Life's Hebe
IN the early morning-shine
Of a certain day divine,
I beheld a Maiden stand
With a pitcher in her hand;
Whence she poured into a cup
Until it was half filled up
Nectar that was golden light
In the cup of crystal bright.
And the first who took the cup
With pure water filled it up;
As he drank then, it was more
Ruddy golden than before:
And he leapt and danced and sang
As to Bacchic cymbals’ clang.
But the next who took the cup
With the red wine filled it up;
What he drank then was in hue
Of a heavy sombre blue:
First he reeled and then he crept,
Then lay faint but never slept.
And the next who took the cup
With the white milk filled it up;
What he drank at first seemed blood,
Then turned thick and brown as mud:
And he moved away as slow
As a weary ox may go.
But the next who took the cup
With sweet honey filled it up;
Nathless that which he did drink
Was thin fluid black as ink:
As he went he stumbled, soon,
And lay still in deathlike swoon.
She the while without a word
Unto all the cup preferred;
Blandly smiled and sweetly laughed
As each mingled his own draught.
And the next who took the cup
To the sunshine held it up,
Gave it back and did not taste;
It was empty when replaced:
First he bowed a reverent bow,
Then he kissed her on the brow.
But the next who took the cup
Without mixture drank it up;
When she took it back from him
It was full unto the brim:
He with a right bold embrace
Kissed her sweet lips face to face.
Then she sang with blithest cheer:
Who has thirst, come here, come here!
Nectar that is golden light
In the cup of crystal bright,
Nectar that is sunny fire
Warm as warmest heart’s desire:
Pitcher never lacketh more,
Arm is never tired to pour:
Honey, water, milk, or wine
Mingle with the draught divine,
Drink it pure, or drink it not;
Each is free to choose his lot:
Am I old? or am I cold?
Only two have kissed me bold!
She was young and fair and gay
As that young and glorious day.
poem by James Thomson
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Related quotes
The Wine and Me
I asked the moon to drink with me tonight;
he just gave me a heavy sigh,
as though he heard that plea from me
a thousand times before.
Morning after morning, I don't see the sun;
that was after the day you were gone.
I filled my cup with wine,
the sounds of it seems music to my ears.
I wish to fade as you fade
with the passing years.
Every gulp of it brings the memory
when you were here by my side.
'You'll be back' - a sentimental lie.
My cup was empty and i filled it again.
Only now, the tears flowed like rain.
'You did want me' - another lie.
And i drink with my shadow
as the time passes by.
I was slowly consumed, like fire down a candle;
like drops of water flowing like a passing river.
The taste of wine on my lips
seems so sweet...I drank again.
'You miss me'- a sweeter lie.
I drank till the dawn is nigh.
I ask only to be drunk forever
and never wake...
to lie forgotten with the darkness;
to sleep forgotten in the depths of a lake.
'You did love me' - the sweetest lie.
I wish to fade as the years pass by.
But tonight, there's just this wine and me
forgotten with the wind.
With our endless torments,
with our bitter tears...
There's just this wine and me to let me forget you
and the sorrows of a thousand years.
poem by Jessel Jane Tevar
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The Deluge
Though giant rains put out the sun,
Here stand I for a sign.
Though earth be filled with waters dark,
My cup is filled with wine.
Tell to the trembling priests that here
Under the deluge rod,
One nameless, tattered, broken man
Stood up, and drank to God.
Sun has been where the rain is now,
Bees in the heat to hum,
Haply a humming maiden came,
Now let the deluge come:
Brown of aureole, green of garb,
Straight as a golden rod,
Drink to the throne of thunder now!
Drink to the wrath of God.
High in the wreck I held the cup,
I clutched my rusty sword,
I cocked my tattered feather
To the glory of the Lord.
Not undone were the heaven and earth,
This hollow world thrown up,
Before one man had stood up straight,
And drained it like a cup.
poem by G.K. Chesterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Come To The Well
Come to the well she said
Come eat my bread
Come drink the water of life
Enter my valley deep
Let the angels weep
Rejoice and touch the good earth tonight
And there was gingham and silk
Sage, honey and milk
Sweetmeats, spirits and wine
She bathed us in sweet balms of rose
Lit candles of clove
And lay her glisting body on mine
We stayed locked in love
In leaves of green and gold
She touched, I trembled, we kissed
I poured the contents of my aching heart and soul
Soon she woke up with the sun
Filled with seeds of worlds to come
Come to the well she said
Come and eat my bread
Come and drink the water of life
song performed by by Gino Vanelli
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Deluge
Though giant rains put out the sun,
Here stand I for a sign.
