To Miss Annie Hopkins
BENEATH the shelter of the bush,
In undisturbed repose—
Unruffled by the kiss of breeze—
There lurks a smiling rose;
Beneath thine outer beauty, gleams,
In holy light enshrined,
A symbol of the blooming flower,
A pure, unspotted mind.
The lovely tint that crowns the hill
When westward sinks the sun,
The milder dazzle in the stream
That evening sits upon,
The morning blushes, mantling o’er
The face of land and sea,
They all recall to mind the charms
That are combined in thee!
poem by Henry Kendall
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Prose to a Rose
Such A flower is the rose
Its colour bursting red
Such a flower if the rose
The flower of passion the poets often said
I could gaze upon its beauty
And not lift thine eyes
And when it closes its petals to go to sleep
A tear of sadness rises in my eyes
Such a flower is the rose
For it reminds me of you my dear
When ever I gaze upon a rose
It makes me wish you were here
Its petals are soft as thy skin
The colour like your lips
Its fragrance is sweet and pure
Like the flavor of your kiss
Such a flower is the rose it beauty
Has been endless through out time
And when ever I see a rose be reassured my love
You are for ever on my mind
poem by John A. Hancock
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Introductory Verses
OH! blest art thou, whose steps may rove
Through the green paths of vale and grove,
Or, leaving all their charms below,
Climb the wild mountain's airy brow;
And gaze afar o'er cultured plains,
And cities with their stately fanes,
And forests, that beneath thee lie,
And ocean mingling with the sky.
For man can show thee nought so fair,
As Nature's varied marvels there;
And if thy pure and artless breast
Can feel their grandeur, thou art blest!
For thee the stream in beauty flows,
For thee the gale of summer blows,
And, in deep glen and wood-walk free,
Voices of joy still breathe for thee.
But happier far, if then thy soul
Can soar to Him who made the whole,
If to thine eye the simplest flower
Portray His bounty and His power.
If, in whate'er is bright or grand,
Thy mind can trace His viewless hand,
If Nature's music bid thee raise
Thy song of gratitude and praise;
If heaven and earth, with beauty fraught,
Lead to His throne thy raptured thought,
If there thou lov'st His love to read,
Then, wanderer, thou art blest indeed.
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Emilys Song
Lovely to know the warmth
Youre smile can bring to me
I want to tell you but the words you do not know
Sing me a lullaby
Of songs you cannot write
And I will listen for theres beauty where theres love
And in the morning of my life
And in the evening of my day
I will try to understand in what you say...
Rivers of endless
Tides have passed beneath my feet
And all too soon they had me standing on my own
Then when my eyes were closed
You opened them for me
And now we journey thro our lives to what will be
And in the morning of my life
And in the evening of my day
I will try to understand in what you say
Through all that life can give to you
Only true love will see you through
And will stand beside you now in what you say
And in the morning of my life
And in the evening of my day
I will try to understand in what you say
Take me into your world
Alone I can not go
For Ive been here so long
Youre leaving me behind
Walk with me now
Into your land of fairy tales
And open up that book of pages in my mind
And open up that book of ages in my mind
...
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Goldmohur Smiles
Beneath the “Goldmohur” tree
black crows freely fly,
The blue sky with
shining black clouds
looks alluring and beautiful.
The weary peasants from the field
return home being mirthful.
Chilly breeze blows form south,
Creatures pleased, lovely looks the Earth.
With the breeze the golden flowers and green
leaves tutter;
Beneath the green tree tiny
birth twitter.
Setting sun ray falls on the lovely flower;
Lover’s mind enthuses with
delight, enthusiasm and pleasure;
Mysterious, glamorous, attracting
looks the creation.
Human mind becomes peaceful
and free from tention.
poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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The Butterfly (The Mirror Sestet Poetry)
Delight adorns butterfly’s fluttering wings in flight,
Flight is his beauty for anemones to delight.
Wing flitters freely and his fragile moods can swing,
Swing dances he teaches the white flowers with his wing.
Breeze finds him out among the blooming buckeye red trees,
Trees push his innocent virgin spirit in the breeze.
Dance nurtures the flower to put her into deep trance,
Trance is his way to gather pollen for her life dance.
Dreams fiery rise in crimson, when the flower gleams,
Gleams of dawn in the east are his love powerful dreams.
Charms are her powers to spread fragrances in his arms
Arms are his wings when he flies to search for other charms.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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Verses by Lady Geralda
Why, when I hear the stormy breath
Of the wild winter wind
Rushing o'er the mountain heath,
Does sadness fill my mind?
For long ago I loved to lie
Upon the pathless moor,
To hear the wild wind rushing by
With never ceasing roar;
Its sound was music then to me;
Its wild and lofty voice
Made by heart beat exultingly
And my whole soul rejoice.
