En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Sonnet III

And every year a world my will did deem,
Till lo! at last, to Court now am I come,
A seemly swain that might the place beseem,
A gladsome guest embraced by all and some.
Not there content with common dignity,
My wandering eye in haste (yea post post haste)
Beheld the blazing badge of bravery,
For want whereof I thought myself disgraced.
Then peevish pride puffed up my swelling heart,
To further forth so hot an enterprise;
And comely cost began to play his part
In praising patterns of mine own devise.
Thus all was good and might be got in haste,
To prink me up, and make me higher placed.

poem by George Gascoigne
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Sonnet I

IN haste, post haste, when first my wandering mind
Beheld the glistring Court with gazing eye,
Such deep delights I seemed therein to find,
As might beguile a graver guest than I.
The stately pomp of Princes and their peers
Did seem to swim in floods of beaten gold;
The wanton world of young delightful year
Was not unlike a heaven for to behold,
Wherein did swarm (for every saint) a Dame
So fair of hue, so fresh of their attire,
As might excel Dame Cynthia for Fame,
Or conquer Cupid with his own desire.
These and such like baits that blazed still
Before mine eye, to feed my greedy will.

poem by George Gascoigne
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Make Haste

Make haste, make haste, no time to waste,
the sandman’s on the move!
The minutes chased, missspent, misplaced,
swift scattered are, remove
from life the paste thats interlaced
with love to leave the groove
by others faced with fears encased
within themselves! Improve
your chances paced by those who’ve raced
where most may fear, disprove
the double-faced, minds [s]oft, effaced.
let no one disapprove
Strong spirits graced with soul true, chaste,
which ever must reprove
all evil based on base, poor taste, -
which ever seeks to prove
Good may be traced, Right be embraced
in confidence – for you’ve
the need to haste to truth, yes haste,
for Time is on the move!

poem by Jonathan Robin
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To Lucasta. The Rose.

I.
Sweet serene skye-like flower,
Haste to adorn her bower;
From thy long clowdy bed
Shoot forth thy damaske head.

II.
New-startled blush of FLORA!
The griefe of pale AURORA,
Who will contest no more,
Haste, haste, to strowe her floore.

III.
Vermilion ball, that's given
From lip to lip in Heaven;
Loves couches cover-led,
Haste, haste, to make her bed.

IV.
Dear offspring of pleas'd VENUS,
And jollie plumpe SILENUS;
Haste, haste, to decke the haire,
Of th' only sweetly faire.

V.
See! rosie is her bower,
Her floore is all this flower;
Her bed a rosie nest
By a bed of roses prest.

VI.
But early as she dresses,
Why fly you her bright tresses?
Ah! I have found, I feare;
Because her cheekes are neere.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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The Rose

I.

Sweet serene skye-like Flower,
Haste to adorn her Bower :
From thy long clowdy bed,
Shoot forth thy damaske head.

II.

New-startled blush of Flora !
The griefe of pale Aurora,
Who will contest no more ;
Haste, haste, to strowe her floore.

III.

Vermilion Ball that's given
From lip to lip in Heaven ;
Love's Couches cover-led :
Haste, haste, to make her bed.

IV.

Dear Offspring of pleas'd Venus,
And Jollie, plumpe Silenus ;
Haste, haste, to decke the Haire
Of th' only, sweetly Faire.

V.

See ! Rosie is her Bower,
Her floore is all this Flower ;
Her Bed a Rosie nest
By a Bed of Roses prest.

VI.

But early as she dresses,
Why fly you her bright Tresses ?
Ah ! I have found I feare ;
Because her Cheekes are neere.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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To Lucasta, the Rose

I.

Sweet serene skye-like flower,
Haste to adorn her bower;
From thy long clowdy bed
Shoot forth thy damaske head.

II.

New-startled blush of Flora!
The griefe of pale Aurora,
Who will contest no more,
Haste, haste, to strowe her floore.

III.

Vermilion ball, that's given
From lip to lip in Heaven;
Loves couches cover-led,
Haste, haste, to make her bed.

