The Same Old Story
The same old story told again--
The maiden droops her head,
The ripening glow of her crimson cheek
Is answering in her stead.
The pleading tone of a trembling voice
Is telling her the way
He loved her when his heart was young
In Youth's sunshiny day:
The trembling tongue, the longing tone,
Imploringly ask why
They can not be as happy now
As in the days gone by.
And two more hearts, tumultuous
With overflowing joy,
Are dancing to the music
Which that dear, provoking boy
Is twanging on his bowstring,
As, fluttering his wings,
He sends his love-charged arrows
While merrily be sings:
'Ho! ho! my dainty maiden,
It surely can not be
You are thinking you are master
Of your heart, when it is me.'
And another gleaming arrow
Does the little god's behest,
And the dainty little maiden
Falls upon her lover's breast.
'The same old story told again,'
And listened o'er and o'er,
Will still be new, and pleasing, too,
Till 'Time shall be no more.'
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Related quotes
A Ripple Song
Once red ripple came to land
In the golden sunset burning--
Lapped against a maiden's hand,
By the ford returning.
Dainty foot and gentle breast--
Here, across, be glad and rest.
"Maiden, wait," the ripple saith;
"Wait awhile, for I am Death!"
"Where my lover calls I go--
Shame it were to treat him coldly--
'Twas a fish that circled so,
Turning over boldly."
Dainty foot and tender heart,
Wait the loaded ferry-raft.
"Wait, ah, wait!" the ripple saith;
"Maiden, wait, for I am Death!"
"When my lover calls I haste--
Dame Disdain was never wedded!"
Ripple-ripple round her waist,
Clear the current eddied.
Foolish heart and faithful hand,
Little feet that touched no land.
Far away the ripple sped,
Ripple-ripple running red!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The River Sings
The river sings
A voice rises above
Fairer than the water, rings
I know you well
For the river has told
All there is to tell
It sung of a maiden
Fair as the water’s song
Her heart heavy laden
Though she sang
Her song was sorrowed
In voice the sadness rang
No words were needed
The river knew
Her voice it heeded
She walked alone
Her gaiety was lost
River, her only home
She listened to the water
Telling a story
Calling her River Daughter
The river sang, through day and night
Sang for her, the only listener
She joined the song, through dark and light
She called to her lover
Come free me!
Called with song and river
poem by Rachel Harris
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Come Away My Heart
to thy madonna call
come away my heart
to thy maiden call
come away my heart
not to thy merchant call
come away my heart
when thy maiden call
come away my heart
bid all thy vile master farewell
when fate of man calls
i to my maiden my heart comes
to my maiden's call
come away my heart
poem by Atimiwoaye Adetunji dayo
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The Wooing
A YOUTH went faring up and down,
Alack and well-a-day.
He fared him to the market town,
Alack and well-a-day.
And there he met a maiden fair,
With hazel eyes and auburn hair;
His heart went from him then and there,
Alack and well-a-day.
She posies sold right merrily,
Alack and well-a-day;
But not a flower was fair as she,
Alack and well-a-day.
He bought a rose and sighed a sigh,
'Ah, dearest maiden, would that I
Might dare the seller too to buy!'
Alack and well-a-day.
She tossed her head, the coy coquette,
Alack and well-a-day.
'I'm not, sir, in the market yet,'
Alack and well-a-day.
'Your love must cool upon a shelf;
Tho' much I sell for gold and pelf,
I'm yet too young to sell myself,'
Alack and well-a-day.
The youth was filled with sorrow sore,
Alack and well-a-day;
And looked he at the maid once more,
Alack and well-a-day.
Then loud he cried, 'Fair maiden, if
Too young to sell, now as I live,
You're not too young yourself to give,'
Alack and well-a-day.
The little maid cast down her eyes,
Alack and well-a-day,
And many a flush began to rise,
Alack and well-a-day.
'Why, since you are so bold,' she said,
'I doubt not you are highly bred,
So take me!' and the twain were wed,
Alack and well-a-day.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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To The Spring
Welcome, gentle Stripling,
Nature's darling thou!
With thy basket full of blossoms,
A happy welcome now!
Aha!--and thou returnest,
Heartily we greet thee--
The loving and the fair one,
Merrily we meet thee!
