Ad Comitissam Rutlandiæ
Madam, so may my verses pleasing be,
So may you laugh at them and not at me,
'Tis something to you gladly I would say;
But how to do't I cannot find the way.
I would avoid the common beaten ways
To women used, which are love or praise:
As for the first, the little wit I have
Is not yet grown so near unto the grave,
But that I can, by that dim fading light,
Perceive of what, or unto whom I write.
Let such as in a hopeless, witless rage,
Can sigh a quire, and read it to a page;
Such is do backs of books and windows fill,
With their too furious diamond or quill;
Such as were well resolved to end their days
With a loud laughter blown beyond the seas;
Who are so mortified that they can live
Contemned of all the world, and yet forgive,
Write love to you: I would not willingly
Be pointed at in every company;
As was that little tailor, who till death
Was hot in love with Queen Elizabeth:
And, for the last, in all my idle days
I never yet did living woman praise
In prose or verse: and when I do begin
I'll pick some woman out as full of sin
As you are full of virtue; with a soul
As black as you are white; a face as foul
As you are beautiful: for it shall be
Out of the rules of physiognomy
So far, that I do fear I must displace
The art a little, to let in her face.
It shall att least four faces be below
The devil's; and her parched corpse shall show
In her loose skill as if some sprite she were
Kept in a bag by some great conjurer.
Her breath shall be as horrible and wild
As every word you speak is sweet and mild;
It shall be such a one as will not be
Covered with any art or policy:
But let her take all powders, fumes, and drink,
She shall make nothing but a dearer stink;
She shall have such a foot and such a nose,
She shall not stand in anything but prose;
If I bestow my praises upon such,
'Tis charity, and I shall merit much.
My praise will come to her like a full bowl,
Bestowed at most need on a thirsty soul;
Where, if I sing your praises in my rhyme,
I lose my ink, my paper, and my time;
And nothing add to your o'erflowing store,
And tell you nought, but what you knew before.
Nor do the virtuous-minded (which I swear,
Madam, I think you are) endure to hear
Their own perfections into questions brought,
But stop their ears at them; for if I thought
You took a pride to have your virtues known,
Pardon me, madam, I should think them none.
To what a length is this strange letter grown,
In seeking of a subject, yet finds none!
But your brave thoughts, which I so much respect
Above your glorious titles, shall accept
These harsh disordered lines. I shall ere long
Dress up your virtues new, in a new song;
Yet far from all base praise and flattery,
Although I know whate'er my verses be,
They will like the most servile flattery shew,
If I write truth, and make the subject you.
poem by Francis Beaumont
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Sonnet: Poetry versus Prose
Some write their poetry almost like prose;
The two are not diff’rent in any way?
How can a thorn ever become a rose?
The grain is grain; the hay remains but hay!
But some write prose with emotions afilled;
Or add some verses in-between the lines;
One can’t become the other, howev’r skilled;
How can the noon be dawn although sun shines?
The functions poems do, prose can never,
Where right words placed, give music and rhythm;
But of the two, the poet’s cleverer;
His work is shorter, neater, and more trim.
All praise the bard; his glory’s forever!
For prose can’t stand the test of time ever!
6-25-2002 by Dr John Celes
poem by John Celes
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Psalm CL.
Praise ye the Lord, your Songs address
To praise His Holynes:
O praise Him in His pow'rs extent,
Who rules the firmament.
Praise Him for all His acts of might,
Our wonder which invite:
In praises due His greatness tell,
Which all things doth excell.
Praise Him with Trumpets lofty sound,
With Cornets shake the ground:
His praise the Psaltery inspire,
With the melodious Lyre.
Praise him with Timbrells, and advance
His honour in the Dance.
Praise Him with Organs, Violls, Flutes,
And the well-stringed Lutes.
With Cymbals loud Him magnify,
Praise Him on Cymbals high:
Let every creature, that hath breath,
His Maker praise till death.
poem by Henry King
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An Apology Written For My Son To The Reverend Mr. Sampson,
With Joy your Summons we obey,
And come to celebrate this Day.
