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Lilah, Alice, Hypatia

To Alice and Hypatia Bradlaugh

Who was Lilah? I am sure
She was young and sweet and pure;
With the forehead wise men love,-
Here a lucid dawn above
Broad curved brows, and twilight there,
Under the deep dusk of hair.
And her eyes? I cannot say
Whether brown, or blue, or grey:
I have seen them brown, and blue,
And a soft green grey-the hue
Shakespeare loved (and he was wise):
'Grey as glass' were Silvia's eyes.

So to Lilah's name above
I will add two names I love,
Linking with the bracket curls
Three sweet names of three sweet girls:-
Sunday of Saint Valentine,
Eighteen hundred sixty-nine.

poem by James Thomson
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Lilah

Lilah
Like every young man, I had some things that i
Wanted to say
Ere I could begin, you know the world got
In my way
Oh lilah, to sleep like a baby
To open the window and feel the fair wind
Oh lilah, to sleep like a baby again
We spend so much time weeping and wailing and
Shaking our fists
Creating enemies that really dont exist
Oh lilah, to sleep like a baby-
To open the window and feel the fair wind
Oh lilah, to sleep like a baby again
All these comings and goings that cut like a knife
These small, simple pleasures that make up a life
A man needs a home, and a child, and a wife
To always be there-always
After Im gone, there are some things that I know
I will miss
The taste of your mouth; the smell of the perfume
On your wrist
Oh, lilah, the fields lie fallow
Whater ye sow, so shall ye reap
The rivers still shallow
But the riverbank is dark and deep
Oh lilah, the fields lie fallow
Whater ye sow, so shall ye reap
Oh lilah, this ground be hallow
Is ours to tend, but not to keep
Toodle-loo de-loo lilah
Toodle-loo de-loo de-lay
Now, while all the streets are silent
Take my hand and come away
Toodle-loo de-loo lilah
Toodle-loo de-loo de-lay

song performed by by Don Henley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Grey-eyed mabel

I gazed on orbs of flashing black;
I met the glow of hazel light;
I marked the hue of laughing blue,
That sparkled in the festive night.
But none could fling a lasting spell
To hold me with unchanging power--
The chains they cast were never fast
Beyond the gay and fleeting hour--
Till Grey-eyed Mabel's gentle glance,
With blushing sense and beauty rife,
Bade my soul cry with burning sigh,
'I'm thine, and only thine, for life.'
Black, blue, and hazel stars have set,
But Mabel's grey eyes lead me yet.

What was it in sweet Mabel's eyes
That told me what no others told,
That roused the dull, that pleased the wise,
That charmed the young and cheered the old?
What was it held my world-worn breast
In holy thrall--unknown before?
What was it those grey eyes expressed
That made me worship and adore?
It was the pure and tender ray
That filled those eyes in joy or woe;
It was the beam that could not play
Without the fountain stream below;
It was the beam of simple truth,
Of Woman's faith and trusting Youth.

Those soft, grey eyes were watched by mine
With earnest, deep, and secret prayer;
I knew, I felt, my earthly shrine
Was found and fixed for ever--there.
I poured my heart one moonlit night
Into sweet Mabel's listening ear;
Our mutual vow, from then till now,
Bound each to each--fond, firm, and dear.
Our boys and girls are growing round,
And all give promise, brave and fair,
But one, young cherub form is found
First in my love, my hope, my care.
And why?--ah! why? My soul replies,
'She has dear Mabel's soft, grey eyes.'

poem by Eliza Cook
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As Long As Your Eyes Are Blue

'Will you love me, sweet, when my hair is grey
And my cheeks shall have lost their hue?
When the charms of youth shall have passed away
Will your love as of old prove true?

'For the looks may change, and the heart may range
And the love be no longer fond;
Will you love with truth in the years of youth
And away to the years beyond?'

Oh, I love you, sweet, for your locks of brown
And the blush on your cheek that lies,
But I love you most for the kindly heart
That I see in your sweet blue eyes.

For the eyes are the signs of the soul within,
Of the heart that is leal and true,
And, my own sweetheart, I shall love you still,
Just as long as your eyes are blue.

