Cyriack, Whose Grandsire
Cyriack, whose grandsire on the royal bench
Of British Themis, with no mean applause,
Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws,
Which others at their bar so often wrench,
Today deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
In mirth that after no repenting draws;
Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause,
And what the Swede intend, and what the French.
To measure life learn thou betimes, and know
Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
For other things mild Heaven a time ordains,
And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
That with superfluous burden loads the day,
And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
poem by John Milton
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To Cyriack Skinner
Cyriack, whose grandsire on the royal bench
Of British Themis, with no mean applause,
Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws,
Which others at their bar so often wrench,
To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
In mirth that after no repenting draws;
Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause,
And what the Swede intend, and what the French.
To measure life learn thou betimes, and know
Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
For other things mild Heaven a time ordains,
And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
That with superfluous burden loads the day,
And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
poem by John Milton
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Sonnet 21
XXI
Cyriac, whose grandsire on the royal bench
Of British Themis, with no mean applause
Pronounced and in his volumes taught our laws,
Which others at their bar so often wrench;
Today deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
In mirth, that after no repenting draws;
Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause,
And what the Swede intends, and what the French.
To measure life learn thou betimes, and know
Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
For other things mild Heav'n a time ordains,
And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
That with superfluous burden loads the day,
And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
poem by John Milton
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Sonnet 18
XVIII
Cyriack, whose Grandsire on the Royal Bench
Of Brittish Themis, with no mean applause
Pronounc't and in his volumes taught our Lawes,
Which others at their Barr so often wrench:
To day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
In mirth, that after no repenting drawes;
Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause,
And what the Swede intend, and what the French.
To measure life, learn thou betimes, and know
Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
For other things mild Heav'n a time ordains,
And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
That with superfluous burden loads the day,
And when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
poem by John Milton
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Horace, Book I. Ode IX.
Seest thou yon mountain laden with deep snow,
The groves beneath their fleecy burden bow,
The streams congeal'd, forget to flow,
Come, thaw the cold, and lay a cheerful pile
Of fuel on the hearth;
Broach the best cask and make old winter smile
With seasonable mirth.
This be our part -- let Heaven dispose the rest;
If Jove command, the winds shall sleep,
That now wage war upon the foamy deep,
And gentle gales spring from the balmy west.
E'en let us shift to-morrow as we may,
When to-morrow's passed away,
We at least shall have to say,
We have lived another day;
Your auburn locks will soon be silver'd o'er,
Old age is at our heels, and youth returns no more.
poem by William Cowper
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I Can't Let It Go
If i die, i better go to heaven;
Because, i can't let this pass away from me.
I can't let it go!
Because, heaven is my home.
Life here on earth seems very strange to me!
So, if i die, i better go to heaven.
The masses are living in the dark thinking that, that is righ! !
For, they do not know the laws and the ways of the Creator.
Do learn about it and think about it!
For, we've got heaven and earth.
Look at the life styles being practiced around you today!
But, the wages of sin is death.
I better go to heaven if i die,
And, it is better to change positively to gain the keys to heaven.
let us put things right and let us love one another!
And, let us live by the laws of the Creator to gain heaven.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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I Dream of a Perfect School
I dream of much,
For my child,
They should be trained,
And not run wild.
They should learn French,
And Arabic too,
They should learn English,
It’s long overdue.
They should learn karate,
And self-defense,
Gymnastics, Soccer,
Not sit on a bench.
They should learn Art,
To sing and perform,
They should learn drama,
For this is the norm.
They should be taught,
A hobby or two,
Cooking, sewing,
Or how to cure flu.
They should learn Science,
An –ology or two,
Geology, Radiology,
Yes, any will do.
They should be taught,
All this and much more,
They should not simply,
Stare at the floor.
When asked the square root,
Of four sixty three,
Their heads should be high,
At the ripe age of three.
Rocket Science,
Math and Astronomy,
The state of the world,
It’s economy.
And, by SK,
They should know all this,
If it’s not done,
Something is amiss.
After all, am I,
Not doing my part?
I’m sending them daily,
Surely that’s a good start?
I dream of so much,
For my little one,
Now Principal, can you tell me,
When will it be done?
poem by Aisha Sherazi
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Wise-Men
Who told you that Heaven is for free? ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! You better learn the laws and be free!
For the ticket to Heaven is to follow the laws.
