En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Country Clown

Bred in distant woods, the clown
Brings all his country airs to town;
The odd address, with awkward grace,
That bows with half-averted face;
The half-heard compliments, whose note
Is swallow'd in the trembling throat;
The stiffen'd gait, the drawling tone,
By which his native place is known;
The blush, that looks by vast degrees,
Too much like modesty to please;
The proud displays of awkward dress,
That all the country fop express:
The suit right gay, though much belated,
Whose fashion's superannuated;
The watch, depending far in state,
Whose iron chain might form a grate;
The silver buckle, dread to view,
O'ershadowing all the clumsy shoe;
The white-gloved hand, that tries to peep
From ruffle, full five inches deep;
With fifty odd affairs beside,
The foppishness of country pride.
Poor Dick! though first thy airs provoke
The obstreperous laugh and scornful joke
Doom'd all the ridicule to stand,
While each gay dunce shall lend a hand;
Yet let not scorn dismay thy hope
To shine a witling and a fop.
Blest impudence the prize shall gain,
And bid thee sigh no more in vain.
Thy varied dress shall quickly show
At once the spendthrift and the beau.
With pert address and noisy tongue,
That scorns the fear of prating wrong
'Mongst listening coxcombs shalt thou shine,
And every voice shall echo thine.

poem by John Trumbull
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Plain Jane Country

(eddie raven)
I read your letter just this morning
The first you've wrote since you've been gone
You've finally found yourself a home
You've bought a new car, a great big red one
With a top that rolls right down
You must be something in san fransisco
A dressed up, painted country clown
You're fakin' it well, but it's easy to tell
You're plain jane country come to town
The pace is too fast and you're out of your class
You're plain jane country come to town
You know i love you, at least you ought to
I've loved you all of my livin' days
You got no business makin' changes
Yeah girl, i love your country ways
Go sell that red car, catch an airplane
And i'll be waiting when you land
Yeah, get a white dress, find a preacher
We'll get some rings to fit your hand
You're fakin' it well, but it's easy to tell
You're plain jane country come to town
The pace is too fast and you're out of your class
You're plain jane country come to town
You're plain jane country come to town
You're plain jane country come to town

song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Native Land!

WHERE is the minstrel's native land?
Where the flames of light and feeling glow;
Where the flowers are wreathed for beauty's brow;
Where the bounding heart swells strong and high,
With holy hopes which may not die--
There is my native land!

What is that bright land's music name?
Ere it bent its neck to a foreign yoke,
It was called the land of the broad strong oak--
The land of the free--the German land--
But her sons lie slain by the stranger's hand,
And she weeps sad tears of shame.

Why does the minstrel's country weep?
That the hurricane's rage hath bowed the pride
Of those who should stem the rising tide;
That her princes quail--and that none will hear
Her holy words of might and fear--
Therefore my land must weep!

To whom does the minstrel's country call?
It calls to the silent heavenly powers,
With despair, as the thunder darkly lowers,
For its freedom--for those who should break its chain--
For the hand that never strikes in vain--
To these doth my country call!

For what does the minstrel's country sigh?
That the bloodhound may hunt beyond the bound
Of the soil which brave hearts make holy ground;
That the serf may cease; and our sons be free,
Or those who have borne them, cease to be--
For this does my country sigh!

And still doth the minstrel's country hope?
Her hope is firm, for her cause is good--
That her brave will rise, and her true in blood;
And that God the avenger, our fathers' God,
Will mark the tears that bedew her sod--
Such is my country's hope!

poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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In The Country

Bah! Ba-ba-ba-Bah! Ba-ba-ba-Bah!
Bah! Ba-ba-ba-Bah! Ba-ba-ba-Bah!
When the world in which you live in,
Gets a bit too much to bear,
And you need someone to lean on,
When you look, there's no one there
You're gonna find me, out in the country,
Yeah, you're gonna find me, way out in the country,
Where the air is good, and the day is fine,
And the pretty girl, has a hand in mine,
And the silver stream, is a poor man's wine,
In the country, in the country
When you're walking in the city,
And you're feeling rather small,
And the people on the sidewalk,
Seem to form a solid wall
You're gonna find me, out in the country,
Hey, you're gonna find me, way out in the country,
Where the air is good, and the day is fine,
And the pretty girl, has a hand in mine,
And the silver stream, is a poor man's wine,
In the country, in the country
Hurry, hurry, hurry,
For the time is slipping by,
You don't need a ticket,
It belongs to you and I
Come on an join me, out in the country,
Where the air is good, and the day is fine,
And the pretty girl, has a hand in mine,
And the silver stream, is a poor man's wine,
In the country, in the country
Bah! Ba-ba-ba-Bah! Ba-ba-ba-Bah!
Bah! Ba-ba-ba-Bah! Ba-ba-ba-Bah!

song performed by by Cliff Richard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet to William Wilberforce, Esq.

Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain,
Hears thee, by cruel men and impious, call'd
Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose th' enthrall'd
From exile, public sale, and slav'ry's chain.
Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fetter-gall'd,
Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain!
Thou hast achiev'd a part; hast gain'd the ear
Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause;
Hope smiles, joy springs, and tho' cold caution pause
And weave delay, the better hour is near,
That shall remunerate thy toils severe
By peace for Afric, fenc'd with British laws.
Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love
From all the just on earth, and all the blest above!

poem by William Cowper
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In Imitation of E. of Rochester : On Silence

I.
Silence! coeval with Eternity;
Thou wert, ere Nature's-self began to be,
'Twas one vast Nothing, all, and all slept fast in thee.

II.
Thine was the sway, ere heav'n was form'd, or earth,
Ere fruitful Thought conceiv'd creation's birth,
Or midwife Word gave aid, and spoke the infant forth.

III.
Then various elements, against thee join'd,
In one more various animal combin'd,
And fam'd the clam'rous race of busy Human-kind.

IV.
The tongue mov'd gently first, and speech was low,
'Till wrangling Science taught it noise and show,
And wicked Wit arose, thy most abusive foe.

V.
But rebel Wit deserts thee oft' in vain;
Lost in the maze of words he turns again,
And seeks a surer state, and courts thy gentle reign.

VI.
Afflicted Sense thou kindly dost set free,
Oppress'd with argumental tyranny,
And routed Reason finds a safe retreat in thee.

VII.
With thee in private modest Dulness lies,
And in thy bosom lurks in Thought's disguise;
Thou varnisher of Fools, and cheat of all the Wise!

VIII.
Yet thy indulgence is by both confest;
Folly by thee lies sleeping in the breast,
And 'tis in thee at last that Wisdom seeks for rest.

IX.
Silence the knave's repute, the whore's good name,
The only honour of the wishing dame;
Thy very want of tongue makes thee a kind of Fame.

X.
But could'st thou seize some tongues that now are free,
How Church and State should be oblig'd to thee!
At Senate, and at Bar, how welcome would'st thou be!

XI.
Yet speech ev'n there, submissively withdraws,
From rights of subjects, and the poor man's cause:
Then pompous Silence reigns, and stills the noisy Laws.

XII.
Past services of friends, good deeds of foes,
What Fav'rites gain, and what the Nation owes,
Fly the forgetful world, and in thy arms repose.

XIII.
The country wit, religion of the town,
The courtier's learning, policy o' th' gown,
Are best by thee express'd; and shine in thee alone.

XIV.
The parson's cant, the lawyer's sophistry,
Lord's quibble, critic's jest; all end in thee,
All rest in peace at last, and sleep eternally.

poem by Alexander Pope
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From Down The River

A HALF-BREED, slim, and sallow of face,
Alphonse lies full length on his raft,
The hardy son of a hybrid race.

Lithe and long, with the Indian grace,
Versed in the varied Indian craft,
A half-breed, slim, and sallow of face,

He nurses within mad currents that chase-
The swift, the sluggish-a foreign graft,
This hardy son of a hybrid race.

What southern airs, what snows embrace
Within his breast-soft airs that waft
The half-breed-slim, and sallow of face,

Far from the Gatineau's foaming base!
And what strong potion hath he quaffed,
This hardy son of a hybrid race,

That upon this sun-baked blistered place
He sleeps, with his hand on the burning haft,
A Metis-slim and sallow of face,
The hardy son of a hybrid race!

poem by Susan Frances Harrison
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Whose Country Is This?