Though earth be filled with waters dark,
My cup is filled with wine.
Tell to the trembling priests that here
Under the deluge rod,
One nameless, tattered, broken man
Stood up, and drank to God.
Sun has been where the rain is now,
Bees in the heat to hum,
Haply a humming maiden came,
Now let the deluge come:
Brown of aureole, green of garb,
Straight as a golden rod,
Drink to the throne of thunder now!
Drink to the wrath of God.
High in the wreck I held the cup,
I clutched my rusty sword,
I cocked my tattered feather
To the glory of the Lord.
Not undone were the heaven and earth,
This hollow world thrown up,
Before one man had stood up straight,
And drained it like a cup.
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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World Was In The Face Of The Beloved
World was in the face of the beloved--,
but suddenly it poured out and was gone:
world is outside, world can not be grasped.
Why didn't I, from the full, beloved face
as I raised it to my lips, why didn't I drink
world, so near that I couldn't almost taste it?
Ah, I drank. Insatiably I drank.
But I was filled up also, with too much
world, and, drinking, I myself ran over.
Translated by Stephen Mitchell
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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A Remorseful Plea
If I should drink from the nectar of the Gods
and return to my youth once more,
Would the Gods be with me
or would it be as before?
For all that I did was not enough.
My life was left undone.
Would the sweetness of the nectar
be accompanied by the sun?
Or would my life be a revolving door
making me atone
for all I left unfinished
and all I did bemoan?
As the bitterness that quenched my thirst
was not a pleasant drink,
still I drank and drank of it
and never stopped to think
of time I wasted on trivialities
which hindered my eyes
from seeing the most important of all
before a teardropp dries.
To become at home with all there is
to make me feel complete
and never wrestle with 'What should I do? '
with the sorrowful ones I meet.
Oh that the Gods would hear my plea
and understand how I feel,
they would offer that cup of nectar to drink
so that my soul could heal.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Memory Of Water
(music: marillion lyrics: john helmer)
I wonder if my ropes still hanging from the tree
By the standing pool where you drank me
And filled me full of thirsty love
And the memory of water?
wonder if a king still fishes there
His back toward the burned out air
His laughing catches singing loud
The memory of water
Your taste is blood and ecstasy
But I must drink you all alone
Youre freckled like a speckled egg
A dove but this bird has flown
O stay with me sweet memory
O stay with me
Wonder if my ropes still hanging from the tree
By the standing pool where you drank me
As pain flows through me like champagne
Of the memory of water
song performed by by Marillion
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cool Tubrid Water
The day is warm and dust fly in the breeze
And a forecast high of 35 degrees
And to quench my thirst I would need a cold beer
For no water like cool Tubrid water here.
Near Daylesford there's a spring well I recall
And I drank some water from it in the Fall
Of that clear spring I now could drink my fill
And Tubrid water even better still.
The skylark comes to Tubrid's bubbling spring
To bathe and drink and then fly off to sing
And o'er the bogland in the morning sky
You hear him pipe his heartfelt notes of joy.
I often called to Tubrid seldom though in May
And not to kneel at the grotto to pray
But to drink the water cool and crystal clear
A drink far better for your health than beer.
The water from the tap don't taste so nice
Though it feels cooler with a cube of ice
I have drank far better near Daylesford last Fall
Though Tubrid water still the best of all.
The day is warm and dust fly in the breeze
And a forecast high of 35 degrees
And to quench my thirst I would need a cold beer
For no water like cool Tubrid water here.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Reclaiming love, love, love.
Oh, see how sweet shake wave rays through
Two fishermen launched the nets on the lake
Old man stand listening to what comes from afar
The young man with a book in hand was filled with annoyance
Your absence is freezing in every row
Hunting is going well
waves are thus ablaze
All nets are filled with fish like stars
that dance with slopes very...