Yet I, alas! despair to please;
For you require exalted Lays:
And, let me write whate'er I will,
You'll think my Verse deficient still;
Altho' the Task I now decline,
Asks no Assistance from the Nine;
For Nature, better far than Art,
Can paint the honest, grateful Heart.
Heav'n knows how much I rack'd my Head,
(For beaten Paths I scorn to tread)
To tell the Vice--Roy something new,
Who graciously distinguish'd you;
Who had your Merit in his Eye,
When Prelates often pass'd it by.
What Blessings must the People share,
Where Virtue is the Ruler's Care!
Some Lines I wrote; which seem'd so fine,
My Mother cry'd, ``They can't be thine:
(Alas! there needs but little Care
In Sons, to please a Mother's Ear)
``Maro might own such Lines as these,
``Nor with more Elegance could praise:
``This is the true poetic Fire:
``But such a Subject must inspire:
``What beauteous Images are here!
``Constantia help'd you now, I fear:
``It must be so; you are not able--
Then I by Chance upon the Table
The Birth of manly Virtue spy'd;
So threw my useless Pen aside.
And set my Verses in a Flame,
Nor dar'd to touch the hallow'd Theme:
For there the God his Pow'r displays,
And leaves no Room for mortal Praise.
poem by Mary Barber
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Christmas Hymn
O CHRIST, born on the holy day,
I have no gift to give my King;
No flowers grow by my weary way;
I have no birthday song to sing.
How can I sing Thy name and praise,
Who never saw Thy face divine;
Who walk in darkness all my days,
And see no Eastern stars a-shine?
Yet, when their Christmas gifts they bring,
How can I leave Thy praise unsung?
How stay from homage to the King,
And hold a silent, grudging tongue?
Lord, I found many a song to sing,
And many a humble hymn of praise
For Thy great Miracle of Spring,
The wonder of the waxing days.
When I beheld Thy days and years,
Did I not sing Thy pleasant earth?
The moons of love, the years of tears,
The mysteries of death and birth?
Have I not sung with all my soul
While soul and song were mine to yield,
Thy lightning crown, Thy cloud-control,
The dewy clover of Thy field?
Have I not loved Thy birds and beasts,
Thy streams and woods, Thy sun and shade;
Have I not made me holy feasts
Of all the beauty Thou hast made?
What though my tear-tired eyes, alas!
Won never grace Thy face to see?
I heard Thy footstep on the grass,
Thy voice in every wind-blown tree.
No music now I make or win,
Yet, Lord, remember I have been
The lover of Thy world, wherein
I found nought common or unclean.
Grown old and blind, I sing no more,
Thy saints in heaven sing sweet and strong,
Yet take the songs I made of yore
For echoes to Thy birthday song.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Sing Your Praise To The Lord
Sing your praise to the lord,
Come on everybody,
Stand up and sing...one more
Hallelujah,
Give your praise to the lord,
I can never tell you,
Just how much good...that its
Gonna do ya
Just to sing...anew...
The song your heart first learned to sing when he
First gave his life...to you...
The life goes on and so must the song,
You gotta sing...again...
The song born in your soul when you
First gave your heart...to him...
Sing his praises, once more
Sing your praise to the lord,
Come on everybody,
Stand up and sing...one more
Hallelujah,
Give your praise to the lord,
I can never tell you,
Just how much good...that its
Gonna do ya
Just to sing...aloud...
The song that someone is dying to hear
Down in the maddning crowd...
As you once were before your heard the song,
You gotta let them know...
The truth is a life to shine upon the way,
So maybe they...can go...
Sing his praises, once more
Sing your praise to the lord,
Come on everybody,
Stand up and sing...one more
Hallelujah,
Give your praise to the lord,
I can never tell you,
Just how much good...that its
Gonna do ya
Just to let the name of the lord...
Be praise, both for now, and evermore,
Praise him all ye servants,
Give him praise to the lord,
Come on everybody,
Stand up and sing...one more
Hallelujah,
Give your praise to the lord,
I can never tell you,
Just how much good...that its
Gonna do ya
Just to sing, sing sing...
Come on, sing, sing, sing...
I can hear you now, sing, sing, sing...
song performed by by Amy Grant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Poet To Be
A poet I claim not to be,
For words are never there.