For the locks may bleach, and the cheeks of peach
May be reft of their golden hue;
But, my own sweetheart, I shall love you still,
Just as long as your eyes are blue.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Grey Blue Eyes

I feel for the light
Your glory was lost that night
And no mind can't get me right
And now I'm praying that you'll find me out
Stone, stone has pulled me down
But my faith has got me bound to your grey blue eyes
Oh, oh
Oh, oh
Don't forget my broken heart
You remember it from the start
You made it and it's all a part
Of your grey blue eyes
Oh, oh
Oh, oh
You're gone and I know I'm dead
I've lost my way
Can't find me in your grey blue eyes
Grey blue eyes
Grey blue eyes
Grey blue eyes

song performed by by Dave Matthews Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Brown Study

LET them sing of their primrose and cowslip,
Their daffodil-gold-coloured hair,
Their bluebells, blue eyes, and white violets,
All the pale dreamy things they find fair;
Give me stir of brown leaves in the sunshine,
The whir of brown wings through the wheat,
The rush of brown hares through the clover,
And the light in brown eyes of my sweet!

Gold hair? Well, I never could love it,
Yet gold, I suppose, has its worth;
The head that I love is as dusky
As the breast of our mother, the earth;
With a gleam like the shine of wet seaweed,
Round pools that the tide has left clear,
And warm like the breast of a linnet,
And as brown, is the hair of my dear.

From the edge of the cliff we look downwards
On the shore, and the bay, and the town,
And brown is the short turf we lean on,
The fishing-boats' sails are all brown:
The sky may be blue--that's the background,--
But the picture itself, to be fair,
However it's shaded and varied,
Should be brown as the dress that you wear.

A lark bursts to sudden sweet singing--
That tuft of brown grass is his home--
And now, a brown speck, he is rising
Against the clear windy sky-dome;
And he sings--how I know? Love instructs me
To know all his notes, what they mean--
That it isn't the colour I care for,
But yourself, oh, my gipsy, my queen!

Ah! the lark knows my heart--I his language;
It's my heart he sings out to the skies;
It is you that I love, and what matter
The colour of hair or of eyes?
No doubt I should love you as dearly
Were your hair like an apricot's down,
And your eyes like the grey of the morning;
But I'm glad, all the same, that they're brown.

poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Boys Of The House: For Valentine and Hubert Blake

Young martyrs of the war,
Who with your bright eyes star
The shadows grey;
Who steal at dawn and gloam
In each beloved room
So pale, so gay.

Boys who will not grow old,
Peach cheek and hair of gold,
Smile and are flown;
You will come back again,
In the darkness and the rain,
In the dusk, in the dawn.

Remember, oh, dear Two,
Two who came after you
Who love, as you loved,
The grey house and the woods,
All the sweet solitudes
You loved, approved.

Dear martyrs of the war,
Remember, where you are,
Boys who have still
To do, to bear, to attain
To your glory and your gain --
By what steep hill?

poem by Katharine Tynan
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Dream tryst

The breaths of kissing night and day
Were mingled in the eastern Heaven,
Throbbing with unheard melody,
Shook Lyra all its star-cloud seven.
When dusk shrank cold, and light trod shy,
And dawn's grey eyes were troubled grey;
And souls went palely up to the sky,
And mine to Lucidè,
There was no change in her sweet eyes
Since last I saw those sweet eyes shine;
There was no change in her deep heart
Since last that deep heart knocked at mine.
Her eyes were clear, her eyes were Hope's,
Wherein did ever come and go;
The sparkle of the fountain drops
From her sweet soul below.
The chambers in the house of dream
Are fed with so divine an air,
That Time's hoar wings grow young therein,
And they who walk there are most fair.
I joyed for me, I joyed for her,
Who with the Past meet girt about:
Where her last kiss still warms the air,
Nor can her eyes go out.

poem by Francis Thompson
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The Grey World

Grey nights in the wind,
And the grey-faced dead.
Grey hairs in my head,
And grey eyes in my mind.

Grey mists in the morn,
And grey waves that rave,
Grey mould on my grave,
And grey eyes forlorn.

Grey clouds in the sky,
And the grey world asleep,
Grey ghosts that sigh,
And grey eyes that weep.

poem by Leon Gellert
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The Gathering of the Brown-Eyed

The brown eyes came from Asia, where all mystery is true,
Ere the masters of Soul Secrets dreamed of hazel, grey, and blue;
And the Brown Eyes came to Egypt, which is called the gypsies’ home,
And the Brown Eyes went from Egypt and Jerusalem to Rome.

