Prologue To Western Australia
Nor gold, nor silver are the words set here,
Nor rich-wrought chasing on design of art;
But rugged relics of an unknown sphere
Where fortune chanced I played one time apart.
Unthought of here the critic blame or praise,
These recollections all their faults atone;
To hold the scenes, I’ve writ of men and ways
Uncouth and rough as Austral ironstone.
It may be, I have left the higher gleams
Of skies and flowers unheeded or forgot;
It may be so,— but, looking back, it seems
When I was with, them I beheld them not.
I was no rambling poet, but a man
Hard pressed to dig and delve, with naught of ease
The hot day through, save when the evening's fan
Of sea-winds rustled through the kindly trees.
It may be so; but when I think I smile
At my poor hand and brain to paint the charms
Of God’ s first-blazoned canvas! here the aisle
Moonlit and deep of reaching gothic arms
From towering gum, mahogany, and palm,
And odorous jam and sandal; there the growth
Of arm-long velvet leaves grown hoar in calm,—
In calm unbroken since their luscious youth.
How can I show you all the silent birds
With strange metallic glintings on the wing ?
Or how tell half their sadness in cold words,—
The poor dumb lutes, the birds that never sing?
Of wondrous parrot-greens and iris hue
Of sensuous flower and of gleaming snake,—
Ah! what I see I long that so might you,
But of these things what picture can I make?
Sometime, maybe, a man will wander there,—
A mind God-gifted, and not dull and weak;
And he will come and paint that land so fair,
And show the beauties of which I but speak.
But in the hard, sad days that there I spent,
My mind absorbed rude pictures: these I show
As best I may, and just with this intent,—
To tell some things that all folk may not know.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On The Busts Of Milton, In Youth And Age, At Stourhead
IN YOUTH.
Milton, our noblest poet, in the grace
Of youth, in those fair eyes and clustering hair,
That brow untouched by one faint line of care,
To mar its openness, we seem to trace
The front of the first lord of human race,
'Mid thine own Paradise portrayed so fair,
Ere Sin or Sorrow scathed it: such the air
That characters thy youth. Shall time efface
These lineaments as crowding cares assail!
It is the lot of fall'n humanity.
What boots it! armed in adamantine mail,
The unconquerable mind, and genius high,
Right onward hold their way through weal and woe,
Or whether life's brief lot be high or low!
IN AGE.
And art thou he, now 'fall'n on evil days,'
And changed indeed! Yet what do this sunk cheek,
These thinner locks, and that calm forehead speak!
A spirit reckless of man's blame or praise,--
A spirit, when thine eyes to the noon's blaze
Their dark orbs roll in vain, in suffering meek,
As in the sight of God intent to seek,
'Mid solitude or age, or through the ways
Of hard adversity, the approving look
Of its great Master; whilst the conscious pride
Of wisdom, patient and content to brook
All ills to that sole Master's task applied,
Shall show before high heaven the unaltered mind,
Milton, though thou art poor, and old, and blind!
poem by William Lisle Bowles
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The Poor Can Feed the Birds
Ragged, unheeded, stooping, meanly shod,
The poor pass to the pond: not far away
The spires go up to God.
Shyly they come from the unpainted lane;
Coats have they made of old unhappiness
That keeps in every pain.
The rich have fear, perchance their God is dim;
’Tis with the hope of stored-up happiness
They build the spires to Him.
The rich go out in clattering pomp and dare
In the most holy places to insult
The deep Benevolence there.
But ’tis the poor who make the loving words.
Slowly they stoop; it is a Sacrament:
The poor can feed the birds.
Old, it is old, this scattering of the bread,
Deep as forgiveness, or the tears that go
Out somewhere to the dead.
The feast of love, the love that is the cure
For all indignities—it reigns, it calls,
It chains us to the pure.
Seldom they speak of God, He is too dim;
So without thought of after happiness
They feed the birds for Him.
The rich men walk not here on the green sod,
But they have builded towers, the timorous
That still go up to God.
Still will the poor go out with loving words;
In the long need, the need for happiness
The poor can feed the birds.
poem by John Shaw Neilson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nimmo
Since you remember Nimmo, and arrive
At such a false and florid and far drawn
Confusion of odd nonsense, I connive
No longer, though I may have led you on.
