A Parodist's Apology
If I've dared laugh at you, Robert Browning,
'Tis with eyes that with you have often wept:
You have oftener left me smiling or frowning,
Than any beside, one bard except.
But once you spoke to me, storm-tongued poet,
A trivial word in an idle hour;
But thrice I looked on your face and the glow it
Bore from the flame of the inward power.
But you'd many a friend you never knew of,
Your words lie hid in a hundred hearts,
And thousands of hands that you've grasped but few of
Would be raised to shield you from slander's darts.
For you lived in the sight of the land that owned you,
You faced the trial, and stood the test:
They have piled you a cairn that would fain have stoned you:
You have spoken your message and earned your rest.
poem by James Kenneth Stephen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
My Heart Stood Still
I laughed at sweethearts
I met at schools
All indiscreet hearts
Seemed romantic fools
A house in Iceland
Was my heart's domain
I saw your eyes
Now castles rise in Spain!
I took one look at you
That's all I meant to do
And then my heart stood still
My feet could step and walk
My lips could move and talk
And yet my heart stood still
Though not a single word was spoken
I could tell you knew
That unfelt clasp of hands
Told me so well you knew
I never lived at all
Until the thrill of that moment when
My heart stood still
Though not a single word was spoken
I could tell you knew
That unfelt clasp of hands
Told me so well you knew
I never lived at all
Until the thrill of that moment when
My heart stood still
All that moment when
My heart stood still
My heart stood still
My heart stood still
song performed by by Rod Stewart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Storms of Life
When there’s sunshine and blue sky, we never seem to reason why.
Even when the rains do fall, they come to many as a refreshing lull.
And a fallen snow is picturesque, covering the land in winter’s rest.
But when storms on earth appear, they fill hearts with a quiet fear,
A fear of what may come to be, from a raging storm’s uncertainty.
We walk with the sun on our face, and a wind on our back is placed.
Then there is a quiet just before an awesome storm begins to roar.
With the wind against us friend, it blows and seems to have no end.
We also have storms of life, not from weather, but pain and strife.
There is a fortress in any storm, He is Christ, our Savior and Lord.
Storms of life won’t get you friend, if you know by who they’re sent.
God has a purpose you should know; why in life strong winds blow.
How about the apostles and Christ at sea on a tiny boat off Galilee,
As a small storm came near, it filled the apostle’s hearts with fear.
Christ raised His voice in the boat to calm the storm as He spoke.
Christ said to them “why be afraid, do not you men have any faith? ”
It is good to know at any place a storm is altered by God’s Grace,
And even in the darkest hour, a storm can cease by God’s power.
The storm of life soon will end, if you know Christ as Savior friend.
Until I see Jesus above with you, He my friend will see us through.
(Copyright ©12/2004)
Couldn't find
I couldn’t believe eyes
As she bore a name of Sheri Columbus
I knew what was unique and famous]
The new land was found known as states
I had kept this day for finding special friends
Some unknown faces were to come at the day end
I found one of the best comments put forward
Those were, indeed, highly spoken words
I ventured to at her profile and put nice invitation
It was all about strengthening friendship and relation
“I used to rarely add men to my page” the message read
But later some of the words spoke highly to plead
Yes those words spoke of high integrated and philosophical mind
Where on earth good friends are available and make easy find
“Why on earth I would not want every one as friend”
“Why not share the insight and wisdom” reflected her new trend
I was stunned to look at her shining face
It spoke of something more and required tot race
A point to highlight about her personality
Her eyes spoke of sun’s glare with fine quality
She has brilliant face with imposing will
It is obviously a ladies weapon but not to kill
It may speak highly of a hidden soul
Natural way of leading life without any foul
It would be unnecessary to paint anything about body
It is gift from almighty and business of nobody
Many may see it from different angle and perception
But of course she deserved to be mentioned in “caption”
The beautiful cross reveals it all
You are akin to receiving generous calls
I may not be alone to appreciate and praise
As many might have been failed to in long chase
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Don't Underestimate The Power Of...