There was strife amongst the Brown Eyes for the false things and the true;
There was war amongst the Brown Eyes for the old gods and the new;
But the old gods live for ever, and their goddesses are bright
In the temples of Old Passions with the Brown Eyes of the White.

The Brown Eyes east, by Africa, they saw and conquered Spain,
And the Brown Eyes marched as Christians till a Brown Eye met a Dane,
The Dane had Brown-Eyed children who in blue eyes took delight—
And a son of blue-eyed sailors, brown-eyed, reads the stars to-night.

Oh, Knowledge from Old Deserts, where the great stars rocked the world!
Oh, courage from grim seaboards, where the Viking ships were hurled!
The clear skin of the Norseman, and the desert strength and sight,
The power to fathom mankind, and the glorious gift to write!

We can look in souls of women, aye! and let them know we do;
We can fix the false eyes earthward; we can meet and match the true;
We can startle Voice from Silence, and from Darkness flash the Light—
And the eyes to fathom Asia are the Brown Eyes of the White.

There’s a legend in the nations that all Brown Eyes once were true,
But were taught in love and warfare by the sinful shades of blue;
There’s a story amongst sinners that all Brown Eyes once were kind,
Till the Steel-Blue struck the Red-Fire in a hatred that was blind.

But the Brown Eyes are the saddest at the death of Love and Truth.
And the Brown Eyes are the grandest and the dreamiest of Youth.
They have risen in rebellion unto leadership sublime—
And the grey-eyed queens of women loved, and love them for all time!

Brown Eyes never married Brown Eyes but unhappiness held sway,
For the real mates of the Brown Eyes have for ever been the grey.
But though Brown Eyes quarrel hotly, though their very souls be wrenched,
Never Blue-Eye wronged a Brown-Eye but the Brown-Eye was avenged!

Through the breadth of wide Australia, waiting desert-like and vast,
We have sent our Brown-Eyed children, who are multiplying fast.
Patriots, picture-writers, sages, fill the Brown-Eyed rolls to-night—
’Tis the gathering from all ages of the Brown-Eyed of the White.

poem by Henry Lawson
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Sweet Little Valentine

Oh sweet, sweet little valentine
Why sit you in despondent
Oh beautiful valentine
Life is too beautiful to cry at
And so are you my dear valentine

Oh sweet, sweet little valentine
He which you cry for
Never deserved your love
Lucky he was for having you fall for him
Stupid he was for letting you go

Oh sweet, sweet little valentine
Don't waste such tears
Oh beautiful one from Monday to Sunday
How I would wish to be in his place
I would love you oh so much
Dear sweet valentine
When you will stop the bad guys from stealing your heart
And open your eyes, to what you do not see
And is in front of you

poem by Gabriel Gauci Maistre
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A Wonderful Painting

A Wonderful Painting
by Alex Lewis

I remember before my mother's art
When I was but an egg.
The painting took color in every part.
One shade is but a leg.

The lavish blues spread across the page like a waving, smiling sea.
The canvas was plain and bare, except the blues, happily set free.
With the blue, I went to play as childish as I may.
The one clam and I sat with ourselves on the whaling bay.

This is me, like a leaf, on my first day at green.
So, all the others spoke; I found that none were mean.
There were dark greens, light ones, and one stuck in the middle.
After math, my friend and I learnt to play the fiddle.

My friend and I continued to play our little tune.
We soon fell in pink to which neither one was immune.
Our pink grew and grew as each day had passed.
Green had ended blue; only pink would last.

We took our pink and ran right through to angry, waiting brown.
Brown was angry for making him wait with a black-white frown.
We explained that blue made us wait for an azure set of eighteen.
He forgave us. My friend, brown, pink, and I live for only one team.

We decided to get the canvas and add a dash of white.
Pink was overwhelmed as white carried on through the love-filled night.
We can add white to family before blue decides to return again.
Red will also join the painting party-Another eighteen before men!

It took a lot of work to make my dear reds come.
I enjoyed the work, but my reds were way more fun.
One red stayed with us, but the other ran away rather young.
Maybe brown kidnapped him early, but strange words travel by tongue.

