Sonnet. To A Young Lady Who Sent Me A Laurel Crown
Fresh morning gusts have blown away all fear
From my glad bosom, -- now from gloominess
I mount for ever -- not an atom less
Than the proud laurel shall content my bier.
No! by the eternal stars! or why sit here
In the Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples press
Apollo's very leaves, woven to bless
By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear.
Lo! who dares say, 'Do this'? Who dares call down
My will from its high purpose? Who say,'Stand,'
Or, 'Go'? This mighty moment I would frown
On abject Caesars -- not the stoutest band
Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown:
Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle hand!
poem by John Keats
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To A Young Lady Who Sent Me A Laurel Crown
Fresh morning gusts have blown away all fear
From my glad bosom,—now from gloominess
I mount for ever—not an atom less
Than the proud laurel shall content my bier.
No! by the eternal stars! or why sit here
In the Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples press
Apollo's very leaves, woven to bless
By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear.
Lo! who dares say, "Do this"? Who dares call down
My will from its high purpose? Who say,"Stand,"
Or, "Go"? This mighty moment I would frown
On abject Caesars—not the stoutest band
Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown:
Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle hand.
poem by John Keats
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Sonnet XIX. To Mr. Haley,
On receiving some elegant lines from him.
FOR me the Muse a simple band design'd
Of 'idle' flowers that bloom the woods among,
Which, with the cypress and the willow join'd,
A garland form'd as artless as my song.
And little dared I hope its transient hours
So long would last; composed of buds so brief;
Till Hayley's hand among the vagrant flowers,
Threw from his verdant crown a deathless leaf.
For high in Fame's bright fane has Judgment placed
The laurel wreath Serena's poet won,
Which, woven with myrtles by the hands of Taste,
The Muse decreed for this her favourite son.
And those immortal leaves his temples shade,
Whose fair, eternal verdure--shall not fade!
poem by Charlotte Smith
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The Temple
WHAT of Louvain and of Rheims
Made for God by man? What then?
Here be temples more than man's
Wrought by God for His own men.
Scattered in the rain and frost,
Marred of beauty, there they be,
Temples of the Holy Ghost,
Broken, ruined piteously.
Bodies all so finely wrought,
Cunning deftness shaped them well;
These, God's ultimate, loving thought
For His Spirit's citadel.
Beautiful from head to foot,
Young, dear darlings all unflawed
For their mother's kiss. What brute
Dares deface the image of God?
Oh, the Temple's down! all marred
Gay and golden boys must lie:
Bitter-sweet as spikenard
Is the old name we called them by.
Hush! God's Temple in its fall
Breaks to set the spirit free
From the golden cage and thrall.
Into heaven-winged liberty.
From the cage the bird is flown,
Sings so high above our sphere.
Hush,--be never a sigh or moan:
The fledged bird flies without fear.
All our loves are gathered in,
Every gay and golden lad;
On new raiment, white and clean,
They behold God and are glad.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Pro Rege Nostro
WHAT have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown, England --
Round the world on your bugles blown!
Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice again
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown, England --
Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England: --
'Take and break us: we are yours,
England, my own!
Life is good, and joy runs high
Between English earth and sky:
Death is death; but we shall die
To the Song on your bugles blown, England --
To the stars on your bugles blown!'
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mailed hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies,
You could know nor dread nor ease,
Were the Song on your bugles blown, England --
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,
Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,
There's the menace of the Word
In the Song of your bugles blown, England --
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
poem by William Ernest Henley
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What Have I Done For You
What have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Round the world on your bugles blown!
Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England:-
'Take and break us: we are yours,
'England, my own!
'Life is good, and joy runs high
'Between English earth and sky:
'Death is death; but we shall die
'To the Song on your bugles blown,
'England -
'To the stars on your bugles blown!
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mailed hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies
You could know nor dread nor ease
Were the Song on your bugles blown,
England,
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,
Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient sword,
There's the menace of the Word
In the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
poem by William Ernest Henley
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One Of Time’s Riddles
IN her deep bosom the pride settled down—
That pride which is a brackish thing like salt;
And the life in her pulses seemed to halt.