Whose country is this?
It is a land full of snakes;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of many waters;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of thieves! !
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of people;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of oil;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of earthquakes!
Whose country is this?
it is a land full of lovers;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of volcanoes!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of beautiful flowers;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of hansome men;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of beautiful women;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of roses;
Whose country is this?
it is a land ruled only by men;
Whose country is this?
It is a land without rainfall;
Whose country is this?
It is a land ruled by a woman;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of corruption!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of pirates! !
Whose country is this?
It is a land ruled by law;
Whose country is this?
It is a land controlled by rebels!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of ice;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of pregnant women;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of the sins of Sodom and Gomorrah!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of singers;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of troubles;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of war! !
Whose country is this?
It is a land with the biggest cemetery in the wolrd!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of desert;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of trees;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of pregnant teenagers!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of timber;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of hatred;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of love;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of care;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of peace;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of smokers!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of businesses;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of harlots;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of wise people;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of idiots!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of gold;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of cocoa;
Whose country is this?
It is a alnd full of crabs;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of evil;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of rainfalls;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of ants;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of horses;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of pigs;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of statues;
Whose country is this?
it is a land full of birds;
And so on, and so forth!
Because nature had made them so as we see them around us,
But the wise and fool live together on this earth.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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From 'Down the River

Gatineau Point
A HALF-BREED, slim, and sallow of face,
Alphonse lies full length on his raft,
The hardy son of a hybrid race.

Lithe and long, with the Indian grace,
Versed in the varied Indian craft,
A half-breed, slim, and sallow of face,

He nurses within mad currents that chase–
The swift, the sluggish–a foreign graft,
This hardy son of a hybrid race.

What southern airs, what snows embrace
Within his breast–soft airs that waft
The half-breed–slim, and sallow of face,

Far from the Gatineau's foaming base!
And what strong potion hath he quaffed,
This hardy son of a hybrid race,

That upon this sun-baked blistered place
He sleeps, with his hand on the burning haft,
A Metis–slim and sallow of face,
The hardy son of a hybrid race!

poem by Susie Frances Harrison
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To Ladies Of A Certain Age

Ye ancient Maids, who ne'er must prove
The early joys of youth and love,
Whose names grim Fate (to whom 'twas given,
When marriages were made in heaven)
Survey'd with unrelenting scowl,
And struck them from the muster-roll;
Or set you by, in dismal sort,
For wintry bachelors to court;
Or doom'd to lead your faded lives,
Heirs to the joys of former wives;
Attend! nor fear in state forlorn,
To shun the pointing hand of scorn,
Attend, if lonely age you dread,
And wish to please, or wish to wed.

When beauties lose their gay appearance,
And lovers fall from perseverance,
When eyes grow dim and charms decay,
And all your roses fade away,
First know yourselves; lay by those airs,
Which well might suit your former years,
Nor ape in vain the childish mien,
And airy follies of sixteen.

We pardon faults in youth's gay flow,
While beauty prompts the cheek to glow,
While every glance has power to warm,
And every turn displays a charm,
Nor view a spot in that fair face,
Which smiles inimitable grace.

But who, unmoved with scorn, can see
The grey coquette's affected glee,
Her ambuscading tricks of art
To catch the beau's unthinking heart,
To check th' assuming fopling's vows,
The bridling frown of wrinkled brows;
Those haughty airs of face and mind,
Departed beauty leaves behind.

Nor let your sullen temper show
Spleen louring on the envious brow,
The jealous glance of rival rage,
The sourness and the rust of age.
With graceful ease, avoid to wear
The gloom of disappointed care:
And oh, avoid the sland'rous tongue,
By malice tuned, with venom hung,
That blast of virtue and of fame,
That herald to the court of shame;
Less dire the croaking raven's throat,
Though death's dire omens swell the note.

Contented tread the vale of years,
Devoid of malice, guilt and fears;
Let soft good humour, mildly gay,
Gild the calm evening of your day,
And virtue, cheerful and serene,
In every word and act be seen.
Virtue alone with lasting grace,
Embalms the beauties of the face,
Instructs the speaking eye to glow,
Illumes the cheek and smooths the brow,
Bids every look the heart engage,
Nor fears the wane of wasting age.

Nor think these charms of face and air,
The eye so bright, the form so fair,
This light that on the surface plays,
Each coxcomb fluttering round its blaze,
Whose spell enchants the wits of beaux,
The only charms, that heaven bestows.
Within the mind a glory lies,
O'erlook'd and dim to vulgar eyes;
Immortal charms, the source of love,
Which time and lengthen'd years improve,
Which beam, with still increasing power,
Serene to life's declining hour;
Then rise, released from earthly cares,
To heaven, and shine above the stars.

