An American Addresses Philomela
Procne, Philomela, and Itylus,
Your names are liquid, your improbable tale
Is recited in the classic numbers of the nightingale.
Ah, but our numbers are not felicitous,
It goes not liquidly for us!
Perched on a Roman ilex and duly apostrophised,
The nightingale descanted unto Ovid;
She has even appeared to the Teutons, the swilled and gravid;
At Fontainebleau it may be the bird was gallicised;
Never was she baptised.
To England came Philomela with her strain,
Fleeing the hawk her husband ; querulous ghost,
She wanders when he sits heavy on his roost,
Utters herself in the original again,
The untranslatable refrain.
Not to these shores she came, this other Thrace,
Environ barbarous to the royal Attic;
How could her delicate dirge run democratic,
Delivered in a cloudless boundless public place
To a hypermuscular race?
I pernoctated with the Oxford students once,
And in the quadrangles, in the cloisters, on the Cher,
Precociously knocked at antique doors ajar,
Fatuously touched the hems of the Hierophants,
Sick of my dissonance;
I went out to Bagley Wood, I climbed the hill,
Even the moon had slanted off in a twinkling,
I heard the sepulchral owl and a few bells tinkling,
There was no more villainous day to unfulfill,
The diuturnity was still;
Up from the darkest wood where Philomela sat,
Her fairy numbers issued; what then ailed me?
My ears are called capacious, but they failed me,
Her classics registered a little flat!
I rose, and venomously spat.
Philomela, Philomela, lover of song,
I have despaired of thee and am unworthy,
My scene is prose, this people and I are earthy;
Unto more beautiful, persistently more young
Thy fabulous provinces belong.
poem by John Crowe Ransom
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Thomas Trevelyan
Reading in Ovid the sorrowful story of Itys,
Son of the love of Tereus and Procne, slain
For the guilty passion of Tereus for Philomela,
The flesh of him served to Tereus by Procne,
And the wrath of Tereus, the murderess pursuing
Till the gods made Philomela a nightingale,
Lute of the rising moon, and Procne a swallow!
Oh livers and artists of Hellas centuries gone,
Sealing in little thuribles dreams and wisdom,
Incense beyond all price, forever fragrant,
A breath whereof makes clear the eyes of the soul!
How I inhaled its sweetness here in Spoon River!
The thurible opening when I had lived and learned
How all of us kill the children of love, and all of us,
Knowing not what we do, devour their flesh;
And all of us change to singers, although it be
But once in our lives, or change -- alas! -- to swallows,
To twitter amid cold winds and falling leaves!
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Philomela
The Nightingale, as soon as April bringeth
Unto her rested sense a perfect waking,
While late-bare Earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,
Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making;
And mournfully bewailing,
Her throat in tunes expresseth
What grief her breast oppresseth,
For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing.
O Philomela fair, O take some gladness
That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;
Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
Alas! she hath no other cause of anguish
But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken;
Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish,
Full womanlike complains her will was broken
But I, who, daily craving,
Cannot have to content me,
Have more cause to lament me,
Since wanting is more woe than too much having.
O Philomela fair, O take some gladness
That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;
Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
poem by Philip Sidney
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To Mrs. Anne Donnellan, With The Fourth Essay On Man
Dear Philomela, oft you condescend,
With Notes seraphic, to transport your Friend:
Then in Return, let Verse your Soul rejoice,
Wise, as your Converse, rapt'rous, as your Voice.
poem by Mary Barber
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Verses Occasion'd By The Sickness Of Mrs. Anne Donnellan.
Goddess of Health, where--e'er you dwell,
To Philomela fly;
O hasten from your rural Cell,
Nor let the Fair one die.
Again her Voice divine restore,
And give her Eyes their Fire;
So shall a World thy Pow'r adore,
And raise thy Altars higher.
poem by Mary Barber
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Numerical Tyranny
Who conspired
this needless need for
the numbers?
Now we all live in fear of
the numbers
tremble at the feet of
the numbers
live our lives according to the demands of
the numbers
Identify ourselves by
the numbers
we've sold ourselves short with
the numbers
locked ourselves in a cell with
the numbers
no one believes they can escape
the numbers
our status our worth
our health our happiness
all dictated by
the numbers
Who are you?
Are you just another
number?
For if only we could see the truth behind
the numbers:
the truth being
there is only one number
that number is one
and that one stretches on
through infinitude.
poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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Young Philomela's Powrfull Dart
Young Philomela's powrfull dart
Two gentle shepheard's hitt
With Beauty touchd Amintors heart
Celadons with witt
The Rivall swains on either side
Their am'rous pangs expressd
Till young Amintor she denyd
Celadon she blessd
The youth who mett a mutuall fire
In pleasure lost his pain
The others hopeless flames expire
Beneath a cold disdain
Ye Priests of love ye Poets tell
What Cupids forces are
If when the suit goes ill or well
No more we serve a fair.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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Ode XV: To The Evening-Star
I.
To-night retir'd the queen of heaven
With young Endymion stays:
And now to Hesper is it given
Awhile to rule the vacant sky,
Till she shall to her lamp supply
A stream of brighter rays.
II.
O Hesper, while the starry throng
With awe thy path surrounds,
Oh listen to my suppliant song,
If haply now the vocal sphere
Can suffer thy delighted ear
To stoop to mortal sounds.
III.
So may the bridegroom's genial strain
Thee still invoke to shine:
So may the bride's unmarried train
To Hymen chaunt their flattering vow,
Still that his lucky torch may glow
With lustre pure as thine.
IV.
Far other vows must i prefer
To thy indulgent power.
Alass, but now i paid my tear
On fair Olympia's virgin tomb:
And lo, from thence, in quest i roam
Of Philomela's bower.
V.
Propitious send thy golden ray,
Thou purest light above:
Let no false flame seduce to stray
Where gulph or steep lie hid for harm:
But lead where music's healing charm
May sooth afflicted love.
VI.
To them, by many a grateful song
In happier seasons vow'd,
These lawns, Olympia's haunt, belong:
Oft by yon silver stream we walk'd,
Or fix'd, while Philomela talk'd,
Beneath yon copses stood.
VII.
Nor seldom, where the beachen boughs
That roofless tower invade,
We came while her inchanting Muse
The radiant moon above us held:
Till by a clamorous owl compell'd
She fled the solemn shade.
VIII.
But hark; I hear her liquid tone.
Now, Hesper, guide my feet
Down the red marle with moss o'ergrown,
Through yon wild thicket next the plain,
Whose hawthorns choke the winding lane
Which leads to her retreat.
IX.
See the green space: on either hand
Inlarg'd it spreads around:
See, in the midst she takes her stand,
Where one old oak his awful shade
Extends o'er half the level mead
Inclos'd in woods profound.
X.
Hark, how through many a melting note
She now prolongs her lays:
How sweetly down the void they float!
The breeze their magic path attends:
The stars shine out: the forest bends:
The wakeful heifers gaze.
XI.
Whoe'er thou art whom chance may bring
To this sequester'd spot,
If then the plaintive Syren sing,
Oh softly tread beneath her bower,
And think of heaven's disposing power,
Of man's uncertain lot.
XII.
Oh think, o'er all this mortal stage,
What mournful scenes arise:
What ruin waits on kingly rage:
How often virtue dwells with woe:
How many griefs from knowledge flow:
How swiftly pleasure flies.
XIII.
O sacred bird, let me at eve,
Thus wandering all alone,
Thy tender counsel oft receive,
Bear witness to thy pensive airs,
And pity nature's common cares
Till i forget my own.
poem by Mark Akenside
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The Small Nightingale
Nightingale Nightingale
I am a little bird
Nightingale Nightingale
I am a little bird
Oh! god save me!
Oh! lord save me!
I have tried to save myself but i failed to?
Nightingale Nightingale
I am a sorrowful bird
Nightingale Nightingale
I am a sorrowful bird
Oh! god forget about this;
Listen about the frog
The frog was jealous of me as i sing so well
He wants me to die
Nightingale Nightingale
I am a little bird
BUT, I am a dying bird
BUT, I am a dying bird.
Oh! god save me!
