The Book Of Paradise - The Favoured Beast
Or beasts there have been chosen four
To come to Paradise,
And there with saints for evermore
They dwell in happy wise.
Amongst them all the Ass stands first;
He comes with joyous stride,
For to the Prophet-City erst
Did Jesus on him ride.
Half timid next a Wolf doth creep,
To whom Mahomet spake
'Spoil not the poor man of his sheep,
The rich man's thou mayst take.'
And then the brave and faithful Hound,
Who by his master kept,
And slept with him the slumbers sound
The seven sleepers slept.
Abuherrira's Cat, too, here,
Purrs round his master blest,
For holy must the beast appear
The Prophet hath caress'd.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Oh prophet!
Oh prophet! Oh prophet! get up and flee
The dormant city
Is vicious, merciless without joviality or glee
Oh prophet! Oh prophet get up and run
The dreadful city before the rising sun
The gentle night welcomes with cover and calm
Oh prophet! oh prophet get up and haste your retreat
The night city drums thunder and beat
A place so foul, no man is liberated or free in solitary streets
Oh prophet! oh prophet get up and hide
This city is filled with bigotry and shameful pride
The night is pure with divinity and delight
Oh Prophet! oh Prophet wake up and rise
Large treasure rapture city eyes
Their sins are blotted in shape and size
Oh prophet! oh prophet take a warning heed
Tomorrow God's wrath will over the city take lead
And with fury and fire burns her towers and her peaks
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Psalm 84
How lovely are thy dwellings fair!
O Lord of Hoasts, how dear
The pleasant Tabernacles are!
Where thou do'st dwell so near.
My Soul doth long and almost die
Thy Courts O Lord to see,
My heart and flesh aloud do crie,
O living God, for thee.
There ev'n the Sparrow freed from wrong
Hath found a house of rest,
The Swallow there, to lay her young
Hath built her brooding nest,
Ev'n by thy Altars Lord of Hoasts
They find their safe abode,
And home they fly from round the Coasts
Toward thee, My King, my God
Happy, who in thy house reside
Where thee they ever praise,
Happy, whose strength in thee doth bide,
And in their hearts thy waies.
They pass through Baca's thirstie Vale,
That dry and barren ground
As through a fruitfull watry Dale
Where Springs and Showrs abound.
They journey on from strength to strength
With joy and gladsom cheer
Till all before our God at length
In Sion do appear.
Lord God of Hoasts hear now my praier
O Jacobs God give ear,
Thou God our shield look on the face
Of thy anointed dear.
For one day in thy Courts to be
Is better, and mere blest
Then in the joyes of Vanity,
A thousand daies at best.
I in the temple of my God
Had rather keep a dore,
Then dwell in Tents, and rich abode
With Sin for evermore
For God the Lord both Sun and Shield
Gives grace and glory bright,
No good from him shall be with-held
Whose waies are just and right.
Lord God of Hoasts that raign 'st on high,
That man is truly blest
Who only on thee doth relie.
And in thee only rest.
poem by John Milton
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The real us
proudly we are a united nation
west or east
black or white
poor or rich
no matter, if we are Muslims
Prophet Mohammed is our example
we are against terrorism
we are against racism
we are against humiliation
we are against force
we are against occupation
we are against killing the innocents
we are against destruction
we support charity
we support humanity
we help the poor
we respect the old
we respect our families
we obey our parents
we pray to God
we have faith
we are not arrogants
we are not superficial
we are not liars
we say truth
we have chastity
we are brave
we help each other
we like God's creations
we have inner peace
we are happy in life
we believe in all Prophets,
and the last one, Prophet Mohammed
this is the real us
and this is our real Prophet Mohammed
proudly we are a united nation
poem by Rehab Helmy
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God’s Reflection
God sees His own reflection
As if on the water
Prophet Mohammad the mercy of God
Is the best reflection of God’s character!
Prophet Mary the best girl of the world
Is the best reflection of God’s beauty and purity!
Prophet Jesus the soul of our Lord
Is the best reflection of God’s peace!
The Holy Koran the difference maker
Between the good and the evil
Is the best reflection of God’s favor!
poem by Asif Andalib
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The Anointing
The moon had risen.—Light was o'er the world
With all the freshness of the early day.
The feathery clouds that floated in the east,
Wore a faint tinge of crimson, and the voice
Of forest music; and a scented breath,
Of dewy flowers, came onward through the air.