Don’t Underestimate The Power
Of Your Embrace
The Power You Hold
In That Timeless Place
When My World Stops
At Your Wonderful Touch
Suspended In Rapture
With You, Giving So Much
… Strength and Comfort
And Tender Care
Don’t Underestimate
The Power There …
Don’t Underestimate The Power
Of Holding Hands
A Symbol-Bond, Saying,
‘Together, We Stand’
As We Share and Show
As One, We Plan
To Face The Future
With GOD … ‘We Can’
Don’t Underestimate The Power
Of Seeing Your Face
Eyes of Night-Skies
And Lips Of Berries’ Taste
Those Mystery Eyes
When They Meet With Mine
Passion Pours
As Our Lips, Wine and Dine …
Don’t Underestimate The Power
Of Our Hearts
Don’t Underestimate The Power
O Love’s Great Art
Tho’ The Heart, May Be Struck
With 10,000 Darts
Love, Has The Power To Make It
To Never Break Apart!
Don’t Underestimate The Power
Of Your Embrace
Don’t Underestimate The Power
Of Your Sweet Face
Don’t Underestimate The Power
Of Pure, Sweet Love
It, Is What, Holding Hands and Hearts
And Hopes Are Made Of
* * * *
(Don’t Underestimate …
The Power Of Even This …
Poetic Notes, Sealed With A Kiss
Words Spoken In Lover’s Bliss
A Whispered Wish, I Insist
Is Also, On The ‘Don’t Underestimate List …
So, Just Don’t Underestimate The Powers
Of A Love, So Strong and True, As Ours …)
Written & ©: 4/18/10
By: MoonBee
poem by MoonBee Canady
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Heart Stood Still
I laughed at sweethearts I met at schools
All indiscreet hearts seemed romantic fools
A house in iceland was my hearts domain
I saw your eyes, now castles rise in spain!
I took one look at you, thats all I meant to do
And then my heart stood still,
My feet could step and walk, my lips could move and talk
And yet my heart stood still
Though not a single word was spoken, I could tell you knew
That unfelt clasp of hands told me so well you knew
I never lived at all until the thrill of that moment when
My heart stood still
Through all my school days, I hated boys
Those april fool days brought me loveless joys
I read my plato, love, I thought a sin
But since your kiss, Im reading missus glyn!
song performed by by Ella Fitzgerald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sir Poet
Buckingham Palace awaited him
And the car arrived in plenty of time.
He was gently helped out of the car
Then used walking sticks to make his way...
Doors were already opened so less trouble
And on he walked to meet Her Majesty.
When his name was called, he approached her
And, though in agony, he knelt before her.
Not one trace of pain, not even a wince,
Just the completion of the ceremony.
He was now to be called Sir until life's end,
For all that it mattered to the milkman
Or the postman or the neighbours next door...
He had a few poems printed in the paper
With a frail old man style photo underneath.
A few feedback replies and then nothing else.
So he published one last anthology and waited.
He knew that his life would soon be over...
A life dedicated to the longterm serving of others,
Thousands upon thousands of strangers,
Part-time fans, with a few friendly souls, too.
In time, he was to reach millions then billions.
Children were later taught his literary style,
His joy of life, his twists and turns, his puns...
And every day for the next hundred years,
Someone, somewhere enjoyed his wisdom,
His humour, his drama, his hymns, his poems.
Then one day, a fellow wrote about him,
Saying that Mankind was blessed through him,
That somehow he spoke to the common man,
That there was a prophet in their midst...
A blessing, an outpouring, an inspiration...
And though the poet was now in Heaven,
The Lord let him know that he was loved,
That his words had stood the test of time...
That his loneliness and poverty were not in vain...
That's when the poet wept, wept with gratitude...