The recent just gathering, the young man so crying
‘cause He is afraid, He will not ever see you again
but a light pierces the blue sky. From the castle
replies a sweet voice of prompt joy
The boat gained momentum
and voices chanted again Avatar
here comes dawn light
The moon drank pauses of water
and slept quite happily
While playing with the waves rays
and reclaiming
love, love, love.
poem by Vasil Marku
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The Gourd
In the heavy earth the miner
Toiled and laboured day by day,
Wrenching from the miser mountain
Brilliant treasure where it lay.
And the artist worn and weary
Wrought with labour manifold
That the king might drink his nectar
From a goblet made of gold.
On the prince's groaning table
Mid the silver gleaming bright
Mirroring the happy faces
Giving back the flaming light,
Shine the cups of priceless crystal
Chased with many a lovely line,
Glowing now with warmer colour,
Crimsoned by the ruby wine.
In a valley sweet with sunlight,
Fertile with the dew and rain,
Without miner's daily labour,
Without artist's nightly pain,
There there grows the cup I drink from,
Summer's sweetness in it stored,
And my lips pronounce a blessing
As they touch an old brown gourd.
Why, the miracle at Cana
In the land of Galilee,
Tho' it puzzles all the scholars,
Is no longer strange to me.
For the poorest and the humblest
Could a priceless wine afford,
If they 'd only dip up water
With a sunlight-seasoned gourd.
So a health to my old comrade,
And a song of praise to sing
When he rests inviting kisses
In his place beside the spring.
Give the king his golden goblets,
Give the prince his crystal hoard;
But for me the sparkling water
From a brown and brimming gourd!
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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My Water Fountain
I drank glasses of water,
I drank water from office coolers.
Many people drank from water fountains.
I thought my thirst I could slake,
If I drank water from a cool lake.
Then I would would drink cold water,
From gushing waterfalls.
But much to my surprise,
I thirsted for all of Earth's water.
I couldn't fathom my inner self,
About slaking my thirst insatiable.
I couldn't come to grips about,
The deep waters of my life.
Was it my body? Or was it my soul?
Then I very quickly learned,
That this thirst for water that was burning in me,
Was my unending thirst for love
That everybody yearns for.
And everybody needs.
In quantities of glasses, coolers, waterfalls,
Lakes, oceans and seas.
poem by Vera Sidhwa
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Water!--Oh! Water For Me
Oh! water for me-bright water for me!
And wine for the tremulous debauchee!
It cooleth the brow, it cooleth the brain,
It maketh the faint one strong again;
It comes o'er the sense like a breeze from the sea:
All freshness, like infant purity.
Oh water for me, bright water, for me!
Give wine, give wine to the debauchee!
Fill to the brim! fill, fill to the brim!
Let the flowing crystal kiss the rim:
For my hand is steady, my eye is true,
For I, like the flowers, drink nothing but dew.
Oh! water, bright water's a mine of wealth,
And the ores it yieldeth are vigour and health.
So water, pure water for me, for me!
And wine for the tremulous debauchee!
When over the hills, like a gladsome bride,
Morning walks forth in her beauty's pride,
And leading a band of laughing hours,
Brushes the dew from the nodding flowers,
Oh! cheerily then my voice is heard,
Mingling with that of the soaring bird,
Who flingeth abroad his matins loud,
As he freshens his wing in the cold grey cloud.
But when evening has quitted her sheltering yew,
Drowsily flying, and weaving anew,
Her dusky meshes o'er land and sea,
How gently, oh Sleep, fall thy poppies on me!
For water I drink, pure, cold and bright,
And my dreams are of heaven the live long night.
So, hurrah for thee, water, hurrah, hurrah!
Thou art silver and gold, thou art ribbon and star,
Hurrah for bright water! hurrah! hurrah!
poem by John Pierpont
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I Am Your Instrument Lord
(9/25/12)
I am but an instrument in thy hands
How I am to be used - I may not understand.
You are my doctor and the surgeon in my life
You will cut out the bad, and make things right.
You are the blood that gives me life
And thru you - I'll see paradise.
I became like a wanderer lost in the desert
With nothing in sight.
But you became my guiding light.
You became my water and my food
And strengthened me every step of the way
And showed me how to pray.
I was like an empty pitcher of wine
Till you filled me up with your light divine.
Now I pour out like the wine on that wedding day
Where you turned water into wine
And your words pour out of me in verse and rhyme.
These words can not be mine for I have not
the knowledge - nor the skill, but I am
Your instrument, my words your will.