The men of Bethlehem were gather'd round
The altar of their God; and the deep tones
Of Samuel's voice arose in solemn prayer;
The smoke curl'd upwards from the sacrifice,
In cloudy volumes first, then thin and slow,
Until the last faint wreath had disappear'd.
The prophet rose, and standing in the midst,
Stretch'd out his hands and bless'd them—and then spake—
“Thou, Jesse, son of Obed, of the tribe
Of lion Judah—hearken to my voice:
“Thus saith the Lord: ‘From Saul's anointed brow,
And from his hand, and those of all his sons,
The kingly sceptre and the crown shall pass,
As though he was not chosen of the Lord.'
So cause thy sons to pass before mine eyes,
That I may consecrate whom God hath chosen
To gift with Judah's kingly diadem.”
Then came Eliab forth, the first, and stood
Before the Prophet. His proud head was bow'd,
And his cross'd hands were folded on his breast,
In mute unwonted reverence; yet even thus,
His haughty brow above the mightiest tower'd,
As he were born to be a conqueror.
There was a speaking beauty in his face,
And the bright glorious eye that flash'd beneath
His clustering curls of sable seem'd to tell
Of a high spirit that could plan bold deeds,
Which that strong arm would joy to execute.
The Prophet gazed, and said within his heart,
“Surely, the Lord's anointed is before him!”
But in the still small voice Jehovah spake
Unto the Prophet's ear.—“Regard not thou
The beauty of his countenance, nor yet
His stature, nor the majesty thereof;
For him have I rejected. The Most High
Sees not as mortal; but the secret heart
Is open all before him, and its sins,
And its infirmities, he knoweth all.”
Then came Eliab's brethren, one by one,
And Samuel look'd upon them, but he knew
The chosen from the people was not there.
Then David came, e'en from his fleecy charge,
Himself as innocent, and knelt him down
Before the Prophet. He, that young fair boy,
His mother's treasured one, who had but left
Her fond maternal side, to lay him down
On the flower-studded bank, and watch the wave
Glide on in laughing ripples at his feet,
While his white lambs were sporting on the grass.
Why should the Prophet look on him, as though
He might be chosen to be Israel's king?
He was most beautiful! His timid eye,
With boyish wonder mix'd with holy awe,
Through its bright veil of golden curls look'd up
With a long gaze to Samuel's quiet face;
And feelings wrought intensely, had spread out
A warmer flush upon his downy cheek.
The prophet look'd upon the kneeling boy,
So young—so fair—those parted lips e'en now
Scarcely refraining from their wonted smiles—
The dimple sporting on his rosy cheek,
The snowy brow half shaded by his hair,
And those dark eyes, so bright, so beautiful,—
And a strange thrilling gush came o'er his heart
Even to starting tears. Could this be he,
For whom the Lord would break the power of Saul?
He felt that it was so—and lifting up
His horn of sacred oil, anointed him,
To be the servant of the Holy One.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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His Apologies
Master, this is Thy Servant. He is rising eight weeks old.
He is mainly Head and Tummy. His legs are uncontrolled.
But Thou hast forgiven his ugliness, and settled him on Thy knee . . .
Art Thou content with Thy Servant? He is
very
comfy with Thee.
Master, behold a Sinner? He hath committed a wrong.
He hath defiled Thy Premises through being kept in too long.
Wherefore his nose has been rubbed in the dirt, and his self-respect has been bruiséd.
Master, pardon Thy Sinner, and see he is properly looséd.
Master - again Thy Sinner! This that was once Thy Shoe,
He hath found and taken and carried aside, as fitting matter to chew.
Now there is neither blacking nor tongue, and the Housemaid has us in tow.
Master, remember Thy Servant is young, and tell her to let him go!
Master, extol Thy Servant! He hath met a most Worthy Foe!
There has been fighting all over the Shop - and into the Shop also!
Till cruel umbrellas parted the strife (or I might have been choking him yet).
But Thy Servant has had the Time of his Life - and now shall we call on the vet?
Master, behold Thy Servant! Strange children came to play,
And because they fought to caress him, Thy Servant wentedst away.
But now that the Little Beasts have gone, he has returned to see
(Brushed - with his Sunday collar on) what they left over from tea.
Master, pity Thy Servant! He is deaf and three parts blind,
He cannot catch Thy Commandments. He cannot read Thy Mind.
Oh, leave him not in his loneliness; nor make him that kitten’s scorn.