Denis Martindale, copyright, February 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Not to Keep
They sent him back to her. The letter came
Saying... And she could have him. And before
She could be sure there was no hidden ill
Under the formal writing, he was in her sight,
Living. They gave him back to her alive
How else? They are not known to send the dead
And not disfigured visibly. His face?
His hands? She had to look, and ask,
"What was it, dear?" And she had given all
And still she had all they had they the lucky!
Wasn’t she glad now? Everything seemed won,
And all the rest for them permissible ease.
She had to ask, "What was it, dear?"
"Enough,"
Yet not enough. A bullet through and through,
High in the breast. Nothing but what good care
And medicine and rest, and you a week,
Can cure me of to go again." The same
Grim giving to do over for them both.
She dared no more than ask him with her eyes
How was it with him for a second trial.
And with his eyes he asked her not to ask.
They had given him back to her, but not to keep.
poem by Robert Frost
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He Cried
I need you
Simple words
But words which had never been heard
By the soul
Stoned to death
But still living
And so he froze where he stood
And he looked to the ground
And he cried
He cried
Ride our minds
If you must
But theres always a line you dont cross
Time is short
Dont be cruel
Oh you dont know the power
In what youre saying
Oh ...
And so he froze where he stood
And he looked to the ground
And he cried
He cried
People where
I come from
They survive without feelings or blood
I never could
Was stoned to death
But Im still living
So he froze where he stood
And he looked to the ground
And he cried
He cried
So he froze
And he looked, and he looked
To the ground
And he cried
He cried
song performed by by Morrissey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Home 2
Fair was the morning, fair our tempers, and
We had seen nothing fairer than that land,
Though strange, and the untrodden snow that made
Wild of the tame, casting out all that was
Not wild and rustic and old; and we were glad.
Fair too was afternoon, and first to pass
Were we that league of snow, next the north wind.
There was nothing to return for, except need,
And yet we sang nor ever stopped for speed,
As we did often with the start behind.
Faster still strode we when we came in sight
Of the cold roofs where we must spend the night.
Happy we had not been there, nor could be,
Though we had tasted sleep and food and fellowship
Together long.
'How quick', to someone's lip
The words came, 'will the beaten horse run home!'
The word 'home' raised a smile in us all three,
And one repeated it, smiling just so
That all knew what he meant and none would say.
Between three counties far apart that lay
We were divided and looked strangely each
At the other, and we knew we were not friends
But fellows in a union that ends
With the necessity for it, as it ought.
Never a word was spoken, not a thought
Was thought, of what the look meant with the word
'Home' as we walked and watched the sunset blurred.
And then to me the word, only the word,
'Homesick', as it were playfully occurred:
No more.
If I should ever more admit
Than the mere word I could not endure it
For a day longer: this captivity
Must somehow come to an end, else I should be
Another man, as often now I seem,
Or this life be only an evil dream.
poem by Edward Thomas
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The House Of Dust: Part 03: 02: The Screen Maiden
You read—what is it, then that you are reading?
What music moves so silently in your mind?
Your bright hand turns the page.
I watch you from my window, unsuspected:
You move in an alien land, a silent age . . .
. . . The poet—what was his name—? Tokkei—Tokkei—
The poet walked alone in a cold late rain,
And thought his grief was like the crying of sea-birds;
For his lover was dead, he never would love again.
Rain in the dreams of the mind—rain forever—
Rain in the sky of the heart—rain in the willows—
But then he saw this face, this face like flame,
This quiet lady, this portrait by Hiroshigi;
And took it home with him; and with it came
What unexpected changes, subtle as weather!
The dark room, cold as rain,
Grew faintly fragrant, stirred with a stir of April,
Warmed its corners with light again,
And smoke of incense whirled about this portrait,
And the quiet lady there,
So young, so quietly smiling, with calm hands,
Seemed ready to loose her hair,
And smile, and lean from the picture, or say one word,
The word already clear,
Which seemed to rise like light between her eyelids . .
He held his breath to hear,
And smiled for shame, and drank a cup of wine,
And held a candle, and searched her face
Through all the little shadows, to see what secret
Might give so warm a grace . . .
