The Goblet Of Life
Filled is Life's goblet to the brim;
And though my eyes with tears are dim,
I see its sparkling bubbles swim,
And chant a melancholy hymn
With solemn voice and slow.
No purple flowers,--no garlands green,
Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen,
Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene,
Like gleams of sunshine, flash between
Thick leaves of mistletoe.
This goblet, wrought with curious art,
Is filled with waters, that upstart,
When the deep fountains of the heart,
By strong convulsions rent apart,
Are running all to waste.
And as it mantling passes round,
With fennel is it wreathed and crowned,
Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned
Are in its waters steeped and drowned,
And give a bitter taste.
Above the lowly plants it towers,
The fennel, with its yellow flowers,
And in an earlier age than ours
Was gifted with the wondrous powers,
Lost vision to restore.
It gave new strength, and fearless mood;
And gladiators, fierce and rude,
Mingled it in their daily food;
And he who battled and subdued,
A wreath of fennel wore.
Then in Life's goblet freely press,
The leaves that give it bitterness,
Nor prize the colored waters less,
For in thy darkness and distress
New light and strength they give!
And he who has not learned to know
How false its sparkling bubbles show,
How bitter are the drops of woe,
With which its brim may overflow,
He has not learned to live.
The prayer of Ajax was for light;
Through all that dark and desperate fight
The blackness of that noonday night
He asked but the return of sight,
To see his foeman's face.
Let our unceasing, earnest prayer
Be, too, for light,--for strength to bear
Our portion of the weight of care,
That crushes into dumb despair
One half the human race.
O suffering, sad humanity!
O ye afflicted one; who lie
Steeped to the lips in misery,
Longing, and yet afraid to die,
Patient, though sorely tried!
I pledge you in this cup of grief,
Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf!
The Battle of our Life is brief
The alarm,--the struggle,--the relief,
Then sleep we side by side.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Related quotes
Give me the reason to live
My mind could be filled with doubt
My heart could waver with despair
But my fate still face ahead
My hair may turn to grey
My body may be weakened
But my words would echo through the time
Give me the strength
Because I'm not strong enough
Give me the hope
Because I don't have any
Give me the love
So I feel safe and warm
Give me the light
So I can walk forward
My dream may be tainted with fear
My world may be painted in darkness
But my life still going on
My burden could be weighted my shoulder
My guilt could consume my will
But my faith would find the sun
Give me the strength
Before I run away
Give me the hope
Before I completely disappear
Give me the love
Even if it will be gone
Give me the light
Even if it is the end
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Lord Give Us The Strength
Lord Give Us The Strength.....,
To suppress our fears....,
Lord Give Us The Strength....,
To fight our tears....,
It's a rough, tough, world...,
Every day is a test...,
But powerful and proud...,
We’ll always do our best....,
Still more and more....,
We need your support....,
So Lord Give Us The Strength....,
Lord Give Us The Strength.
Lord Give Us The Strength.....,
To keep the faith….,
Lord Give Us The Strength....,
To conquer hate…,
It’s a harsh, cruel road…,
We travel through life…,
But we feel comfort….,
Guided by your light....,
Still on and on….,
We pray for your love....,
And to worship you....,
Is our sole intent......,
So Lord Give Us The Strength....,
Lord Give Us The Strength.
poem by Trade Martin
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Prayer is Life
Prayer is life,
Life is prayer,
Prayer gives me strength,
Strength to face
All the problems
Of this world.
Prayer brightens my day,
It gives me sound sleep at night.
I abide in My Saviour,
And humbly I rest.
Prayer makes me strong
To defeat Satan.
Prayer continues unceasingly,
It does not stop
In the morning or at noon.
It goes on and on,
Until sleep shuts my eyes.
O, that blessed life
Of prayer,
I long for the
Sweet life.
poem by Aleyamma Jacob
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A bitter taste of irony (For........)
Often I think just how
nice it would be
to rid myself
of this addiction
that's destroying me.
To wake up and enjoy
the early morning sunshine
and not search for long
lost drops from last
nights bottle of wine.
Or to laugh and smile
in the blessed light of the day
instead of hiding in the dark
which blinds my way.
To live my life without daily despair,
oh to live a life without a care.
Yet the sad truth is I can only
contemplate change
after I have had a drink,
for that is when my mind
is steadied enough to think.
And so to contemplate a better life
I have to go on destroying me,
And that leaves me with
a taste of such bitter irony.
poem by Not Long Left
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Give Me Strength
This is my prayer to thee, my lord---strike,
strike at the root of penury in my heart.