The laws were made for our learning and,
Mankind need to follow them to gain Heaven!
For the Wise-Men followed the laws too and they met the Star.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Pre-electoral Preoccupations 0128
Electors, ever insincere,
provide polite applause,
of Mitterand they know no fear,
he's still to show them cause.
ere long they'll stall, or jeer, not cheer,
unless vote reassures.
Here socialistic cats appear
with communistic claws;
they pause, although with purpose clear,
steel glows through velvet paws.
They're posed to pounce, the vote draws near,
no reason here to pause.
Should they past policies adhere
and pass their Program's laws,
then much that democrats hold dear
could fall behind closed doors.
So farewell France, elsewhere I'll steer,
towards old Blighty's shores.
(19 March 1977)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Call Not The Royal Swede Unfortunate
CALL not the royal Swede unfortunate,
Who never did to Fortune bend the knee;
Who slighted fear; rejected steadfastly
Temptation; and whose kingly name and state
Have 'perished by his choice, and not his fate!'
Hence lives He, to his inner self endeared;
And hence, wherever virtue is revered,
He sits a more exalted Potentate,
Throned in the hearts of men. Should Heaven ordain
That this great Servant of a righteous cause
Must still have sad or vexing thoughts to endure,
Yet may a sympathising spirit pause,
Admonished by these truths, and quench all pain
In thankful joy and gratulation pure.
poem by William Wordsworth
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On The Birth-Day Of Queen Katherine
While yet it was the Empire of the Night,
And Stars still check'r'd Darkness with their Light,
From Temples round the cheerful Bells did ring,
But with the Peales a churlish Storm did sing.
I slumbr'd; and the Heavens like things did show,
Like things which I had seen and heard below.
Playing on Harps Angels did singing fly,
But through a cloudy and a troubl'd Sky,
Some fixt a Throne, and Royal Robes display'd,
And then a Massie Cross upon it laid.
I wept: and earnestly implor'd to know,
Why Royal Ensigns were disposed so.
An Angel said, The Emblem thou hast seen,
Denotes the Birth-Day of a Saint and Queen.
Ah, Glorious Minister, I then reply'd,
Goodness and Bliss together do reside
In Heaven and thee, why then on Earth below
These two combin'd so rarely do we know?
He said, Heaven so decrees: and such a Sable Morne
Was that, in which the Son of God was borne.
Then Mortal wipe thine Eyes, and cease to rave,
God darkn'd Heaven, when He the World did save.
poem by Anne Killigrew
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After Parting
Farewell has long been said; I have forgone thee;
I never name thee even.
But how shall I learn virtues and yet shun thee?
For thou art so near Heaven
That Heavenward meditations pause upon thee.
Thou dost beset the path to every shrine;
My trembling thoughts discern
Thy goodness in the good for which I pine;
And, if I turn from but one sin, I turn
Unto a smile of thine.
How shall I thrust thee apart
Since all my growth tends to thee night and day--
To thee faith, hope, and art?
Swift are the currents setting all one way;
They draw my life, my life, out of my heart.
poem by Alice Meynell
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When Gassy Thompson Struck It Rich
He paid a Swede twelve bits an hour
Just to invent a fancy style
To spread the celebration paint
So it would show at least a mile.
Some things they did I will not tell.
They're not quite proper for a rhyme.
But I will say Yim Yonson Swede
Did sure invent a sunflower time.
One thing they did that I can tell
And not offend the ladies here:—
They took a goat to Simp's Saloon
And made it take a bath in beer.
That ENTERprise took MANagement.
They broke a wash-tub in the fray.
But mister goat was bathed all right
And bar-keep Simp was, too, they say.
They wore girls' pink straw hats to church
And clucked like hens. They surely did.
They bought two HOtel frying pans
And in them down the mountain slid.
They went to Denver in good clothes,
And kept Burt's grill-room wide awake,
And cut about like jumping-jacks,
And ordered seven-dollar steak.
They had the waiters whirling round
Just sweeping up the smear and smash.
They tried to buy the State-house flag.
They showed the Janitor the cash.
And old Dan Tucker on a toot,
Or John Paul Jones before the breeze,
Or Indians eating fat fried dog,
Were not as happy babes as these.
One morn, in hills near Cripple-creek
With cheerful swears the two awoke.
The Swede had twenty cents, all right.
But Gassy Thompson was clean broke.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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In Life on Earth…
The west is not always the best
And east not always the worst;
The north is indiscernible;
The south is unexplainable.
Never ape all things you find around;
Never follow ones un-understandable;
Emulate the good found in others;
Take the good what cultures offer you.
Give unto Caesar what is due to him;
Give unto God what rightly belongs to Him;
One cannot serve both world and God
Except by being righteous all the time.
Nothing you do must exceed its limits;
There are some things that God abhors;
Both good and bad on earth are transient
But will decide your spot in after-life.
Learn to be wise and risk not priceless life;
Learn to not hate but love others around;
Learn to adjust with neighbours and creatures;
Learn to seek God and truth by being holy!
In life on earth, we ought to live right way;
Our conscience will ably guide us through;
Why worry for things earthly, lasting short?
Work for those things eternal in heaven!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 19-04-'12
poem by John Celes
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Jesus, Thou Divine Companion
Jesus, Thou divine Companion,
By Thy lowly human birth
Thou hast come to join the workers,
Burden bearers of the earth.
Thou, the Carpenter of Nazareth,
Toiling for Thy daily food,
By Thy patience and Thy courage,
Thou hast taught us toil is good.
They who tread the path of labor
Follow where Thy feet have trod;
They who work without complaining
Do the holy will of God.
Thou, the Peace that passeth knowledge,
Dwellest in the daily strife;
Thou, the Bread of heaven, broken
In the sacrament of life.
Every task, however simple,
Sets the soul that does it free;
Every deed of love and kindness
Done to man is done to Thee.
Jesus, Thou divine Companion,
Help us all to do our best;
Bless in our daily labor,
Lead us to the Sabbath rest.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Quatrains
I
Give to brave deeds emblazoned shrines
Where reverent memories may throng.
For them Art draws her perfect lines
In stone, in color, and in song.
II
For the Sierra Club Lodge in Yosemite Valley
Here, traveller, pause along your upward way—
Enter and rest, and search your soul today.
High are the mountains where your feet would fare—
Let wisdom lead, that joy may find you there.
III
The Monument by Saint-Gaudens in Rock Creek Cemetery, Washington
I WAS a woman who now sleep so still.
I laughed and wept, I loved and had my will.
Com'st thou to question? com'st thou here to
pray? Life nor death matters now, nor good nor ill.
poem by Harriet Monroe
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Superfluous
so not needed.. all of the confusion
conceited
why does my heart deceive me so
why is it so hard to know
just who my heart longs for
how can it be so hard to show
love, affection, compassion, and all the rest, leaving the ability to show no more
I can't seem to reconcile
with my feelings so that i know who 'she' is... who
when did thing become confusing and life vile
who do i say i love you to?
confusion is rampant and controls my life
this love it is not needed
my deceiving heart should not be heeded
yet my feelings are so profound
why does each one astound me?
I really don't need all of this
I really shouldn't desire a kiss
dating is a far off dream
and someone to hold a longing unfilled
o heart thou art superfluous
truly my heart is the great deceiver
it is not even satisfied by one true love....
I can't stand it any longer too much for, i long to caress
'you' but who is 'you' I can't say i love you to one... especially not three
o heart thou art superfluous
poem by David Knox
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The Evening Of The Holiday
The night is mild and clear, and without wind,
And o'er the roofs, and o'er the gardens round
The moon shines soft, and from afar reveals
Each mountain-peak serene. O lady, mine,
Hushed now is every path, and few and dim
The lamps that glimmer through the balconies.
Thou sleepest! in thy quiet rooms, how light
And easy is thy sleep! No care thy heart
Consumes; and little dost thou know or think,
How deep a wound thou in my heart hast made.
Thou sleepest; I to yonder heaven turn,
That seems to greet me with a loving smile,
And to that Nature old, omnipotent,
That doomed me still to suffer. 'I to thee
All hope deny,' she said, 'e'en hope; nor may
Those eyes of thine e'er shine, save through their tears.'
This was a holiday; its pleasures o'er,
Thou seek'st repose; and happy in thy dreams
Recallest those whom thou hast pleased to-day,
And those who have pleased thee: not I, indeed,--
I hoped it not,--unto thy thoughts occur.