IV.

Dear offspring of pleas'd Venus,
And jollie plumpe Silenus;
Haste, haste, to decke the haire,
Of th' only sweetly faire.

V.

See! rosie is her bower,
Her floore is all this flower;
Her bed a rosie nest
By a bed of roses prest.

VI.

But early as she dresses,
Why fly you her bright tresses?
Ah! I have found, I feare;
Because her cheekes are neere.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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Old Man Say (Make Haste)

The beast rest there!

Go before the night draw near

Before ill-times wake

Cause then, It may all be late

So lad make haste

- *Guh dear lad!

Before next day

Harken to what *dis old man say

Make hay my lad

Unless be sad

Say I, make haste

Don't make good times waste

It's a wild wild world

- out *deh mi lad

And di wolves dem *nat suh kine

Go on now *mi lad

*Mek haste before its night

And me sure all will be right

*guh - go *mek - make *mi - my
*deh - there * kine - kind *di - the
*nat suh - not so *me - i'm *dis - this

Copyright © 2012

poem by Godfrey Morris
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Sonnet II

Before mine eye, to feed my greedy will,
'Gan muster eke mine old acquainted mates,
Who helped the dish (of vain delight) to fill
My empty mouth with dainty delicates;
And foolish boldness took the whip in hand
To lash my life into this trustless trace,
Till all in haste I leapt a loof from land
And hoist up sail to catch a Courtly grace.
Each lingering day did seem a world of woe,
Till in that hapless haven my head was brought;
Waves of wanhope so tossed me to and fro
In deep despair to drown my dreadful thought;
Each hour a day, each day a year, did seem
And every year a world my will did deem.

poem by George Gascoigne
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Sonnet VI

For why the gains doth seldom quit the charge:
And so say I by proof too dearly bought,
My haste made waste; my brave and brainsick barge
Did float too fast to catch a thing of naught.
With leisure, measure, mean, and many moe
I mought have kept a chair of quiet state.
But hasty heads cannot be settled so,
Till crooked Fortune gave a crabbed mate.
As busy brains must beat on tickle toys,
As rash invention breeds a raw devise,
So sudden falls do hinder hasty joys;
And as swift baits do fleetest fish entice,
So haste makes waste, and therefore now I say,
No haste but good, where wisdom makes the way.

poem by George Gascoigne
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Sonnet VII

No haste but good, where wisdom makes the way,
For proof whereof behold the simple snail
(Who sees the soldier's carcass cast away,
With hot assault the Castle to assail)
By line and leisure climbs the wall,
And wins the turret's top more cunningly
Than doughty Dick, who lost his life and all
With hoisting up his head so hastily.
The swiftest bitch brings forth the blindest whelps;
The hottest Fevers coldest cramps ensue;
The nakedest need hath ever latest helps.
With Nevil then I find this proverb true,
That Haste makes waste, and therefore still I say,
No haste but good, where wisdom makes the way.

poem by George Gascoigne
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When more is less

Could be better to write more
And perhaps to post less?
And after writing more, be sure
To only post one’s best?

Could it be
That the quality
Might improve
by leaps and bounds

Or would it be,
that quantity
Is more important
Than the sounds?

At any rate
It’s ne’er too late
To reread what it tis
That one’s written

Aye, ere one posts in haste…
Give to us the fine taste
Of only the best…
That you’ve written

poem by David Whalen
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What Child Is This?

What child is this, who laid to rest
on Mary's lap is sleeping?
whom angels greet with anthems sweet
while shepherds watch are keeping?
This, this is Christ the King
whom shepherds guard and angels sing
haste, haste to bring him laud
the babe, the son of Mary
Why lies He in such mean state
where ox and and ass are feeding?
good christian, fear for sinners here
the silent word is pleading
this, this is Christ the King
whom shepherds guard and angels sing
haste, haste to bring him laud
the babe, the son of Mary
Nails, spear, shall, pierce him through
the cross be bome, for me, for you
hail, hail, the world made flesh
the babe, the son of Mary
this, this is Christ the King
whom shepherds guard and angels sing
haste, haste to bring him laud
the babe, the son of Mary
So bring him incense, gold and myrrh
come peasant, King to own him
the King of Kings salvation brings
let loving hearts enthrone him
this, this is Christ the King
whom shepherds guard and angels sing
haste, haste to bring him laud
the babe, the son of Mary
Raise, raise, the song on high
the Virgin sings her llullaby
joy, joy for Christ is born
the babe, the son of Mary
this, this is Christ the King
whom shepherds guard and angels sing
haste, haste to bring him laud
the babe, the son of Mary