Give me the strength lightly to bear my joys and sorrows.
Give me the strength to make my love fruitful in service.
Give me the strength never to disown the poor or bend my knees before insolent might.
Give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles.
And give me the strength to surrender my strength to thy will with love.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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The Warrior's Prayer
Long since, in sore distress, I heard one pray,
'Lord, who prevailest with resistless might,
Ever from war and strife keep me away,
My battles fight!'
I know not if I play the Pharisee,
And if my brother after all be right;
But mine shall be the warrior's plea to thee--
Strength for the fight.
I do not ask that thou shalt front the fray,
And drive the warring foeman from my sight;
I only ask, O Lord, by night, by day,
Strength for the fight!
When foes upon me press, let me not quail
Nor think to turn me into coward flight.
I only ask, to make mine arms prevail,
Strength for the fight!
Still let mine eyes look ever on the foe,
Still let mine armor case me strong and bright;
And grant me, as I deal each righteous blow,
Strength for the fight!
And when, at eventide, the fray is done,
My soul to Death's bedchamber do thou light,
And give me, be the field or lost or won,
Rest from the fight!
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Hendecasyllabics
In the month of the long decline of roses
I, beholding the summer dead before me,
Set my face to the sea and journeyed silent,
Gazing eagerly where above the sea-mark
Flame as fierce as the fervid eyes of lions
Half divided the eyelids of the sunset;
Till I heard as it were a noise of waters
Moving tremulous under feet of angels
Multitudinous, out of all the heavens;
Knew the fluttering wind, the fluttered foliage,
Shaken fitfully, full of sound and shadow;
And saw, trodden upon by noiseless angels,
Long mysterious reaches fed with moonlight,
Sweet sad straits in a soft subsiding channel,
Blown about by the lips of winds I knew not,
Winds not born in the north nor any quarter,
Winds not warm with the south nor any sunshine;
Heard between them a voice of exultation,
'Lo, the summer is dead, the sun is faded,
Even like as a leaf the year is withered,
All the fruits of the day from all her branches
Gathered, neither is any left to gather.
All the flowers are dead, the tender blossoms,
All are taken away; the season wasted,
Like an ember among the fallen ashes.
Now with light of the winter days, with moonlight,
Light of snow, and the bitter light of hoarfrost,
We bring flowers that fade not after autumn,
Pale white chaplets and crowns of latter seasons,
Fair false leaves (but the summer leaves were falser),
Woven under the eyes of stars and planets
When low light was upon the windy reaches
Where the flower of foam was blown, a lily
Dropt among the sonorous fruitless furrows
And green fields of the sea that make no pasture:
Since the winter begins, the weeping winter,
All whose flowers are tears, and round his temples
Iron blossom of frost is bound for ever.'
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Mother Moon II
Mother give me strength
Give me wisdom, give me will
Give me love, give me health
Let me know what is real
Tell me who to trust
Tell me what is fate
Give me the strength to love
And the maturity not to hate
Let me fall in love
Let me have true friends
Show me the real meaning
Of together until the end
Give me the power of prayer
Let me have a stable mind
Give me the strength to have patience
And the strength to be kind
Help me stand and fight
Don't let me run away
Give me the bravery to face my fear
And to face another day
poem by Tatianna Rei Moonshadow
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This Life Is All Chequer'd With Pleasures and Woes
This life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes,
That chase one another like waves of the deep --
Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows,
Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep.
So closely our whims on our miseries tread,
That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried;
And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed,
The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside.
But pledge me the cup -- if existence would cloy,
With hearts ever happy and heads ever wise,
Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy,
And the light brilliant Folly that flashes and dies.
When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,
Through fields full of light, and with heart full of play,
Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount,
And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.
Thus many, like me, who in youth should have tasted
The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine,
Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted,
And left their light urns all as empty as mine.
But pledge me the goblet; -- while idleness weaves
These flowerets together, should Wisdom but see
One bright drop or two that has fall'n on the leaves
From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me.
poem by Thomas Moore
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Prayer At Sunrise
O mighty, powerful, dark-dispelling sun,
Now thou art risen, and thy day begun.
How shrink the shrouding mists before thy face,
As up thou spring'st to thy diurnal race!
How darkness chases darkness to the west,
As shades of light on light rise radiant from thy crest!
For thee, great source of strength, emblem of might,
In hours of darkest gloom there is no night.
Thou shinest on though clouds hide thee from sight,
And through each break thou sendest down thy light.
