Mock Panegyric on a Young Friend
In measured verse I'll now rehearse
The charms of lovely Anna:
And, first, her mind is unconfined
Like any vast savannah.
Ontario's lake may fitly speak
Her fancy's ample bound:
Its circuit may, on strict survey
Five hundred miles be found.
Her wit descends on foes and friends
Like famed Niagara's fall;
And travellers gaze in wild amaze,
And listen, one and all.
Her judgment sound, thick, black, profound,
Like transatlantic groves,
Dispenses aid, and friendly shade
To all that in it roves.
If thus her mind to be defined
America exhausts,
And all that's grand in that great land
In similes it costs --
Oh how can I her person try
To image and portray?
How paint the face, the form how trace,
In which those virtues lay?
Another world must be unfurled,
Another language known,
Ere tongue or sound can publish round
Her charms of flesh and bone.
poem by Jane Austen
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Related quotes
Lineson Thorold
McCready the great Irish Tragedian said, the view from Thorold
was the finest in America.
Thorold is famous for its mills,
And the grand view from off its hills-
A view so charming and extended,
Natures beauties sweetly blended.
Poetic thoughts it doth awake
To view Ontario's broad Lake,
And husbandmen have their reward in
Fruits of this provincial garden.
For from the hill you see below
Gardens, where choice fruits do grow,
The landscape all within your reach
Doth both produce the grape and peach.
McCready said, in the New World
The finest view was from Thorold.
You see St. Catharine's charming town
And steamers sailing up and down.
And you can see, on a clear day,
All along Toronto Bay;
And you clearly see the haze
Where Niagara doth amaze.
And glance where Grimsby's gardens yield,
Or view Beamsvill's fruitful field ;
Then this thought yon can advance,
This is Canada's sunny France.
You see Niagara's ancient town *
Though,it has lost its old renown ;
And you have a splendid view
Of boats on old canal and new.
* Niagara, once the capital and business centre of Upper Canada, and also
an important fortress. It is located at the mouth of the Niagara river.
poem by James McIntyre
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Nothing Like A Hundred Miles
I have tried to forget about you
And all the plans that we had planned
Yes, and Im bound to leave this town
I dont care where I may land
If what theyre telling me is true
And you have found somebody new
To love you
There aint but one thing I can do, baby
To save my heart from being broken in two by you
Baby, Im moving through
Theres nothing like a hundred miles
Between me and trouble in my mind
Theres nothing like a hundred miles
Show me the yellow line
Theres nothing like a hundred miles
When Im only passing through
Theres nothing like a hundred miles
To make me forget about you
Forget about you, baby
Dont we like our found farewells
And dont we like to keep our good-byes
Nice and clean
You may wish Id go to hell
While you tell me what a pleasure its been
So long, baby, Im moving on
Theres nothing like a hundred miles
Between me and trouble in mind
Theres nothing like a hundred miles
Somebody show me the yellow line
Theres nothing like a hundred miles
When Im only passing through
Theres nothing like a hundred miles
To make me forget about you
Forget about you
I have tried to forget about you
Baby, I have failed
Just as long as I stay in houston
I will
song performed by by James Taylor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Go, Valentine
Go, Valentine, and tell that lovely maid
Whom fancy still will portray to my sight,
How here I linger in this sullen shade,
This dreary gloom of dull monastic night;
Say, that every joy of life remote
At evening's closing hour I quit the throng,
Listening in solitude the ring-dome's note,
Who pours like me her solitary song;
Say, that of her absence calls the sorrowing sigh;
Say, that of all her charms I love to speak,
In fancy feel the magic of her eye,
In fancy view the smile illume her cheek,
Court the lone hour when silence stills the grove,
And heave the sigh of memory and of love.
poem by Robert Southey
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To Mr. Addison on His Opera of Rosamond
______ Ne fortè pudori
Sit tibi Musa lyræ solers, & cantor Apollo.
The Opera first Italian masters taught,
Enrich'd with songs, but innocent of thought;
Britannia's learned theatre disdains
Melodious trifles, and enervate strains;
And blushes, on her injur'd stage to see
Nonsense well-tun'd, and sweet stupidity.
