The Book
Gallery of sacred pictures manifold,
A minster rich in holy effigies,
And bearing on entablature and frieze
The hieroglyphic oracles of old.
Along its transept aureoled martyrs sit;
And the low chancel side-lights half acquaint
The eye with shrines of prophet, bard, and saint,
Their age-dimmed tablets traced in doubtful writ!
But only when on form and word obscure
Falls from above the white supernal light
We read the mystic characters aright,
And life informs the silent portraiture,
Until we pause at last, awe-held, before
The One ineffable Face, love, wonder, and adore.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
The Oracles
Invaders, invaders! The oracles must be consulted;
From the North to the South and,
From the East to the West are the African Oracles.
The oracles of my ancestors are,
The trademarks of my African identity to a call;
We have to consult the oracles in times of need.
Who said it is not rue?
Who said it is not powerful?
Visit the Oracles of Africa and know the truth.
The African Oracles,
Do ask Mr. Okonkwo about it;
He will tell you why,
The Whiteman's 'iron Horse' was hanged on a tree.
Oh! The oracles of my ancestors;
Out of their mystic myths,
So lay their powers.
Of their creative arts and acts,
Of their spell which makes me think otherwise;
Yet still, the African lacks behind in many things.
If onne could fly in the thin air and able to vanish,
Why can't they form a Universal Soldier in Africa? !
Those are they who are bullet-proof too;
Are these Oracles also working for them?
The oracles,
The Oracles of Africa!
With respective rites for a passer-by who,
Wants to know more about the African;
Oh, the oracles of my forefathers.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Lost One
COME to the grave--the silent grave! and dream
Of a light, happy voice--so full of joy,
That those who heard her laugh, would laugh again,
Echoing the mirth of such an innocent spirit;
And pause in their own converse, to look round,
Won by the witchery of that gleesome tone.
Come to the grave--the lone dark grave! and dream
Of eyes whose brilliancy was of the soul,
Eyes which, with one bright flash from their dark lids,
Seemed at a glance to read the thoughts of others;
Or, with a full entire tenderness,
The pure expression of all-perfect love,
(Of woman's love, which is for you alone,
While your's is for yourself)--gave in that look
The promise of a life of meek affection.
Come to the grave--the mouldering grave! and dream
Of a fair form that glided over earth
One of its happiest creatures:--to her cheek
The lightest word might bring the blushing blood
In pure carnation;--down her graceful neck,
The long rich curls of jet hung carelessly,
Untortured by the cunning hand of art:
And on her brow, bright purity and joy,
Twin sisters, sate,--as on a holy throne.
Come yet unto the grave--the still, damp grave!
And dream of a young heart that beat with life,
And all life's best affections; of a heart
Where sorrow never came, nor fear, nor sin--
Nor aught save innocence, and perfect love:
And, having dreamed of such a lovely being--
So gay, so bright, so pure, so fond, so meek--
Having thus conjured up a form of love
In thine own pausing and regretful mind;--
A vision will be present to thy soul,
A faint, but faithful portraiture, of one
Most dearly loved, and now for ever lost!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Hymn 41
The same; or, The martyrs glorified.
Rev. 7:13ff.
"These glorious minds, how bright they shine!
Whence all their white array?
How came they to the happy seats
Of everlasting day?"
From torturing pains to endless joys
On fiery wheels they rode,
And strangely washed their raiment white
In Jesus' dying blood.
Now they approach a spotless God,
And bow before his throne
Their warbling harps and sacred songs
Adore the Holy One.
The unveiled glories of his face
Amongst his saints reside,
While the rich treasure of his grace
Sees all their wants supplied.
Tormenting thirst shall leave their souls,
And hunger flee as fast;
The fruit of life's immortal tree
Shall be their sweet repast.
The Lamb shall lead his heav'nly flock
Where living fountains rise;
And love divine shall wipe away
The sorrows of their eyes.
poem by Isaac Watts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Poem.
These bones have life, and this heart knows
The poem that this hand has writ
The wind of God within it blows,
The light of God, too, shines in it.
Gather the words as sands, and cast
Them in the silence of the sphere,
The imaginary sound shall last
Till thought grows deaf to all things here
Ay! then regather, word by word,
The wonder of the mystic pen,
And ye shall hear a lonely bird
Singing within the hearts of men.
A form, a color, light and air,
'Tis like the soul — a phantasy
Which men may picture anywhere
Till God becomes a memory!
poem by Robert Crawford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Picture From Lifes Other Side
Recorded by hank williams, sr.
Arranged by hank williams, sr.
Capo: 2nd fret/key: e/play: d
[d] in the worlds mighty gallery of pictures
Hang the [g] scenes that are painted from life [d]
Theres pictures of love and of passion
Then theres [e7] pictures of peace and of [a7] strife
There hang [d] pictures of youth and of beauty
Of old [g] age and the blushing young [d] bride
They all [g] hang on the wall - but the [d] saddest of all
Are the [a7] pictures from lifes other [d] side.
[d] just a picture from lifes other side
Some-[g] one has fell by the way [d]
A life has gone out with the tide
That [e7] might have been happy some [a7] day
Theres a [d] poor old mother at home
Shes [g] watching and waiting a-[d] lone
Just [g] longing to hear - from a [d] loved one so dear
Its just a [a7] picture from lifes other [d] side.
The first scene is that of a gambler
Who had lost all his money at play
An he draws his dead mothers ring from his finger
That she wore long ago on her wedding day
Its his last earthly treasure, but he stakes it
Then he bows his head that his shame he may hide
But, when they lifted his head - they found he was dead
Thats just a picture from lifes other side.
Now the last scene is that by the river
Of a heart-broken mother and babe
As the harbor lights shine and they shiver
On an outcast whom no one will save
And yet, she was once a true woman
She was somebodys darlin and pride
God help her, she leaps - for theres no one to weep
Its just a picture from lifes other side.
Extra verse:
The next was a scene of two brothers
Whose pathways so diffrent had led
One lived the life of a rich man
The other one begged for his bread
Then one night they met on the highway
Your money or life, the thief cried
And then with his knife - took his own brothers life
Its just a picture from lifes other side.
song performed by by Hank Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Ballade to Our Lady of Czestochowa
I
Lady and Queen and Mystery manifold
And very Regent of the untroubled sky,
Whom in a dream St. Hilda did behold
And heard a woodland music passing by:
You shall receive me when the clouds are high
With evening and the sheep attain the fold.
This is the faith that I have held and hold,
And this is that in which I mean to die.
II
Steep are the seas and savaging and cold
In broken waters terrible to try;
And vast against the winter night the wold,
And harbourless for any sail to lie.
But you shall lead me to the lights, and I
Shall hymn you in a harbour story told.
This is the faith that I have held and hold,
And this is that in which I mean to die.
III
Help of the half-defeated, House of gold,
Shrine of the Sword, and Tower of Ivory;
Splendour apart, supreme and aureoled,
The Battler's vision and the World's reply.
You shall restore me, O my last Ally,
To vengence and the glories of the bold.
This is the faith that I have held and hold,
And this is that in which I mean to die.
Envoi
Prince of the degradations, bought and sold,
These verses, written in your crumbling sty,
Proclaim the faith that I have held and hold
And publish that in which I mean to die.
poem by Hilaire Belloc
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I sit here all night
I sit at night herein ' oh its al right '
but no no its not ok its not aright
every day i here where going to make it
its going to be all ok life made it this way
hey hey listen to me now
my heart is broke
and my love is gone
don't sit at night and tell me its aright
sit right here in this chair
and stop lieing to be night after night
tell me what problems we face
why all the love and hate
seem to smack me in the face
tell me why night after night i read your words
and i seem to think half clear
come to my face spit in it
it will be better in taist then the
trash you speak night after night
just tell me whats ok and whats wrong
tell me where the hell my life went wrong
not now when! ? , tell me now whats going on
right here right now put up your fists
i guess ill haft to fight to know whats right
lay me on the floor bruise me beat me
i just don't want to here a lie tonight
poem by Cody Lee Jones
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Profile on the Pillow
After our fierce loving
in the brief time we found to be together,
you lay in the half light
exhausted, rich,
with your face turned sideways on the pillow
and I traced the exquisite
line of your profile, dark against the white,
delicate and lovely as a child's.