But now, how different is the sound?
It takes another tone,
And howls along the barren ground
With melancholy moan.
Why does the warm light of the sun
No longer cheer my eyes?
And why is all the beauty gone
From rosy morning skies?
Beneath this lone and dreary hill
There is a lovely vale;
The purling of a crystal rill,
The sighing of the gale,
The sweet voice of the singing bird,
The wind among the trees,
Are ever in that valley heard;
While every passing breeze
Is loaded with the pleasant scent
Of wild and lovely flowers.
To yonder vales I often went
To pass my evening hours.
Last evening when I wandered there
To soothe my weary heart,
Why did the unexpected tear
From my sad eyelid start?
Why did the trees, the buds, the stream
Sing forth so joylessly?
And why did all the valley seem
So sadly changed to me?
I plucked a primrose young and pale
That grew beneath a tree
And then I hastened from the vale
Silent and thoughtfully.
Soon I was near my lofty home,
But when I cast my eye
Upon that flower so fair and lone
Why did I heave a sigh?
I thought of taking it again
To the valley where it grew.
But soon I spurned that thought as vain
And weak and childish too.
And then I cast that flower away
To die and wither there;
But when I found it dead today
Why did I shed a tear?
O why are things so changed to me?
What gave me joy before
Now fills my heart with misery,
And nature smiles no more.
And why are all the beauties gone
From this my native hill?
Alas! my heart is changed alone:
Nature is constant still.
For when the heart is free from care,
Whatever meets the eye
Is bright, and every sound we hear
Is full of melody.
The sweetest strain, the wildest wind,
The murmur of a stream,
To the sad and weary mind
Like doleful death knells seem.
Father! thou hast long been dead,
Mother! thou art gone,
Brother! thou art far away,
And I am left alone.
Long before my mother died
I was sad and lone,
And when she departed too
Every joy was flown.
But the world's before me now,
Why should I despair?
I will not spend my days in vain,
I will not linger here!
There is still a cherished hope
To cheer me on my way;
It is burning in my heart
With a feeble ray.
I will cheer the feeble spark
And raise it to a flame;
And it shall light me through the world,
And lead me on to fame.
I leave thee then, my childhood's home,
For all thy joys are gone;
I leave thee through the world to roam
In search of fair renown,
From such a hopeless home to part
Is happiness to me,
For nought can charm my weary heart
Except activity.
poem by Anne Brontë
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Fundamental of Liar Chapter XLII: What Lies Beneath
beauty lies beneath
sense lies beneath
secret lies beneath
character lies beneath
rule lies beneath
mind lies beneath
past lies beneath
foundation lies beneath
root lies beneath
dark hole lies beneath
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Sonnet to Evening
[Written under a tree in the woods of St. Amand, in Flanders.]
SWEET BALMY HOUR! dear to the pensive mind,
Oft have I watch'd thy dark and weeping shade,
Oft have I hail'd thee in the dewy glade,
And drop'd a tear of SYMPATHY refin'd.
When humming bees, hid in their golden bow'rs,
Sip the pure nectar of MAY'S blushing rose,
Or faint with noon-day toils, their limbs repose,
In Baths of Essence stol'n from sunny flow'rs.
Oft do I seek thy shade dear with'ring tree,
Sad emblem of my OWN disast'rous state;
Doom'd in the spring of life, alas ! like THEE
To fade, and droop beneath the frowns of FATE;
Like THEE, may Heaven to ME the meed bestow,
To shelter Sorrow's tear, and sooth THE CHILD OF WOE.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Lavinia
The lovely young Lavinia once had friends;
And fortune smiled deceitful on her birth:
For, in her helpless years deprived of all,
Of every stay, save innocence and Heaven,
She, with her widow'd mother, feeble, old,
And poor, lived in a cottage, far retired
Among the windings of a woody vale;
By solitude and deep-surrounding shades,
But more by bashful modesty, conceal'd.
Together thus they shunn'd the cruel scorn
Which virtue, sunk to poverty, would meet
From giddy passion and low-minded pride;
Almost on Nature's common bounty fed,
Like the gay birds that sung them to repose,
Content, and careless of to-morrow's fare.
Her form was fresher than the morning rose,
When the dew wets its leaves; unstain'd and pure,
As is the lily or the mountain snow.
The modest virtues mingled in her eyes,
Still on the ground dejected, darting all
Their humid means into the blooming flowers;
Or when the mournful tale her mother told
Of what her faithless fortune promised once,
Thrill'd in her thought, they like the dewy star
Of evening, shone in tears. A native grace
Sat fair-proportion'd on her polish'd limbs,
Veil'd in a simple robe, their best attire,
Beyond the pomp of dress; for loveliness
Needs not the foreign aid of ornament,
But is, when unadorn'd, adorn'd the most.
Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self,
Recluse amid the close-embowering woods:
As in the hollow breast of Apennine,
Beneath the shelter of encircling hills,
A myrtle rises, far from human eye,
And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild;
So flourish'd, blooming, and unseen by all,
The sweet Lavinia.
poem by James Thomson
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Shall Earth No More Inspire Thee
The following little piece has no title; but in it the Genius of a solitary region seems to address his wandering and wayward votary, and to recall within his influence the proud mind which rebelled at times even against what it most loved.
Shall earth no more inspire thee,
Thou lonely dreamer now?
Since passion may not fire thee,
Shall nature cease to bow?
Thy mind is ever moving,
In regions dark to thee;
Recall its useless roving,
Come back, and dwell with me.
I know my mountain breezes
Enchant and soothe thee still,
I know my sunshine pleases,
Despite thy wayward will.
When day with evening blending,
Sinks from the summer sky,
I've seen thy spirit bending
In fond idolatry.
I've watched thee every hour;
I know my mighty sway:
I know my magic power
To drive thy griefs away.
Few hearts to mortals given,
On earth so wildly pine;
Yet few would ask a heaven
More like this earth than thine.
Then let my winds caress thee
Thy comrade let me be:
Since nought beside can bless thee,
Return—and dwell with me.
poem by Emily Brontë from Selections from the literary remains of Emily and Anne Brontë (1850)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I Will Praise the Lord at All Times
Winter has a joy for me,
While the Saviour's charms I read,
Lowly, meek, from blemish free,
In the snowdrop's pensive head.
Spring returns, and brings along
Life-invigorating suns:
Hark! the turtle's plaintive song
Seems to speak His dying groans!
Summer has a thousand charms,
All expressive of His worth;
'Tis His sun that lights and warms,
His the air the cools the earth.
What! has autumn left to say
Nothing of a Saviour's grace?
Yes, the beams of milder day
Tell me of his smiling face.
Light appears with early dawn,
While the sun makes haste to rise;
See His bleeding beauties drawn
On the blushes of the skies.
Evening with a silent pace,
Slowly moving in the west,
Shews an emblem of His grace,
Points to an eternal rest.
poem by William Cowper
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Olney Hymn 66: I Will Praise The Lord At All Times
Winter has a joy for me,
While the Saviour's charms I read,
Lowly, meek, from blemish free,
In the snowdrop's pensive head.
Spring returns, and brings along
Life-invigorating suns:
Hark! the turtle's plaintive song
Seems to speak His dying groans!
Summer has a thousand charms,
All expressive of His worth;
'Tis His sun that lights and warms,
His the air the cools the earth.
What! has autumn left to say
Nothing of a Saviour's grace?
Yes, the beams of milder day
Tell me of his smiling face.
Light appears with early dawn,
While the sun makes haste to rise;
See His bleeding beauties drawn
On the blushes of the skies.
Evening with a silent pace,
Slowly moving in the west,
Shews an emblem of His grace,
Points to an eternal rest.
poem by William Cowper
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The Sentinel
Each flower is a sentinel of God,
And ev'ry tree and ev'ry grassblade. Not
An unseen little stem, but that will stand
And wait and shine, and never ask wherefore
It came and why it has to whither. Thou
Art such a sentinel, O Heart! Thou hast
To stand and bloom and love beside the others,
And wither when thy work is done, the spot
Being given to another, whereupon
Thou standest. And that other heart is growing
And blooming into life beneath thy shade,
As strong as thine, as ruby-red as thine,
To wither and to fall beneath the scythe,
As thine has done. Why ask and why despair?
Why not be happy with the sun, the dew,
The other flowery hearts that, full of life
Unfold their petals, which are deep like thine,
And rich as thine? Ye are to be a glorious
And many-coloured meadow. Is it not
Enough? And must ye grumble? Must ye strive
To take away the light and dew, that fall
Not to your share? Behold the scythe! And sow
Thy seed and ask not where it falls. The wind
Of fate has carried it away, to place
Another sentinel, as unknown, as
Unsought for as thyself, in a far land,
To live when thou art gone, to bloom into
Some unexpected beauty with thy strength,
Thy blood, the thoughts that were companions once
To thee and that the wind hath blown so far
Away. Thou shalt not say unto thy seed:
"Fly thither!" It obeyeth not thy will.
Thou shalt not long to be another plant;
Thy tragedy is useless, and thy will
Is nought. With all thy strength thou art but what
Is wanted--tree or grassblade--never ask
Wherefore? Here is no answer. Fate itself
Knows not wherefore it blows, or tells thee not,
But takes thy noblest self to other climes
And leaves thee to the scythe. Complain not! Mourn not!
Long not to live another day, when thou
Art called, but bow thy head without a sigh,
In gentle acquiescence, sentinel!
poem by Carmen Sylva
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Tis the Last Rose of Summer
Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone:
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie wither'd,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
poem by Thomas Moore
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Spring.