O greater Maker of this Thy great sun,
Give me the strength this one day's race to run,
Fill me with light, fill me with sun-like strength,
Fill me with joy to rob the day its length.
Light from within, light that will outward shine,
Strength to make strong some weaker heart than mine,
Joy to make glad each soul that feels its touch;
Great Father of the sun, I ask this much.
poem by James Weldon Johnson
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Slow the Love (Final Episode)
What hast thou done when the princess Indian
The heart of gold burned in deserts and in wild
Love was the sign she followed but the bird
In two and one to her she learned language
Knowing love’s mysteries
The keeper of the tavern the last night’s wine
Cups filled with tears nectar of love
The saki in generosity with brim over
Harness the horse put on the wings
The imaginations forays to some other land
When the beloved has turned her face away
Away the goblet and the verse
Friends were foes and foes friends
The songs lost tunes and like the willow
Desert and me whence of the destiny
When the cold breeze against my face
For the last time my horse of wings
Turned to the city when my songs were yet
On the lips of the beauty in search of her love
To the emptiness thou sing but lovers many
Stars shall be my guide and sunrays I read
Under the moon I sleep and talk to myself
The lullaby of nature when I see the dreams
Thou hast yet to find images of love
The verse the beloved had started in haste
The verse is not over nor the manifestations
In vivid colors like rainbow like fire
To treasure of self for the beloved turn
On the horse of wings the universe immense
In the goblet red I see in my tavern
30/1/2009
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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In Memoriam
“He asked life of thee, and thou gavest him a long life, even for ever and ever.”
Life—length of days—the time to work and strive
In his Lord's vineyard; to bring heavenly light
Into the drear, dark places of the earth,
And make them fair and fruitful in His sight.
Life—it seem'd all so bright and beautiful once!
It lay spread out before his kindling eyes,
A land of sunny hills, in white mist veil'd,
Of sweet green valleys under summer skies.
Such tender light and tender shadows there!
No dazzling blaze, no savage blots of gloom,
No keen-cut outline of the barren cliff,
No glaring waste,—but all one gentle bloom
Of happy, innocent hope,—a morning tint
Of pearly grey and gold, with just a shade
Of bright cloud-colour, giving life to it,—
He saw not then the havoc death had made.
But soon the white mist melted in the heat
Of noonday, and the wasted fields lay bare—
Vineyard of Eden—like a bright face, scarred
With sin and shame and weariness and care.
And his vague aspiration took a shape.
“Grant me, dear Lord, if it seem good to Thee,
To labour here, with manhood's utter strength,—
O Lord, good Lord, intrust this work to me!
“Let me have time to toil—a long, long day—
To dig and delve and root out wasteful weeds,
To cut down briars and thorns, and help to plough
Furrows where angels may sow heavenly seeds.
“Give me to foster, with my faith and love,
Frail, early flowers, that fear to droop and fade!
Father, I will not shrink for bleeding hands,
For heat nor cold—I do not feel afraid!”
His voice was heard—his will accepted. God
Gave deep and true fulfilment to his prayer,—
Life—life eternal, which should nevermore
The taint of death, or sin, or sorrow bear!
Oh pray, ye blind ones, as the beggar pray'd
When He of Nazareth pass'd by! Oh pray
With simple faith and worship,—fear ye not
God's gracious ear will deafly turn away.
Ye know He bids us to tell out our wants,
Knowing them all; give up to Him your will,
And trust Him—trust Him. In his wondrous love
He deigns the lowliest longing to fulfil.
Ay, and with that fulfilment which we ne'er
Shall grasp or fathom—till we come to see
Our strange, mysterious human life unveil'd
In the clear daylight of eternity.
The beggar ask'd for sight—Christ answer'd him,
For his faith's sake, and gave him sight indeed.
Just so his silent hands and darken'd eyes
Were lifted once, for grace of “life” to plead.
And God fulfilled his prayer as utterly!
He gave him life—the life of saints above,
Beyond all earthly dreaming sweet and glad—
An endless life in His eternal love!
poem by Ada Cambridge
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But One Life
i have but one life to live
and for my LORD- this life i will give.
he has led me through the darkness of night
and showed my soul how to fight.
he was there when i was in despair
where people turned their backs and did not care.
he showed me the true strength that we all have within
to fight the demons that lie in wait
if in him we keep our faith.
he is the water that quenches our thirst
he is the food that we eat first
he is the sun/son that gives us the light
and the one who gives us the stars at night.
he is the one who showed us to forgive
and in my heart will forever live.
he has given us 'free will ' to choose
and it's up to us, if we win or loose.
so with all that he has given us
in him we should put our trust.
all the problems will begin to unravel
because of the road- which i chose to travel.
so my life i give to him
to continue to take away my mortal sins.
poem by Louis Rams
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The King Of Thule
IN Thule lived a monarch,
Still faithful to the grave,
To whom his dying mistress
A golden goblet gave.