Perhaps
you will cease to love me.
or we may be consumed in the holocaust,
but I keep, against the ice and the fire,
the memory of your profile on the pillow.
poem by Dudley Randall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Love's Young Dream
Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright
My heart's chain wove;
When my dream of life, from morn till night,
Was love, still love.
New hope may bloom,
And days may come,
Of milder calmer beam,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream:
No, there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream.
Though the bard to purer fame may soar,
When wild youth's past;
Though he win the wise, who frown'd before,
To smile at last;
He'll never meet
A joy so sweet,
In all his noon of fame,
As when first he sung to woman's ear
His soul-felt flame,
And, at every close, she blush'd to hear
The one loved name.
No, -- that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot
Which first love traced;
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot
On memory's waste.
'Twas odour fled
As soon as shed;
'Twas morning's winged dream;
'Twas a light, tht ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream:
Oh! 'twas light that n'er can shine again
On life's dull stream.
poem by Thomas Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Redefine
Killing for the sacred one
Find the words and go beyond
Search for the word to find
Just follow me and redefine
Redefine
This will be the constant fear
That goes beyond the life-dead trail
Falls into the searching light
Falls to the bottom of this blind
Kill for the sacred one
Find the words and go beyond
Seach for the word to find
Just follow me and redefine
Redefine
This will be the constant fear
That goes beyond the life-dead trail
Falls into the searching light
Falls to the bottom of this blind
Finding the word
Please be the word
???
Wretched torture death dismay
Feed off the ones that go unto you
Finding the ones are sacred to you
Killing the souls and fighting the dead
We are the ones the coming of dread
The coming of dread
???
The temple which will do no good
The beast before will show you should
Search for the word to find
That penetrates the re-align
Redefine
This will be the constant fear
That goes beyond the life-dead trail
Falls into the searching light
Falls to the bottom of this blind
Search for the word to find
Just follow Me and redefine
song performed by by Obituary
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
In a Kentish Rose Garden.
Beside a Dial in the leafy close,
Where every bush was burning with the Rose,
With million roses falling flake by flake
Upon the lawn in fading summer snows:
I read the Persian Poet's rhyme of old,
Each thought a ruby in a ring of gold--
Old thoughts so young, that, after all these years,
They're writ on every rose-leaf yet unrolled.
You may not know the secret tongue aright
The Sunbeams on their rosy tablets write;
Only a poet may perchance translate
Those ruby-tinted hieroglyphs of light.
poem by Mathilde Blind
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Rich Bard
hey bard, i have read a piece
of your creation,
i am sorry but it does not
pass my taste.
and the rich bard answered,
hey dude, i am sorry too
but i am rich and popular
look at you, don't you
pity yourself
in anonymity?
and the dude answered,
i may not be rich and popular
and famous like you
but hey bard
i am honest and true.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
On Reading the
In a Kentish Rose Garden.
Beside a Dial in the leafy close,
Where every bush was burning with the Rose,
With million roses falling flake by flake
Upon the lawn in fading summer snows:
I read the Persian Poet's rhyme of old,
Each thought a ruby in a ring of gold--
Old thoughts so young, that, after all these years,
They're writ on every rose-leaf yet unrolled.
You may not know the secret tongue aright
The Sunbeams on their rosy tablets write;
Only a poet may perchance translate
Those ruby-tinted hieroglyphs of light.
poem by Mathilde Blind
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Quest
A part, immutable, unseen,
Being, before itself had been,
Became. Like dew a triple queen
Shone as the void uncovered:
The silence of deep height was drawn
A veil across the silver dawn
On holy wings that hovered.
The music of three thoughts became
The beauty, that is one white flame,
The justice that surpasses shame,
The victory, the splendour,
The sacred fountain that is whirled
From depths beyond that older world
A new world to engender.