So much is told and heard and told again,
So many with his legend are engrossed,
That I, more sorry now than I was then,
May live on to be sorry for his ghost.
You knew him, and you must have known his eyes,—
How deep they were, and what a velvet light
Came out of them when anger or surprise,
Or laughter, or Francesca, made them bright.
No, you will not forget such eyes, I think,—
And you say nothing of them. Very well.
I wonder if all history’s worth a wink,
Sometimes, or if my tale be one to tell.
For they began to lose their velvet light;
Their fire grew dead without and small within;
And many of you deplored the needless fight
That somewhere in the dark there must have been.
All fights are needless, when they’re not our own,
But Nimmo and Francesca never fought.
Remember that; and when you are alone,
Remember me—and think what I have thought.
Now, mind you, I say nothing of what was,
Or never was, or could or could not be:
Bring not suspicion’s candle to the glass
That mirrors a friend’s face to memory.
Of what you see, see all,—but see no more;
For what I show you here will not be there.
The devil has had his way with paint before,
And he’s an artist,—and you needn’t stare.
There was a painter and he painted well:
He’d paint you Daniel in the lion’s den,
Beelzebub, Elaine, or William Tell.
I’m coming back to Nimmo’s eyes again.
The painter put the devil in those eyes,
Unless the devil did, and there he stayed;
And then the lady fled from paradise,
And there’s your fact. The lady was afraid.
She must have been afraid, or may have been,
Of evil in their velvet all the while;
But sure as I’m a sinner with a skin,
I’ll trust the man as long as he can smile.
I trust him who can smile and then may live
In my heart’s house, where Nimmo is today.
God knows if I have more than men forgive
To tell him; but I played, and I shall pay.
I knew him then, and if I know him yet,
I know in him, defeated and estranged,
The calm of men forbidden to forget
The calm of women who have loved and changed.
But there are ways that are beyond our ways,
Or he would not be calm and she be mute,
As one by one their lost and empty days
Pass without even the warmth of a dispute.
God help us all when women think they see;
God save us when they do. I’m fair; but though
I know him only as he looks to me,
I know him,—and I tell Francesca so.
And what of Nimmo? Little would you ask
Of him, could you but see him as I can,
At his bewildered and unfruitful task
Of being what he was born to be—a man.
Better forget that I said anything
Of what your tortured memory may disclose;
I know him, and your worst remembering
Would count as much as nothing, I suppose.
Meanwhile, I trust him; and I know his way
Of trusting me, and always in his youth.
I’m painting here a better man, you say,
Than I, the painter; and you say the truth.
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Madona Mia
UNDER green apple-boughs
That never a storm will rouse,
My lady hath her house
Between two bowers;
In either of the twain
Red roses full of rain;
She hath for bondwomen
All kind of flowers.
She hath no handmaid fair
To draw her curled gold hair
Through rings of gold that bear
Her whole hair’s weight;
She hath no maids to stand
Gold-clothed on either hand;
In all the great green land
None is so great.
She hath no more to wear
But one white hood of vair
Drawn over eyes and hair,
Wrought with strange gold,
Made for some great queen’s head,
Some fair great queen since dead;
And one strait gown of red
Against the cold.
Beneath her eyelids deep
Love lying seems asleep,
Love, swift to wake, to weep,
To laugh, to gaze;
Her breasts are like white birds,
And all her gracious words
As water-grass to herds
In the June-days.
To her all dews that fall
And rains are musical;
Her flowers are fed from all,
Her joy from these;
In the deep-feathered firs
Their gift of joy is hers,
In the least breath that stirs
Across the trees.
She grows with greenest leaves,
Ripens with reddest sheaves,
Forgets, remembers, grieves,
And is not sad;
The quiet lands and skies
Leave light upon her eyes;
None knows her, weak or wise,
Or tired or glad.
None knows, none understands,
What flowers are like her hands;
Though you should search all lands
Wherein time grows,
What snows are like her feet,
Though his eyes burn with heat
Through gazing on my sweet,
Yet no man knows.
Only this thing is said;
That white and gold and red,
God’s three chief words, man’s bread
And oil and wine,
Were given her for dowers,
And kingdom of all hours,
And grace of goodly flowers
And various vine.