He hath had none other God than Thee since the year that he was born!
Lord, look down on Thy Servant! Bad things have come to pass,
There is no heat in the midday sun, nor health in the wayside grass.
His bones are full of an old disease - his torments run and increase.
Lord, make haste with Thy Lightnings and grant him a, quick release!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Poverty
Poverty is like a curse
It deprived Prophet Jesus
Of a wife and popularity
Prophet Muhammad
Became successful
Because he became rich
Poverty is like a torture
By the enemy
Without help from others
One cannot get rid of it
poem by Asif Andalib
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Hajj
Hajj is compulsory for the Muslims
Who are able to perform it
From every point of view
During Hajj the pilgrims
Wear a white piece of cloth
Which resembles the cloth
Of the Muslim’s corpse
To remind them
One day they will die and face God
It also reminds them
All are equal in the eyes of God
God will see only our works
And the prayers of others for us
On the Day of Judgment
The circling around the holy Kaba
Reminds us of the angels
Who circle around the throne of God
When we say, I am present O God
I am present and so on
God’s body looks at us and listens
When we perform Salat
During Hajj
God becomes more than happy
Because so many people together
Surrender to God at one point of time
In the most holy land of earth
When we run to and fro
On the Safa and Marowa hills
It reminds us of the sorrowful sight
Of mother Hazera
The wife of prophet Abraham
When we throw stones at Satan
It reminds us of the patience
And dependence on God
Of prophet Abraham
And prophet Ismile
At last when we reach
The holy field of Arafat
It reminds us of the joy
Of prophet Adam and Eve
When they fell down on earth
From paradise
And met each other
After a long long time
poem by Asif Andalib
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The Hounds
Far off a lonely hound
Telling his loneliness all round
To the dark woods, dark hills, and darker sea;
And, answering, the sound
Of that yet lonelier sea-hound
Telling his loneliness to the solitary stars.
Hearing, the kennelled hound
Some neighbourhood and comfort found,
And slept beneath the comfortless high stars.
But that wild sea-hound
Unkennelled, called all night all round--
The unneighboured and uncomforted cold sea.
poem by John Freeman
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The Dying Hunter to His Dog
Lie down -- lie down! -- my noble hound,
That joyful bark give o'er;
It wakes the lonely echoes round,
But rouses me no more --
Thy lifted ears, thy swelling chest,
Thy eyes so keenly bright,
No longer kindle in my breast
The thrill of fierce delight;
When following thee on foaming steed
My eager soul outstripped thy speed --
Lie down -- lie down -- my faithful hound!
And watch this night by me,
For thee again the horn shall sound
By mountain, stream, and tree;
And thou along the forest glade,
Shall track the flying deer
When cold and silent, I am laid
In chill oblivion here.
Another voice shall cheer thee on,
And glory when the chase is won.
Lie down -- lie down! -- my gallant hound!
Thy master's life is sped;
Go -- couch thee on the dewy ground --
'Tis thine to watch the dead.
But when the blush of early day
Is kindling up the sky,
Then speed thee, faithful friend, away,
And to thy mistress hie;
And guide her to this lonely spot,
Though my closed eyes behold her not --
Lie down -- lie down! -- my trusty hound!
Death comes, and we must part --
In my dull ear strange murmurs sound --
More faintly throbs my heart;
The many twinkling lights of heaven
Scarce glimmer in the blue --
Chill round me falls the breath of even,
Cold on my brow the dew;
Earth, stars, and heavens, are lost to sight --
The chase is o'er! -- brave friend, good night! --
poem by Susanna Strickland Moodie
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On the Death of the Rev. Dr. Sewell, 1769
Ere yet the morn its lovely blushes spread,
See Sewell number'd with the happy dead.
Hail, holy man, arriv'd th' immortal shore,
Though we shall hear thy warning voice no more.
Come, let us all behold with wishful eyes
The saint ascending to his native skies;
From hence the prophet wing'd his rapt'rous way
To the blest mansions in eternal day.
Then begging for the Spirit of our God,
And panting eager for the same abode,
Come, let us all with the same vigour rise,
And take a prospect of the blissful skies;
While on our minds Christ's image is imprest,
And the dear Saviour glows in ev'ry breast.
Thrice happy faint! to find thy heav'n at last,
What compensation for the evils past!
Great God, incomprehensible, unknown
By sense, we bow at thine exalted throne.