Thus might I still these thoughts pursue,
The counsel wise, and good, and true,
In rhymes well meant and serious lay,
While through the verse in sad array,
Grave truths in moral garb succeed:
Yet who would mend, for who would read?

But when the force of precept fails,
A sad example oft prevails.
Beyond the rules a sage exhibits,
Thieves heed the arguments of gibbets,
And for a villain's quick conversion,
A pillory can outpreach a parson.

To thee, Eliza, first of all,
But with no friendly voice I call.
Advance with all thine airs sublime,
Thou remnant left of ancient time!
Poor mimic of thy former days,
Vain shade of beauty, once in blaze!
We view thee, must'ring forth to arms
The veteran relics of thy charms;
The artful leer, the rolling eye,
The trip genteel, the heaving sigh,
The labour'd smile, of force too weak,
Low dimpling in th' autumnal cheek,
The sad, funereal frown, that still
Survives its power to wound or kill;
Or from thy looks, with desperate rage,
Chafing the sallow hue of age,
And cursing dire with rueful faces,
The repartees of looking-glasses.

Now at tea-table take thy station,
Those shambles vile of reputation,
Where butcher'd characters and stale
Are day by day exposed for sale:
Then raise the floodgates of thy tongue,
And be the peal of scandal rung;
While malice tunes thy voice to rail,
And whispering demons prompt the tale--
Yet hold thy hand, restrain thy passion,
Thou cankerworm of reputation;
Bid slander, rage and envy cease,
For one short interval of peace;
Let other's faults and crimes alone,
Survey thyself and view thine own;
Search the dark caverns of thy mind,
Or turn thine eyes and look behind:
For there to meet thy trembling view,
With ghastly form and grisly hue,
And shrivel'd hand, that lifts sublime
The wasting glass and scythe of Time,
A phantom stands: his name is Age;
Ill-nature following as his page.
While bitter taunts and scoffs and jeers,
And vexing cares and torturing fears,
Contempt that lifts the haughty eye,
And unblest solitude are nigh;
While conscious pride no more sustains,
Nor art conceals thine inward pains,
And haggard vengeance haunts thy name,
And guilt consigns thee o'er to shame,
Avenging furies round thee wait,
And e'en thy foes bewail thy fate.

But see, with gentler looks and air,
Sophia comes. Ye youths beware!
Her fancy paints her still in prime,
Nor sees the moving hand of time;
To all her imperfections blind,
Hears lovers sigh in every wind,
And thinks her fully ripen'd charms,
Like Helen's, set the world in arms.

Oh, save it but from ridicule,
How blest the state, to be a fool!
The bedlam-king in triumph shares
The bliss of crowns, without the cares;
He views with pride-elated mind,
His robe of tatters trail behind;
With strutting mien and lofty eye,
He lifts his crabtree sceptre high;
Of king's prerogative he raves,
And rules in realms of fancied slaves.

In her soft brain, with madness warm,
Thus airy throngs of lovers swarm.
She takes her glass; before her eyes
Imaginary beauties rise;
Stranger till now, a vivid ray
Illumes each glance and beams like day;
Till furbish'd every charm anew,
An angel steps abroad to view;
She swells her pride, assumes her power,
And bids the vassal world adore.

Indulge thy dream. The pictured joy
No ruder breath should dare destroy;
No tongue should hint, the lover's mind
Was ne'er of virtuoso-kind,
Through all antiquity to roam
For what much fairer springs at home.
No wish should blast thy proud design;
The bliss of vanity be thine.
But while the subject world obey,
Obsequious to thy sovereign sway,
Thy foes so feeble and so few,
With slander what hadst thou to do?
What demon bade thine anger rise?
What demon glibb'd thy tongue with lies?
What demon urged thee to provoke
Avenging satire's deadly stroke?

Go, sink unnoticed and unseen,
Forgot, as though thou ne'er hadst been.
Oblivion's long projected shade
In clouds hangs dismal o'er thy head.
Fill the short circle of thy day,
Then fade from all the world away;
Nor leave one fainting trace behind,
Of all that flutter'd once and shined;
The vapoury meteor's dancing light
Deep sunk and quench'd in endless night

poem by John Trumbull
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Love’s Likenings

He.
To what, love, shall I liken thee?
Thou, methinks, shalt firstly be
A blue flower with nodding bells
In the hollow of a tree.
When the wind blows wantonly,
Thou shalt ever shake thy head
At the idle tale he tells.
But at evening from the clover,
When the world is all abed,
And the noisy day is over,
And the birds have gone to rest,
In the darkness will I hover
Till thou bid me come to thee,
Till I creep into thy nest,
I thy long--expected lover,
I thy sweet, thy honey bee.
To what, love, shall I liken thee?
Tell me, love, what wouldst thou be?

She.
I would be a white cloud lying
In the bosom of the sky,
And at noon, when Earth is sighing
For the sun my fleeces hide,
I would bask in his bright eye,
Till he drew me up on high,
Till be took me for his bride.
Thou shalt be my sun to me.

Love, but I would be a well
In the sands of Araby,
So thyself wert a gazelle
Which must either drink or die.
Bend above me, love, and lo!
In my waters thou shalt spy
All that my heart cares to show,
Thy own face against the sky.

He.
To what more shall I liken thee?
Thou, my love, shalt lastly be
A clear silver--tonguèd brook
Running downwards to the Sea,
And the reeds shall seek to stay thee
Under every shaded nook,
And the pebbles shall waylay thee,
With their bald heads to dismay thee,
Till thy pretty face grows white,
Half in anger, half in fright.
See, thy troubles are forgot
In the still pool suddenly,
And a smile has found thee out,
Taking shape of thy delight,
Laughing, weeping, onward ever
Till thou join thyself to me,
For my love shall be the river.
Thou and I shall run together
Ever till we meet the Sea.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Dies Irae

On that great, that awful day,
This vain world shall pass away.
Thus the sibyl sang of old,
Thus hath holy David told.
There shall be a deadly fear
When the Avenger shall appear,
And unveiled before his eye
All the works of man shall lie.
Hark! to the great trumpet's tones
Pealing o'er the place of bones:
Hark! it waketh from their bed
All the nations of the dead,--
In a countless throng to meet,
At the eternal judgment seat.
Nature sickens with dismay,
Death may not retain its prey;
And before the Maker stand
All the creatures of his hand.
The great book shall be unfurled,
Whereby God shall judge the world;
What was distant shall be near,
What was hidden shall be clear.
To what shelter shall I fly?
To what guardian shall I cry?
Oh, in that destroying hour,
Source of goodness, Source of power,
Show thou, of thine own free grace,
Help unto a helpless race.
Though I plead not at thy throne
Aught that I for thee have done,
Do not thou unmindful be,
Of what thou hast borne for me:
Of the wandering, of the scorn,
Of the scourge, and of the thorn.
Jesus, hast thou borne the pain,
And hath all been borne in vain?
Shall thy vengeance smite the head
For whose ransom thou hast bled?
Thou, whose dying blessing gave
Glory to a guilty slave:
Thou, who from the crew unclean
Didst release the Magdalene:
Shall not mercy vast and free,
Evermore be found in thee?
Father, turn on me thine eyes,
See my blushes, hear my cries;
Faint though be the cries I make,
Save me for thy mercy's sake,
From the worm, and from the fire,
From the torments of thine ire.
Fold me with the sheep that stand
Pure and safe at thy right hand.
Hear thy guilty child implore thee,
Rolling in the dust before thee.
Oh the horrors of that day!
When this frame of sinful clay,
Starting from its burial place,
Must behold thee face to face.
Hear and pity, hear and aid,
Spare the creatures thou hast made.
Mercy, mercy, save, forgive,
Oh, who shall look on thee and live?

poem by Thomas Babbington Macaulay
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Lines Addressed to Miss Theodora Jane Cowper, On Himself

William was once a bashful youth,
His modesty was such,
That one might say, to say the truth,
He rather had too much.

Some said that it was want of sense,
And others, want of spirit
(So blest a thing is impudence),
While others could not bear it.

But some a different notion had,
And, at each other winking,
Observed that though he little said,
He paid it off with thinking.

Howe’er, it happen’d, by degrees,
He mended, and grew perter,
In company was more at ease,
And dress’d a little smarter;

Nay, now and then, could look quite gay,
As other people do;
And sometimes said, or tried to say,
A witty thing or so.

He eyed the women, and made free
To comment on their shapes,
So that there was, or seem’d to be,
No fear of a relapse.