This is my lady’s praise:
God after many days
Wrought her in unknown ways,
In sunset lands;
This was my lady’s birth;
God gave her might and mirth
And laid his whole sweet earth
Between her hands.
Under deep apple-boughs
My lady hath her house;
She wears upon her brows
The flower thereof;
All saying but what God saith
To her is as vain breath;
She is more strong than death,
Being strong as love.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Sonnet: Show Me …
Show me a hand that’s scarred by giving alms;
Show me an arm that helped others life-long;
Show me a face of greed that always calms;
Show me a voice tired by divine song.
Show me a foot that’s lame, walking with God;
Show me a tongue pale, speaking holy words;
Show me a soul that fears not God’s just rod;
Show me an eye blind that loves killing birds.
Show me a knee, pained by genuflection;
Show me a soul upright that fears its loss;
Show me body weak by meditation;
Show me a shoulder burdened by Christ’s cross.
Show me a heart gone small, loving brethren;
Show me a mind tired seeking Heaven!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 6-14-2008
poem by John Celes
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Ya Tvoya Ne Pervaya
hello...
hello...
do you see wind?
so what?
just look at the window.
so what?
it was sun yesterday
so what?
why are you always saying the same thing?
i am-answering machine.
Just to calm down,
silence is gold,
radio insomnia,
station parting.
who will get who,
coins will show?
who will be left to who,
by nerves, pills?
behind the windows at night
(she) will yell and break,
this doesn't count, this doesn't count.
(she is) faithful, not faithful,
i am not your first,
you are my sudden.
(you)show, show, show, show,
show, show me love.
(you) show, show, show, show
why, why am i with you.
(you)show, show, show,show
show, show me love.
(you)show, show, show, show
why, why am i with you.
i guess (someone) will refuse,
easier not to meet (not to introduce ourselves to each other)
who of us will refuse,
just to calm down.
girls like girls,
and then- sleepwalkers.
Numbers and narrows,
Chocolate bars, wrappings.
(she)will hide, cry,
will, say, scare.
this doesn't count
i am not your first
you are my sudden.
(you)show, show, show, show,
show, show me love.
(you)show, show, show, show,
why, why am i with you.
(you)show, show, show, show,
show, show me love.
(you)show, show, show,show,
why, why am i with you.
show, show me love.....
show me love......
song performed by by Tatu
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In Age
And art thou he, now 'fallen on evil days,'
And changed indeed! Yet what do this sunk cheek,
These thinner locks, and that calm forehead speak!
A spirit reckless of man's blame or praise,-
A spirit, when thine eyes to the noon's blaze
Their dark orbs roll in vain, in suffering meek,
As in the sight of God intent to seek,
Mid solitude or age, or through the ways
Of hard adversity, the approving look
Of its great Master; whilst the conscious pride
Of wisdom, patient and content to brook
All ills to that sole Master's task applied,
Shall show before high heaven the unaltered mind,
Milton, though thou art poor, and old, and blind!
poem by William Lisle Bowles
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Show Me
Once I needed your love
But that was just one thing left on my mind
Then I needed to feel you near me
You said:dont have the time.
The cowboys at the rodeo
The rhine-stones on that romeo
Your theme tune on the radio
Souvenirs that only go to
_ chorus:
Show me, show me
Show me that your mine
Show me, show me
Give me just one sign
Show me, show me
Second that emotion
Show me, show me love
Since were skimming the surface darling
Nows time to get in deep
Youve opened up the envelope
But theres still one secret you keep
A pirate station or the late night show
A sunken ship with a rich cargo
Buried treasure that the four winds blow
Wind and rain it only goes to
_ chorus
Some things are hidden
Some things youll see
Make me know
Signal to me
Nine out of ten, in every case
She might look pretty but theres make up on her face
Show me, show me love
And you can be free
And you could be free. free. free.
Where are the diamonds?
Where are the curls?
Where are the things that you took from this world?
These are the diamonds
These are the curls
These are the things that you took from this world
song performed by by Abc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If
If a picture paints a thousand words,
Then why cant I paint you?
The words will never show
The you Ive come to know
If a face could launch a thousand ships,
Then where am I to go?
