On Sitting Down to Read King Lear Once Again
O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute!
Fair plumed Syren! Queen of far away!
Leave melodizing on this wintry day,
Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute:
Adieu! for once again the fierce dispute,
Betwixt damnation and impassion'd clay
Must I burn through; once more humbly assay
The bitter-sweet of this Shakespearian fruit.
Chief Poet! and ye clouds of Albion,
Begetters of our deep eternal theme,
When through the old oak forest I am gone,
Let me not wander in a barren dream,
But when I am consumed in the fire,
Give me new Phoenix wings to fly at my desire.
poem by John Keats
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Sonnet. Written Before Re-Read King Lear
O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute!
Fair plumed Syren! Queen of far away!
Leave melodizing on this wintry day,
Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute:
Adieu! for once again the fierce dispute,
Betwixt damnation and impassion'd clay
Must I burn through; once more humbly assay
The bitter-sweet of this Shakespearian fruit.
Chief Poet! and ye clouds of Albion,
Begetters of our deep eternal theme,
When through the old oak forest I am gone,
Let me not wander in a barren dream,
But when I am consumed in the fire,
Give me new Phoenix wings to fly at my desire.
poem by John Keats
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Sonnet On Sitting Down To Read King Lear Once Again
O GOLDEN tongued Romance, with serene lute!
Fair plumed Syren, Queen of far-away!
Leave melodizing on this wintry day,
Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute:
Adieu! for, once again, the fierce dispute
Betwixt damnation and impassion 'd clay
Must I burn through; once more humbly assay
The bitter-sweet of this Shakespearian fruit:
Chief Poet! and ye clouds of Albion,
Begetters of our deep eternal theme!
When through the old oak Forest I am gone,
Let me not wander in a barren dream,
But, when I am consumed in the fire,
Give me new Phoenix wings to fly at my desire.
poem by John Keats
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Written Before Re-Reading King Lear
O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute!
Fair plumed Syren! Queen of far away!
Leave melodizing on this wintry day,
Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute.
Adieu! for once again the fierce dispute
Betwixt damnation and impassioned clay
Must I burn through; once more humbly assay
The bitter-sweet of this Shakespearian fruit.
Chief Poet! and ye clouds of Albion,
Begetters of our deep eternal theme,
When through the old oak Forest I am gone,
Let me not wander in a barren dream,
But when I am consumed in the Fire,
Give me new Phoenix wings to fly at my desire.
poem by John Keats
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The Lute And The Lyre
Deep desire, that pierces heart and spirit to the root,
Finds reluctant voice in verse that yearns like soaring fire,
Takes exultant voice when music holds in high pursuit
Deep desire.
Keen as burns the passion of the rose whose buds respire,
Strong as grows the yearning of the blossom toward the fruit,
Sounds the secret half unspoken ere the deep tones tire.
Slow subsides the rapture that possessed love's flower-soft lute,
Slow the palpitation of the triumph of the lyre:
Still the soul feels burn, a flame unslaked though these be mute,
Deep desire.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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The Chain I Gave: From The Turkish
The chain I gave was fair to view,
The lute I added sweet in sound;
The heart that offer'd both was true,
And ill deserved the fate it found.
These gifts were charm'd by secret spell,
Thy truth in absence to divine;
And they have done their duty well,
Alas! they could not teach the thine.
That chain was firm in every link,
But not to bear a stranger's touch;
That lute was sweet, till thou could'st think
In other hands its notes were such.
Let him who from thy neck unbound
The chain which shiver'd in his grasp,
Who saw that lute refuse to sound,
Restring the chords, renew the clasp.
When thou wert changed, they alter'd too;
The chain is broke, the music mute.
'Tis past, to them and thee adieu
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.
On - On - Poet
I to the open road,
You to the hunchbacked street -
Which of us two
Shall the earlier rue
That day we chanced to meet?
I with a heart that's sound,
You with sick fancies of pain -
Which of us two
Would the earlier rue
If we chanced to meet again?
I jingle homely lore,
While you rhyme is with kiss -
Which of us two
Will the earlier rue
The love of the Hoylake Miss?
Not I the first to go,
Nor I the first to deceive -
Which of us two
Shall the the earliest rue
Our garden of make-believe?
You were a Chinese god,
I an offering fair,
As we entered the
Garden of Allah,
To sing our holy prayer.
Entered with hearts bowed low,
Yet I heard a voice that cried:
For he is the god of the
Sacrifice,
You are the crucified.
It was all make-believe,
A foolish game of play,
Our garden of Allah
A drawing-room,
Our Chinese god of clay.