No charms are wanting to thy artful song,
Soft as Corelli, and as Virgil strong.
From Words so sweet new grace the notes receive,
And Music borrows helps, she us'd to give.
Thy style hath match'd what ancient Romans knew,
Thy flowing numbers far excel the new.
Their cadence in such easy sound convey'd,
The height of thought may seem superfluous aid;
Yet in such charms the noble thoughts abound,
That needless seem the sweets of easy sound.
Landscapes how gay the bowery grotto yields,
Which thought creates, and lavish fancy builds!
What art can trace the visionary scenes,
The flowery groves, and everlasting greens,
The babbling sounds that mimic echo plays,
The fairy shade, and its eternal maze?
Nature and Art in all their charms combin'd,
And all Elysium to one view confin'd!
No further could imagination roam,
Till Vanbrugh fram'd, and Marlborough rais'd the dome.
Ten thousand pangs my anxious bosom tear,
When drown'd in tears I see th' imploring fair;
When bards less soft the moving words supply,
A seeming justice dooms the nymph to die;
But here she begs, nor can she beg in vain
(In dirges thus expiring swans complain);
Each verse so swells expressive of her woes,
And every tear in lines so mournful flows;
We, spite of fame, her fate revers'd believe,
O'erlook her crimes, and think she ought to live.
Let joy salute fair Rosamonda's shade,
And wreaths of myrtle crown the lovely maid.
While now perhaps with Dido's ghost she roves,
And hears and tells the story of their loves,
Alike they mourn, alike they bless their fate,
Since Love, which made them wretched, makes them great.
Nor longer that relentless doom bemoan,
Which gain'd a Virgil, and an Addison.
Accept, great monarch of the British lays,
The tribute song an humble subject pays.
So tries the artless lark her early flight,
And soars, to hail the god of verse and light.
Unrivall'd, as unmatch'd, be still thy fame,
And thy own laurels shade thy envy'd name:
Thy name, the boast of all the tuneful quire,
Shall tremble on the strings of every lyre;
While the charm'd reader with thythought complies,
Feels corresponding joys or sorrows rise,
And views thy Rosamond with Henry's eyes.
poem by Thomas Tickell
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2 Timothy 1: 7
What I have
I Love my Family 'I have a sound mind'
I Like Luciano Pavarotti
even though.I don't speak a word of italian 'I have a sound mind'
I love my family even though none of us had a choice in the picking :)
I Love my church family............ 'I have a sound mind'
I like the motto of the church on 1212 Hendrick called Faith Fellowship Baptist
Church.
'if the bible says, we believe it'
I Love Jesus, my family, friends and I have a sound mind.
I know God has wonderful things in store for me from this time forward!
'I have a sound mind'
poem by Sylvia Loven Carter
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Their Blackness...
‘..and their blackness is incontrovertible…’
as the mind surfaced out of sleep today,
these words – matter-of-fact, authoritative –
spoke in my inner ear.
had it been a fleeting image or
the painful ending of some dream – like
struggling to catch the last train
which all the time receded –
it would have been dismissed;
but the writer’s mind seizes on such things:
this line, an Alexandrine or hexameter:
what scene had come before
this ultimate pronouncement?
was this the verdict of some shining, white-robed one
summing my mortal sins, written indelible?
what came before? had there just been
some paltry list of virtues dimly glimpsed,
good deeds half-done? or could I hope
this shining one spoke not of me at all?
was this a glimpse of what had gone from mind,
the glorious radiance of a perfect world?
or glimpse of compensatory twin mirror-world
which physicists speak of as balancing necessity
of charges positive and negative,
where all is in reverse; and so, perhaps the mind;
and black is good and God; and white is…trash…
or had the mind been in the world of art,
where, as in the etched fine lines like thinnest wire
of a Picasso or a Hockney – incontrovertibly
shaping in the finest, mindful black
a world of friends, of fears, of foes,
of loves and lives and lovely, lively things?
we know so little of the world of dream,
so close to poets' fantasies of truth;
and shall I wish, tonight – so far away this sunny dawn -
to find again that other world, where all is brightest white?
or meet that other world, where black is beautiful..