Was it the quiet mouth, restrained a little?
The eyes, half-turned aside?
The jade ring on her wrist, still almost swinging? . . .
The secret was denied,
He chose his favorite pen and drew these verses,
And slept; and as he slept
A dream came into his heart, his lover entered,
And chided him, and wept.
And in the morning, waking, he remembered,
And thought the dream was strange.
Why did his darkened lover rise from the garden?
He turned, and felt a change,
As if a someone hidden smiled and watched him . . .
Yet there was only sunlight there.
Until he saw those young eyes, quietly smiling,
And held his breath to stare,
And could have sworn her cheek had turned—a little . . .
Had slightly turned away . . .
Sunlight dozed on the floor . . . He sat and wondered,
Nor left his room that day.
And that day, and for many days thereafter,
He sat alone, and thought
No lady had ever lived so beautiful
As Hiroshigi wrought . . .
Or if she lived, no matter in what country,
By what far river or hill or lonely sea,
He would look in every face until he found her . . .
There was no other as fair as she.
And before her quiet face he burned soft incense,
And brought her every day
Boughs of the peach, or almond, or snow-white cherry,
And somehow, she seemed to say,
That silent lady, young, and quietly smiling,
That she was happy there;
And sometimes, seeing this, he started to tremble,
And desired to touch her hair,
To lay his palm along her hand, touch faintly
With delicate finger-tips
The ghostly smile that seemed to hover and vanish
Upon her lips . . .
Until he knew he loved this quiet lady;
And night by night a dread
Leered at his dreams, for he knew that Hiroshigi
Was many centuries dead,—
And the lady, too, was dead, and all who knew her . .
Dead, and long turned to dust . . .
The thin moon waxed and waned, and left him paler,
The peach leaves flew in a gust,
And he would surely have died; but there one day
A wise man, white with age,
Stared at the portrait, and said, 'This Hiroshigi
Knew more than archimage,—
Cunningly drew the body, and called the spirit,
Till partly it entered there . . .
Sometimes, at death, it entered the portrait wholly . .
Do all I say with care,
And she you love may come to you when you call her . . . '
So then this ghost, Tokkei,
Ran in the sun, bought wine of a hundred merchants,
And alone at the end of day
Entered the darkening room, and faced the portrait,
And saw the quiet eyes
Gleaming and young in the dusk, and held the wine-cup,
And knelt, and did not rise,
And said, aloud, 'Lo-san, will you drink this wine?'
Said it three times aloud.
And at the third the faint blue smoke of incense
Rose to the walls in a cloud,
And the lips moved faintly, and the eyes, and the calm hands stirred;
And suddenly, with a sigh,
The quiet lady came slowly down from the portrait,
And stood, while worlds went by,
And lifted her young white hands and took the wine cup;
And the poet trembled, and said,
'Lo-san, will you stay forever?'—'Yes, I will stay.'—
'But what when I am dead?'
'When you are dead your spirit will find my spirit,
And then we shall die no more.'
Music came down upon them, and spring returning,
They remembered worlds before,
And years went over the earth, and over the sea,
And lovers were born and spoke and died,
But forever in sunlight went these two immortal,
Tokkei and the quiet bride . . .
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Leader and the Bad Girl
Because he had sinned and suffered, because he loved the land,
And because of his wonderful sympathy, he held men’s hearts in his hand.
Born and bred of the people, he knew their every whim,
And because he had struggled through poverty he could draw the poor to him:
Speaker and leader and poet, tall and handsome and strong,
With the eyes of a dog for faith and truth that blazed at the thought of a wrong.
They thought in his country’s crisis that his time had come at last—
For they measured his brilliant future by the light of his brilliant past.
At every monster meeting the thousands called his name,
And a burst of triumphant cheering greeted him when he came.
They had faith in the strength of a single man, when their fighting lines were weak,
And a pregnant silence fell on all whenever he rose to speak.