The women said, who thought him rough,
But now no longer foolish,
“The creature may do well enough,
But wants a deal of polish.”

At length improved from head to heel,
‘Twere scarce too much to say,
No dancing beau was so genteel
Or half so
dégagé.

Now that a miracle so strange
May not in vain be shown,
Let the dear maid who wrought the change
E’en claim him for her own!

poem by William Cowper
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I Am Not Proud Of My Country

I love my Homeland Country and of it's scenic sights I sing
But I don't say I am proud to be Irish as proud has a patriotic ring
And those who feel proud of their Country often go that step too far
As pride leads to patriotism and patriotism leads to war.

I have never waved my Country's flag at parade or football game
And I am not Proud of my country though I love it just the same
For pride and love are different as different as can be
And pride that leads to patriotism has never appealed to me.

Some people on flag post in their front yard fly their Country's flag
And I am proud of my Country you hear them proudly brag
But others worthiness and cultures they never could embrace
And without saying so they are telling you that ours is a superior race.

I am proud of my Country you will never hear me say
Though many feel that pride and patriotism are good and quite okay
But how many young men have died in wars due to patriotic pride
Love brings people together whilst pride and patriotism divide.

I have never been a soldier or had honours to my name
And I am not Proud of my Country though I love it just the same
And those who feel proud of their Country can take that step too far
For pride leads to patriotism and patriotism can lead to war.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To My Inconstant Mistress

When thou, poor excommunicate
From all the joys of love, shalt see
The full reward and glorious fate
Which my strong faith shall purchase me,
Then curse thine own inconstancy.

A fairer hand than thine shall cure
That heart which thy false oaths did wound;
And to my soul a soul more pure
Than thine shall by Love's hand be bound,
And both with equal glory crowned.

Then shalt thou weep, entreat, complain
To Love, as I did once to thee;
When all thy tears shall be as vain
As mine were then, for thou shalt be
Damned for thy false apostasy.

poem by Thomas Carew
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Awkward Age

I should have know that you were only just fifteen
You had a scowl like a Klingon beauty queen
Old enough to stand out but to young to stand with pride
So uncomfortable in your messed-up skin
And the cool parties never let you in
I can still relate to being so high and dry
Don't cry...
You're just at an awkward age
We'll all be fine
Disgraceful under pressure
Don't toe the line
You're just at an awkward age
Don't cry- just an awkward age
Don't cry
You're just at an awkward...
You look at me like i know what's going on
I'm looking back and i wonder what went wrong
I really thought by now a few things might clarify
I got a mind that goes out to lunch for days
And a body that sometimes disobeys
I get into the parties but i hate them 'cos i'm shy
Oh my...
I'm still at an awkward age
We'll all be fine
Disgraceful under pressure
Don't toe the line
You're just at an awkward age
Don't cry- just an awkward age
Don't cry
You're just at an awkward...
We're supposed to be happy
Supposed to be tough
Supposed to be flawless
Snd buy the right stuff
They want us all swimming
Don't care if we drown
Do don't let 'em take you down
It's a scary mountain to climb up without a guide
Besides...
We live in an awkward age

song performed by by Joe Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Natalia’s Resurrection: Sonnet XXIV

And, feeling round him, lo, upon the mould
A pick and spade cast down by accident.
And Adrian laughed when in those engines cold
He guessed the furtherers of his heart's intent.
And all night through he wrought with them in rage,
As miners do who know the prize at hand.
Blest Adrian! Now thy lips thou shalt engage
In the full solace thy long love has planned.
Her face is near thee. Speed thee on thy task.
Her breast's fair purity is thine to kiss.
She shall not now deny though thou shouldst ask
Her whole soul's prize in ransom of thy bliss.
Thrice happy Adrian! See, thy hands have slid
Trembling on thy Natalia's coffin lid.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Captive Dove

Poor restless dove, I pity thee;
And when I hear thy plaintive moan,
I mourn for thy captivity,
And in thy woes forget mine own.
To see thee stand prepared to fly,
And flap those useless wings of thine,
And gaze into the distant sky,
Would melt a harder heart than mine.

In vain ­ in vain! Thou canst not rise:
Thy prison roof confines thee there;
Its slender wires delude thine eyes,
And quench thy longings with despair.

Oh, thou wert made to wander free
In sunny mead and shady grove,
And, far beyond the rolling sea,
In distant climes, at will to rove!