Theres no one home but you,
Youre all thats left me too
And when my love for life is running dry,
You come and pour yourself on me
If I could be two places at one time,
Id be with you
Tomorrow and today,
Beside you all the way
If the world should stop revolving
Spinning slowly down to die,
Id spend the end with you
And when the world was through,
Then one by one the stars would all go out,
Then you and I would simply fly away
If a picture paints a thousand words,
Then why cant I paint you?
'Cause the words could never show
The you Ive come to know
And one by one the stars will all go out,
But you and I will simply fly away
We'll fly away
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poison-Flower
IIN the evergreen shade of an Austral wood,
Where the long branches laced above,
Through which all day it seemed
The sweet sunbeams down-gleamed
Like the rays of a young mother's love,
When she hides her glad face with her hands and peeps
At the youngling that crows on her knee:
'Neath such ray-shivered shade,
In a banksia glade,
Was this flower first shown to me.
A rich pansy it was, with a small white lip
And a wonderful purple hood;
And your eye caught the sheen
Of its leaves, parrot-green,
Down the dim gothic aisles of the wood.
And its foliage rich on the moistureless sand
Made you long for its odorous breath;
But ah! 'twas to take
To your bosom a snake,
For its pestilent fragrance was death.
And I saw it again, in a far northern land,—
Not a pansy, not purple and white;
Yet in beauteous guise
Did this poison-plant rise,
Fair and fatal again to my sight.
And men longed for her kiss and her odorous breath
When no friend was beside them to tell
That to kiss was to die,
That her truth was a lie,
And her beauty a soul-killing spell.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Sonnet: Best of Luck, Dear Neice
Fair maiden teen! well, listen to my words;
The time has come when thou must show thine stuff!
And not see, feed or fly off like the birds;
Take heed- Thine adolescence was enough!
Show off thine genes, your parents gifted you;
Laugh off your aches and pains and silly ways;
Work hard for this is the crucial time to;
Become a Star bright in the coming days!
Waste not your time precious, be it seconds;
But labour hard to reap its benefits;
Pray fervently; Read with great diligence;
There is scarce time to pick your head-lice/nits!
Cover your portions although they seem vast;
Remember child, your time is ticking fast!
poem by John Celes
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You Don't Have To Paint Me A Picture
The kiss was colder than I remember
When we first said hello
I guess the flame's now a little lower
I can feel you letting go
You know the pain drops a little darker
Then when you first put it on
I guess your love's like some old cheap and magic marker
Said forever nice go
But you don't have to paint me a picture
You don't have to say things at all
You don't have to paint me a picture
I can see in the writing on the wall
When we first fell, we fell a long way
Summer nights and winter days
Mountain sunrise, ocean sunset
Hand in hand in the haze
Now it's cold heart summer evenings
And there's clouds on my sunrise
But you don't have to smile and say you're happy
I can see what's in your eyes
You don't have to paint me a picture
You don't have to say things at all
You don't have to paint me a picture
I can see in the writing on the wall
song performed by by Alan Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Let Us Go
Let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear.
Let us go hence together without fear;
Keep silence now, for singing-time is over,
And over all old things and all things dear.
She loves not you nor me as all we love her.
Yea, though we sang as angels in her ear,
She would not hear.
Let us rise up and part; she will not know.
Let us go seaward as the great winds go,
Full of blown sand and foam; what help is here?
There is no help, for all these things are so,
And all the world is bitter as a tear.
And how these things are, though ye strove to show,
She would not know.
Let us go home and hence; she will not weep.
We gave love many dreams and days to keep,
Flowers without scent, and fruits that would not grow,
Saying 'If thou wilt, thrust in thy sickle and reap.'
All is reaped now; no grass is left to mow;
And we that sowed, though all we fell on sleep,
She would not weep.
Let us go hence and rest; she will not love.
She shall not hear us if we sing hereof,
Nor see love's ways, how sore they are and steep.
Come hence, let be, lie still; it is enough.
Love is a barren sea, bitter and deep;
And though she saw all heaven in flower above,
She would not love.
Let us give up, go down; she will not care.
Though all the stars made gold of all the air,
And the sea moving saw before it move
One moon-flower making all the foam-flowers fair;
Though all those waves went over us, and drove
Deep down the stifling lips and drowning hair,
She would not care.
Let us go hence, go hence; she will not see.
Sing all once more together; surely she,
She too, remembering days and words that were,
Will turn a little toward us, sighing; but we,
We are hence, we are gone, as though we had not been there.
Nay, and though all men seeing had pity on me,
She would not see.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Leave-Taking
Let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear.
Let us go hence together without fear;
Keep silence now, for singing-time is over,
And over all old things and all things dear.
She loves not you nor me as all we love her.
Yea, though we sang as angels in her ear,
She would not hear.
Let us rise up and part; she will not know.
Let us go seaward as the great winds go,
Full of blown sand and foam; what help is here?
There is no help, for all these things are so,
And all the world is bitter as a tear.
And how these things are, though ye strove to show,
She would not know.
Let us go home and hence; she will not weep.
We gave love many dreams and days to keep,
Flowers without scent, and fruits that would not grow,
Saying 'If thou wilt, thrust in thy sickle and reap.'
All is reaped now; no grass is left to mow;
And we that sowed, though all we fell on sleep,
She would not weep.
Let us go hence and rest; she will not love.
She shall not hear us if we sing hereof,
Nor see love's ways, how sore they are and steep.
Come hence, let be, lie still; it is enough.
Love is a barren sea, bitter and deep;
And though she saw all heaven in flower above,
She would not love.
Let us give up, go down; she will not care.
Though all the stars made gold of all the air,
And the sea moving saw before it move
One moon-flower making all the foam-flowers fair;
Though all those waves went over us, and drove
Deep down the stifling lips and drowning hair,
She would not care.
Let us go hence, go hence; she will not see.
Sing all once more together; surely she,
She too, remembering days and words that were,
Will turn a little toward us, sighing; but we,
We are hence, we are gone, as though we had not been there.
Nay, and though all men seeing had pity on me,
She would not see.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In Age
And art thou he, now "fallen on evil days,"
And changed indeed! Yet what do this sunk cheek,
These thinner locks, and that calm forehead speak!
A spirit reckless of man's blame or praise,--
A spirit, when thine eyes to the noon's blaze
Their dark orbs roll in vain, in suffering meek,
As in the sight of God intent to seek,
Mid solitude or age, or through the ways
Of hard adversity, the approving look
Of its great Master; whilst the conscious pride
Of wisdom, patient and content to brook
All ills to that sole Master's task applied,
Shall show before high heaven the unaltered mind,
Milton, though thou art poor, and old, and blind!
poem by William Lisle Bowles
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry's Golden Day
I don't want to be busy as a bee
I want to enjoy and take it easy
I won't work hard to get rich
I fly in dream like a witch
And go to places where no one can go
And see many things that no one can show
My mind is rich in everyway
If I remain poor it's okay
I play with the words like Pele
To bring poetry's golden day
poem by Asif Andalib
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Movie Magg
(Perkins)
Now, let me take you to the movies, Magg, so I can hold your hand.
Oh, it ain't that I don't like your house, it's just that doggone man
and that double barrel behind the door that waits for me, I know.
Oh, climb upon old Becky's back and let's ride to the picture show.
I only see her once a week and it's when my work is through.
I break new ground the whole week long but my mind's set straight on you.
And I polished up my old horse Beck, and she looks good, I know.
So climb upon old Becky's back and let's ride to the picture show.
Now won't you let me take you to the show so I can hold your hand.
Oh, it ain't that I don't like your house, it's just that doggone man
and that double barrel behind the door that waits for me, I know.
So climb upon old Becky's back and let's ride to the picture show.
Well, I break new ground all week long with my mind's set straight on you.
And every time I try to smile, my heart it breaks in two.
I slick myself for Saturday night cause there's one thing I know,
I'm gonna take my Maggie dear to the western picture show.
Now won't you let me take you to the show so I can hold your hand.
And it ain't that I don't like your house, it's just that doggone man
and that double barrel behind the door that waits for me, I know.
Oh, climb upon old Becky's back and let's ride to the picture show.
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Metaphors of A Free Poet
Leaves shine their best
In the fall,
When they are dying.
Days grown cold
Are left behind,
While the sky comes around to crying.
Shadows can only show
True beauty,
Scattered in rays of the sun's light.