Lead me LORD on this road that you have chosen
Let this be '' MY TAPESTRY" that you have woven.
© L. RAMS
poem by Louis Rams
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You were past cute
Our feet were in
green moss filled water,
the wind was in our hair
and the white-hot sun
hang in the blue sky.
We sat in the shade of crying willow tree
and had a picnic next to the river
and ate delicacies and drank some cool drink.
You were past cute with your straw hat
under which your lips looked alluring soft red
and I saw heaven in your golden eyes
and we were in love.
For moments we were caught
in the wonder of nature,
time flew and minutes hastened
becoming hours.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Dracula Flower
The flower was stretching
It's hand to find a honey-bee
To be embraced and kissed!
The flower remained
In meditation to invoke God
To sent her groom
As she bore the nectar
To be sucked and emptied
By the trunk of a honey-bee
The long hairy hands
Of the flower frightened
The butterflies move wantonly
The caterpillars jumping
In quest to quench the thirst!
As the flower in penance
Heard the humming
Of a honey-bee unseen
She opened her eyes
In search to up and sides
And she was enthused
To see the blue-black
Groom of her from heaven
With wings shivering
As if in a whirl wind
Moving to her lips
To kiss and empty her!
The flower leaped her hand
To embrace the honey-bee
Whose nail ladden legs
Did wand her hands
Yet she never let loose
Her embrace to get-him close
To her breast stored with honey.
The honey-bee sucking nectar
From the lips of the flower
Never see him trapped
In the tangle of figments.
He struggled and jerked
But the flower sucked
The honey-bee's life
In return to her nectar he sucked
poem by Vadakkumpurath Ramesan
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The Well of St. Keyne
A Well there is in the west country,
And a clearer one never was seen;
There is not a wife in the west country
But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.
An oak and an elm-tree stand beside,
And behind doth an ash-tree grow,
And a willow from the bank above
Droops to the water below.
A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne;
Joyfully he drew nigh,
For from the cock-crow he had been travelling,
And there was not a cloud in the sky.
He drank of the water so cool and clear,
For thirsty and hot was he,
And he sat down upon the bank
Under the willow-tree.
There came a man from the house hard by
At the Well to fill his pail;
On the Well-side he rested it,
And he bade the Stranger hail.
"Now art thou a bachelor, Stranger?" quoth he,
"For an if thou hast a wife,
The happiest draught thou hast drank this day
That ever thou didst in thy life.
"Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast,
Ever here in Cornwall been?
For an if she have, I'll venture my life
She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne."
"I have left a good woman who never was here."
The Stranger he made reply,
"But that my draught should be the better for that,
I pray you answer me why?"
"St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, "many a time
Drank of this crystal Well,
And before the Angel summon'd her,
She laid on the water a spell.
"If the Husband of this gifted Well
Shall drink before his Wife,
A happy man thenceforth is he,
For he shall be Master for life.
"But if the Wife should drink of it first,--
God help the Husband then!"
The Stranger stoopt to the Well of St. Keyne,
And drank of the water again.
"You drank of the Well I warrant betimes?"
He to the Cornish-man said:
But the Cornish-man smiled as the Stranger spake,
And sheepishly shook his head.
"I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done,
And left my Wife in the porch;
But i' faith she had been wiser than me,
For she took a bottle to Church."
poem by Robert Southey
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Maundy Thursday
Between the brown hands of a server-lad
The silver cross was offered to be kissed.
The men came up, lugubrious, but not sad,
And knelt reluctantly, half-prejudiced.
(And kissing, kissed the emblem of a creed.)
Then mourning women knelt; meek mouths they had,
(And kissed the Body of the Christ indeed.)
Young children came, with eager lips and glad.
(These kissed a silver doll, immensely bright.)
Then I, too, knelt before that acolyte.
Above the crucifix I bent my head:
The Christ was thin, and cold, and very dead:
And yet I bowed, yea, kissed - my lips did cling.