Beyond all price he deem'd it,
He quaff'd it at each feast;
And, when he drain'd that goblet,
His tears to flow ne'er ceas'd.
And when he felt death near him,
His cities o'er he told,
And to his heir left all things,
But not that cup of gold.
A regal banquet held he
In his ancestral ball,
In yonder sea-wash'd castle,
'Mongst his great nobles all.
There stood the aged reveller,
And drank his last life's-glow,--
Then hurl'd the holy goblet
Into the flood below.
He saw it falling, filling,
And sinking 'neath the main,
His eyes then closed for ever,
He never drank again.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Memory
Brightly the sun of summer shone,
Green fields and waving woods upon,
And soft winds wandered by;
Above, a sky of purest blue,
Around, bright flowers of loveliest hue,
Allured the gazer's eye.
But what were all these charms to me,
When one sweet breath of memory
Came gently wafting by?
I closed my eyes against the day,
And called my willing soul away,
From earth, and air, and sky;
That I might simply fancy there
One little flower - a primrose fair,
Just opening into sight;
As in the days of infancy,
An opening primrose seemed to me
A source of strange delight.
Sweet Memory! ever smile on me;
Nature's chief beauties spring from thee,
Oh, still thy tribute bring!
Still make the golden crocus shine
Among the flowers the most divine,
The glory of the spring.
Still in the wall-flower's fragrance dwell;
And hover round the slight blue bell,
My childhood's darling flower.
Smile on the little daisy still,
The buttercup's bright goblet fill
With all thy former power.
For ever hang thy dreamy spell
Round mountain star and heather bell,
And do not pass away
From sparkling frost, or wreathed snow,
And whisper when the wild winds blow,
Or rippling waters play.
Is childhood, then, so all divine?
Or Memory, is the glory thine,
That haloes thus the past?
Not all divine; its pangs of grief,
(Although, perchance, their stay be brief,)
Are bitter while they last.
Nor is the glory all thine own,
For on our earliest joys alone
That holy light is cast.
With such a ray, no spell of thine
Can make our later pleasures shine,
Though long ago they passed.
poem by Anne Brontë from Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (1846)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Praise to you Jesus Christ (Song)
Praise to you Jesus Christ/God
Praise to you Jesus Christ/Holy spirit
Praise to you Jesus Christ
Give me the strength to praise your mane
Give me the strength to sing your song
Give me the strength to sing loudly
Give me the strength to speak your work
Give me the strength to bare my cross
Give me the strength to walk in your path
Give me the strength to share my wealth
Give me the strength to share what I have
Give me the strength to live in peace
Give me the strength to come to the church
Give me the strength to understand your word
Give me the strength to confess my faults
Give me the strength to stand and sing
Give me the strength to survive in this world
Give me the strength to watch your works
Give me the strength to stay with you
Give me the strength to say thank you
Give me the strength to walk in darkness
Give me the strength to walk for freedom
Give me the strength to stand for my nation
Give me the strength to stand with you
Amen
-o-
poem by Bhavani Polimetla
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The Dreamer on the Sea-shore
What are the dreams of him who may sleep
Where the solemn voice of the troubled deep
Steals on the wind with a sullen roar,
And the waters foam along the shore?
Who shelter'd lies in some calm retreat,
And hears the music of waves at his feet?
He sees not the sail that passes on
O'er the sunny fields of the sea, alone,
The farthest point that gleams on the sight,
A vanishing speck of glittering light.
He sees not the spray that, spreading wide,
Throws its lines of snow on the dark green tide;
Or the billows rushing with crests of foam
As they strove which first should reach their home—
Their home! What home has the restless main,
Which only arrives to return again,
Like the wand'rer she bears on her stormy breast,
Who seeks in vain for a place of rest.
Lo! His visions bear him along
To rocks that have heard the mermaid's song:
Or, borne on the surface of some dark surge,
Unharm'd he lies, while they onward urge
Their rapid course, and waft him away
To islands half hid 'midst the shadowy spray,
Where trees wave their boughs in the perfum'd gale,
And bid the wave-borne stranger hail;
Where birds are flitting like gems in the sun,
And streams over emerald meadows run,
That whisper in melody as they glide
To the flowers that blush along their side.