In all the years I've tried to write,
I have no words to share.
I sit and think but nothing comes,
No inspiration here.
I want to write of anything,
But still no words I fear.
I read the works of other poets,
I wish I were like them.
How do they write such beautiful lines,
A poet, I'm not him.
I try to write from the heart,
From deep within my soul.
I try to write of the love I have,
But cannot reach my goal.
But why I ask, why can't I write,
Of love so pure and true.
Why can't I write about her eyes,
A mix of green and blue.
I want to write about her smile,
It brightens up my day.
I try to think of anything,
But words I cannot say.
I wish I knew how to write,
A poem with such bliss.
I wish I knew how to describe,
Her soft but tender kiss.
I cannot even begin to write,
How she holds me tight.
How her arms around me,
Makes everything just right.
A poet does not have to think,
The words flow right out.
When I sit and try to write,
I want to scream and shout.
I mean come on, how hard can it be,
To write about her hair.
Such long beautiful natural blonde,
That flows in the air.
I try to write about her laugh,
The words will not fly.
Time passes and finally,
I say it's soft and high.
It's been an hour and a half,
I'm here on verse twelve.
I had to go to Rhymezone,
To find out the rhyme is shelve.
A poet does not do that,
Go online to find a rhyme.
A poet has it in his head,
And can write at any time.
But a poet I am not,
For I cannot write of love.
How the girl I am with,
Is an angel from up above.
How I love her with all my heart,
And want to spend my life with her.
How her love for me is more,
Than I can ever be for sure.
As I draw near the end,
My mind is not so numb.
I realize I've just written of love,
A poet I have become.
poem by Adam McKim
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Psalm 150
Praise God in his heavenly dwelling;
praise him in his mighty heaven!
Praise him for his mighty works;
praise his unequaled greatness!
Praise him with a blast of the trumpet;
praise him with the lyre and harp!
Praise him with the tambourine and dancing;
praise him with stringed instruments and flutes!
Praise him with a clash of cymbals;
praise him with loud clanging cymbals.
Let everything that lives sing praises to the Lord!
Praise the Lord!!
song performed by by P.O.D.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Modern Love XXXVI: My Lady unto Madam
My Lady unto Madam makes her bow.
The charm of women is, that even while
You're probed by them for tears, you yet may smile,
Nay, laugh outright, as I have done just now.
The interview was gracious: they anoint
(To me aside) each other with fine praise:
Discriminating compliments they raise,
That hit with wondrous aim on the weak point:
My Lady's nose of Nature might complain.
It is not fashioned aptly to express
Her character of large-browed steadfastness.
But Madam says: Thereof she may be vain!
Now, Madam's faulty feature is a glazed
And inaccessible eye, that has soft fires,
Wide gates, at love-time only. This admires
My Lady. At the two I stand amazed.
poem by George Meredith
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Praise Women
Praise them! Praise Women!
I read his words, then I cried, O these lies
How can a woman’s love lie only between her thighs?
Foremost I admired him, his work was set on another stage
Later I concluded his words of women were words of rage
Praise them! Praise Women!
For on the faces of all women you can trace
The elements of sacrificial suffering in their gaze
To hear him say women are libidinous
Is not hilarious, rather I deem it as outrageous
The women we all know have it tough
Every aspect of their life is embroiled with rough
Life cycle periodic pains and yet enough is not enough
Their agonising vaginal birth anguish isn’t a bluff
Praise them! Praise Women!
Why curse the women that raise thee
Wait for you blindly in love while you are at sea
Aid you in your visions of where you want to be!
They bring us joy, love and peace
Something I request no one to dismiss
If only he could see their potential essence
He may have appreciated their very presence
On earth, women’s love is the voltage of balance
The very reasoning of all kinds of romance
They give rise to our population
By endless copulation and multiplication
Which in turn gives rise to all the nations
Praise them! Praise Women!
We need them in our mist!
For without them we cannot exist
Praise them! Praise Women!
Praise onto the women that raise thee!
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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A Message Here For All You Poets
The love poet writes of lovely things like true love and flowers in bloom
And the roses in the poet's garden scent of a sweet perfume
And the gentle hearted applaud him saying what a marvellous poet
He surely is a child of God and one worthy of note.