About her temples for an iron crown
She set stern patience. She did never frown,
But her long gaze was gentle to a fault;
And, looking deep into her eyes, you had call'd
Their lustre nothing but a mild clear brown.
She lives and moves and is a mystery.
That which she hath been the thought cannot touch;
Only, beholding what she is, it hath
Glimpses of something she is yet to be;
And at the least it knows of her thus much:—
She bides her season with a solemn faith.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Sonnet XXXIX: Some, When in Rhyme
Some, when in rhyme they of their loves do tell,
With flames and lightnings their exordiums paint;
Some call on Heav'n, some invocate on Hell,
And Fates and Furies with their woes acquaint.
Elysium is too high a seat for me;
I will not come in Styx or Phlegethon;
The thrice-three Muses but too wanton be;
Like they that lust, I care not; I will none.
Spiteful Erinnys frights me with her looks;
My manhood dares not with foul Ate mell;
I quake to look on Hecate's charming books;
I still fear bugbears in Apollo's cell.
I pass not for Minerva nor Astraea;
Only I call on my divine Idea.
poem by Michael Drayton
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To Lord Thurlow
'I lay my branch of laurel down.
Then thus to form Apollo's crown.
Let every other bring his own.'~Lord Thurlow's lines to Mr. Rogers
'I lay my branch of laurel down.'
Thou 'lay thy branch of laurel down!'
Why, what thou'st stole is not enow;
And, were it lawfully thine own,
Does Rogers want it most, or thou?
Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough,
Or send it back to Doctor Donne:
Were justice done to both, I trow,
He'd have but little, and thou--none.
'Then thus to form Apollo's crown.'
A crown! why, twist it how you will,
Thy chaplet must be foolscap still.
When next you visit Delphi's town,
Inquire amongst your fellow-lodgers,
They'll tell you Phoebus gave his crown,
Some years before your birth, to Rogers.
'Let every other bring his own.'
When coals to Newcastle are carried,
And owls sent to Athens, as wonders,
From his spouse when the R egent's unmarried,
Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders;
When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel,
When Castlereagh's wife has an heir,
Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel,
And thou shalt have plenty to spare.
Fresh
Magical twisted river winding through the land before time
Silhouettes of lovers dancing on the sands
The birds first break of chourus into the morning light
And the first kiss of the sun on trees extracting from them glorious shades of green
Fresh is the kiss of the young lovers as they stand holding hands
Fresh is the morning breeze briskly brushing through their hair
Fresh the first sip of crystal waters scooped lovingly into his hand
Fresh her lips pressed against his in an embrace of innocence
The scent of her more than any man in his lifetime can imagine
His masucline features more than any young girl could resist
As they press themselves closer together entwined they realise
On this first day of forever this is the beginning of time
New love and creation set forth on this day of days
The whole world seemingly new and refreshed with most astounding simplicity
Carefree as the wind they walk together
This is eternity this is the beginning this is the end, this is their time
Fresh is the kiss of the young lovers as they stand holding hands
Fresh is the morning breeze briskly brushing through their hair
Fresh the first sip of crystal waters scooped lovingly into his hand
Fresh her lips pressed against his in an embrace of innocence
poem by Nikki Hays
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Vespers
Little Boy kneels at the foot of the bed,
Droops on the little hands little gold head.
Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares!
Christopher Robin is saying his prayers.
God bless Mummy. I know that's right.
Wasn't it fun in the bath to-night?
The cold's so cold, and the hot's so hot.
Oh! God bless Daddy - I quite forgot.
If I open my fingers a little bit more,
I can see Nanny's dressing-gown on the door.
It's a beautiful blue, but it hasn't a hood.
Oh! God bless Nanny and make her good.
Mine has a hood, and I lie in bed,
And pull the hood right over my head,
And I shut my eyes, and I curl up small,
And nobody knows that I'm there at all.