Sorrow ne'er came to that blissful shore,
For no mortal has entered that isle before:
There the Halcyon waits on the sparkling strand
Till the bark of her lover the Nautilus land;
She spreads her purple wings to the air,
And she sees his fragile vessel there—
She sees him float on the summer sea,
Where no breath but the sigh of his love may be.
The dreamer leaps towards that smiling shore—
When, lo! the vision is there no more!
Its trees, its flowers, its birds are gone—
A waste of waters is spread alone.
Plunged in the tide, he struggles amain—
High they pour, and he strives in vain:
He sinks—the billows close over his head,
He shrieks—'tis over—the dream is fled;
Secure he lies in his calm retreat,
And the idle waters still rave at his feet.
poem by Louisa Stuart Costello
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The Nightingale To The Workman
Fair summer is here, glad summer is here!
O hark! 'tis to you I am singing:
The sun is all gold in a heaven of blue,
The birds in the forest are trilling for you,
The flies 'mid the grasses are winging;
The little brook babbles--its secret is sweet.
The loveliest flowers would circle your feet,--
And you to your work ever clinging!...
Come forth! Nature loves you. Come forth! Do not fear!
Fair summer is here, glad summer is here,
Full measure of happiness bringing.
All creatures drink deep; and they pour wine anew
In the old cup of life, and they wonder at you.
Your portion is waiting since summer began;
Then take it, oh, take it, you laboring man!
'Tis summer today; ay, summer today!
The butterflies light on the flowers.
Delightfully glistens the silvery rain,
The mountains are covered with greenness again,
And perfumed and cool are the bowers.
The sheep frisk about in the flowery vale,
The shepherd and shepherdess pause in the dale,
And these are the holiest hours!...
Delay not, delay not, life passes away!
'Tis summer today, sweet summer today!
Come, throttle your wheel's grinding power!...
Your worktime is bitter and endless in length;
And have you not foolishly lavished your strength?
O think not the world is with bitterness rife,
But drink of the wine from the goblet of life.
O, summer is here, sweet summer is here!
I cannot forever be trilling;
I flee on the morrow. Then, you, have a care!
The crow, from the perch I am leaving, the air
With ominous cries will be filling.
O, while I am singing to you from my tree
Of love, and of life, and of joy yet to be,
Arouse you!--O why so unwilling!...
The heavens remain not so blue and so clear;--
Now summer is here! Come, summer is here!
Reach out for the joys that are thrilling!
For like you who fade at your wheel, day by day,
Soon all things will fade and be carried away.
Our lives are but moments; and sometimes the cost
Of a moment o'erlooked is eternity lost.
poem by Morris Rosenfeld
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My Pray
Give me the courage to go outside
With my head held confidently high
Make me face the outside world
Instead of hiding in my room wanting to die
Give me the power to confront and shout back
To those who feel they need to show me disrespect
To pluck up the courage to voice my opinion
To stop being such a nervous wreck
Help find me the strength that I need so much
To eat what ever I choose
To skip the exercise without a care
and not be bothered about weight I want to lose
Please show me how I can start to enjoy life
And be thankful that I live each day
To show me that my depression can be beat
And that it will all go away
I cant get the suicidal thought out of my mind
Im in complete and utter despair
I don’t know what else I can do
This is my desperate prayer
Fill The Goblet Again: A Song
Fill the goblet again! for I never before
Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core;
Let us drink!--who would not?--since, through life's varied round,
In the goblet alone no deception is found.
I have tried in its turn all that life can supply;
I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye;
I have loved!--who has not?--but what heart can declare
That pleasure existed while passion was there?
In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its spring,
And dreams that affection can never take wing,
I had friends!--who has not?--but what tongue will avow,
That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou?
The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange,
Friendship shifts with the sunbeam--thou never canst change;
Thou grow'st old--who does not?--but on earth what appears,
Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years?
Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow,
Should a rival bow down to our idol below,
We aree jealous!--who is not?--thou hast no such alloy;
For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy.
Then the season of youth and its vanities past,
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last;
There we find--do we not?--in the flow of the soul,
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl.
When the box of Pandora was opened on earth,
And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth,
Hope was left,--was she not?--but the goblet we kiss,
And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss.
Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown,
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own:
We must die--who shall not?--May our sins be forgiven,
And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven.