To Mr. Lawrence
Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,
Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire,
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
Help waste a sullen day, what may be won
From the hard season gaining? Time will run
On smoother, till Favonius reinspire
The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire
The lily and rose, that neither sowed nor spun.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
To hear the lute well touched, or artful voice
Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?
He who of those delights can judge, and spare
To interpose them oft, is not unwise.
poem by John Milton
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Sonnet 20
XX
Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,
Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire,
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
Help waste a sullen day, what may be won
From the hard season gaining? Time will run
On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire
The lily and rose, that neither sowed nor spun.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
To hear the lute well touched, or artful voice
Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?
He who of those delights can judge, and spare
To interpose them oft, is not unwise.
poem by John Milton
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Sonnet XX: Lawrence, of virtuous father
To Mr Lawrence
Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,
Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire,
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
Help waste a sullen day, what may be won
From the hard season gaining? Time will run
On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire
The lily and rose, that neither sowed nor spun.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
To hear the lute well touched, or artful voice
Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?
He who of those delights can judge, and spare
To interpose them oft, is not unwise.
poem by John Milton
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Sonnet 17
XVII
Lawrence of vertuous Father vertuous Son,
Now that the Fields are dank, and ways are mire,
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
Help wast a sullen day; what may be Won
From the hard Season gaining: time will run
On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
The frozen earth; and cloth in fresh attire
The Lillie and Rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attick tast, with Wine, whence we may rise
To hear the Lute well toucht, or artfull voice
Warble immortal Notes and Tuskan Ayre?
He who of those delights can judge, and spare
To interpose them oft, is not unwise.
poem by John Milton
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My Father-in-Law and I
MY father-in-law is a careworn man,
And a silent man is he;
But he summons a smile as well as he can
Whenever he meets with me.
The sign we make with a silent shake
That speaks of the days gone by—
Like men who meet at a funeral—
My father-in-law and I.
My father-in-law is a sober man
(And a virtuous man, I think);
But we spare a shilling whenever we can,
And we both drop in for a drink.
Our pints they fill, and we say, “Ah, well!”
With the sound of the world-old sigh—
Like the drink that comes after a funeral—
My father-in-law and I.
My father-in-law is a kindly man—
A domestic man is he.
He tries to look cheerful as well as he can
Whenever he meets with me.
But we stand and think till the second drink
In a silence that might imply
That we’d both get over a funeral,
My father-in-law and I.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Sea-Swallows
THIS FELL when Christmas lights were done,
Red rose leaves will never make wine;
But before the Easter lights begun;
The ways are sair fra’ the Till to the Tyne.
Two lovers sat where the rowan blows
And all the grass is heavy and fine,
By the gathering-place of the sea-swallows
When the wind brings them over Tyne.
Blossom of broom will never make bread,
Red rose leaves will never make wine;
Between her brows she is grown red,
That was full white in the fields by Tyne.
“O what is this thing ye have on,
Show me now, sweet daughter of mine?”
“O father, this is my little son
That I found hid in the sides of Tyne.
“O what will ye give my son to eat,
Red rose leaves will never make wine?”
“Fen-water and adder’s meat,
The ways are sair fra’ the Till to the Tyne.”
“Or what will ye get my son to wear,
Red rose leaves will never make wine?”
“A weed and a web of nettle’s hair,
The ways are sair fra’ the Till to the Tyne.”
“Or what will ye take to line his bed,
Red rose leaves will never make wine?”
“Two black stones at the kirkwall’s head,
The ways are sair fra’ the Till to the Tyne.”
“Or what will ye give my son for land,
Red rose leaves will never make wine?”
“Three girl’s paces of red sand,
The ways are sair fra’ the Till to the Tyne.”
“Or what will ye give me for my son,
Red rose leaves will never make wine?”
“Six times to kiss his young mouth on,
The ways are sair fra’ the Till to the Tyne.”
“But what have ye done with the bearing-bread,
And what have ye made of the washing-wine?
Or where have ye made your bearing-bed,
To bear a son in the sides of Tyne?”
“The bearing-bread is soft and new,
There is no soil in the straining wine:
The bed was made between green and blue,
It stands full soft by the sides of Tyne.
“The fair grass was my bearing-bread,
The well-water my washing-wine;
The low leaves were my bearing-bed,
And that was best in the sides of Tyne.”
“O daughter, if ye have done this thing,
I wot the greater grief is mine;
This was a bitter child-bearing,
When ye were got by the sides of Tyne.
“About the time of sea-swallows
That fly full thick by six and nine,
Ye’ll have my body out of the house,
To bury me by the sides of Tyne.
“Set nine stones by the wall for twain,
Red rose leaves will never make wine;
For the bed I take will measure ten,
The ways are sair fra’ the Till to the Tyne.
“Tread twelve girl’s paces out for three,
Red rose leaves will never make wine;
For the pit I made has taken me,
The ways are sair fra’ the Till to the Tyne.”
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Nothing which is true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; therefore we must be saved by faith. Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone; therefore we are saved by love. No virtuous act is quite as virtuous from the standpoint of our friend or foe as it is from our standpoint. Therefore we must be saved by the final form of love which is forgiveness.
quote by Reinhold Niebuhr
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The most virtuous are those who content themselves with being virtuous without seeking to appear so.
A Lilly
a scarlet rose,
standing in the crowd
its one of them
it doesn't stand out
it's like the rest
it's not the best
it's just a rose
like the rest
but then comes
the gardener
that planted them all from the start
he says
i'll trade you in for a lilly, if you'll bloom
and now the rose has the choice
using it's symbolic voice
to go on being a rose, or become a lilly and bloom
if just does that for him
no more worries, not problems
and so it makes the choice to swap the life of a rose
he dives into some water and blooms into a lily
and it that sense it's died
and it came back up and yes it didn't cry
for now it was lilly, and now it's life was pretty
no longer is it a scarlet rose
standing in the crowd
it's not one of them
it does stand out
from the rest
it's in of the best, worlds
it's not just a rose
like the rest
it's a lily
poem by Mona Willis
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Light My Fire
You know that it would be untrue
You know that i would be a liar
If i was to say to you
Girl, we couldn't get much higher
Come on baby, light my fire
Come on baby, light my fire
Try to set the night on fire
Time to hesitate is through
No time to wallow in the mire
Try now we can only lose
And our love become a funeral pyre
Come on baby, light my fire
Come on baby, light my fire
Try to set the night on fire
Aouh, come on!
Come on, babe!
Yeah! come on!
Come on!
Woaouh! yeah!
It was the greatest night of my life.
Although i still had not found a wife
I had my friends
Right there beside me.
We were close together.
We tripped the wall, we scaled the graveyard
Ancient shapes were all around us.
The wet dew felt fresh beside the fog.
Two made love in an ancient spot
One chased a rabbit into the dark
A girl got drunk and balled the dead
And i gave empty sermons to my head.
Cemetary, cool and quiet
Hate to leave your sacred lay
Dread the milky coming of the day.
Ah, ah, ah, ah!
Ah, ah, ah, ah!
Ah, ah, ah, ah!
Ah, ah, ah, ah!
Ah, ah, ah, ah!
Ah, ah, ah, ah!
Ah, ah, ah, ah!
Aah, aah, aah, aah, aah
Aah, aah, aah, aaah!
Time to hesitate is through
No time to wallow in the mire
Try now we can only lose
And our love become a funeral pyre
Come on baby, light my fire
Come on baby, light my fire
Try to set the night on fire
Know that it would be untrue
You know that i would be a liar
If i was to say to you
Girl, we couldn't get much higher
Come on baby, light my fire
Come on baby, light my fire
Try to set the night on fire
Try to set the night on fire
Try to set the night on fire
Try to set the night on fire!
All right, all right!
All right!
song performed by by Doors
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Maid of Keinton Mandeville (A Tribute To Sir H. Bishop)
I hear that maiden still
Of Keinton Mandeville
Singing, in flights that played
As wind-wafts through us all,
Till they made our mood a thrall
To their aery rise and fall,
'Should he upbraid.'
Rose-necked, in sky-gray gown,
From a stage in Stower Town
Did she sing, and singing smile
As she blent that dexterous voice
With the ditty of her choice,
And banished our annoys
Thereawhile.
One with such song had power
To wing the heaviest hour
Of him who housed with her.
Who did I never knew
When her spoused estate ondrew,
And her warble flung its woo
In his ear.
Ah, she's a beldame now,
Time-trenched on cheek and brow,
Whom I once heard as a maid
From Keinton Mandeville
Of matchless scope and skill
Sing, with smile and swell and trill,
'Should he upbraid!'
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Virtuous Women
Good Women
like Jewels Gems and Rubies
Rare and Distinguished and Unique
Virtuous Full Of The Spirit women
Kind Loving and Sweet.
Powerful Serving Women
Discerning Compassionate
and Pure
Sincere Holy Women
Biblical and Crystal Clear
Godly Dedicated Women
Committed Faithful and True
Praying, Praising, Fasting Women
Denying themselves too.
Obedient Wise Women
Who know the Voice of the Lord
Quiet Teachable Women
Who are United in One Accord.
Submissive, Honorable, Reverent Women
Who teach Daughters how to pray
Sensitive, Spirit-led Women
Who follow in God's Way
A Virtuous Women who can Find?
Where does this queen Reside
Virtuous Women are Made
and it starts from the Inside.
poem by Debbie Bennett
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The Waster's Presentiment
I shall be spun. There is a voice within
Which tells me plainly I am all undone;
For though I toil not, neither do I spin,
I shall be spun.
April approaches. I have not begun
Schwegler or Mackintosh, nor will begin
Those lucid works till April 21.