The love poet writes of love of God and the God fearing say
He's a fine poet one of the best love and respect to God he pay
He hear no evil speak no evil only write of God and love
And there's a place reserved for him in God's Kingdom up above.
The social issues poet writes of the poor and few his verses read
They say he writes such morbid stuff sob stories we do not need
He keeps highlighting the downtrodden and those in poverty
He ought to put more trust in God and in Humanity.
A message here for all you poets don't write of the downtrod
But write of affairs of your heart and write of your love of God
And some will say how great you are and your praises they will sing
And they will pay respect to you and call you their Poetic Queen or King.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Psalm 150
Praise the Lord of the morning
When the sun rises from its sleep
Praise the Lord for His excellent greatness
For His beauty makes me weep
Praise the Lord when the darkness falls
And the moon rises high above
Praise the Lord for His majestic glory
And His everlasting love
Praise the Lord in the winter
When the snow falls on the ground
Praise the Lord for His glorious presence
When we stand upon holy ground
Praise the Lord of the summer
When the days are warm and long
Praise the Lord for His magnificent splendor
And the saints shall sing a new song
Praise the Lord of the springtime
When the blossoms on the tree
Praise the Lord for His holiness
And for the Blood that set us free
Praise the Lord of the Autumn
When the leaves fall to the ground
Praise the Lord for His faithfulness
And that His grace abounds
Praise the Lord when your happy
And there's a smile upon your face
Praise the Lord for His mercy
And for His saving grace
Praise the Lord when you're in despair
And your pierced by a fiery dart
Praise the Lord for HIs loving kindness
That restores your broken heart
Praise the Lord with your last breath
As you lie upon your bed
Praise the Lord for His promises
To raise you from the dead
Praise the Lord for all eternity
As you gather around His throne
Praise the Lord for His incredible beauty
As you worship Him alone
Let trumpet, harp and timbrel praise
And dance before the King
Let all with breath praise the Lord
And with their voices sing
Hallelujah to the King of Kings
We worship and bow down
We sing to you forever more
And we will crown Him with many crowns
poem by Frank McEleny
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Sonnet 103: Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth
Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument all bare is of more worth
Than when it hath my added praise beside.
O, blame me not if I no more can write!
Look in your glass, and there appears a face
That overgoes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace.
Were it not sinful then striving to mend,
To mar the subject that before was well?
For to no other pass my verses tend
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell;
And more, much more than in my verse can sit,
Your own glass shows you when you look in it.
poem by William Shakespeare
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Praise, My Soul, the King of Heaven
Praise, my soul, the King of Heaven;
To His feet Thy tribute bring!
Ransomed, healed, restored, forgiven,
Who like me His praise should sing?
Praise Him! praise Him!
Praise the everlasting King!
Praise Him for His grace and favour,
To our fathers in distress!
Praise Him still the same for ever,
Slow to chide, and swift to bless!
Praise Him! praise Him!
Glorious in His faithfulness!
Father-like, He tends and spares us;
Well our feeble frame He knows.
In His hands He gently bears us,
Rescues us from all our foes,
Praise Him! praise Him!
Widely as His mercy flows!
Frail as summer's flower we flourish:
Blows the wind, and it is gone.
But while mortals rise and perish,
God endures unchanging on.
Praise Him, Praise Him,
Praise the high eternal One!
Angels, help us to adore Him;
Ye behold Him face to face:
Sun and moon, bow down before Him;
Dwellers all in time and space,
Praise Him! praise Him!
Praise with us the God of grace!
poem by Henry Francis Lyte
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Blessed To Be His Pen
I am blessed to be a pen, which God uses to speak to men,
As God’s Truth flows from in; Truths I’ve received from Him,
Truth from within His Word, which many still have not heard,
So God put within me care, and with a pen this Truth I share.
I do not have a big degree, and yet, The Lord God uses me,
Guiding my pen as I write, Truths about His Grace and Light,
Truths I did not always know, but His Spirit helped me grow,
And now His Truth in my heart, to you with pen I now impart.