Think'st thou of my maiden
In thy heart of glee?
I love her yet, the maiden--
And the maiden yet loves me!
For the maiden, many a blossom
I begged--and not in vain!
I came again a-begging,
And thou--thou givest again:
Welcome, gentle Stripling,
Nature's darling thou--
With thy basket full of blossoms,
A happy welcome now!
poem by Friedrich Schiller
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In the Picture Gallery
With palette laden
She sat, as I passed her,
A dainty maiden
Before an Old Master.
What mountain-top is
She bent upon? Ah,
She neatly copies
Murillo's Madonna.
But rapt and brimming
The eyes' full chalice says
The heart builds dreaming
Its fairy-palaces.
* * *
The eighteenth year rolled
By, ere returning,
I greeted the dear old
Scenes with yearning.
With palette laden
She sat, as I passed her,
A faded maiden
Before an Old Master.
But what is she doing?
The same thing still--lo,
Hotly pursuing
That very Murillo!
Her wrist never falters;
It keeps her, that poor wrist,
With panels for altars
And daubs for the tourist.
And so she has painted
Through years unbrightened,
Till hopes have fainted
And hair has whitened.
But rapt and brimming
The eyes' full chalice says
The heart builds dreaming
Its fairy-palaces.
poem by Henrik Johan Ibsen
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The Maiden From Afar
Within a vale, each infant year,
When earliest larks first carol free,
To humble shepherds cloth appear
A wondrous maiden, fair to see.
Not born within that lowly place--
From whence she wandered, none could tell;
Her parting footsteps left no trace,
When once the maiden sighed farewell.
And blessed was her presence there--
Each heart, expanding, grew more gay;
Yet something loftier still than fair
Kept man's familiar looks away.
From fairy gardens, known to none,
She brought mysterious fruits and flowers--
The things of some serener sun--
Some Nature more benign than ours.
With each her gifts the maiden shared--
To some the fruits, the flowers to some;
Alike the young, the aged fared;
Each bore a blessing back to home.
Though every guest was welcome there,
Yet some the maiden held more dear,
And culled her rarest sweets whene'er
She saw two hearts that loved draw near.
poem by Friedrich Schiller
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Maiden June.....
Within midst of time n' bloom,
Being with the fair Maiden June,
Whinst of bells of unity rings,
An' the voice of young love sings,
There at mid-point fullness year,
An' Mays' flowers overseer,
I being at mid-point of life,
Shalt take of thee, as a wife,
For with each mornin' shalt there be,
Rise of Loves' intensity,
Finds of rest on grassy knoll,
An' with beach of sands, we shalt stroll,
As red-breast an' sparrow fills air
An' the warming of skin so fair,
Whilst attire shalt be next of nil,
Of this I shalt take my fill,
Fair Maiden June, let us join,
An' of season not disappoint,
Nor of season waste not a day,
Of said time of fun n' play,
Maiden June, With thee I shalt dance,
Thou art thy summers' romance,
Take heed to this simple truth,
Thou doth impart eternal youth......
poem by Geoff Warden
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Trinity
The crone presides, the mother serves.
The maiden’s waiting in the wings,
each holds she place that she deserves.
The Moon Goddess still pulls the strings.
The fates decide the time for change
then each moves on to higher things
The power structures re arrange.
The aged crone has earned her wings.
The mother then becomes the crone,
the maiden takes the mothers place.
The elders meet to choose the one.
The new maiden who will replace.
The maiden who is now mature.
She is selected carefully.
They must be absolutely sure.
She understands she is to be
untouched a virgin set apart
There is so much she needs to learn
enough to daunt the stoutest heart.
It is an honour she must earn.
The mother maiden and the crone.
Represent the Moon Goddess,
they act together as though one.
The Goddess’ wishes to express.
Each of them must serve their turn
as maiden, mother then as crone
and from their predecessor learn.
The secrets hitherto unknown.
26-Dec-07
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Intoxicated (aka Find Me)
My eyes feel dizzy or maybe,
My eyelids just want to collapse,
Nothing makes me tipsy but this feels like it.
Could I possibly for once, be intoxicated?