But just when his power was greatest and the people’s cause went well,
And just as they needed their leader most, the leader stumbled and fell;
And his pitiful rivals exulted, for they thought that his star had set,
And the hearts of the people who worshipped him were filled with a keen regret;
The cowardly sneer was printed, and whispered the shameful word,
And the scandal was heard by thousands—the world and a bad girl heard.
Down in the frowsy alley, in a dark and narrow room,
On a mattress the shattered drunkard lay ghastly in his gloom;
And the bad girl nursed him and kept him from the drink for which he craved,
And she gave him broth and she watched him, and she soothed him when he raved,
For she’d heard the boast of his rivals and had sworn to lift him above—
And by day and by night she held him with the strength of a woman’s love.
They were holding a monster meeting, and the hour was close at hand
When his rivals would be triumphant and bad laws rule the land;
His people swayed and wavered and scattered like storm-swept birds,
For they needed his magical presence and the sound of his burning words.
But he heard the Drums of the Alley and the feeble answering cheer,
And he felt the strength to his limbs return, and his brain grow cool and clear.
He rose, and the bad girl dressed him well in the den where the lights were dim,
And her eyes grew bright as an angel’s might—for she knew the strength in him.
They had sneered when his name was mentioned in the hall with lights aglare.
But the crowd surged back to the platform when ’twas whispered that he was there.
Like the cry of a crowd from a sinking ship, his people called his name,
And gaunt and white but with eyes alight with the fire of old he came.
He spoke of the shameful sacrifice of the land where he was born;
Spoke with the burning words of truth and the withering words of scorn.
He spoke as he never had done before and his rivals were stricken dumb,
For the little men knew their master, and they knew that he had come;
His song of salvation went through the land in a loud, triumphant strain—
He held them all in the palm of his hand, and he was a king again.
So a man might fall to the gutter, though he be a king of men,
But a man might rise from the gutter with the strength of ten times ten;
And the people’s poet and leader for a long time led them all,
Wiser because of his weakness and stronger because of the fall.
They found the girl in the river—the river that flowed by the town—
She died that her spirit might strengthen him, where her love would drag him down.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Grandmother
I.
And Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Anne?
Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man.
And Willy's wife has written: she never was over-wise,
Never the wife for Willy: he would n't take my advice.
II.
For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to save,
Had n't a head to manage, and drank himself into his grave.
Pretty enough, very pretty! but I was against it for one.
Eh!--but he would n't hear me--and Willy, you say, is gone.
III.
Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the flock;
Never a man could fling him: for Willy stood like a rock.
`Here's a leg for a babe of a week!' says doctor; and he would be bound,
There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round.
IV.
Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his tongue!
I ought to have gone before him: I wonder he went so young.
I cannot cry for him, Annie: I have not long to stay;
Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away.
V.
Why do you look at me, Annie? you think I am hard and cold;
But all my children have gone before me, I am so old:
I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest;
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best.
VI.
For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my dear,
All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear.
I mean your grandfather, Annie: it cost me a world of woe,
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago.
VII.
For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and I knew right well
That Jenny had tript in her time: I knew, but I would not tell.
And she to be coming and slandering me, the base little liar!
But the tongue is a fire as you know, my dear, the tongue is a fire.
VIII.
And the parson made it his text that week, and he said likewise,
That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies,
That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright,
But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.
IX.
And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and a day;
And all things look'd half-dead, tho' it was the middle of May.
Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been!
But soiling another, Annie, will never make oneself clean.
X.
And I cried myself well-nigh blind, and all of an evening late
I climb'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the gate.
The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale,
And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale.
XI.
All of a sudden he stopt: there past by the gate of the farm,
Willy,--he did n't see me,--and Jenny hung on his arm.
Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how;
Ah, there's no fool like the old one -- it makes me angry now.
XII.
Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that he meant;
Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking courtesy and went.
And I said, `Let us part: in a hundred years it'll all be the same,
You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name.'
XIII.