Oh! Thank you, God, for a lovely day.
And what was the other I had to say?
I said 'Bless Daddy,' so what can it be?
Oh! Now I remember it. God bless Me.
Little Boy kneels at the foot of the bed,
Droops on the little hands little gold head.
Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares!
Christopher Robin is saying his prayers.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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Australian Anthem
Maker of earth and sea,
What shall we render Thee?
All things are Thine!
Ours but from day to day
Still with one heart to pray,
“God bless our land alway,”
This land of Thine.
Mighty in brotherhood,
Mighty for God and good,
Let us be Thine.
Here let the nations see
Toil from the curse set free,
Labour and Liberty
One cause—and Thine.
Here let glad Plenty reign;
Here let none seek in vain
Our help and Thine—
No heart for want of friend
Fail ere the timely end,
But love for ever blend
Man's cause and Thine
Here let Thy peace abide;
Never may strife divide
This land of Thine.
Let us united stand,
One great Australian band,
Heart to heart, hand in hand,
Heart and hand Thine
Strong to defend our right,
Proud in all nations' sight,
Lowly in Thine—
One in all noble fame,
Still be our path the same,
Onward in Freedom's name,
Upward in Thine
poem by James Brunton Stephens
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Muse
The Muse who comes each morning
In rozy gauze is clad;
Her head is crowned with flowers,
Her eyes are clear and glad.
Upon her virgin bosom
Bloom lilies of white fire,
Her tender heart a rose is
Of delicate desire.
She is the gentle Goddess
Who rules the dreams of youth;
Her wonderful sweet stories
Are truer than the truth.
The Muse that comes at midnight,
When lamps of revel shine,
Her robe is laburnum,
All splashed with crimson wine.
Upon her head defiant,
She wears a vine-leaf crown,
And on her naked shoulders,
Her hair is hanging down.
And she at times is paler,
And paler than the dead -
But O her lips are burning,
And O her lips are red.
She lifts a brimming goblet,
She spills three drops on the floor -
'Drink deep and kiss your leman!
For Death is at the door.'
The gentle Muse of Morning
Comes now no more to me,
But with the Muse of Midnight
I revel royally.
poem by Victor James Daley
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Webster Ford
Do you remember, O Delphic Apollo,
The sunset hour by the river, when Mickey M'Grew
Cried, "There's a ghost," and I, "It's Delphic Apollo";
And the son of the banker derided us, saying, "It's light
By the flags at the water's edge, you half-witted fools."
And from thence, as the wearisome years rolled on, long after
Poor Mickey fell down in the water tower to his death
Down, down, through bellowing darkness, I carried
The vision which perished with him like a rocket which falls
And quenches its light in earth, and hid it for fear
Of the son of the banker, calling on Plutus to save me?
Avenged were you for the shame of a fearful heart,
Who left me alone till I saw you again in an hour
When I seemed to be turned to a tree with trunk and branches
Growing indurate, turning to stone, yet burgeoning
In laurel leaves, in hosts of lambent laurel,
Quivering, fluttering, shrinking, fighting the numbness
Creeping into their veins from the dying trunk and branches!
'Tis vain, O youth, to fly the call of Apollo.
Fling yourselves in the fire, die with a song of spring,
If die you must in the spring. For none shall look
On the face of Apollo and live, and choose you must
'Twixt death in the flame and death after years of sorrow,
Rooted fast in the earth, feeling the grisly hand,
Not so much in the trunk as in the terrible numbness
Creeping up to the laurel leaves that never cease
To flourish until you fall. O leaves of me
Too sere for coronal wreaths, and fit alone
For urns of memory, treasured, perhaps, as themes
For hearts heroic, fearless singers and livers --
Delphic Apollo.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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The Resignation
O God, whose thunder shakes the sky,
Whose eye this atom globe surveys,
To thee, my only rock, I fly,
Thy mercy in thy justice praise.