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Different Languages
On the factory floor
Two ethnic women speak
In their native tongue
A language that flows beautifully
Their tongues roll
And the impact of a d or a t can be felt
Amongst all their chatter
The women laugh
That’s when others start to look
The sound of the language
May not be to everyone’s delight
No one cares what they say
Then all of a sudden......
LAUGHTER
And everyone starts to look with fright
What are they laughing at?
Is it me is it her is it him
Looking around
What did I do wrong?
Did I forget something?
Is it my zipper?
The women continue to chat
And laugh
The laughter now becoming too much
For the annoyed man
Of only one language
He goes to the boss
And files a complaint
Please boss tell those women over there
That it is not right to speak in their tongue
The boss agrees
And we are all back to uncultured boredom
As the sound of the
Lovely t and d end
So reigns the simple sounds of
A language that doesn’t flow
And the machines
That continue to sew
poem by James Dylan
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To the Right Honourable The Countess Dowager Of Devonshire, On A Piece Of Wiessen's
Wiessen and nature held a long contest
If she created or he painted best;
With pleasing thought the wondrous combat grew,
She still form'd fairer, he still liker drew.
In these seven brethren they contended last;
With art increased their utmost skill they tried,
And both well pleased they had themselves surpass'd,
The goddess triumph'd, and the painter died.
That both their skill to this vast height did raise,
Be ours the wonder, and be yours the praise:
For here, as in some glass, is well descried
Only yourself thus often multiply'd.
When heaven had you and gracious Anna made,
What more exalted beauty could it add?
Having no nobler images in store,
It but kept up to these, nor could do more
Than copy well what it had framed before.
If in dear Burghley's generous face we see
Obliging truth and handsome honesty,
With all that world of charms which soon will move
Reverence in men, and in the fair ones love;
His every grace his fair descent assures,
He has his mother's beauty, she has yours.
If every Cecil's face had every charm
That thought can fancy or that heaven can form,
Their beauties all become your beauty's due;
They are all fair, because they're all like you.
If every Ca'ndish great and charming look,
From you that air, from you the charms, they took,
In their each limb your image is exprest,
But on their brow firm courage stands confest;
There their great father, by a strong increase,
Adds strength to beauty, and completes the piece.
Thus still your beauty in your sons we view,
Wiessen seven times one great perfection drew;
Whoever sat, the picture still is you.
So when the parent sun with genial beams
Has animated many goodly gems,
He sees himself improved, while every stone,
With a resembling light, reflects a sun.
So when great Rhea many births had given,
Such as might govern earth and people heaven,
Her glory grew diffused; and, fuller known,
She saw the Deity in every son;
And to what god soe'er men altars raised,
Honouring the offspring, they the mother praised.
In short-lived charms let others place their joys,
Which sickness blasts, and certain age destroys;
Your stronger beauty time can ne'er deface,
'Tis still renew'd and stamp'd in all your race.
Ah! Wiessen, had thy art been so refined
As with their beauty to have drawn their mind,
Through circling years thy labours would survive,
And living rules to fairest virtue give,
To men unborn and ages yet to live:
T'would still be wonderful, and still be new,
Against what time, or spite, or fate could do,
Till thine, confused with nature's pieces lie,
And Ca'ndish's name and Cecil's honour die.
poem by Matthew Prior
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To a Friend
I had made promise
To be friendly and nice
As her name stood well for name
I sincerely praised her and never blamed
Today she has her birthday
I wish it to become shining and special day
All relatives and friends may be wishing
I need my silver button to brass with polishing
What would is ay to her?