The kingdom is extended. Night
Dwells, and I contemplate the sight
That is not seeing, but the light
That secretly is kindled,
Though oft-time its most holy fire
Lacks oil, whene'er my own Desire
Before desire has dwindled.
I see the thin web binding me
With thirteen cords of unity
Toward the calm centre of the sea.
(O thou supernal mother!)
The triple light my path divides
To twain and fifty sudden sides
Each perfect as each other.
Now backwards, inwards still my mind
Must track the intangible and blind,
And seeking, shall securely find
Hidden in secret places
Fresh feasts for every soul that strives,
New life for many mystic lives,
And strange new forms and faces.
My mind still searches, and attains
By many days and many pains
To That which Is and Was and reigns
Shadowed in four and ten;
And loses self in sacred lands,
And cries and quickens, and understands
Beyond the first Amen.
poem by Aleister Crowley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Do not read my poems…. [for YOU ]
Do not read my poems…
After I am dead
As a lament, a wail
An elegy, a requiem
Do not read my poems…
After I am gone
When no more I can
Hear your velvet voice.
Do not read my poems…
Alone without me
To comment along
And read with you
But, do read my poems
When I beside you lie
With my head resting
On your supporting arm
Listening to you read
In whisper, in kisses
In silence, in love
In sleep, in dream
Watching you feel
Every word I wrote
I’ll close my eyes - Love
Brush aside my hair
With your breathe
Which half veils my face
Sleepless fevered I wrote
Read me my poems
Now sing me a lullaby
Rock me to sleep
On your broad chest
Diving into your eyes
A thousand times
I am refreshed
By your smile
I’ll write on you a poem
Traced by my fingertips
To be etched in your heart
And burnt into your soul!
So, do not read my poems…
poem by Angelina Pandian
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Mirror of Madmen
I dreamed a dream of heaven, white as frost,
The splendid stillness of a living host;
Vast choirs of upturned faces, line o'er line.
Then my blood froze; for every face was mine.
Spirits with sunset plumage throng and pass,
Glassed darkly in the sea of gold and glass.
But still on every side, in every spot,
I saw a million selves, who saw me not.
I fled to quiet wastes, where on a stone,
Perchance, I found a saint, who sat alone;
I came behind: he turned with slow, sweet grace,
And faced me with my happy, hateful face.
I cowered like one that in a tower doth bide,
Shut in by mirrors upon every side;
Then I saw, islanded in skies alone
And silent, one that sat upon a throne.
His robe was bordered with rich rose and gold,
Green, purple, silver out of sunsets old;
But o'er his face a great cloud edged with fire,
Because it covereth the world's desire.
But as I gazed, a silent worshipper,
Methought the cloud began to faintly stir;
Then I fell flat, and screamed with grovelling head,
'If thou hast any lightning, strike me dead!
'But spare a brow where the clean sunlight fell,
The crown of a new sin that sickens hell.
Let me not look aloft and see mine own
Feature and form upon the Judgment-throne.'
Then my dream snapped: and with a heart that leapt
I saw across the tavern where I slept,
The sight of all my life most full of grace,
A gin-damned drunkard's wan half-witted face.
poem by G.K. Chesterton from The Wild Knight and Other Poems (1900)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Obscure
How obscure
To heal a heart full of hatred
Through the light of forgiveness...
How obscure
To cure blindness
Through the light of open-mindedness...
How obscure
To cure deafness
Through the light of consciousness...
How obscure
To cure dumbness
Through the light of intelligence...
How obscure...
To heal a hand of hostility
Through the light of kindness...
How obscure
To cure a paralytic
Through the light of liberty...
How obscure
To cure sickness
Through the light of benevolence...
How obscure to understand
To heal physicality
Through the presence of spirituality
poem by Mary Joy Lumanog
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Aurobindo 35-Savitri-Book -2
An appreciation on Savitri
Book II The Book of the Traveller of the Worlds
Canto V The Godheads of the Little Life
Words within inverted commas are Aurobindo's
'As if reversing a deformation's spell,
Released from the black magic of the Night,
Renouncing servitude to the dim Abyss,
It shall learn at last who lived within unseen, '
Anticipating peace but intimidated ere the true learning
'And seized with marvel in the adoring heart
To the enthroned Child-Godhead kneel aware,
Trembling with beauty and delight and love.'