Oh! lord save me!
poem by Abhishek Nair
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The Natural Numbers
My numbers never ending
Stretching to infinity
But never ever reaching there
And always further off than me
Are those strange transfinite numbers
Whose names sound like some odd code
Like aleph and omega
And, as Mr Godel showed
We need these abstract artefacts
Even if imaginary
To prove all higher theorems
And ensure consistency
But there are further mysteries
That from my numbers do arise
Like never ending decimals
Irrational numbers in disguise
They too are quite invented
Just convenient in use
When my simple natural numbers
Do not serve to make a proof
Oh the mysteries of numbers!
Oh the madness of all that!
When what started off as counting
Becomes higher abstract maths.
poem by David Keig
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A terse poem on numbers
Numbers are everywhere
twenty four hours in a day
seven days in one week
thirty one in the month of May.
A number on your front door
and on houses down your road
numbers on your credit card
and also of your postal code.
Numbers called out at Bingo
two fat ladies are number eight
and if your numbers come up
you'll go home feeling great.
Would you like a cup of tea?
one or two sugars in your cup?
sorry but I have to go now
that's the end time is up!
poem by Kevin Halls
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Song, by a Person of Quality
I.
Flutt'ring spread thy purple Pinions,
Gentle Cupid, o'er my Heart;
I a Slave in thy Dominions;
Nature must give Way to Art.
II.
Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your Flocks,
See my weary Days consuming,
All beneath yon flow'ry Rocks.
III.
Thus the Cyprian Goddess weeping,
Mourn'd Adonis, darling Youth:
Him the Boar in Silence creeping,
Gor'd with unrelenting Tooth.
IV.
Cynthia, tune harmonious Numbers;
Fair Discretion, string the Lyre;
Sooth my ever-waking Slumbers:
Bright Apollo, lend thy Choir.
V.
Gloomy Pluto, King of Terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine Chains,
Lead me to the Crystal Mirrors,
Wat'ring soft Elysian Plains.
VI.
Mournful Cypress, verdant Willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's Brows,
Morpheus hov'ring o'er my Pillow,
Hear me pay my dying Vows.
VII.
Melancholy smooth Maeander,
Swiftly purling in a Round,
On thy Margin Lovers wander,
With thy flow'ry Chaplets crown'd.
VIII.
Thus when Philomela drooping,
Softly seeks her silent Mate,
See the Bird of Juno stooping;
Melody resigns to Fate.
poem by Alexander Pope
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Numbers..
Numbers are cruel,
When the heart beats ninety per minute,
when pressure is, down very down,
High very high, fluctuating.
Numbers are cruel,
when wearing spectacles,
power can not be adjusted,
must buy a new pair.
Numbers are cruel,
when using Glucometer,
higher the reading,
must control the eating.
Numbers are cruel,
when one has thousand,
sometimes in negatives and
the other has millions.
Numbers are cruel,
when one is young and fresh,
and the other is old and in mess,
bigger the number, wiser.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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A Poem in Maths
Count your blessings, God-given;
Add them one by one, each day;
Subtract your pessimism;
Divide time for all your works;
Multiply your joys in life;
Get success in earthly stay,
By praying to the Lord.
Numbers are infinitesimal;
Numbers are so magical;
Numbers can have decimal;
Numbers rule the modern world.
Numbers are abstract / real;
Numbers can amuse us all;
Numbers are the ‘bricks’ of Maths!
Numberless, world is dismal.
They can count your hair, these days;
They can count the stars, some ways;
Man’s progression in Maths is base,
For putting man on Moon, or Mars?
Numbers make computers work;
Hypotheses form the science;
Integers are wonders too;
A genius in mathematics
Is a MATHEMAGICIAN!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 7-22-2007
poem by John Celes
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The Chase
you chase the numbers
and you are at a loss
how can the numbers feel?
you are in a discomfort
in some fits
and not at ease with yourself
because you believe in
numbers and like horses you
want to capture each
with a rope of your
tired imagination
disregard the numbers and begin
to believe in the words
those syllables
even in the simplest form
of the comma,
the period.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When Numbers Get Serious
I have a number in my head
Though I dont know why its there
When numbers get serious
You see their shape everywhere
Dividing and multiplying
Exchanging with ease
When times are mysterious
Serious numbers are easy to please
Take my address
Take my phone
Call me if you can
Heres my address
Heres my phone
Please dont give it to some madman
Hey hey, whoa whoa
Complicated life
Numbers swirling thick and curious
You can cut them with a knife
You can cut them with a knife
Two times two is twenty-two
Four times four is forty-four
When numbers get serious
They leave a mark on your door
Urgent. urgent.