A bouquet in hand to offer
With wishes of long life
Peaceful and sans strife
Smile costs nothing
It conveys beautifully something
If you can offer little happiness
That may reflect cleverly on your face
I would wish you to be friendly
Never a thought in your mind to reveal sadly
That can be real wish on this very beautiful day
Keep always in mind of never going away
Not eyes, face or language may speak
They may only infuriate and make you weak
Just little gesture may make all that beautiful
Life then would be so lovely and purposeful
I may not like stars and moon
As they may disappear soon
But you may remain for long
Even if sometimes I may go wrong
Let roses not fade away from the scene
As it will be auspicious day to be seen
You may shine in your beautiful dress
A lovely smile to be watched on face
Smile you always bear and make it as habit
Many good things mar revolve around your orbit
You shall remain there as dominating force
I shall look with smiles at you of course
Wish your happiness may never fade
You may have all the way clear to trade
What you may not find always gone year
I shall wish you loudly in your ears
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Verses, Supposed To Be Written By Alexander Selkirk During His Solitary Abode In The Island Of Juan Fernandez
I am monarch of all I survey;
My right there is none to dispute;
From the centre all round to the sea
I am lord of the fowl and the brute
O Solitude! where are the charms
That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Than reign in this horrible place.
I am out of humanity's reach;
I must finish my journey alone;
Never hear the sweet music of speech--
I start at the sound of my own;
The beasts that roam over the plain
My form with indifference see--
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.
Society, Friendship, and Love
Divinely bestow'd upon man,
Oh had I the wings of a dove
How soon would I taste you again!
My sorrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth,
Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.
Religion! what treasure untold
Resides in that heavenly word!
More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford.
But the sound of the church-going bell
These valleys and rocks never heard,
Ne'er sighed at the sound of a knell,
Or smiled when a Sabbath appeared.
Ye winds that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial endearing report
Of a land I shall visit no more.
My friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me?
O tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.
How fleet is a glance of the mind!
Compared with the speed of its flight,
The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift-wingèd arrows of light.
When I think of my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there;
But, alas! recollection at hand
Soon hurries me back to despair.
But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair;
Even here is a season of rest,
And I to my cabin repair.
There's mercy in every place;
And mercy--encouraging thought!--
Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.
poem by William Cowper
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Anna
Yestreen I had a pint o' wine,
A place where body saw na;
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine
The gowden locks of Anna.
The hungry Jew in wilderness
Rejoicing o'er his manna
Was naething to my hiney bliss
Upon the lips of Anna.
Ye Monarchs take the East and West
Frae Indus to Savannah:
Gie me within my straining grasp
The melting form of Anna!
There I'll despise Imperial charms,
An empress or sultana,
While dying raptures in her arms,
I give an' take wi' Anna!
Awa, thou flaunting God of Day!
Awa, thou pale Diana!
Ilk star, gae hide thy twinkling ray,
When I'm to meet my Anna!
Come, in thy raven plumage, Night
(Sun, Moon, and Stars, withdrawn a')
And bring an Angel-pen to write
My transports with my Anna!
The Kirk an State may join, an tell
To do sic things I maunna:
The Kirk an State may gae to Hell,
And I'll gae to my Anna.
She is the sunshine o' my e'e,
To live but her I canna:
Had I on earth but wishes three,
The first should be my Anna.
poem by Robert Burns
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Don't Seek the Truth, Just Giveup untruth!
Why you go round and round,
May it be around earth,
Or may be around universe,
You will not find the Truth,
It is neither in earth or in sky,
It is neither in ocean,
nor in mountains,
wherever you go Truth follows you,
Yet you are unable to follow Truth!
If you see your shadow,
You are walking away from light,
But others only can see your shadow, when you are towards light!
Truth can not be found anywhere,
Learn from the still lake,
When water is pure and clear,
When ripples are waves subside,
One can see both reflection of world,
And bottom of the lake in which your own face glow!
Only its image can be found in mirror of your heart,
Only path to the Pathless land is to cleanse the mirror,
cleanse the vision,
clear all senses, Giveup untruth!
Mind and action,
Make them free of memories and expectations,
Leave behind corpse of past burnt,
Not look at the future,
Then only you see the image of Truth,
And find truth shine everywhere!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Lines on Hearing it Declared that No Women Were So Handsome as the English
BEAUTY, the attribute of Heaven!
In various forms to mortals given,
With magic skill enslaves mankind,
As sportive fancy sways the mind.
