Brown
If thats why they call him go-go brown
Hed say (? )
If thats why some people put him down
Hed say it costs his name as go-go brown
All the girls in town
Used to follow him around
Go-go brown
Go-go brown
All the boys would sing
Were gonna make this go-go king
Go-go brown
Go-go brown
Go-go brown is the smartest guy by far
A brand new girlfriend and a brand new car
The girls all thought that he was heaven-sent
one day this boy will be a president
All the church bells ring
When that go-go used to sing
Go-go brown
Go-go brown
Here the people say
hes gonna be someone someday
Go-go brown
Go-go brown
Then one day some bad men came to call
And go-go knew its time to take a fall
Hes been smoking since the age of ten
He took some crack, he sold some smack
And now hes in the pen
All the girls in town
Used to follow him around
Go-go brown
Go-go brown
All the boys would sing
Were gonna make this go-go king
Go-go brown
Go-go brown
He raised them all
Yes he do
He faced the wall
Yes he did
He stood tall
Yes he do
Who did he let down
Just one man thats go-go brown (? )
All the church bells ring
When that go-go used to sing
Go-go brown
Go-go brown
Here the people say
hes gonna be someone someday
Go-go brown
Go-go brown
All the girls in town
Used to follow him around
Go-go brown
Go-go brown
All the boys would sing
Were gonna make that go-go king
Go-go brown
Go-go brown
All the girls in town
Used to follow him around
Go-go brown
Go-go brown
song performed by by Heaven 17
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Chornicles of a Dark Heart Part 16 The open book's monologue
Red what is it to you black the color of death? maybe maybe not? anyone here play video games? FOR CHAOS? ring any bells help spread the taint more quickly? what might an open book write
what would a open book draw
what would an open book think
open books are predictable
so predict what the picture means
why is black black? why is red O infused? what is the meaning only you know maybe only me...
(added years later)
Maybe I'm the book, and maybe you're the reader
but who is you? is it not everyone
since I'm open, for all to point at laugh at, out of malice or for fun
because they know my thoughts, they know i love her? !
what did i do?
i never said i love you! ! !
how can they know?
how did i reap what i did now sow? !
The worst part
about being an open book,
is an open book can't close itself, can't have a heart
anyone can know all from just one look
there seems to be something wrong with being too open and honest
but it's too late a book can't close itself
can't move by its own accord to a shelf
an open book can never rest
so now I'm the book, so since im there just read
just read.... and watch my heart, my purpose, my soul, my life, me
watch.... watch them bleed
poem by David Knox
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Open Book's Monologue (revisited the years later portion of part 16)
Maybe I'm the book, and maybe you're the reader
but who is you? is it not everyone
since I'm open, for all to point at laugh at, out of malice or for fun
because they know my thoughts, they know i love her? !
what did i do?
i never said i love you! ! !
how can they know?
how did i reap what i did now sow? !
The worst part
about being an open book,
is an open book can't close itself, can't have a heart
anyone can know all from just one look
there seems to be something wrong with being too open and honest
but it's too late a book can't close itself
can't move by its own accord to a shelf
an open book can never rest
so now I'm the book, so since im there just read
just read.... and watch my heart, my purpose, my soul, my life, me
watch.... watch them bleed
poem by David Knox
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A Few Old Memories
Just a few old memories
Slipped in through my door
Though I thought I had closed it
So tightly before
I cant understand it
Why it should bother my mind
For it all belongs to another place and time
Just a few old keep-sakes
Way back on the shelf
No, they dont mean nothin
Well Im surprised theyre still left
Just a few old love letters
With the edges all brown
And an old faded picture
I keep turned upside-down
Just a few old memories
Going way back in time
Well I can hardly remember
I dont know why Im cryin
I cant understand it
Well Im surprised myself
First thing tomorrow morning
Ill clean off that shelf
Just a few old keep-sakes
Way back on the shelf
No, they dont mean nothin
Well Im surprised that theyre left
Just a few old love letters
With their edges all brown
And an old faded picture
I keep turned upside-down
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Talking Book
I wish I had a talking book
That told me how to act and look
A talking book that contained keys
To past and present memories
A talking book that said your name
So if you were gone, youd still remain
More than a picture on a shelf
In imagination I could touch
A talking, talking book
I wish I had a talking book
Filled with buttons you could push
Containing looks and sights, your touch
Your feel, your breath, your sounds, your sighs
How much Id bluster to ask it why
One must live and one must die
I wish I had a talking book
By my side so I could look
And touch and feel and dream, a look
Much bigger than a talking book
A taste of loving future and past
Is that so much to really ask
In this one moments time and space
Can our love really be replaced
By a talking book
Can our love really be replaced
By a talking book
Can our love really be replaced
By a talking book
Can our love ever, forever be replaced
Can our love ever be replaced
Can our love ever be replaced
(can our love really be replaced)
By a talking book
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Can't Fight Love
MIDDLE 8
See I'm the one that loves you
She never deserved you
Sorry if it hurts now
But I've gotta have you
This might end our friendship
The chance I'm gonna take it
If you feel the same way I know we're gonna make it
VERSE 1
Would she take your coat
When you come in from out the rain?
Would she hold your hand again
If it eased away your pain?
Would she try her best
To give you room to grow?
Or would it all just be a show
Or could it all just be in vain?
CHORUS
You can't fight love
You can't fight love
Don't you turn and walk away
Cos I thought I heard you say
You lost it time and time again
You can't fight love
No you can't fight love
You can't buy it on a shelf
You should look for no-one else
Nobody but myself
VERSE 2
I've been standing by
In a silence I have cried
Longing to hold you in the night
But I never spoke a word
But all the love in me
Can't reveal the way I feel
But when I tell you what's inside
Don't you run away for miles
CHORUS
You can't fight love
You can't fight love
Don't you turn and walk away
Cos I thought I heard you say
You lost it time and time again
You can't fight love
No you can't fight love
You can't buy it on a shelf
You should look for no-one else
Nobody but myself
MIDDLE 8
See I'm the one that loves you
She never deserved you
Sorry if it hurts now
But I've gotta have you
This might end our friendship
The chance I'm gonna take it
If you feel the same way I know that we can make it
CHORUS
You can't fight love
You can't fight love
Don't you turn and walk away
Cos I thought I heard you say
You lost it time and time again
You can't fight love
No you can't fight love
You can't buy it on a shelf
You should look for no-one else
Nobody but myself
You can't fight love
song performed by by 411
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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