So my degree I do not hope to win,
For not by ways like mine degrees are won;
And though, to please my uncle, I go in,
I shall be spun.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Villanelle Of Spring Bells
Bells in the town alight with spring
converse, with a concordance of new airs
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.
People emerge from winter to hear them ring,
children glitter with mischief and the blind man hears
bells in the town alight with spring.
Even he on his eyes feels the caressing
finger of Persephone, and her voice escaped from tears
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.
Bird feels the enchantment of his wing
and in ten fine notes dispels twenty cares.
Bells in the town alight with spring
warble the praise of Time, for he can bring
this season: chimes the merry heaven bears
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.
All evil men intent on evil thing
falter, for in their cold unready ears
bells in the town alight with spring
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.
Submitted by Andrew Todd
poem by Keith Douglas
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Be virtuous and you'll be happy Nonsense Be happy and you'll begin to be virtuous.
quote by James Gould Cozzens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Would Ask My Inner Voice
'Do I have a choice? '
I would ask my inner voice.
~Does a bird fly with one wing?
Is a ventriloquist near by,
When you hear that bird sing?
Have you seen a rabbit hop on one foot?
Does a fish swimming freely beg to be hooked? ~
'Do I have a choice? '
I would ask my inner voice.
~Your guess is as good as mine.
If you believe you have a choice,
Why are you wasting my time? ~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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In Many Ways I Can Say
I can say the same things...
In many ways!
In many ways I can say...
Lush green valleys,
Carpet magnificent mountains.
Peaked to reach from spiraling tops.
In many ways I can say...
The gold lights sparkling the heavens,
And twinkling bright.
Exquisite stars...
Through a mysterious darkness.
Light years away.
Yet delights.
I can say the same things...
In many ways!
In many ways I can say...
How a Summer breeze,
Can lift my appetite...
To heights that amaze and excite me.
In many ways I can say...
How I admire the nerve of trees!
And in many ways I can say,
The hum I hear from the bees...
Signals good deeds being done.
I would if I could...
Or should.
But why?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Spring.
'Let the light rain on her, the sweet Spring, till
She teems with greenery in the warm air,
Flower-hued, and vocal with the tender joy
Of bleating lambs and young birds on the wing.'
Thus on the cold hill doth the herdsman pray
Beneath his frozen star; the milkmaid, too,
As her raw hands take up the milking-pail,
And the wind freezes in the red dawn near: —
'Come, Spring, earth's sap, and mount in me until
I bloom, a rose of love: smile in mine eyes
Till my love from his wintry hill shall see
The star of youth, and leap into my arms!
O Spring, sweet Spring! but hear my prayer, and I
Shall build thee bowers of roses on the hill,
And all the summer there with bird and bee
Shall joy feast in the beauty of our love!'
Thus do they chant the wintry time away
In hill and vale, the two who look to when
The warmth of beauty takes life's wonder on,
And the rose of the flesh shall bloom for them.
poem by Robert Crawford
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A Virtuous Woman II
Signs of the time,
Widespread enough to catch a mouse;
But time are chainging for you and me,
Because, the wages of sin are seen all around us!
To succeed when you have views and,
To open your eyes when you are in love;
But your beauty is like the sun of the moon! !
Beauty and love,
And like the beats of the drummer-boy!
But to love with the fiery essence is like the love of your sweet muse;
And, i have seen what my heart yearns for! !
Becasue, you are the one;
And like soul to soul and eye to eye.
A virtuous woman is what you are!
And like the joy of the sweet songs of love;
But to open my window to you is like,
Seeing the nakedness of you! !
And, i have seen what my heart yearns for.
A virtuous woman,
Two are better than one;
And like a typical farmer with a cutlass in his hand;
But, the land of the legends will always sing my muse!
Because, i was made to love all races in the name of love!
But, a virtuous woman is what you need beside you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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I touched my father’s heart
Today
My heart shuddered for
My two month old son, my first born,
Fallen ill…
I touched my father’s heart,
That once throbbed for me,
Down numberless days and nights,
Whenever I fell ill…
Ages ago…
I touched my father’s heart,
That has sailed through
Thrice and more attacks…
That has gathered icebergs
To block the flow…
I touched my father’s heart
When my little first born
Touched his first illness,
And struggled for breath
In the frozen monsoon nights…
At the fringe of ages,
Where every fatherhood meets every sonhood,
My heart touched my father’s heart…
I lived my father’s heart…!
poem by Abhilash Fraizer
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You Meaner Beauties of the Night
You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light;
You common people of the skies,
What are you when the sun shall rise?
You curious chanters of the wood,
That warble forth Dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your voices understood
By your weak accents; what's your praise
When Philomel her voice shall raise?
You violets that first appear,
By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of the year,
As if the spring were all your own;
What are you when the rose is blown?
So, when my mistress shall be seen
In form and beauty of her mind,
By virtue first, then choice, a queen,
Tell me, if she were not design'd
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?
poem by Henry Wotton
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