Search the wide world, go where you will,
VARIETY pursues you still;
Capricious Nature knows no bound,
Her unexhausted gifts are found
In ev'ry clime, in ev'ry face,
Each has its own peculiar grace.
To GALLIA's frolic scenes repair,
There reigns the tyny DEBONAIRE;
The mincing stepthe slender waist,
The lip with bright vermilion grac'd:
The short pert nosethe pearly teeth,
With the small dimpled chin beneath,
The social converse, gay and free,
The smart BON-MOT and REPARTEE.
ITALIA boasts the melting fair,
The pointed step, the haughty air,
Th' empassion'd tone, the languid eye,
The song of thrilling harmony;
Insidious LOVE conceal'd in smiles
That charmsand as it charms beguiles.
View GRECIAN MAIDS, whose finish'd forms
The wond'ring sculptor's fancy warms!
There let thy ravish'd eye behold
The softest gems of Nature's mould;
Each charm, that REYNOLDS learnt to trace,
From SHERIDAN's bewitching face.
Imperious TURKEY's pride is seen
In Beauty's rich luxuriant mien;
The dark and sparkling orbs that glow
Beneath a polish'd front of snow:
The auburn curl that zephyr blows
About the cheek of brightest rose:
The shorten'd zone, the swelling breast,
With costly gems profusely drest;
Reclin'd in softly-waving bow'rs,
On painted beds of fragrant flow'rs;
Where od'rous canopies dispense
ARABIA's spices to the sense;
Where listless indolence and ease,
Proclaim the sov'reign wish, to please.
'Tis thus, capricious FANCY shows
How far her frolic empire goes !
On ASIA's sands, on ALPINE snow,
We trace her steps where'er we go;
The BRITISH Maid with timid grace;
The tawny INDIAN 's varnish'd face;
The jetty AFRICAN; the fair
Nurs'd by EUROPA's softer air;
With various charms delight the mind,
For FANCY governs ALL MANKIND.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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A Fragment
Nay, deem me not insensible, Cesario,
To female charms; nor think this heart of mine
Is cas'd in adamant; because, forsooth,
I cannot ogle, and hyperbolize,
And whisper tender nothings in the ear
Of ev'ry would-be beauty, holding out
The bright but treacherous flame of flattery,
To watch the she-moths of a drawing room
Sport round the beam, and burn their pretty wings,
Ere conscious of their danger: yet, believe me,
I love a maid whose untranscended form
Is yet less lovely than her spotless mind.
With modest frankness, unaffected genius,
Unchang'd good humour, beauty void of art,
And polish'd wit that seeks not to offend,
And winning smiles that seek not to betray,
She charms the sight, and fascinates the soul.
Where dwells this matchless nymph? alas, Cesario,
'Tis but a sickly creature of my fancy,
Unparallel'd in nature.
poem by Thomas Love Peacock
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Entering Shangshan
Early enter Shangshan hundred li cloud
Blue stream bridge under water sound divide
Flow water old sound person old ear
This time call not able listen
I enter Shangshan early, under a hundred miles of cloud,
Beneath the bridge a blue stream, the sound of the water divided.
The flowing water's old sound reaches the ears of the old,
This time I cannot bear to listen to its call.
A Poem For The Birth-Day Of The Right Honble The Lady Catharine Tufton
'Tis fit SERENA shou'd be sung.
High-born SERENA, Fair and Young,
Shou'd be of ev'ry Muse and Voice
The pleasing, and applauded Choice.
But as the Meanest of the Show
Do First in all Processions go:
So, let my Steps pursue that Swain
The humblest of th' inspired Train;
Whose well-meant Verse did just appear,
To lead on the preceding Year:
So let my Pen, the next in Fame,
Now wait on fair SERENA's Name;
The second Tribute gladly pay,
And hail this blest returning Day.