'Let the light rain on her, the sweet Spring, till
She teems with greenery in the warm air,
Flower-hued, and vocal with the tender joy
Of bleating lambs and young birds on the wing.'
Thus on the cold hill doth the herdsman pray
Beneath his frozen star; the milkmaid, too,
As her raw hands take up the milking-pail,
And the wind freezes in the red dawn near: —
'Come, Spring, earth's sap, and mount in me until
I bloom, a rose of love: smile in mine eyes
Till my love from his wintry hill shall see
The star of youth, and leap into my arms!
O Spring, sweet Spring! but hear my prayer, and I
Shall build thee bowers of roses on the hill,
And all the summer there with bird and bee
Shall joy feast in the beauty of our love!'
Thus do they chant the wintry time away
In hill and vale, the two who look to when
The warmth of beauty takes life's wonder on,
And the rose of the flesh shall bloom for them.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Last Rose Of Summer
Thomas moore, nina simone
tis the last rose of summer, left blooming all alone
All her lovely companions are faded and gone.
No flower of her kindred, no rose bud is nigh
To reflect back her blushes and give sigh for sigh.
Ill not leave thee, thou lone one! to pine on the stem
Since the lovely are sleeping, go sleep thou with them
thus kindly I scatter thy leaves oer the bed
Where thy mates of the garden lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow, when friendships decay
And from loves shining circle the gems drop away
When true hearts lie witherd and fond ones are flown
Oh! who would inhabit this bleak world alone!
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Last Rose Of Summer
Thomas Moore, Nina Simone
'Tis the last rose of summer, left blooming all alone
All her lovely companions are faded and gone.
No flower of her kindred, no rose bud is nigh
To reflect back her blushes and give sigh for sigh.
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! to pine on the stem
Since the lovely are sleeping, go sleep thou with them
'Thus kindly I scatter thy leaves o'er the bed
Where thy mates of the garden lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow, when friendships decay
And from love's shining circle the gems drop away
When true hearts lie wither'd and fond ones are flown
Oh! who would inhabit this bleak world alone!
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet VI: thine fair love, thine pride
I indite this ramble to prove that thine intentions
Are of graver labour into lust of thine contentions
Since denounced thee of thy conjugal consent
Apart fallen thine world ever thence
I have strived under the scorching eye of the sky
And beneath the gorgeously low moon have I so tense
To linger earnestly thine hopes where high
You do no worst my dear, despite my wrong
I shall cast thy beautiful antique into thine mind
In thy fair love's beauty treads every glow
Is there more to it that I do not know?
That stars fall in thy eyes in throng
And men claim thee of poor earth's pride
In this league of adulation my dear, I do belong
poem by Folayemi Akande
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Sweet Innisfallen
Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well,
May calm and sunshine long be thine!
How fair thou art let others tell --
To feel how fair shall long be mine.
Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell
In memory's dream that sunny smile,
Which o'er thee on that evening fell,
When first I saw thy fairy isle.
'Twas light, indeed, too blest for one,
Who had to turn to paths of care --
Through crowded haunts again to run,
And leave thee bright and silent there;
No more unto thy shores to come,
But, on the world's rude ocean tost,
Dream of thee sometimes as a home
Of sunshine he had seen and lost.
Far better in thy weeping hour
To part from thee, as I do now,
When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers,
Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow.
For, though unrivall'd still thy grace,
Thou dost not look, as then, too blest,
But, thus in shadow, seem'st a place
Where erring man might hope to rest --
Might hope to rest, and find in thee
A gloom like Eden's, on the day
He left its shade, when every tree,
Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way.
Weeping or smiling, lovely isle!
And all the lovelier for thy tears --
For though but rare thy sunny smile,
'Tis heaven's own glance when it appears.
Like feeling hearts whose joys are few,
But, when indeed they come, divine --
The brightest light the sun e'er threw
Is lifeless to one gleam of thine!
poem by Thomas Moore
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Subconciously
at the surface is a roy
could be roy something else
you face him
beneath a roy could be a jerry something
that you have met but could not fully
remember
you are determined not to be confused
and so you focus on the road that the the yellow bus is taking you
it is nothing but imagination
you are in the house
doing nothing because writing is actually nothing
beneath you is someone else and it
(a thing or something) is telling you what to write
you are not alarmed
it is nothing it is nothing but words and words are nothing
as a matter of familiarity
beneath your mind is the heart
beneath that heart are so many things
you try to enumerate names
and more names
and places
until you reach a certain marker, shades of red,
pathways of veins, flowing blood, all kept and contained
within the sound system
and then you look at your hands
beneath it
someone so lovely and beautiful
someone you desired for long
beneath you
and then you stop.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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