I swear I only took one dose,
But I guess it hit my soul
My core enriched, I don't crave for more
My heart entangled, yet I'm not deceived
I know what I want and it's more of this
I'm not besotted, I stand sedate
Surely I have been intoxicated
I left home so I could take a walk in the park
I left home so I could sing with the birds
Momma told me to take a right
Oops I'm sorry momma I took a left
The guards told me to keep my distance
Oops I smelt the roses, I touched them and they cut me open
I smelt them again but this time they got me
Actually one of them got me feeling intoxicated
They told me I made a mistake, but I don't regret it
They told me I was lost, but if I'm at sea let me stay
This scent appeased me, it got me seeking
Rare they said, but now I have found it
Sweet cicely, this myrrh I want, somebody show me this maiden
Let me find her, let me take her hand.
The fragrance that is her, surely got me intoxicated
Infatuation is child's play
Filiations do not classify what I feel
For what I heard sounded like a foreign language
What's known to mankind, yet my lips speak not.
If this is my fairytale, ask my fairy mother to send me back
Back to my past so I can attend this class, for what I hear I want to speak.
Please tell me what's going on because I'm thinking this tone got me woozy
Maybe I might actually be intoxicated
Somebody take my breath so you can whisper my words
Somebody send this letter for it needs to be read
I dipped my heart in ink as I wrote
Hopefully with every line she'll hear the music.
The rhythm of my heart, my love for her
Truly her love got me intoxicated
poem by Sir T.A.E.P.S
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My Fair Silver Maiden
Oh my fair silver maiden
I see your eyes in the stars that light the dark,
Your hair in the swaying summer grass,
Your smile in the majestic sunrise
Oh my fair silver maiden
Your scent is always on the next wind
Your sweet, intoxicating scent.
Oh my fair silver maiden
Tell me where you are
So that I might find you
And my heart be complete.
Oh my fair silver maiden
How I long for you
How I cry for you
How I search for you.
Oh my fair silver maiden
Always beyond the next wind.
Tell me where you are
So that I might find you
And my heart be complete.
Oh my fair silver maiden.
poem by Cameron Bird
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Her Refrain
Do you love me?' she said, when the skies were blue,
And we walked where the stream through the branches glistened;
And I told and retold her my love was true,
While she listened and smiled, and smiled and listened.
Do you love me?' she whispered, when days were drear,
And her eyes searched mine with a patient yearning;
And I kissed her, renewing the words so dear,
While she listened and smiled, as if slowly learning.
“Do you love me?” she asked, when we sat at rest
By the stream enshadowed with autumn glory;
Her cheek had been laid as in peace on my breast,
But she raised it to ask for the sweet old story.
And I said: 'I will tell her the tale again—
I will swear by the earth and the stars above me!'
And I told her that uttermost time should prove
The fervor and faith of my perfect love;
And I vowed it and pledged it that nought should move;
While she listened and smiled in my face, and then
She whispered once more, ' Do you truly love me? '
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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The Siren's Cry
Thy silent maiden floats at sea,
Long golden hair flowing around her bod,
Nothing in her mind but a tale of love and woe,
As her tears fall to be lost in the sea,
Never to be seen again, but by those who whisper to she,
Whisper of a light so bright, that you cannot see the world,
The world that engulfs thy in horror of unreal wonders,
As water laps at thy feet, reaching, reaching for thy soul,
Crying the sirens cry to lure thee to her breast,
Her breast where thy silent maiden lay awaiting her lover’s hand,
Waiting for her tears to be dried with thy finger of love,
And still thy stand overcome by thy light of selfishness and want,
And still thy silent maiden lies out at sea,
Silver tears flowing from her closed eyes,
Arms out brushing backs of dolphins and whales,
Hair dancing in the waves,
As she sings her sirens song, pushing, pushing the water,
The waster that laps at thy feet, reaching, reaching for thy soul,
Water made of the sirens cry,
Luring thy to her breast, where thy silent maiden lay awaiting,
Awaiting her lovers hand to wipe away her tears,
And like so many before that have given their heart to her,
And that have become the foam that lines the sea,
Like those before,
Thou shall fall to the sirens cry.