But let it not attempt to raise
Or rightly speak SERENA's Praise:
Since with more ease we might declare
How Great her Predecessors were;
How Great that more distinguish'd Peer,
To whom she owes her Being here;
In whom our Britain lets us see
What once they were, and still shou'd be;
As, when the earliest Race was drown'd,
Some Patterns, from amongst them found,
Were kept to shew succeeding Times
Their Excellence without their Crimes:
More easily we might express
What Vertues do her Mother dress;
What does her Form and Mind adorn,
Of whom th' engaging Nymph was born;
What Piety, what generous Love,
Does the enlarged Bosom move
Of Her, whose Fav'rite she appears,
Who more than as a Niece endears.
Such full Perfections obvious lie,
And strike, at first, a Poet's Eye.
Deep Lines of Honour all can hit,
Or mark out a superior Wit;
Consummate Goodness all can show,
And where such Graces shine below:
But the more tender Strokes to trace,
T' express the Promise of a Face,
When but the Dawnings of the Mind
We from the Air unripen'd find;
Which alt'ring, as new Moments rise,
The Pen or Pencil's Art defies;
When Flesh and Blood in Youth appears,
Polish'd like what our Marble wears;
Fresh as that Shade of op'ning Green,
Which first upon our Groves is seen;
Enliven'd by a harmless Fire,
And brighten'd by each gay Desire;
These nicer Touches wou'd demand
A Cowley's or a Waller's Hand,
T'explain, with undisputed Art,
What 'tis affects th'enlighten'd Heart,
When ev'ry darker Thought gives way,
Whilst blooming Beauty we survey;
To shew how All, that's soft and sweet,
Does in the fair SERENA meet;
To tell us, with a sure Presage,
The Charms of her maturer Age.
When Hothfeild shall (as heretofore {4}
From its far-sought and virtuous Store
It Families of great Renown
Did with illustrious Hymens crown)
When Hothfeild shall such Treasure know,
As fair SERENA to bestow:
Then shou'd some Muse of loftier Wing
The Triumphs of that Season sing;
Describe the Pains, the Hopes, the Fears
Of noble Youths, th'ambitious Cares
Of Fathers, the long-fram'd Design,
To add such Splendour to their Line,
Whilst all shall strive for such a Bride
So Educated, and Ally'd.
poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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On Dreaming
When slumber seals our weary eyes,
The busy fancy wakeful keeps;
The scenes which then before us rise,
Prove something in us never sleeps.
As in another world we seem,
A new creation of our own,
All appears real, though a dream,
And all familiar, though unknown.
Sometimes the mind beholds again
The past day's business in review,
Resumes the pleasure or the pain;
And sometimes all we meet is new.
What schemes we form, what pains we take!
We fight, we run, we fly, we fall;
But all is ended when we wake,
We scarcely then a trace recall.
But though our dreams are often wild,
Like clouds before the driving storm;
Yet some important may be styl'd,
Sent to admonish or inform.
What mighty agents have access,
What friends from heav'n, or foes from hell,
Our minds to comfort or distress,
When we are sleeping, who can tell?
One thing, at least, and 'tis enough,
We learn from this surprising fact;
Our dreams afford sufficient proof,
The soul, without the flesh, can act.
This life, which mortals so esteem,
That many choose it for their all,
They will confess, was but a dream,
When 'waken'd by death's awful call.