We turned grey as brown dimmed down, but we swear we've never seen pink more bright!
Brown had completely gone, like both of our reds, but pink still made things light.
I then feared and cried as my pink's grey burned out like a setting sun.
My grey began to fade too, but I was ready. My life was done.

My mother handed me the canvas and the frame,
But I had to add all the colors (none I showed for shame) .
Blue, green, pink, brown, red, grey-my portrait is made of those colors,
But I am just one piece in a gallery, and all of you are the others.

poem by Alex Lewis
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At a Reading

The spare professor, grave and bald,
Began his paper. It was called,
I think, "A Brief Historic Glance
At Russia, Germany, and France."
A glance, but to my best belief
'T was almost anything but brief--
A wide survey, in which the earth
Was seen before mankind had birth;
Strange monsters basked them in the sun,
Behemoth, armored glyptodon,
And in the dawn's unpractised ray
The transient dodo winged its way;
Then, by degrees, through slit and slough,
We reached Berlin--I don't know how.
The good Professor's monotone
Had turned me into senseless stone
Instanter, but that near me sat
Hypatia in her new spring hat,
Blue-eyed, intent, with lips whose bloom
Lighted the heavy-curtained room.
Hypatia--ah, what lovely things
Are fashioned out of eighteen springs!
At first, in sums of this amount,
The eighteen winters do not count.
Just as my eyes were growing dim
With heaviness, I saw that slim,
Erect, elastic figure there,
Like a pond-lily taking air.
She looked so fresh, so wise, so neat,
So altogether crisp and sweet,
I quite forgot what Bismarck said,
And why the Emperor shook his head,
And how it was Von Moltke's frown
Cost France another frontier town.
The only facts I took away
From the Professor's theme that day
Were these: a forehead broad and low,
Such as antique sculptures show;
A chin to Greek perfection true;
Eyes of Astarte's tender blue;
A high complection without fleck
Or flaw, and curls about her neck.

poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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Madeline

Sometimes I wonder Madeline
sweet, innocent girl
why I did not make you mine?
I still see your soft brown hair twirl

and in thoughts I am still lost
in the deepness of your dark-brown eyes,
sometimes I can touch you almost,
as if you are with me after all the goodbyes.

Our love was never really expressed
but burnt with a kind of intensity
and in your companionship I was blessed,
in your pure sincerity

and maybe I will wonder forevermore about a passionate kiss,
about how it would have been to be with you in sweet bliss.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Sweet Mama Blue

Written by orbison/melson.
I know a place in new orleans.
They call the castle of kings and queens.
Where an old sweet black woman sings.
And plays piano like a dream.
She puts out all her beautiful heart and soul for you.
Sweet mamma blue.
Sweet mamma blue will only sing about the truth.
And it will get to you.
Sweet mamma blue will sing of love as only she can do.
Sweet mamma blue.sweet mamma blue
One night I stayed past closing time.
Sweet mamma blue my troubled mind.
She sang the night away for me.
She made me see what I couldnt see.
That only by loving life will all your dreams come true.
Sweet mamma blue.
Sweet mamma blue will only sing about the truth.
And it will get to you.
Sweet mamma blue will sing of love as only she can do.
Sweet mamma blue.sweet mamma blue.
They say shes gone from misery.
But she still lives in my memory.
I still can see her smile and say
Ill bet you make it all the way.
If you will try the lord will surely see you through
.
Sweet mamma blue,
The world sure will miss you.
And when I feel blue I think of you.
Sweet mamma blue.sweet mamma blue.
Sweet mamma blue...

song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sundays Mondays

Written by: lenny kravitz/henry kirsch
The sun is out
The clouds are slowly going
And now my heart is growing fast
So lets get up
Put on you hat and clothing
Lets take a trip and lose our minds
Lets go walking through the park today
I love sunday mondays any day
When the skies are blue and its not grey
Ill take sunday mondays any every day
Sometimes its fun
To just escape and run
And leave the troubled world behind
So lets get lost
And get our juices flowing
And lets go see what we can find
Lets go walking through the park today
I love sunday mondays any day
When the skies are blue and its not grey
Ill take sunday mondays any every day
Lets go walking through the park today
I love sunday mondays any day
When the skies are blue and its not grey
Ill take sunday mondays any every day

song performed by by Lenny Kravitz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Grey, Grey Sky

Someday I will ride the great bird
Into the sky, into the grey
And will take a bright secret of mine
Into the grey, grey sky.