O, while we beg thine excellence to feel,
Thy sacred Spirit to our hearts reveal,
And give us of that mercy to partake,
Which thou hast promis'd for the Saviour's sake!
"Sewell is dead." Swift-pinion'd Fame thus cry'd.
"Is Sewell dead," my trembling tongue reply'd,
O what a blessing in his flight deny'd!
How oft for us the holy prophet pray'd!
How oft to us the Word of Life convey'd!
By duty urg'd my mournful verse to close,
I for his tomb this epitaph compose.
"Lo, here a man, redeem'd by Jesus's blood,
"A sinner once, but now a saint with God;
"Behold ye rich, ye poor, ye fools, ye wise,
"Not let his monument your heart surprise;
"Twill tell you what this holy man has done,
"Which gives him brighter lustre than the sun.
"Listen, ye happy, from your seats above.
"I speak sincerely, while I speak and love,
"He sought the paths of piety and truth,
"By these made happy from his early youth;
"In blooming years that grace divine he felt,
"Which rescues sinners from the chains of guilt.
"Mourn him, ye indigent, whom he has fed,
"And henceforth seek, like him, for living bread;
"Ev'n Christ, the bread descending from above,
"And ask an int'rest in his saving love.
"Mourn him, ye youth, to whom he oft has told
"God's gracious wonders from the times of old.
"I too have cause this mighty loss to mourn,
"For he my monitor will not return.
"O when shall we to his blest state arrive?
"When the same graces in our bosoms thrive."
poem by Phillis Wheatley
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Through the Metidja to Abd-El-Kadr
I
As I ride, as I ride,
With a full heart for my guide,
So its tide rocks my side,
As I ride, as I ride,
That, as I were double-eyed,
He, in whom our Tribes confide,
Is descried, ways untried
As I ride, as I ride.
II.
As I ride, as I ride
To our Chief and his Allied,
Who dares chide my heart's pride
As I ride, as I ride?
Or are witnesses denied—
Through the desert waste and wide
Do I glide unespied
As I ride, as I ride?
III.
As I ride, as I ride,
When an inner voice has cried,
The sands slide, nor abide
(As I ride, as I ride)
O'er each visioned homicide
That came vaunting (has he lied?)
To reside—where he died,
As I ride, as I ride.
IV.
As I ride, as I ride,
Ne'er has spur my swift horse plied,
Yet his hide, streaked and pied,
As I ride, as I ride,
Shows where sweat has sprung and dried,
—Zebra-footed, ostrich-thighed—
How has vied stride with stride
As I ride, as I ride!
V.
As I ride, as I ride,
Could I loose what Fate has tied,
Ere I pried, she should hide
(As I ride, as I ride)
All that's meant me—satisfied
When the Prophet and the Bride
Stop veins I'd have subside
As I ride, as I ride!
poem by Robert Browning from Cavalier Tunes (1842)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Prophets Without Honor
You may be a prophet without honor, in the home of an earthly father,
Mocked by a sister or a brother, also, misunderstood by your mother.
From the family you grew up in, you are now divided by Truth and sin,
For God’s Truth, in which you now abide, puts you on a different side.
Now, you have a Heavenly Father, who, with your life, you now honor,
And brothers and sisters in Christ, who support you, in your New Life.
Regarding old sin, we walk away, regardless what our family may say,
Striving together to do what’s right, hand in hand in our Savior’s Light.
With no honor from our own family, still living, just like we used to be,
Without the indwelling Holy Spirit, they’ll scoff at Truth as they hear it.
And only the Spirit can open the eyes, of those who claim to be wise,
So instead of twisting Truth they hear, they’d be filled with a holy fear.
Friend, a prophet is one whom God, uses while upon this earthly sod,
To share God’s Truth with all men, in a world, that stands condemned.
But, a prophet’s family may not heed, the saving Truth that they need,
As your witness for Christ our Lord, by your family, just goes ignored.
Friend that is why we need to pray, thus backing all the words we say,
So that all of the seeds we sow, will take root in their hearts and grow.
This, so that your natural family, will acknowledge the God of Eternity,
And then join us as a prophet of, Christ our Savior, who reigns above.