Strings of bruises for pearls,
Tears for forget-me-nots,
And a deadly pain
Of the sickening shame
Watching the fading spots.
As quickly they faded,
The heart of me faded as well,
Until nothing is left
Of my garden,
But a soul sunk to hell.
Hail!
Poet prend ton lute -Je disparaire,
No more together we'll enter the
Enchanted garden of make-believe,
Nor my sad soul listen while thine deceive.
No more you'll be the God of Sacrifice,
Nor I the crucified.
Ah, Garden of Allah -how bitter sweet
Thy fruit. Why breakest thou the heart?
Why spoilest thou the soul with notes
From thy golden lute?
Lo! our garden a common room
Our Chinese god burnt clay, and
The singing of verses a funeral hymn
That awakes with awakening day.
'Twas all such a meaningless play,
Poet prend ton lute -Je disparaitre.
Hail!
Poet, take my hand -we'll walk
Still a little way.
I'll not desert thee at the close of day,
I, too, must pray.
A beggar asking alms of passers-by,
Does not refuse a drink to one who's dry
That once by him did lie.
Poet, come close -before I leave for aye
Take thou my hand, we'll walk still
A little way.
One garment covered both to keep us warm,
What harmed the one, was't not the other's harm?
Close clasped, one single form.
Was it not meant of aye?
Poet, take thou my hand -we'll still
Walk a little way.
poem by Aleister Crowley
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Sonnet: A Poet’s Doubt
How long O God, do I play on this lute?
How long will my numbers keep coming on?
Will they lose their charm? Will they become mute?
How long Poesy’s attire do I don?
I pray Thine inspiration does not cease,
Lest my creation become a dead-piece,
And I cannot do it with mighty glee;
Give me Thine nectar: I am Thine one bee.
And when my hive gets blown away by wind,
Forsake me not; where can I go to live?
And if I remain in a state most sinned,
Redeemer God, will Thou not me forgive?
I am Thine lute and I am thine one bee!
Give me Thine music and nectar freely.
poem by John Celes
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A Peal Of Bells
Strike the bells wantonly,
Tinkle tinkle well;
Bring me wine, bring me flowers,
Ring the silver bell.
All my lamps burn scented oil,
Hung on laden orange-trees,
Whose shadowed foliage is the foil
To golden lamps and oranges.
Heap my golden plates with fruit,
Golden fruit, fresh-plucked and ripe;
Strike the bells and breathe the pipe;
Shut out showers from summer hours—
Silence that complaining lute—
Shut out thinking, shut out pain,
From hours that cannot come again.
Strike the bells solemnly,
Ding dong deep:
My friend is passing to his bed,
Fast asleep;
There's plaited linen round his head,
While foremost go his feet—
His feet that cannot carry him.
My feast's a show, my lights are dim;
Be still, your music is not sweet,—
There is no music more for him:
His lights are out, his feast is done;
His bowl that sparkled to the brim
Is drained, is broken, cannot hold;
My blood is chill, his blood is cold;
His death is full, and mine begun.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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When Flora had O'erfret the Firth
QUHEN Flora had o'erfret the firth
In May of every moneth queen;
Quhen merle and mavis singis with mirth
Sweet melling in the shawis sheen;
Quhen all luvaris rejoicit bene
And most desirous of their prey,
I heard a lusty luvar mene
—'I luve, but I dare nocht assay!'
'Strong are the pains I daily prove,
But yet with patience I sustene,
I am so fetterit with the luve
Only of my lady sheen,
Quhilk for her beauty micht be queen,
Nature so craftily alway
Has done depaint that sweet serene:
—Quhom I luve I dare nocht assay.
'She is so bricht of hyd and hue,
I luve but her alone, I ween;
Is none her luve that may eschew,
That blinkis of that dulce amene;
So comely cleir are her twa een
That she mae luvaris dois affray
Than ever of Greece did fair Helene:
—Quhom I luve I dare nocht assay!'
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Upon The Barren Fig-Tree In God's Vineyard
What, barren here! in this so good a soil?
The sight of this doth make God's heart recoil
From giving thee his blessing; barren tree,
Bear fruit, or else thine end will cursed be!
Art thou not planted by the water-side?
Know'st not thy Lord by fruit is glorified?
The sentence is, Cut down the barren tree:
Bear fruit, or else thine end will cursed be.
Hast thou been digg'd about and dunged too,
Will neither patience nor yet dressing do?
The executioner is come, O tree,
Bear fruit, or else thine end will cursed be!
He that about thy roots takes pains to dig,
Would, if on thee were found but one good fig,
Preserve thee from the axe: but, barren tree,
Bear fruit, or else thy end will cursed be!