And the light will come, piercing my eyes
Out of the sky, out of the grey
Come blinding and searing these eyes
Out of the grey, grey sky.

And I will find comfort in this
In the wide sky, in the wide grey
In the painful dark brightness of light
Light of the grey, grey sky.

My secret will fly away home
Into the sky, into the grey
And the great bird will follow it there
Into the grey, grey sky.

And I will be riding that bird
Bird of the sky, bird of the grey
And I will come home once again
Home to the grey, grey sky.

But for now I am weighted, earthbound
One of the mud, one of the ground
And I write this sad song to sad sound
Girl of the pavement sighs.

poem by Grace Hutton
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The Ass

I woke and rose and slipt away
To the heathery hills in the morning grey.

In a field where the dew lay cold and deep
I met an ass, new-roused from sleep.

I stroked his nose and I tickled his ears,
And spoke soft words to quiet his fears.

His eyes stared into the eyes of me
And he kissed my hands of his courtesy.

“O big, brown brother out of the waste,
How do thistles for breakfast taste?

“And do you rejoice in the dawn divine
With a heart that is glad no less than mine?

“For, brother, the depth of your gentle eyes
Is strange and mystic as the skies:

“What are the thoughts that grope behind,
Down in the mist of a donkey mind?

“Can it be true, as the wise men tell,
That you are a mask of God as well,

“And, as in us, so in you no less
Speaks the eternal Loveliness,

“And words of the lips that all things know
Among the thoughts of a donkey go?

“However it be, O four-foot brother,
Fair to-day is the earth, our mother.

“God send you peace and delight thereof,
And all green meat of the waste you love,

“And guard you well from violent men
Who’d put you back in the shafts again.”

But the ass had far too wise a head
To answer one of the things I said,

So he twitched his fair ears up and down
And turned to nuzzle his shoulder brown.

poem by Clive Staples Lewis
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Sunday Mondays

The sun is out
The clouds are slowly going
And now my heart is growing fast
So lets get up
Put on you hat and clothing
Lets take a trip and lose our minds
Lets go walking through the park today
I love sunday mondays any day
When the skies are blue and its not grey
Ill take sunday mondays any every day
Sometimes its fun
To just escape and run
And leave the troubled world behind
So lets get lost
And get our juices flowing
And lets go se what we can find
Lets go walking through the park today
I love sunday mondays any day
When the skies are blue and its not grey
Ill take sunday mondays any every day
Lets go walking through the park today
I love sunday mondays any day
When the skies are blue and its not grey
Ill take sunday mondays any every day

song performed by by Vanessa Paradis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sunday-Sweet-Sunday

Bucholic 'tis this season...
Down the lane the church bells ring-
Springs in the air-and salvation 'tis everywhere...
As a choir of sweet song birds sing;

Pastoral influence dominates me now...
Ever aware in my believing mind...
I hold church twenty-four-seven-
Celebrating with my Savior most kind;

For He has given us so very much...
Why just look at the green tree and baby wren...
Move your eyes over to the babbling brook...
And smell the fragrant blooms in the glen;

He has given us so much to believe in...
Even in a world oft' painted in sorrow and pain...
He gives us blue skies when over-run by grey ones...
And sunshine following a tempest of rain;

For He is a most loving power...
So willing to love and forgive-
I will celebrate-Sunday-Sweet-Sunday-
For as long as upon this earth i live;

poem by Theodora Onken
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Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Grey is the color of cloudy skies
and they can turn black, angry,
white the color round my eyes
and red after a sangri,
but though some rinse like heaven to blue
and purple on occasions,
I'm earthbound, brown, rich soil, a hue
most lustful in persuasions.

Yet grey, red, black, brown, purple, blue
all crown a head with features
like cheeks that blanche when love's not true
or blush at lustful creatures
who like a snake with tasty fruit
ensnare the dormouse lingering
within it's cosy cave tree root
aroused by brilliant fingering!

8.18.08

Reply to GWH's
Do Gray Women Blush?

poem by Linda Hepner
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