And he turn'd, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet moonshine:
Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is mine.
And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well of ill;
But marry me out of hand: we two shall be happy still.'
XIV.
`Marry you, Willy!' said I, `but I needs must speak my mind,
And I fear you'll listen to tales, be jealous and hard and unkind.'
But he turn'd and claspt me in his arms, and answer'd, `No, love, no;'
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago.
XV.
So Willy and I were wedded: I wore a lilac gown;
And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers a crown.
But the first that ever I bare was dead before he was born,
Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn.
XVI.
That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of death.
There lay the sweet little body that never had drawn a breath.
I had not wept, little Anne, not since I had been a wife;
But I wept like a child that day, for the babe had fought for his life.
XVII.
His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or pain:
I look'd at the still little body--his trouble had all been in vain.
For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him another morn:
But I wept like a child for the child that was dead before he was born.
XVIII.
But he cheer'd me, my good man, for he seldom said me nay:
Kind, like a man, was he; like a man, too, would have his way:
Never jealous--not he: we had many a happy year;
And he died, and I could not weep--my own time seem'd so near.
XIX.
But I wish'd it had been God's will that I, too, then could have died:
I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side.
And that was ten years back, or more, if I don't forget:
But as to the children, Annie, they're all about me yet.
XX.
Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left me at two,
Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you:
Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her will,
While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hill.
XXI.
And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too--they sing to their team:
Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream.
They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed--
I am not always certain if they be alive or dead.
XXII.
And yet I know for a truth, there's none of them left alive;
For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty- five:
And Willy, my eldest born, at nigh threescore and ten;
I knew them all as babies, and now they're elderly men.
XXIII.
For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I grieve;
I am oftener sitting at home in my father's farm at eve:
And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and so do I;
I find myself often laughing at things that have long gone by.
XXIV.
To be sure the preacher says, our sins should make us sad:
But mine is a time of peace, and there is Grace to be had;
And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall cease;
And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of Peace.
XXV.
And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain,
And happy has been my life; but I would not live it again.
I seem to be tired a little, that's all, and long for rest;
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best.
XXVI.
So Willy has gone, my beauty, my eldest-born, my flower;
But how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for an hour,--
Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next;
I, too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext?
XXVII.
And Willy's wife has written, she never was over-wise.
Get me my glasses, Annie: thank God that I keep my eyes.
There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have past away.
But stay with the old woman now: you cannot have long to stay.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Slander
The word is out -- heads are talkin
And just like a fire ragin wild in the night,
The rumors hot, the room is rockin,
Its out of control, too vicious to fight
Two lovers split -- a heart is shattered
And out of revenge it steals through the night,
Making sure the lies are scattered
To every border of this town tonight
The words on the street, you call it truth,
I call it slander,
Times are tough, talk is cheap --
Soon theyll talk about you --
Slander
The jury splits -- undecided,
Theyre searching for clues,
My live in their hands
The hour has come, they stand divided,
The future shall judge the good and the bad
And now, theres talk on the street --
I call it slander,
I will fight this somehow
Revenge will be sweet
Slander -- like a knife in my heart --
Slander
Slander -- gonna keep us apart --
Slander
Slander c theres talk on the street
Slander -- revenge will be sweet
Slander -- Im ready to fight
Slander -- I will find it tonight
Slander -- like a knife in my heart --
Slander
Slander -- gonna keep us apart
Slander
Slander -- theres talk on the street --
Slander -- revenge will be sweet
Slander -- too vicious to fight
Slander -- wild in the night
song performed by by Survivor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Lost Friend
MY friend he was; my friend from all the rest;
With childlike faith he oped to me his breast;
No door was locked on altar, grave or grief;
No weakness veiled, concealed no disbelief;
The hope, the sorrow and the wrong were bare,
And ah, the shadow only showed the fair!
I gave him love for love; but, deep within,
I magnified each frailty into sin:
Each hill-topped foible in the sunset glowed,
Obscuring vales where rivered virtttes flowed.