The utmost end of patience is at hand,
'Tis much if thou much longer here doth stand.
O cumber-ground, thou art a barren tree.
Bear fruit, or else thine end will cursed be!
Thy standing nor they name will help at all;
When fruitful trees are spared, thou must fall.
The axe is laid unto thy roots, O tree!
Bear fruit, or else thine end will cursed be.
poem by John Bunyan
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Sonnet To Spenser
Spenser! a jealous honourer of thine,
A forester deep in thy midmost trees,
Did last eve ask my promise to refine
Some English that might strive thine ear to please.
But Elfin Poet 'tis impossible
For an inhabitant of wintry earth
To rise like Phoebus with a golden quill
Fire-wing'd and make a morning in his mirth.
It is impossible to escape from toil
O' the sudden and receive thy spiriting:
The flower must drink the nature of the soil
Before it can put forth its blossoming:
Be with me in the summer days, and I
Will for thine honour and his pleasure try.
poem by John Keats
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Burn in Desire
dont play with fire
dont fondle my desire
becasue im burning like hell
inside this shell
ashes of my sin
enticed by what could have been
baby dont play with my fire
you'll burn in desire
i tell you to runaway
with me you wont stay
pure, but burned clean to the bone
with the burning edge in my tone
push you away
dont suffer my stay
just runaway
from the fire that plays
with your heart
your desire
ive caught you
you burn in my fire
cant fight away
what we know
will kill us, but in anyway
we cant let go
cant burn me out
black me out
get me out of your head
why the screaming?
your already dead
from desire
of this fire
kid dont play with fire
you take sin offered in my hand
im only a tease
smoldering what you understand
to a fire that cant please
only the thirst
that hurts
it rips us to pieces
beware of me
ill burn you eyes black
till you cant see
life from lust
or what to trust
i give you desire
now burn in fire
im your simple desire
take me, burn in fire
dancing with tongues of a devil
scorching sins
runaway, and ill take you again
ive told you my plans
but you hold my hand
smoldered by embers in my eyes
i hkkope you know this fire wont ever die
it burns in me
burns me up to death
till all i see
is passion, and death to the rest
take regret with the pain
going to hell
its all the same
driven by sin
all over again
play with fire
consumed with desire
poem by Kathryn Garner
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When Flora had O'erfret the Firth
QUHEN Flora had o'erfret the firth
In May of every moneth queen;
Quhen merle and mavis singis with mirth
Sweet melling in the shawis sheen;
Quhen all luvaris rejoicit bene
And most desirous of their prey,
I heard a lusty luvar mene
--'I luve, but I dare nocht assay!'
'Strong are the pains I daily prove,
But yet with patience I sustene,
I am so fetterit with the luve
Only of my lady sheen,
Quhilk for her beauty micht be queen,
Nature so craftily alway
Has done depaint that sweet serene:
--Quhom I luve I dare nocht assay.
'She is so bricht of hyd and hue,
I luve but her alone, I ween;
Is none her luve that may eschew,
That blinkis of that dulce amene;
So comely cleir are her twa een
That she mae luvaris dois affray
Than ever of Greece did fair Helene:
--Quhom I luve I dare nocht assay!'
Invocation to the Mad Queen
I would you were the hollow ship
fashioned to bear the cargo of my love
the unrelenting glove
hurled in defiance at our blackest world
or that great banner mad unfurled
the poet plants upon the hill of time
or else amphora for the gold of life
liquid and naked as a virgin wife.
Yourself the prize
I gird with Fire
The Great White Ruin
Of my Desire.
I burn to gold
fierce and unerring as a conquering sword
I burn to gold
fierce and undaunted as a lion lord
seeking your Bed
and leave to them the
burning of the dead.
poem by Harry Crosby
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A Requisition to the Queen
Smiths Buildings No. 19
Patons Lane,
Dundee.
Sept the 6th. 1877.
Most August! Empress of India, and of great Britain the Queen,
I most humbly beg your pardon, hoping you will not think it mean
That a poor poet that lives in Dundee,
Would be so presumptous to write unto Thee
Most lovely Empress of India, and Englands generous Queen,
I send you an Address, I have written on Scotlands Bard,
Hoping that you will accept it, and not be with me to hard,
Nor fly into a rage, but be as Kind and Condescending
As to give me your Patronage
Beautiful Empress, of India, and Englands Gracious Queen,
I send you a Shakespearian Address written by me.
And I think if your Majesty reads it, right pleased you will be.
And my heart it will leap with joy, if it is patronized by Thee.