Yet, hadst thou but one gentle mate
Thy little drooping heart to cheer,
And share with thee thy captive state,
Thou couldst be happy even there.

Yes, even there, if, listening by,
One faithful dear companion stood,
While gazing on her full bright eye,
Thou mightst forget thy native wood.

But thou, poor solitary dove,
Must make, unheard, thy joyless moan;
The heart, that Nature formed to love,
Must pine, neglected, and alone.

poem by Anne Brontë from Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (1846)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Patriot

The patriot from his walls of brass
Is singing loudly as I pass;
With fearless heart and open eyes,
He shouts the ancient battle cries;
And, where I pause to hear him sing,
A silent crowd is listening.

My country, God bestows by thee
The glory of the world to be
The glory thou alone canst give
To last amid things fugitive.

My country, an ideal form
I see thee splendid in the storm,
Directress of the power divine
That makes the expectant future thine.

My country, all the world shall bow
Before thy peace-conceiving brow,
And all the peoples humbly stand
Submissive to thy blessing hand.

My country, yea, the foes who raise
A tyrant flag shall learn to praise
Thy steadfast love that dares to fight
The horde of Satan for the right.

My country, loveliest, strongest, best,
Thou hast a mission to the rest,
And greater wealth and love shall be
The guerdon of thy ministry.

In every land I hear him sing;
In every land I see him fling
His country’s flag against the skies
And gaze aloft with dazzled eyes;
And then his loud applause rings round
His walls of brass with brazen sound;
And deep below his cheering loud
I mark the murmur of the crowd.

poem by John Le Gay Brereton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Please youreslf

I think that ladies should ignore
The dictates of the fashion trade
The doubtful claims of haute couture
by so called experts often made.

A wise lady will choose her clothes
to show her assets at their best.
Not as the expert all suppose
to look exactly like the rest.

Dress to suit your face and figure
There is no need to buy in haste
clothes which make your rivals snigger.
Have faith in your own good taste.

Women come in many shades
different shapes and different sizes.
Mature matrons and slim young maids.
Every one that some man prizes.

A well dressed women who stands out.
Knows full well what she’s about.
She won’t let the experts tell her
how to dress to please her feller.

Some women have good fashion sense
but many lack the confidence
to tell the experts to get lost.
They can dress well at half the cost.

Fashion labels may sell clothes
but only silly girls suppose.
Only the latest style will do.
When obviously it is not true.

Suit yourself in the way you dress.
Choose the clothes that will suit you
If you do you will impress
in the way you ought to do.

Let all the fashion gurus prate
But don’t believe a word they say.
You know that you will look great
when you dress in your own way

Fashions come and fashions go.
You know when you’re looking good
What do the so called experts know? .
Ignore them as you know you should.

8-Feb-08

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Gone Country

Shes been playing in a room on a strip
For ten years in vegas
Every night she looks in the mirror
But she only ages
Shes been reading about nashville and all
The records that everybodys buying
Says Im a simple girl myself
Grew up on long island
So she packs her bags to try her hand
Says this might be my last chance
Shes gone country, look at them boots
Shes gone country, back to her roots
Shes gone country, a new kind of suit
Shes gone country, here she comes
Well the folk scene is dead
But hes holding out in the village
Hes been writing songs speaking out
Against wealth and privilege
He says i dont believe in money
But a man could make him a killin
Cause some of that stuff dont sound
Much different than dylan
I hear down there its changed you see
Theyre not as backwards as they used to be
Hes gone country, look at them boots
Hes gone country, back to his roots
Hes gone country, a new kind of suit
Hes gone country, here he comes
He commutes to la
But hes got a house in the valley
But the bills are piling up
And the pop scene just aint on the rally
He says honey Im a serious composer
Schooled in voice and composition
But with the crime and the smog these days
This aint no place for children
Lord it sounds so easy it shouldnt take long
Be back in the money in no time at all
Hes gone country, look at them boots
Hes gone country, back to his roots
Hes gone country, a new kind of suit
Hes gone country, here he comes
Yeah hes gone country, a new kind of walk
Hes gone country, a new kind of talk
Hes gone country, look at them boots
Hes gone country, oh back to his roots
Hes gone country
Hes gone country
Everybodys gone country
Yeah weve gone country
The whole worlds gone country

song performed by by Alan Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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