Reproof became reproach, till common grew
The captious word at every fault I knew.
He smiled upon the censorship, and bore
With patient love the touch that wounded sore;
Until at length, so had my blindness grown,
He knew I judged him by his faults alone.
Alone, of all men, I who knew him best,
Refused the gold, to take the dross for test!
Cold strangers honored for the worth they saw;
His friend forgot the diamond in the flaw.
At last it came—the day he stood apart
When from my eyes he proudly veiled his heart;
When carping judgment and uncertain word
A stern resentment in his bosom stirred;
When in his face I read what I had been,
And with his vision saw what he had seen.
Too late! too late! Oh, could he then have known,
When his love died, that mine had perfect grown;
That when the veil was drawn, abased, chastised,
The censor stood, the lost one truly prized.
Too late we learn—a man must hold his friend
Unjudged, accepted, trusted to the end.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An Old Soldier
Friend, I have faced many a difficult battle,
Dangerous missions that required some backbone;
As a soldier, I have encountered hard times,
But this trip was the toughest one I had known.
My feet became heavy, but still I walked on,
Moving down the long hallway to where he lay;
This man was my best friend and fellow soldier,
But, I had received news, he would die today.
His room was now only a few feet away,
I became frozen, standing there at his door;
I had come to say goodbye to my comrade,
For after today, I would see him no more.
He was sitting up, as if waiting for me,
I noticed an old familiar smile on his face;
He said; “Soldier, I’m sure glad you came today,
For soon ole’ buddy, I’ll be leavin’ this place.
He said; “Now you know I don’t like hospitals,
There’s just too much sufferin’ n’ pain;
‘Sides, these places stir up many old memories,
Some I’ve been reliving again and again.”
“But, Soldier, I’ve got a brand new a’signment,
I’m goin’ t’ a land where there ain’t no wars;
A place where winds of peace are always blowin’,
It’s a long mission, away up b’yond the stars.”
“Yes sir, I’m ready, be gone in a short while,
But there’s a thing or two I’d like you to know.”
“You, Sir have always been my very best friend,
Sure gon’na miss our talks, and I’ve loved you so.”
As he spoke, a glow came upon his old face,
Like none that I had ever seen there before;
He said; “Listen up Soldier, I’m being called,
A messenger’s a’standin’ there at my door.”
I took his hand as he squeezed mine so tightly,
I swear, I have never seen him so at ease;
He turned and spoke up again, smiling widely,
“The Commanders’ waitin’, now I’ve got t’ leave! ”
And then, just like that, the old soldier was gone,
Then I felt his firm grip on my hand release;
I stood at full attention to salute him,
As I said; “So long dad, now go… rest in peace.”
poem by Loyd C. Taylor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sonnet XXVIII: My Letters
My letters-- all dead paper, mute and white!
And yet they seem alive and quivering
Against my tremulous hands which loose the string
And let them drop down on my knee to-night,
This said,--he wished to have me in his sight
Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring
To come and touch my hand...a simple thing,
Yet I wept for it!--this...the paper's light...
Said, Dear, I love thee; and I sank and quailed
As if God's future thundered on my past.
This said, I am thine--and so its ink has paled
With lying at my heart that beat too fast.
And this...O Love, thy words have ill availed
If, what this said, I dared repeat at last!
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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Xxviii
My letters ! all dead paper, mute and white !
And yet they seem alive and quivering
Against my tremulous hands which loose the string
And let them drop down on my knee to-night.
This said,--he wished to have me in his sight
Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring
To come and touch my hand . . . a simple thing,
Yet I wept for it !--this, . . . the paper's light . . .
Said, Dear, I love thee; and I sank and quailed
As if God's future thundered on my past.
This said, I am thine--and so its ink has paled
With Iying at my heart that beat too fast.
And this . . . O Love, thy words have ill availed
If, what this said, I dared repeat at last !
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sonnet XXVIII
My letters ! all dead paper, mute and white !