His Truth for me, is not new, but still a joy to share with you,
It’s the Truth that set me free, that helps me point to eternity.
The blessings begin to flow, when Christ you come to know,
Who helps men share His Word, until all on earth have heard.
To share His Truth, until then, The Lord helps me use my pen,
Guiding me, as I sow seed, through the verses that you read.
Many blessings God gives me, which the readers cannot see,
As His blessings fill my days, I lift up to Him all of the praise.
Just a line or two, will begin, from His Truth that dwells within,
Coupled with a thought of mine, when God pens another line,
Stirring thoughts day and night, it is Him, who helps me write.
It doesn’t matter how or when; I’m just blessed to be His pen.
(Copyright ©02/2008)
That Name
There is a name that is so precious,
A name so wonderful to me.
This name is worthy of all praises.
Because of him, I am made free.
That name is jesus, oh how I love him.
The one who gave, his life for me.
Because of love, so unconditional,
I will have life, eternally.
This name speaks peace, unto my storm clouds,
This name speaks calm, unto me fears.
And when I feel, that no one loves me.
His loving presence is so near.
That name is jesus, oh how I love him.
The one who gave, his life for me.
Because of love, so unconditional,
I will have life, eternally.
Praise that name!
Praise that name!
Praise that name!
Praise that name!
Someday Ill leave, this earthly dwelling,
To find a place, my soul will soar.
And finally see, the face of jesus.
And praise his name, forevermore!
That name is jesus, oh how I love him!
The one who gave, his life for me!
Because of love, so unconditional,
I will have life, eternally.
Excellent is that name!
Glorious is that name!
Wonderful is that name!
Oh praise that name!
song performed by by Yolanda Adams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That Name
There is a name that is so precious,
A name so wonderful to me.
This name is worthy of all praises.
Because of him, I am made free.
That name is jesus, oh how I love him.
The one who gave, his life for me.
Because of love, so unconditional,
I will have life, eternally.
This name speaks peace, unto my storm clouds,
This name speaks calm, unto me fears.
And when I feel, that no one loves me.
His loving presence is so near.
That name is jesus, oh how I love him.
The one who gave, his life for me.
Because of love, so unconditional,
I will have life, eternally.
Praise that name!
Praise that name!
Praise that name!
Praise that name!
Someday Ill leave, this earthly dwelling,
To find a place, my soul will soar.
And finally see, the face of jesus.
And praise his name, forevermore!
That name is jesus, oh how I love him!
The one who gave, his life for me!
Because of love, so unconditional,
I will have life, eternally.
Excellent is that name!
Glorious is that name!
Wonderful is that name!
Oh praise that name!
song performed by by Yolanda Adams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For an unnamed teacher
You know that shot, in films and musicals
glamorising La Révolution Francaise:
a hundred metres away, just fitting into
the camera’s breadth of range,
a crowd which signifies rights withheld
advances on you (safe in bourgeois seat…) ,
led by a token handsome, flushed, tall
kerchiefed man or woman, centre-stage?
Today, that’s me – in upraised hand,
a Bill of Poets’ Rights… You said,
I’m told, that ‘if you were a poet,
you would just write praise…’
Do I detect a note
of implied criticism there? …
Did you not know, that every word that poets write
is praise? First, praise of the language that we use –
its glorious flexibility; praise of the chance to use it
at its height and breadth and depth,
freshly - as if it had never put before
this word with that, and made of it new thought
to lodge within your mind, and warm your heart,
to call from soul to soul, of what souls share…
Advancing on the camera, we shout,
if you don’t know this - that all that, is praise…
then you’re not ready for reading poetry, just yet…
‘For this we stand; for this we live; for this we’ll die’…
The photo-opportunity has come and gone;
the cameramen push back, drive to their editors;
the crowd disperses, glowing with its righteousness;
and leaves the world to darkness, and TV…
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Stella’s Birth-Day. 1724-5
As when a beauteous nymph decays,
We say she's past her dancing days;
So poets lose their feet by time,
And can no longer dance in rhyme.
Your annual bard had rather chose
To celebrate your birth in prose:
Yet merry folks, who want by chance
A pair to make a country dance,
Call the old housekeeper, and get her
To fill a place for want of better:
While Sheridan is off the hooks,
And friend Delany at his books,
That Stella may avoid disgrace,
Once more the Dean supplies their place.