(Copyright ©09/2008)
Lord of the Flies
Oh Master my Master
Oh where have you been
I wallowed in filth and
I drowned in sin
Oh Master my Master
It's my rotten luck
To swim in the decay
And swallow the muck
Oh Master my Master
I stand in the fires
Surrounded by murderers
Thieves, cheaters, and liars
Oh Master my Master
the earth has turned red
Fluid with blood
Of the recently dead
Oh Master my Master
What's wrong with the world
The blackness unfolds
Like a flag that's unfurled
Oh Master my Master
You ignore my cries
And now I'm quite sure
You're the Lord of the Flies
poem by Anonymous Ghurl
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The Nativity of Christ
Behold the father is his daughter's son,
The bird that built the nest is hatched therein,
The old of years an hour hath not outrun,
Eternal life to live doth now begin,
The Word is dumb, the mirth of heaven doth weep,
Might feeble is, and force doth faintly creep.
O dying souls, behold your living spring;
O dazzled eyes, behold your sun of grace;
Dull ears, attend what word this Word doth bring;
Up, heavy hearts, with joy your joy embrace.
From death, from dark, from deafness, from despairs
This life, this light, this Word, this joy repairs.
Gift better than himself God doth not know;
Gift better than his God no man can see.
This gift doth here the giver given bestow;
Gift to this gift let each receiver be.
God is my gift, himself he freely gave me;
God's gift am I, and none but God shall have me.
Man altered was by sin from man to beast;
Beast's food is hay, hay is all mortal flesh.
Now God is flesh and lies in manger pressed
As hay, the brutest sinner to refresh.
O happy field wherein that fodder grew,
Whose taste doth us from beasts to men renew.
poem by Robert Southwell
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The Master Spoke.
Why is the world here today?
The Master Spoke.
Why are we sinners, like sheep gone astray?
The Master Spoke.
Why all this toil, no comfort of Eden,
Since man didn't obey?
The Master Spoke.
Why work the dust of the ground, from whence we came,
And eat 'By the sweat of our brow? '
The Master Spoke.
Why do we, naturally,
Posess the desire to before,
God, want to worship and adore?
The Master Spoke.
Why is Jesus glorified,
And why, for sinners, did he die?
The Master Spoke.
Why shall God return again,
To take away Isreal, His bride?
Why me, a sinner, justified?
The Master Spoke.
Why will there be Revelations, wars,
And roomers of wars,
Nearing the End Times?
The Master Spoke.
Why is God an eternal Being,
But the world shall be no more?
The Master Spoke.
Why is it, that when a man speaks,
His words blow away
As kernals of grain,
And yet, when God speaks, his Word is as rock,
Forever to remain?
The Master Spoke -
'Heaven and Earth shall pass away,
But my words shall never pass away.'
Why do these things occur,
And as it were,
The penalty of sin man did not have to pay?
The Master Spoke -
'For God so loved the world,
That he gave his only Son,
That whoever believes in him
Shall not perish,
But have the gift of eternal life.
Why?
The Master Spoke.
'Go now! Help the needy,
And the weak!
Save hearts that are broken! '
Hurry, now!
The Master has Spoken.
poem by Macy Dvirnak
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Dog's Day Ended
I AM only a dog, and I've had my day;
So, idle and dreaming, stretched out I lay
In the welcome warmth of the summer sun,
A poor old hunter whose work is done.
Dream? Yes, indeed; though I am but a dog,
Don't I dream of the partridge I sprung by the log,
Of the quivering hare and her desperate flight,
Of the nimble gray squirrel secure in his height,
Far away in the top of the hickory-tree,
Looking down safe and saucy at Matthew and me,
Till the hand true and steady a messanger shot,
And the creature up-bounded, and fell, and was not?
Old Matthew was king of the wood-rangers then;
And the quails in the stubble, the ducks in the fen,
The hare on the common, the birds on the bough,
Were afraid. They are safe enough now,
For all we can harm them, old master and I.
We have had our last hunt, the game must go by,
While Matthew sits fashioning bows in the door
For a living. We never hunt more.
For time, cold, and hardship have stiffened his knee;
And since little Lottie died, often I see
His hands tremble sorely, and go to his eyes
For the lost baby-daughter so pretty and wise.
Oh! it's sad to be old, and to see the blue sky
Look farther away to the dim fading eye;
To feel the fleet foot growing weary and sore
That in forest and hamlet shall lag evermore.
I am going—I hear the great wolf on my track;
Already around me his shadow falls black.
One hunting cry more! Oh, master! come nigh,
And lay the white paw in your own as I die.
Oh come to me, master! the last hedge is passed;
Our tramps in the wild wood are over at last;
Stoop lower, and lay down my head on your knee.