poem by John Newton
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Running With The Boss Sound
Yesterday by the paperstand I felt the power
Of another religion
Rebels with a cause came out of the sun
And spoke the only language theyd been given
Creepers tapping out the beat as I felt the heat
Man they sure looked neat
Well tonight for sure
You could feel the same as me
We didnt have to fight
On the other side of town
Running with the boss sound
Running with the boss sound
Running with the boss sound
In the day we use machines or brains
Cos we need hard cash for living
And later between tracks & raps with friends
Well find some time for loving
Stratocasters straff the sky
As disco johnny hustles by
Man those feet can fly, high
Well tonight lets dance and risk romance
Baby lets take a chance
Well make it in a single bound
Running with the boss sound
Running with the boss sound
Running with the boss sound
I feel it in the air and I know that youre there
We wont let you down
The phantoms of the underground
Running with the boss sound
Running with the boss sound
Running with the boss sound
Racing wild with the radios blasting
Out ready steady go
As we rip through the charts
Crashing like angles
At the end of rocks rainbow
Electricity runs in my blood like gods
Man if you could see it
By tonight for sure youd be the same as me
A junkie needing more
Our feet burning up the ground
Running with the boss sound
Running with the boss sound
Running with the boss sound
Yeah were burning up the ground
Where the rockabilly beat pounds
With the ska rhythm pressing down
Where the skinhead moon stomp pounds
Where the heavy metal comes down
When the punk rockers are round
Yeah you and I are found
Yeah you and I are found
Running with the boss sound
Running with the boss sound
Running with the boss sound
song performed by by Billy Idol
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Behind The Mask
All along I had to talk
About it
Like a two edged sword,
He touched you and it stabs (me)
Chorus:
All along I knew you were
A phony girl
You sit behind the mask
And you control your world
Yesterday he held you in his arms
But when Im holdin you
Feel its bitter charms
I cant judge what youre doin to me
You camouflage the truth,
Indulge your fantasy
(chorus)
(chorus)
Who do you love?
Is it me?
Is it him?
I dont know!
There is nothing in your eyes
(there is nothing in your eyes)
But thats the way you cry
(but thats the way you cry, girl)
All is grand, all is bright
(all is grand, all is bright)
Youre just srudyng my mind
(youre just srudyng my mind)
Was I invited to your masquerade?
Well, the partys over so
Now take off the face
You say you love, but its hard to see
cause when youre in his arms
Youre throwing rocks at me
(chorus)
(chorus)
There is nothing in your eyes
(there is nothing in your eyes)
But thats the way you cry
(but thats the way you cry, girl)
All is grand, all is bright
(all is grand, all is bright)
Youre just srudyng my mind
Eh, eh, eh
I walk around Im sufferein
In my doom
When I come to you,
Youre sittin in our room
The truth in you I have
Long to trace
So take off the mask so
I can see your face
(chorus)
(chorus)
(chorus)
(chorus)
What talk about?
What talk about?
Yeah, yeah, yeah
song performed by by Michael Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Pastoral Ballad II: Hope
My banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottos are shaded with trees,
And my hills are white-over with sheep.
I seldom have met with a loss,
Such health do my fountains bestow;
My fountains all border'd with moss,
Where the hare-bells and violets grow.
Not a pine in my grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound:
Not a beech's more beautiful green,
But a sweet-briar entwines it around.
Not my fields, in the prime of the year,
More charms than my cattle unfold;
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
But it glitters with fishes of gold.
One would think she might like to retire
To the bow'r I have labour'd to rear;
Not a shrub that I heard her admire,
But I hasted and planted it there.
O how sudden the jessamine strove
With the lilac to render it gay!
Already it calls for my love,
To prune the wild branches away.
From the plains, from the woodlands and groves,
What strains of wild melody flow!
How the nightingales warble their loves
From thickets of roses that blow!
And when her bright form shall appear,
Each bird shall harmoniously join
In a concert so soft and so clear,
As -- she may not be fond to resign.
I have found out a gift for my fair;
I have found where the wood-pigeons breed:
But let me that plunder forbear,
She will say 'twas a barbarous deed.
For he ne'er could be true, she aver'd,
Who could rob a poor bird of its young:
And I lov'd her the more, when I heard
Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
I have heard her with sweetness unfold
How that pity was due to -- a dove:
That it ever attended the bold;
And she call'd it the sister of love.
But her words such a pleasure convey,
So much I her accents adore,
Let her speak, and whatever she say,
Methinks I should love her the more.
Can a bosom so gentle remain
Unmov'd, when her Corydon sighs!
Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,
These plains and this valley despise?
Dear regions of silence and shade!
Soft scenes of contentment and ease!
Where I could have pleasingly stray'd,
If aught, in her absence, could please.
But where does my Phyllida stray?
And where are her grots and her bow'rs?
Are the groves and the valleys as gay,
And the shepherds as gentle as ours?
The groves may perhaps be as fair,
And the face of the valleys as fine;
The swains may in manners compare,
But their love is not equal to mine.
poem by William Shenstone
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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