'But first the spirit's ascent we must achieve
Out of the chasm from which our nature rose.
The soul must soar sovereign above the form
And climb to summits beyond mind's half-sleep;
Our hearts we must inform with heavenly strength,
Surprise the animal with the occult god.'
And all it needs determination for a heart and soul
Tamed of spiritual food caged in perseverance..
'Then kindling the gold tongue of sacrifice,
Calling the powers of a bright hemisphere,
We shall shed the discredit of our mortal state,
Make the abysm a road for Heaven's descent,
Acquaint our depths with the supernal Ray
And cleave the darkness with the mystic Fire.'
All is well that should end well too
Only if all is possible to end well possible..
'The darkness glimmered like a dying torch.
Around him an extinguished phantom glow
Peopled with shadowy and misleading shapes
The vague Inconscient's dark and measureless cave.
His only sunlight was his spirit's flame.'
That light to lead the soul in the right path..
............My consciousness this moment,
O'Guru, I'm in awe....in invincible heights
Ineffable Thee embellishing poetic creation
My inquisitive apprehension, erring Thee may opine
May thereso, let Savitri in my self arise
Aroused thereso be knowledge and fortune
poem by Indira Renganathan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
San Miniato
SEE, I have climbed the mountain side
Up to this holy house of God,
Where once that Angel-Painter trod
Who saw the heavens opened wide,
And throned upon the crescent moon
The Virginal white Queen of Grace,--
Mary! could I but see thy face
Death could not come at all too soon.
O crowned by God with thorns and pain!
Mother of Christ! O mystic wife!
My heart is weary of this life
And over-sad to sing again.
O crowned by God with love and flame!
O crowned by Christ the Holy One!
O listen ere the searching sun
Show to the world my sin and shame.
poem by Oscar Wilde
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Memory-Picture
Laugh, my Friends, and without blame
Lightly quit what lightly came:
Rich to-morrow as to-day
Spend as madly as you may.
I, with little land to stir,
Am the exacter labourer.
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
But my Youth reminds me—‘Thou
Hast liv’d light as these live now:
As these are, thou too wert such:
Much hast had, hast squander’d much.’
Fortune’s now less frequent heir,
Ah! I husband what’s grown rare.
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
Young, I said: ‘A face is gone
If too hotly mus’d upon:
And our best impressions are
Those that do themselves repair.’
Many a face I then let by,
Ah! is faded utterly.
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
Marguerite says: ‘As last year went,
So the coming year’ll be spent:
Some day next year, I shall be,
Entering heedless, kiss’d by thee.’
Ah! I hope—yet, once away,
What may chain us, who can say?
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
Paint that lilac kerchief, bound
Her soft face, her hair around:
Tied under the archest chin
Mockery ever ambush’d in.
Let the fluttering fringes streak
All her pale, sweet-rounded cheek.
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
Paint that figure’s pliant grace
As she towards me lean’d her face,
Half refus’d and half resign’d,
Murmuring, ‘Art thou still unkind?’
Many a broken promise then
Was new made—to break again.
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
Paint those eyes, so blue, so kind,
Eager tell-tales of her mind
Paint, with their impetuous stress
Of inquiring tenderness,
Those frank eyes, where deep doth lie
An angelic gravity.
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
What, my Friends, these feeble lines
Show, you say, my love declines?
To paint ill as I have done,
Proves forgetfulness begun?
Time’s gay minions, pleas’d you see,
Time, your master, governs me.
Pleas’d, you mock the fruitless cry
‘Quick, thy tablets, Memory! ‘
Ah! too true. Time’s current strong
Leaves us true to nothing long.
Yet, if little stays with man,
Ah! retain we all we can
If the clear impression dies,
Ah! the dim remembrance prize
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
poem by Matthew Arnold (1849)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!