A telephone is ringing in the hallways
When times are mysterious
Serious numbers will speak to us always
That is why a man with numbers
Can put your mind at ease
Weve got numbers by the trillions
Here and overseas
Hey hey, whoa whoa
Look at the stink about japan
All those numbers waiting patiently
Dont you understand?
Dont you understand?
So wrap me
Wrap me
Wrap me do
In the shelter of your arms
I am ever your volunteer
I wont do you any harm
I will love innumerably
You can count on my word
When times are mysterious
Serious numbers
Will always be heard
When times are mysterious
Serious numbers will always be heard
And after all is said and done
And the numbers all come home
The four rolls into three
The three turns into two
And the two becomes a
One
song performed by by Paul Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nightingale
(ferry/manzanera)
Before the morning comes, will I hear your song
Come little nightingale, I wont be here for long
When youre up there flying, do you care
If theres no one else around?
When your lover leaves you in the air
Do you waver, do you fall?
Now while the moon is high
Shall we, nightingale,
Duet all through the night
A pair of souls for sale
Stars cluster glistening
Captive till the dawn
Patiently listening
Theyve heard it all before
Should I stay here or should I go?
I couldnt bear to be alone
Was it really love I saw?
Oh, now Ill never know
What is this I hear?
I recognise that song
Sweet little nightingale I knew youd come along
Soon when the morning comes.
We will both be gone
So sing pretty nightingale
Lead, Ill follow on.
song performed by by Roxy Music
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Budget or Bud-jet
When you see it, it is just a pile of numbers or a graph or a grip or a table.
When you feel it, it metamorphoses into a monster or an elephant or a bird or a fish or a tiger or a eel or a dog or a shark or a bug or a snake or a hawk or a vulture or a rat or a whale or an ant or a cat or a.......
When you use it, it is just a machine.
when you lose it, it is a hell.
When you win it, it is just a heaven.
When you die, it is just a pile of numbers.
By The Arno
THE oleander on the wall
Grows crimson in the dawning light,
Though the grey shadows of the night
Lie yet on Florence like a pall.
The dew is bright upon the hill,
And bright the blossoms overhead,
But ah! the grasshoppers have fled,
The little Attic song is still.
Only the leaves are gently stirred
By the soft breathing of the gale,
And in the almond-scented vale
The lonely nightingale is heard.
The day will make thee silent soon,
O nightingale sing on for love!
While yet upon the shadowy grove
Splinter the arrows of the moon.
Before across the silent lawn
In sea-green mist the morning steals,
And to love's frightened eyes reveals
The long white fingers of the dawn
Fast climbing up the eastern sky
To grasp and slay the shuddering night,
All careless of my heart's delight,
Or if the nightingale should die.
poem by Oscar Wilde
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The Hermit
At the close of day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove.
'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar,
While his harp rung symphonious, a Hermit began
No more with himself or with nature at war,
He thought as a Sage, though he felt as a Man.
'Ah, why, all abandon'd to darkness and wo,
Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall?
For Spring shall return, and a lover bestow,
But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,
Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn;
O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away
Full quickly they pass - but they never return.
'Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,
The Moon, half-extinguish'd, her crescent displays:
But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high
She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue
The path that conducts thee to splendour again.
But Man's faded glory what change shall renew!
Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain!
''Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;
I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,
Perfumed with fresh fragrance, with glittering dew,
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;
Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save.
But when shall Spring visit the mouldering urn!
O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!
''Twas thus, by the glare of false Science betray'd,
That leads, to bewilder; and dazzles, to blind;
My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade,
Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.
'O pity, great Father of light,' then I cried,
'Thy creature who fain would not wander from Thee!
Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride:
From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free.
'And darkness and doubt are now flying away,
No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn.
So breaks on the traveller, faint, and astray,
The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.
see Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending,
And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!
On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending,
And Beauty Immortal awakes from the tomb.'
poem by James Beattie
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I think soccer is more respected now than it ever has been. You can see that in the numbers of young kids who are playing and the numbers of people who are coming to watch.
quote by Brandi Chastain
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