song performed by by Donna Summer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On the Road to Jericho

On the road to Jericho
Mark the stricken one,
Moaning in his agony,
Prone beneath the sun.
Prone beneath the blazing sun,
Naked and alone,
Bleeding from a score of wounds,
Stricken to the bone.
Now his tossing arms lie still;
Now his moans grow faint.
Is there none to succor him
Publican or saint?
Publican or Pharisee
Are none passing by
On the road to Jericho
Is he left to die?

On the road to Jericho
Hurry, hurry, priest!
'Twere a sin wert thou away
From the saintly feast.
Haste thee, Levite, tarry not.
At the Temple waits
Holy work for thee to do;
Haste thee to the gates.
God will guard the stricken one.
Leave it all to Him.
(Now the blood dries on his wouds.
Now his eyes grow dim.)
Yet - ah tell it! Save the shame -
Save the name of Man!
On the road to Jericho
One Samaritan!

On the road to Jericho -
'Voices call 'Make way!
See, the Bishop's carriage comes;
He's in haste to-day.
He's in haste to tend a Prince.
Let the good man through,
He is lordly; he is rich . . .
Not like me or you.
He'll 'consider' your appeal.
He's no time to waste!'
O, despised Samaritan,
Haste thee hither, haste!
Priest and Levite pass along,
Bishops go their ways,
On the road to Jericho
As in olden days.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Welcome And Farewell

QUICK throbb'd my heart: to norse! haste, haste,

And lo! 'twas done with speed of light;
The evening soon the world embraced,

And o'er the mountains hung the night.
Soon stood, in robe of mist, the oak,

A tow'ring giant in his size,
Where darkness through the thicket broke,

And glared with hundred gloomy eyes.

From out a hill of clouds the moon

With mournful gaze began to peer:
The winds their soft wings flutter'd soon,

And murmur'd in mine awe-struck ear;
The night a thousand monsters made,

Yet fresh and joyous was my mind;
What fire within my veins then play'd!

What glow was in my bosom shrin'd!

I saw thee, and with tender pride

Felt thy sweet gaze pour joy on me;
While all my heart was at thy side.

And every breath I breath'd for thee.
The roseate hues that spring supplies

Were playing round thy features fair,
And love for me--ye Deities!

I hoped it, I deserved it ne'er!

But, when the morning sun return'd,

Departure filled with grief my heart:
Within thy kiss, what rapture burn'd!

But in thy look, what bitter smart!
I went--thy gaze to earth first roved

Thou follow'dst me with tearful eye:
And yet, what rapture to be loved!

And, Gods, to love--what ecstasy!

poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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What Child Is This

What child is this who laid to rest
On Mary's lap is sleeping
Whom angels greet with anthem sweet
While shepherds watch are keeping
This is Christ the Lord
Whom shepherds guard and angels sing
Haste, haste to bring him laud
The babe, the son of Mary
Why lies he in such mean estate
Where ox and ass are feeding
Good Christian fear, for sinners here
The silent Word is pleading
This is Christ the Lord
Whom shepards guard and angels sing
Haste,haste to bring him laud
The babe, the son of Mary
So bring Him incense, gold, and myrh
Come peasant king to own Him
The King of Kings, salvation brings
Let loving hearts enthrone Him
This is Christ the Lord
Whom shepherds guard and angels sing
Haste, haste to bring him laud
The babe, the son of Mary

song performed by by Jessica Simpson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Forest Scene

As I went down a forest place
At the closing of the year
To find me peace, and gather grace
In this green gladness here.
I saw a scene I knew of old,
In many a year gone by
A loveliness to have and hold
Here, with the gully waters cold,
And the bland, blue peeping sky.