Most Mighty Empress, of India, and Englands beloved Queen,
Most Handsome to be Seen.
I wish you every Success.
And that heaven may you bless.
For your Kindness to the poor while they are in distress.
I hope the Lord will protect you while living
And hereafter when your Majesty is ... dead.
I hope the Lord above will place an eternal Crown! upon your Head.
I am your Gracious Majesty ever faithful to Thee,
William McGonagall, The Poor Poet,
That lives in Dundee.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Golden--of the selkirks
A trail upwinds from Golden;
It leads to a land God only knows,
To the land of eternal frozen snows,
That trail unknown and olden.
And they tell a tale that is strange and wild--
Of a lovely and lonely mountain child
That went up the trail from Golden.
A child in the sweet of her womanhood,
Beautiful, tender, grave and good
As the saints in time long olden.
And the days count not, nor the weeks avail;
For the child that went up the mountain trail
Came never again to Golden.
And the watchers wept in the midnight gloom,
Where the canyons yawn and the Selkirks loom,
For the love that they knew of olden.
And April dawned, with its suns aflame,
And the eagles wheeled and the vultures came
And poised o'er the town of Golden.
God of the white eternal peaks,
Guard the dead while the vulture seeks!--
God of the days so olden.
For only God in His greatness knows
Where the mountain holly above her grows,
On the trail that leads from Golden.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Nature And Poet
Nature is the diet of a poet,
from natural beauty
poet derives immense pleasure,
drinks the nectar from the flowing down
Himalayan hilly stream, fulfils the long cherished
desire, translates into reality
the sweet lovely dream;
The tiny brook dazzles with the morn’s Sun beam.
Oh Lord Siva! Ye reside on ‘Kailash Mountain’;
Beside Ye flows down the magnificent
alluring mysterious
transparent water of the fountain.
Devotees pray thee for a bliss;
from the ‘Abode of peace’
Ye fulfil their desire and wish;
they sleep in the lap of Nature,
receive Nature’s kiss.
Poet is a worshipper, preacher
in the temple of Nature;
With indomitable enthusiasm
pens verses with tranquillity,
serenity, sanctity, being pure.
Man comes and goes;
poet’s verses remain for ever;
As a brook flows down eternally
in the lap of Nature.
Poet’s poem dazzles in golden letters
on the pages of history;
Depicts the Eternal Truth of Earth,
the beauty of Nature,
and the mystery.
poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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Tempered by Fire
Fire burning oh so pure
Calm, steady and so secure
Strength tested by the fire
Burning through one heart's desire
As if forming fine steel
All that one knows and feels
Stripped of emotions completely
A cleansing so bitter sweet
Tempered in bright fire
With one heart's desire
To the very depth of one's soul
Beyond to it's fiery core
Trying to escape from the pain
Wanting so much to gain
As if in a deep and dark well
Struggling to remove a painful shell
Running tired from the sorrow
Looking for joy on the morrow
Forced through one's grief
As if shaken by a thief
Consumed with pain and grief
Leaving one so very weak
Tested and tempered by fire
Flames that purified one's desire
poem by Lorie Robertson
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Old Men Walk Barefoot!
they would cut the wings from sparrows,
and deny the face of the wind.
take the laughter from the small child,
and bury the old man's shoes.
fill the cup with oil,
and burn the pages....
erase the names and the memory
of having been...
but the sparrow flies beyond their reach,
and they cant touch the wind.
the child gives his laughter freely,
and the cup has been turned over.
the pages feed the fire with desire,
and names and memory are written on god...
we who have lived have something
they cant take away...
that we give without looking back!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Sonnet
Flattering Hope, away and leave me,
She'll not come, thou dost deceive me;
Hark the cock crows, th' envious light
Chides away the silent night;
Yet she comes not, oh ! how I tire
Betwixt cold fear and hot desire.
Here alone enforced to tarry
While the tedious minutes marry,
And get hours, those days and years,
Which I count with sighs and fears
Yet she comes not, oh! how I tire
Betwixt cold fear and hot desire.
Restless thoughts a while remove
Unto the bosom of my love,
Let her languish in my pain,
Fear and hope, and fear again;
Then let her tell me, in love's fire,
What torment's like unto desire?
Endless wishing, tedious longing,
Hopes and fears together thronging;
Rich in dreams, yet poor in waking,
Let her be in such a taking:
Then let her tell me in love's fire,
What torment's like unto desire?
Come then, Love, prevent day's eyeing,
My desire would fain be dying:
Smother me with breathless kisses,
Let me dream no more of blisses;
But tell me, which is in Love's fire
Best, to enjoy, or to desire?
poem by Francis Beaumont
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