The mystic mazes of thy will,
The shadows of celestial light,
Are past the pow'r of human skill,--
But what th' Eternal acts is right.
O teach me in the trying hour,
When anguish swells the dewy tear,
To still my sorrows, own thy pow'r,
Thy goodness love, thy justice fear.
If in this bosom aught but Thee
Encroaching sought a boundless sway,
Omniscience could the danger see,
And Mercy look the cause away.
Then why, my soul, dost thou complain?
Why drooping seek the dark recess?
Shake off the melancholy chain.
For God created all to bless.
But ah! my breast is human still;
The rising sigh, the falling tear,
My languid vitals' feeble rill,
The sickness of my soul declare.
But yet, with fortitude resigned,
I'll thank th' inflicter of the blow;
Forbid the sigh, compose my mind,
Nor let the gush of mis'ry flow.
The gloomy mantle of the night,
Which on my sinking spirit steals,
Will vanish at the morning light,
Which God, my East, my sun reveals.
poem by Thomas Chatterton
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Morning Kiss
It was a kiss
A kiss in the morning mist
But she doesn’t know whose lips it is
She doesn’t know who ghostly touches her heart
It was a kiss
It was definitely a kiss that wakes her sleep
But she wonders now whether she still dreaming or not
It was a kiss
It was a sweet and dark kiss
Who dares to sneak in her room and steal her lips?
Maybe he is a secret admirer
Maybe he is a desperate lover
Maybe he is a heartbreak murder
It was a kiss
A kiss that makes this morning strangely bright
And she wants to forget, she starts to keep smiling all the time
It was a kiss
A kiss that brief and suddenly came to her cold and calm life
It changes her feeling
And she can’t control the world anymore
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Matrimony
There is an awe in mortals' joy,
A deep mysterious fear
Half of the heart will still employ,
As if we drew too near
To Eden's portal, and those fires
That bicker round in wavy spires,
Forbidding, to our frail desires,
What cost us once so dear.
We cower before th' heart-searching eye
In rapture as its pain;
E'en wedded Love, till Thou be nigh,
Dares not believe her gain:
Then in the air she fearless springs,
The breath of Heaven beneath her wings,
And leaves her woodnote wild, and sings
A tuned and measured strain.
Ill fare the lay, though soft as dew
And free as air it fall,
That, with Thine altar full in view,
Thy votaries would enthrall
To a foul dream, of heathen night,
Lifting her torch in Love's despite,
And scaring with base wild-fire light
The sacred nuptial hall.
Far other strains, far other fires,
Our marriage-offering grace;
Welcome, all chaste and kind desires,
With even matron pace
Approaching down this hallowed aisle!
Where should ye seek Love's perfect smile,
But where your prayers were learned erewhile,
In her own native place?
Where, but on His benignest brow,
Who waits to bless you here?
Living, he owned no nuptial vow,
No bower to Fancy dear:
Love's very self--for Him no need
To nurse, on earth, the heavenly seed:
Yet comfort in His eye we read
For bridal joy and fear.
'Tis He who clasps the marriage band,
And fits the spousal ring,
Then leaves ye kneeling, hand in hand,
Out of His stores to bring
His Father's dearest blessing, shed
Of old on Isaac's nuptial bed,
Now on the board before ye spread
Of our all-bounteous King.
All blessings of the breast and womb,
Of Heaven and earth beneath,
Of converse high, and sacred home,
Are yours, in life and death.
Only kneel on, nor turn away
From the pure shrine, where Christ to-day
Will store each flower, ye duteous lay,
For an eternal wreath.
poem by John Keble
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Wandering To A Promise
In His early people’s wanderings, God did many miraculous things,
A cloud by day, and a fire by night, always kept God in their sight,
Providing them water from a rock, He turned their thirst into shock,
We could call it shock and awe, as The Lord provided for them all.
God would provide from on High, as He rained quail from the sky,
In the morning the people found, manna plentiful upon the ground,
Forty years of providing all needs, showing to all awesome deeds,
From the time they set out, all clothing and sandals never wore out.