And I saw the blue wrens trooping near,
And I heard the thrushes call,
And found surcease from worldly fear
For a peace was over all.
And my mind went back to long ago,
For here was a scene I knew
Where the gums and ancient tree ferns grow,
And the ever-lasting waters flow,
And life yields little new.

And I thought of the world - of the world of men,
Who ever seek them change,
And haste, and hectic, haste again
To a goal beyond their range.
And I heard the thrush and the blue wren there
Fluting their songs of glee
For them this world was passing fair,
And they found content and gladness there.
Why came not peace to me?

Then I saw life, as men see life
I who am but a man;
And I dreamed of a scene devoid of strife,
Built on the good God's plan.
And I came me back from that forest place,
With a dream to have and hold,
Of men with naught but life to face,
Of men grown young in simple grace,
And the birds and the bush grown old!

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Foreign Land

A woman is a foreign land,
Of which, though there he settle young,
A man will ne'er quite understand
The customs, politics, and tongue.
The foolish hie them post-haste through,
See fashions odd, and prospects fair,
Learn of the language, "How d'ye do,"
And go and brag they have been there.
The most for leave to trade apply,
For once, at Empire's seat, her heart,
Then get what knowledge ear and eye
Glean chancewise in the life-long mart.
And certain others, few and fit,
Attach them to the Court, and see
The Country's best, its accent hit,
And partly sound its polity.

poem by Coventry Patmore
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Do Not Post Your Poem Here

Do not post your poem here
Unless you've something worth a say!
You must not waste a space like this,
For space can waste away!

Do not post your poem here
With words which make no sense!
Be careful when you post it here
That you use the proper tense!

Do not post your poem here
Just to fill a space with words!
A poem should be well thought out,
Was it meant to be absurd?

Do not post your poem here
If in cliches you would write.
A poem should be fresh, yes sharp -
You'll know when it's just right!

Do not post your poem here
Just to see yourself in print.
You're wasting others time you know
With such, self centred stints!

I wil not post my poem here,
This one does not exist,
But did I tell you at the start
That I'm a nihilist?

poem by Joe Hughes
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Songs Set To Music: 27.

Haste, my Nannette,
My lovely maid,
Haste to the bower
Thy swain has made.
For thee alone
I made the bower,
And strew'd the couch
With many a flower.
None but my sheep
Shall near us come;
Venus be praised
My sheep are dumb.
Great god of love
Take thou my crook,
To keep the wolf
From Nannette's flock.
Guard thou the sheep
To her so dear;
My own, alas!
Are less my care.
But of the wolf
If thou'rt afraid,
Come not to us
To call for aid;
For with her swain
My love shall stay,
Though the wolf stroll
And the sheep stray.

poem by Matthew Prior
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Come Sirrah Jack Ho

Come sirrah Jack ho,
Fill some tobacco,
Bring a wire and some fire,
Haste haste away,
quick I say,
do not stay,
shun delay,
for I drank none good today.

I swear that this tobacco
Is perfect Trinidad-o;
By the very very Mass,
never never was
better gear
than is here,
by the rood,
for the blood,
it is very very good,
'tis very good.

poem by Thomas Weelkes
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What Child Is This

What child is this
that lay to rest
on Mary's lap is sleeping
Whom Angels greet with anthem sweet
and shepard's watch are keeping
This , this is Christ the King
Whom shepards guard
and Angels sing
Haste, haste to bring him love
The babe, the son of Mary
So bring him incence, gold and merth
Come peasants king to honor him
The King of Kings salvation brings
and loving arms enthrone him
This, this is Christ the King
Whom shepards guard
And Angels sing
Haste, haste to bring him love
The babe, the son of Mary
This, this is Christ the King
Whom shepards guard
and Angels sing
Haste, haste to bring him love
The babe, the son of Mary

song performed by by Vince Gill
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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