By: Bethany Maxwell
September 18,2009
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Valentine Cupid
the story of the cupid is strange you see
its always been a mystery to me
was this child with wings of beauty, and bow & arrow in hand
created by my fellow man.
to shoot his arrows in the hearts of all
laughing and having a ball..
or did he really come from the heavens above
to fill our hearts with all this love
has he really reached his goal
to touch our lives young and old.
for if this is true
then you have put my heart on fire
and filled me with desire
to satisfy your inner most needs.
for deep in me he planted the seed.
for with this, i tell you true
my heart belongs to only you.
HAPPY VALENTINE
poem by Louis Rams
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Eternity! Thy Time Is Young
Eternity! Thy time is young
Alike the kiss of serpent tongue
Your mother’s sleeping by the bay
Adorned in the last light of the day.
A lonely Oak hath fallen near
A nearby Satyr sheds a tear
Still he laughs on through the year
For he knows that death is life anew.
Through clouds of dank obscurity
The nature of reality
Is known to die and then to be
A circle of eternity
Love! For thy time is young
Love beneath a golden sun
Bless the meadows, blessed be
That I should find my love in thee
O maiden fair, O maiden dear
Hear my heart, my heart is clear
Through mists of dank obscurity
I adorn my love in clarity.
Beatific visions at first surreal
Reveal to me the way I feel
Turn within eternity
Turn within the wheel.
poem by David Lacey
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Dainty Davie
Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers,
To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers;
And now comes in the happy hours,
To wander wi' my Davie.
Meet me on the warlock knowe,
Dainty Davie, Dainty Davie;
There I'll spend the day wi' you,
My ain dear Dainty Davie.
The crystal waters round us fa',
The merry birds are lovers a',
The scented breezes round us blaw,
A wandering wi' my Davie.
Meet me on the warlock knowe,
Dainty Davie, Dainty Davie;
There I'll spend the day wi' you,
My ain dear Dainty Davie.
As purple morning starts the hare,
To steal upon her early fare,
Then thro' the dews I will repair,
To meet my faithfu' Davie.
Meet me on the warlock knowe,
Dainty Davie, Dainty Davie;
There I'll spend the day wi' you,
My ain dear Dainty Davie.
When day, expiring in the west,
The curtain draws o' Nature's rest,
I flee to his arms I loe' the best,
And that's my ain dear Davie.
Meet me on the warlock knowe,
Dainty Davie, Dainty Davie;
There I'll spend the day wi' you,
My ain dear Dainty Davie.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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When the Lad for Longing Sighs
When the lad for longing sighs,
Mute and dull of cheer and pale,
If at death's own door he lies,
Maiden, you can heal his ail.
Lovers' ills are all to buy:
The wan look, the hollow tone,
The hung head, the sunken eye,
You can have them for your own.
Buy them, buy them: eve and morn
Lovers' ills are all to sell.
Then you can lie down forlorn;
But the lover will be well.
poem by Alfred Edward Housman
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To A Girl In A Garden
O soft and dainty maiden, from afar
I watch you, as amidst the flowers you move,
And pluck them, singing.
More golden than all gold your tresses are:
Never was harp-note like your voice, my love,
Your voice sweet-ringing.
Pot And Kettle
Come close to me, dear Annie, while I bind a lover's knot.
A tale of burning love between a kettle and a pot.
The pot was stalwart iron and the kettle trusty tin,
And though their sides were black with smoke they bubbled love within.
Forget that kettle, Jamie, and that pot of boiling broth,
I know a dismal story of a candle and a moth.
For while your pot is boiling and while your kettle sings
My moth makes love to candle flame and burns away his wings.
Your moth, I envy, Annie, that died by candle flame,
But here are two more lovers, unto no damage came.
There was a cuckoo loved a clock and found her always true.
For every hour they told their hearts, 'Ring! ting! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!'
As the pot boiled for the kettle, as the kettle for the pot,
So boils my love within me till my breast is glowing hot.
As the moth died for the candle, so could I die for you.
And my fond heart beats time with yours and cries, 'Cuckoo! Cuckoo!'
poem by Robert Graves
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A Young Lad
A young Lad
one day
very quietly,
softly, gently
and artistically
confessed his love
to a young maiden
as quiet,
soft, gentle
and artistic
as he was.
The lad was
very glad
for the maiden
was glad.
He's been very happy
ever since.
(August 15,1997)
poem by Sangnam Nam
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