Delivered into the Promised Land, with His Mighty Sovereign Hand,
With a message many would herald, to all the nations of this world,
Established by God on the earth; His chosen land of special worth,
To fulfill His Promise to Abraham, He will bless or curse each land.
The ultimate blessing for all today, is to follow God’s Eternal Way,
Which all men find in Jesus Christ, who offers all men Eternal Life,
For He is the Messiah of Israel, with His Father’s Purpose to fulfill,
And as He deals with each nation, God offers every man salvation.
Bless the nations, some God will, all who bless the nation of Israel,
Cursed are some, by condemnation, all that cursed that tiny nation.
Come to God before it gets worse, and avoid God’s Eternal Curse,
To be blessed by God abundantly, and to live with Christ Eternally.
Until then be shepherded by Christ, while living in a world of strife,
And see the amazing hand of God, as He leads with staff and rod,
Providing all you need every day, as you live on life’s Narrow Way,
To be delivered by God’s hand, into God’s Eternal Promised Land.
(Copyright ©01/2009)
Ganymede
How, in the light of morning,
Round me thou glowest,
Spring, thou beloved one!
With thousand-varying loving bliss
The sacred emotions
Born of thy warmth eternal
Press 'gainst my bosom,
Thou endlessly fair one!
Could I but hold thee clasp'd
Within mine arms!
Ah! upon thy bosom
Lay I, pining,
And then thy flowers, thy grass,
Were pressing against my heart.
Thou coolest the burning
Thirst of my bosom,
Beauteous morning breeze!
The nightingale then calls me
Sweetly from out of the misty vale.
I come, I come!
Whither? Ah, whither?
Up, up, lies my course.
While downward the clouds
Are hovering, the clouds
Are bending to meet yearning love.
For me,
Within thine arms
Upwards!
Embraced and embracing!
Upwards into thy bosom,
Oh Father all-loving!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Id Do It Again
A one man band on a one night stand
As a one man band should be
The cried for more, he replied why sure
And he played one just for free
The sounds he laid down. the songs he played
Made the ladies all come to call
He was born in the back of a seminole bus
On the road to niagra falls
Id do it again, Id do it again
Id do it again
The one man band philosophical man
Didnt lie when he said to us
I seen the high rollers come and go
Its the holy rollers I trust
The man said then he was sixteen when
He retired from the county school
A wee bit thin with a will to begin
He was known to be know mans fool
Id do it again, Id do it again
Id do it again
The one man band was a mighty good man
Cause he played til the break of dawn
He ups and downs about four more rounds
And he stayed til the crowd went home
It seemed to me like he never could be
Like anything Id ever seen before
When he stepped from the stage with his ax in his hand
And he run through the backstage door
Id do it again, Id do it again
Id do it again
A one man band on a one night stand
As a one man band should be
They cried for more, he replied why sure
And he played one just for free
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sunlight on white paint. For the New Year.
The house across the way is newly painted white.
Right now, that’s all my being seems to need:
this winter morning, sharp, cold, bright and clear,
the morning sunlight pours across white paint;
contains a thousand messages, in me
interpreted.. or simply left to be..
this moment, that’s as much as being craves:
this morning’s glory; and I, born for praise..
even as I write, I watch the sun’s
white paint brush move across the house’s front
and tell the eye of reason that this world
is turning, basking, in this morning sun;
already sparkling on the Bondi waves
as if the world had just been washed anew;
cast early dawn’s pearl light on Taj Mahal
as if the sun itself could never tire of beauty;
Italian villa forecourts just hosed down,
the air all fresh to meet the warming day;
the gardens of Carmel, eight hours from now,
will paint their flowers fresh with mist and dew;
as every carefree holiday yourself
recall, as proof eternal of pure soul..
and here - the witness of my silent mind
needs nothing, need go nowhere else to find
its very self, this moment without taint:
immortal sunlight shining on white paint.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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