While nature's darkest picture
Is the moon hidden behind clouds,
On a chilled and rainy night.
What sets the soul
Of the poet free?
- the lack of law to conformity -
To bend and blend at will
Time with eternity;
Outter inspiration with inner ability.
Some times (with surprise) arrive
With no name,
Leaving only questions to ponder
Why they came.
Words in cryptic ways
May design delicate days,
Adorned with wonders so brief
Bringing just the slightest spiritual relief.
If even one soul
May find,
In some word I've pressed
A small peace of mind,
Or see just a glimpse
Of beauty so divine,
Then what I have sought
Of all that I feel,
(written metaphorically)
Shall finally become real.
This beyond all else
Is what sets the soul free,
Within the likes
Of a simple poet... like me.
poem by Smoky Hoss
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Leave-Taking
A Leave-Taking
Let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear.
Let us go hence together without fear;
Keep silence now, for singing?time is over,
And over all old things and all things dear.
She loves not you nor me as we all love her.
Yea, though we sang as angels in her ear,
She would not hear.
Let us rise up and part; she will not know.
Let us go seaward as the great winds go,
Full of blown sand and foam; what help is here?
There is no help, for all these things are so,
And all the world is bitter as a tear.
And how these things are, though ye strove to show,
She would not know.
Let us go home and hence; she will not weep.
We gave love many dreams and days to keep,
Flowers without scent, and fruits that would not grow,
Saying, `If thou wilt, thrust in thy sickle and reap.'
All is reaped now; no grass is left to mow;
And we that sowed, though all we fell on sleep,
She would not weep.
Let us go hence and rest; she will not love.
She shall not hear us if we sing hereof,
Nor see love's ways, how sore they are and steep.
Come hence, let be, lie still; it is enough.
Love is a barren sea, bitter and deep;
And though she saw all heaven in flower above,
She would not love.
Let us give up, go down; she will not care.
Though all the stars made gold of all the air,
And the sea moving saw before it move
One moon?flower making all the foam?flowers fair;
Though all those waves went over us, and drove
Deep down the stifling lips and drowning hair,
She would not care.
Let us go hence, go hence; she will not see.
Sing all once more together; surely she,
She too, remembering days and words that were,
Will turn a little toward us, sighing; but we,
We are hence, we are gone, as though we had not been there.
Nay, and though all men seeing had pity on me,
She would not see.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Mind's Polarities
It’s said – and so it seems to be –
that when the individual mind
emerges from that place where mind
rests, perfect, and in unity with all things to be known –
in that place, which is; within us, and without us:
that in that moment, as the mind expands,
and as its sphere within expands to match that sphere without,
polarities arise; such axis as may join them
to lie hidden and forgot; instead we see
all as remotenesses, that grow ever more the farther;
and then – the aweful nature of the human lie –
name them ‘opposites’… and in that step,
a further one, ‘duality’…
and so, condemn ourselves to fruitless life
where, across the vast mind’s sphere,
sadness – let’s say – sees, far off, that pure happiness -
too far, too far, to be within its reach…
and happiness, seeing far off, sadness, seeks in pleasure
to keep its distance…and so, the balance swings,
the world wags, and the mind knows only restlessness…
and knows, desire… how we forget,
we could not know desire, but that we knew
what desire desires; what’s missing in our world;
sadness, knowing the happiness; what would sadness be
without its knowing, in full, its happiness? ..
if we but saw desire as grace; looked at it with clear eye;
we might see, lurking there within,
beyond the warnings of its waywardness,
that holy thing that yearns alway for onefulness…
and as we have departed,
then by grace, so we return;
find by that third perfect point;
that eye that sees, from its eternal home,
duality to resolve in unity..
and all absolved, we’re absolute..
*
this, by mine own hand… writ
in a deep yearning sadness;
sadness that would fain convince itself
that happiness, this morning, is too distant; so, then,
to abide in sorrowed sadness…
and yet, there are strange joys,
where sadness meets all other things, in duty and in law;
speaks of all things in some strange disguise;
finds its heart, where heart it never sought;
and so, if words may do
what words should do, I name this poem’s end
its true beginning: name it now,
dedicating it, to truth and joy, and to myself:
A Poem in Praise of Happiness.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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