What! tears for a useless old hunter like me?
You will see little Lottie again by-and-by.
I sh'n't. They don't have any dogs in the sky.
Tell her, loving and trusty beside you I died,
And—bury me, master, not far from her side;
For we loved little Lottie so well, you and I.
Ha, master! the shadow! fire low! it is nigh!
There was never a sound in the still morning heard,
But the heart of the hunter his old jacket stirred,
As he flung himself down on the brute's shaggy coat,
And watched the faint life in its quivering throat
Till it stopped quite at last. The black wolf had won,
And the death-hunted hound into cover and run.
But long ere the snow over graves fell
Old Matthew was resting from labor as well;
While the cottage stood empty, yet back from the hill
The voice of the hound in the morn echoes still.
poem by Ethel Lynn Beers from Harper's New Monthly Magazine, vol. 30 (1865)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Fifth Sunday After Trinity
"The livelong night we've toiled in vain,
But at Thy gracious word
I will let down the net again:-
Do Thou Thy will, O Lord!"
So spake the weary fisher, spent
With bootless darkling toil,
Yet on his Master's bidding bent
For love and not for spoil.
So day by day and week by week,
In sad and weary thought,
They muse, whom God hath set to seek
The souls His Christ hath bought.
For not upon a tranquil lake
Our pleasant task we ply,
Where all along our glistening wake
The softest moonbeams lie;
Where rippling wave and dashing oar
Our midnight chant attend,
Or whispering palm-leaves from the shore
With midnight silence blend.
Sweet thoughts of peace, ye may not last:
Too soon some ruder sound
Calls us from where ye soar so fast
Back to our earthly round.
For wildest storms our ocean sweep:-
No anchor but the Cross
Might hold: and oft the thankless deep
Turns all our toil to loss.
Full many a dreary anxious hour
We watch our nets alone
In drenching spray, and driving shower,
And hear the night-bird's moan:
At morn we look, and nought is there;
Sad dawn of cheerless day!
Who then from pining and despair
The sickening heart can stay?
There is a stay--and we are strong;
Our Master is at hand,
To cheer our solitary song,
And guide us to the strand.
In His own time; but yet a while
Our bark at sea must ride;
Cast after cast, by force or guile
All waters must be tried:
By blameless guile or gentle force,
As when He deigned to teach
(The lode-star of our Christian course)
Upon this sacred beach.
Should e'er thy wonder-working grace
Triumph by our weak arm,
Let not our sinful fancy trace
Aught human in the charm:
To our own nets ne'er bow we down,
Lest on the eternal shore
The angels, while oar draught they own,
Reject us evermore:
Or, if for our unworthiness
Toil, prayer, and watching fail,
In disappointment Thou canst bless,
So love at heart prevail.
poem by John Keble
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To His Muse
Whither, mad maiden, wilt thou roam?
Far safer 'twere to stay at home;
Where thou mayst sit, and piping, please
The poor and private cottages.
Since cotes and hamlets best agree
With this thy meaner minstrelsy.
There with the reed thou mayst express
The shepherd's fleecy happiness;
And with thy Eclogues intermix:
Some smooth and harmless Bucolics.
There, on a hillock, thou mayst sing
Unto a handsome shepherdling;
Or to a girl, that keeps the neat,
With breath more sweet than violet.
There, there, perhaps such lines as these
May take the simple villages;
But for the court, the country wit
Is despicable unto it.
Stay then at home, and do not go
Or fly abroad to seek for woe;
Contempts in courts and cities dwell
No critic haunts the poor man's cell,
Where thou mayst hear thine own lines read
By no one tongue there censured.
That man's unwise will search for ill,
And may prevent it, sitting still.
poem by Robert Herrick
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Sonnet 37: My Mouth Doth Water
My mouth doth water, and my breast doth swell,
My tongue doth itch, my thoughts in labor be:
Listen then, lordings, with good ear to me,
For of my life I must a riddle tell.
Toward Aurora's court a nymph doth dwell,
Rich in all beauties which man's eye can see:
Beauties so far from reach of words, that we
Abase her praise, saying she doth excel:
Rich in the treasure of deserv'd renown,
Rich in the riches of a royal heart,
Rich in those gifts which give th'eternal crown;
Who though most rich in these and every part,
Which make the patents of true worldly bliss,
Hath no misfortune, but that Rich she is.
poem by Philip Sidney
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