Beauty and wit, too sad a truth!
Have always been confined to youth;
The god of wit and beauty's queen,
He twenty-one and she fifteen,
No poet ever sweetly sung,
Unless he were, like Phoebus, young;
Nor ever nymph inspired to rhyme,
Unless, like Venus, in her prime.
At fifty-six, if this be true,
Am I a poet fit for you?
Or, at the age of forty-three,
Are you a subject fit for me?
Adieu! bright wit, and radiant eyes!
You must be grave and I be wise.
Our fate in vain we would oppose:
But I'll be still your friend in prose:
Esteem and friendship to express,
Will not require poetic dress;
And if the Muse deny her aid
To have them sung, they may be said.
But, Stella, say, what evil tongue
Reports you are no longer young;
That Time sits with his scythe to mow
Where erst sat Cupid with his bow;
That half your locks are turn'd to gray?
I'll ne'er believe a word they say.
'Tis true, but let it not be known,
My eyes are somewhat dimmish grown;
For nature, always in the right,
To your decays adapts my sight;
And wrinkles undistinguished pass,
For I'm ashamed to use a glass:
And till I see them with these eyes,
Whoever says you have them, lies.
No length of time can make you quit
Honour and virtue, sense and wit;
Thus you may still be young to me,
While I can better hear than see.
O ne'er may Fortune show her spite,
To make me deaf, and mend my sight!
poem by Jonathan Swift
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Godly Happiness
Why do I do the things I should not,
Why do things go faster when I say stop,
Why do I feel as if I am a mop,
The anger I feel is quite a lot.
How can someone so great,
Love someone in such a state?
Your beautiful, your amazing,
Singing your praise, makes my heart beat like crazy.
The thing about my past,
Is that love never lasts,
But your love never fails,
Your love comes through the nails,
That went through Jesus' hands,
To save the worlds clans,
This was always part of God's plans.
After the time that I spent,
Learning your word and about the son you sent,
I realized the pain,
That would make a man insane,
you went through it all,
Just to save the people who stand tall.
I now know what really is worth dying for,
Because your love is so great i fall to the floor,
This is where I praise,
The one who was raised,
From death to life,
After 3 days of strife.
Before I was dirty,
But you washed me clean,
You gave my life meaning
You covered me in a beam,
You showed me things other than death,
You covered me in love, my life you did bless,
And now I follow anything you say,
Because you make my life happier, day by day.
and now when I read the things that you did,
They are no longer boring they jump out of the page, like suddenly... I opened the lid.
And out came your love, your beauty and your grace,
Out came my life and I gave it to you,
And now your love shines down on my face,
I smile and realize that were so close, we are stuck like glue :)
poem by Jordan Moore
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Coleur de Rose
I want more lives in which to love
This world so full of beauty,
I want more days to use the ways
I know of doing duty;
I ask no greater joy than this
(So much I am life's lover,)
When I reach age to turn the page
And read the story over,
(Oh love stay near!)
Oh rapturous promise of the Spring!
Oh June fulfilling after!
If Autumns sigh, when Summers die,
'Tis drowned in Winter's laughter.
Oh maiden dawns, oh wifely noons,
Oh siren sweet, sweet nights,
I'd want no heaven could earth be given
Again with its delights,
(If love stayed near!)
There are such glories for the eye,
Such pleasures for the ear,
The senses reel with all they feel
And see and taste and hear;
There are such ways of doing good,
Such ways of being kind,
And bread that's cast on waters fast
Comes home again, I find.
(Oh love stay near.)
There are such royal souls to know,
There is so much to learn,
While secrets rest in Nature's breast
And unnamed stars still burn.
God toiled six days to make this earth,
I think the good folks say---
Six lives we need to give full meed
Of praise---one for each day,
(If love stay near.)
But oh! if love fled far away,
Or veiled his face from me,
One life too much, why then were such
A life as this would be.
With sullen May and blighted June
Blurred dawn and haggard night,
This dear old world in space were hurled
If love lent not his light.
(Oh love stay near.)
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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