And yet they seem alive and quivering
Against my tremulous hands which loose the string
And let them drop down on my knee to-night.
This said,--he wished to have me in his sight
Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring
To come and touch my hand . . . a simple thing,
Yet I wept for it !--this, . . . the paper's light . . .
Said, Dear, I love thee; and I sank and quailed
As if God's future thundered on my past.
This said, I am thine--and so its ink has paled
With Iying at my heart that beat too fast.
And this . . . O Love, thy words have ill availed
If, what this said, I dared repeat at last !
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Henry George
(Melbourne)
I CAME to buy a book. It was a shop
Down in a narrow quiet street, and here
They kept, I knew, these socialistic books.
I entered. All was bare, but clean and neat.
The shelves were ranged with unsold wares; the counter
Held a few sheets and papers. Here and there
Hung prints and calendars. I rapped, and straight
A young Girl came out through the inner door.
She had a clear and simple face; I saw
She had no beauty, loveliness, nor charm,
But, as your eyes met those grey light-lit eyes
Like to a mountain spring so pure, you thought:
'He'd be a clever man who looked, and lied!'
I asked her for the book. . . . We spoke a little.
Her words were as her face was, as her eyes.
Yes, she'd read many books like this of mine:
Also some poets, Shelley, Byron too,
And Tennyson, but 'poets only dreamed!'
Thus, then, we talked, until by chance I spoke
A phrase and then a name. 'Twas 'Henry George.'
Her face lit up. O it was beautiful,
Or never woman's face was! 'Henry George?'
She said. And then a look, a flush, a smile,
Such as sprung up in Magdalenè's cheek
When some voice uttered Jesus, made her angel.
She turned and pointed up the counter. I,
Loosing mine eyes from that ensainted face,
Looked also. 'Twas a print, a common print,
The head and shoulders of a man. She said,
Quite in a whisper: 'That's him, Henry George!'
Darling, that in this life of wrong and woe,
The lovely woman-soul within you brooded
And wept and loved and hated and pitied,
And knew not what its helplessness could do,
Its helplessness, its sheer bewilderment —
That then those eyes should fall, those angel eyes,
On one who'd brooded, wept, loved, hated, pitied,
Even as you had, but therefrom had sprung
A hope, a plan, a scheme to right this wrong,
And make this woe less hateful to the sun —
And that pure soul had found its Master thus
To listen to, remember, watch and love,
And trust the dawn that rose up through the dark:
O this was good
For me to see, as for some weary hopeless
Longer and toiler for 'the Kingdom of Heaven'
To stand some lifeless twilight hour, and hear,
There in a dim-lit house of Lazarus,
Mary who said: 'Thus, thus he looked, he spake,
The Master!' — So to hear her rapturous words,
And gaze upon her up-raised heavenly face!
poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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And It Stoned Me
Half a mile from the county fair
And the rain keep pourin' down
Me and Billy standin' there
With a silver half a crown
Hands are full of a fishin' rod
And the tackle on our backs
We just stood there gettin' wet
With our backs against the fence
Oh, the water
Oh, the water
Oh, the water
Hope it don't rain all day
Chorus:
And it stoned me to my soul
Stoned me just like Jelly Roll
And it stoned me
And it stoned me to my soul
Stoned me just like goin' home
And it stoned me
Then the rain let up and the sun came up
And we were gettin' dry
Almost let a pick-up truck nearly pass us by
So we jumped right in and the driver grinned
And he dropped us up the road
We looked at the swim and we jumped right in
Not to mention fishing poles
Oh, the water
Oh, the water
Oh, the water
Let it run all over me
Chorus
On the way back home we sang a song
But our throats were getting dry
Then we saw the man from across the road
With the sunshine in his eyes
Well he lived all alone in his own little home
With a great big gallon jar
There were bottles too, one for me and you
And he said Hey! There you are
Oh, the water
Oh, the water
Oh, the water
Get it myself from the mountain stream
Chorus
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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