(I kissed the warm live hand that held the thing.)
poem by Wilfred Owen
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Lamp of Crystal
Golden flame amidst silver mountains
Echo canyon still as moonlight
Love rides thunder in blood of passion
Drink from fountains of amethyst
Sanguine rubies of violet stars
Maidens of fire dance in gossamer blue
Red beams of Mars drink the light
Desire lit journeys into the fire
The earth dresses like a bride
Spring belongs to every bold lover
Sanctuary invites me into her forest
Rivers dressed in lime flow like elves
She has brought back the noble eagles
Diamond eyes sparkle like lighthouses
She walks on moss made of dreams
Tendrils of wildflowers by the sea
Her hair washed in the glorious dawn
Man awakes to his lovely destiny
Silhouettes share the sighing purples
Regal creation in mystical moonlight
We walk softly filled with radiant joy
Songs of the ancient garden
Man and woman amidst the summer
Shielded by flaming angels
Circles filled with rose pedals
Ideals in unspoken onyx necklaces
Consciousness revels in the universe
Candle of divine love in gowns of sky
Lamp of Crystal lit in the Milky Way
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Mary and Gabriel
Young Mary, loitering once her garden way,
Felt a warm splendour grow in the April day,
As wine that blushes water through. And soon,
Out of the gold air of the afternoon,
One knelt before her: hair he had, or fire,
Bound back above his ears with golden wire,
Baring the eager marble of his face.
Not man's nor woman's was the immortal grace
Rounding the limbs beneath that robe of white,
And lighting the proud eyes with changeless light,
Incurious. Calm as his wings, and fair,
That presence filled the garden.
She stood there,
Saying, 'What would you, Sir?'
He told his word,
'Blessed art thou of women!' Half she heard,
Hands folded and face bowed, half long had known,
The message of that clear and holy tone,
That fluttered hot sweet sobs about her heart;
Such serene tidings moved such human smart.
Her breath came quick as little flakes of snow.
Her hands crept up her breast. She did but know
It was not hers. She felt a trembling stir
Within her body, a will too strong for her
That held and filled and mastered all. With eyes
Closed, and a thousand soft short broken sighs,
She gave submission; fearful, meek, and glad. . . .
She wished to speak. Under her breasts she had
Such multitudinous burnings, to and fro,
And throbs not understood; she did not know
If they were hurt or joy for her; but only
That she was grown strange to herself, half lonely,
All wonderful, filled full of pains to come
And thoughts she dare not think, swift thoughts and dumb,
Human, and quaint, her own, yet very far,
Divine, dear, terrible, familiar . . .
Her heart was faint for telling; to relate
Her limbs' sweet treachery, her strange high estate,
Over and over, whispering, half revealing,
Weeping; and so find kindness to her healing.
'Twixt tears and laughter, panic hurrying her,
She raised her eyes to that fair messenger.
He knelt unmoved, immortal; with his eyes
Gazing beyond her, calm to the calm skies;
Radiant, untroubled in his wisdom, kind.
His sheaf of lilies stirred not in the wind.
How should she, pitiful with mortality,
Try the wide peace of that felicity
With ripples of her perplexed shaken heart,
And hints of human ecstasy, human smart,
And whispers of the lonely weight she bore,
And how her womb within was hers no more
And at length hers?
Being tired, she bowed her head;
And said, "So be it!"
The great wings were spread
Showering glory on the fields, and fire.
The whole air, singing, bore him up, and higher,
Unswerving, unreluctant. Soon he shone
A gold speck in the gold skies; then was gone.
The air was colder, and grey. She stood alone.
poem by Rupert Brooke (1912)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Harvest Song
THE noon was as a crystal bowl
The red wine mantled through;
Around it like a Viking's beard
The red-gold hazes blew,
As tho' he quaffed the ruddy draught
While swift his galley flew.
This mighty Viking was the Night;
He sailed about the earth,
And called the merry harvest-time
To sing him songs of mirth;
And all on earth or in the sea
To melody gave birth.
The valleys of the earth were full
To rocky lip and brim
With golden grain that shone and sang
When woods were still and dim,
A little song from sheaf to sheaf-
Sweet Plenty's cradle-hymn.
O gallant were the high tree-tops,
And gay the strain they sang!
And cheerfully the moon-lit hills
Their echo-music rang!
And what so proud and what so loud
As was the ocean's clang!
But O the little humming song
That sang among the sheaves!
'Twas grander than the airy march
That rattled thro' the leaves,
And prouder, louder, than the deep,
Bold clanging of the waves:
'The lives of men, the lives of men
With every sheaf are bound!
We are the blessing which annuls
The curse upon the ground!
And he who reaps the Golden Grain
The Golden Love hath found.'
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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