Meanwhile, I ask, how much of life remains
To me; and on the earth I cast myself,
And cry, and groan. How wretched are my days,
And still so young! Hark, on the road I hear,
Not far away, the solitary song
Of workman, who returns at this late hour,
In merry mood, unto his humble home;
And in my heart a cruel pang I feel,
At thought, how all things earthly pass away,
And leave no trace behind. This festal day
Hath fled; a working-day now follows it,
And all, alike, are swept away by Time.
Where is the glory of the antique nations now?
Where now the fame of our great ancestors?
The empire vast of Rome, the clash of arms?
Now all is peace and silence, all the world
At rest; their very names are heard no more.
E'en from my earliest years, when we
Expect so eagerly a holiday,
The moment it was past, I sought my couch,
Wakeful and sad; and at the midnight hour,
When I the song heard of some passer-by,
That slowly in the distance died away,
The same deep anguish felt I in my heart.
poem by Count Giacomo Leopardi
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Woes And Wonders
Show me a city full of happiness,
Then i will show you the effect of their weakness.
Show me a man who is full of himself,
Then i will show you why he's a fool to himself.
Show me your success today,
And i will show you your mistakes of yesterday.
Show me a community not far from the mountain,
Then i will show you why their security is certain.
Show me a holy man,
Then i will show you why he's called a human.
Show me a man who is not afraid of death,
Then i will show him the theory of birth.
Show me an ocean of misery,
Then i will show you how to swim in victory.
Tell me the meaning of ' STOP ',
Then i will show you the way to the top.
Show me your best friend,
Then i will show you where your dreams will end.
Show me a good and caring heart,
And i will show you why it hasn't been torn apart.
Show me your hall of pain,
Then i will show you all what u've gain.
Show me an exceptional reader,
Then i will show you a great leader.
Show me a way to financial prosperity,
Then i will show you a way to heavenly security.
Show me a great man of all time,
Then i will show you his footprint on the sand of time.
Show me a problem you can't solve,
Then i will show you why you haven't use the solution called love.
Show me a world full of fantasy,
Then i will show you the pain behind a life full of ecstasy.
Show me a kingdom built with wrath,
Then i will show you how much it is worth.
Show me a man with a problem free life,
Then i will show you why he hasn't gotten a wife.
Show me all of earth's pleasure,
Then i will show you why heaven is the place to be beyond all measure
poem by Stanley Oguh
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Ch 03 On The Excellence Of Contentment Story 22
I met a trader who possessed one hundred and fifty camel loads of merchandise with forty slaves and servants. One evening in the oasis of Kish he took me into his apartment and taking all night no rest kept up an incoherent gabble, saying: ‘I have such and such a warehouse in Turkestan, such and such goods in Hindostan; this is the title-deed of such and such an estate and in this affair such and such a man is security.’ He said: ‘I intend to go to Alexandria because it has a good climate’, and correcting himself continued: ‘No, because the African sea is boisterous. O Sa’di, I have one journey more to undertake and after performing it I shall during the rest of my life sit in a corner and enjoy contentment.’ I asked: ‘What journey is that?’ He replied: ‘I shall carry Persian brimstone to China because I heard that it fetched a high price. I shall also carry Chinese porcelain to Rum and Rumi brocade to India and Indian steel to Aleppo, convey glass-ware of Aleppo to Yemen, striped cloth of Yemen to Pares. After that I shall abandon trading and shall sit down in a shop.’ He had talked so much of this nonsenses that no more strength remained in him so he said: ‘O Sa’di, do thou also tell me something of what thou hast seen and heard.’ I recited:
‘Thou mayest have heard that in the plain of Ghur
Once a leader fell down from his beast of burden,
Saying: “The narrow eye of a wealthy man
Will be filled either by content or by the earth of the tomb.”’
Childless
The Son thou sentest forth is now a Thought-
A Dream. To all but thee he is as nought
As if he had gone back into the same
Bosom that bare him. Oh, thou grey pale Dame,
With eyes so wan and wide, what! knowest thou where
Thy Dream is such a thing as doth up-bear
The earth out of its wormy place? I' the air
Dost see the very fashion of the stone
That hath his face for clay? Deep, deep, hast found
The texture of that single weight of ground
Which to each mole and mark that thou hast known
Is special burden? Nay, her face is mild
And sweet. In Heaven the evening star is fair,
And there the mother looketh for her child.
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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