Locks Cut 1359
A snip first here then there, O what distress!
New shorn, life's locks no longer mask years' grey,
Now evident it seems that she must pay
In white Time's ransom where once shone jet tress!
Each single hair is mourned, all can confess
Sharp pangs, where one stray fingers used to play
Little remains. "'Twill grow again! " she'll say -
O ever on must one mistrust missed tress!
Cascading braids that garland fair mistress
Kindle lustful longings night and day.
Sweet locks cropped, lopped, lip-service lead astray
Creates a void avoidable, few bless.
Uncut is Cupid's knot, bow arrrow shorn,
Time flees, betrayal mortal men must mourn.
(27 July 1992)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Related quotes
Shuffle-Shoon and Amber-Locks
Shuffle-Shoon and Amber-Locks
Sit together, building blocks;
Shuffle-Shoon is old and grey,
Amber-Locks a little child,
But together at their play
Age and Youth are reconciled,
And with sympathetic glee
Build their castles fair to see.
"When I grow to be a man"
(So the wee one's prattle ran),
"I shall build a castle so--
With a gateway broad and grand;
Here a pretty vine shall grow,
There a soldier guard shall stand;
And the tower shall be so high,
Folks will wonder, by-and-by!"
Shuffle-Shoon quoth: "Yes, I know;
Thus I builded long ago!
Here a gate and there a wall,
Here a window, there a door;
Here a steeple wondrous tall
Riseth ever more and more!
But the years have levelled low
What I builded long ago!"
So they gossip at their play,
Heedless of the fleeting day;
One speaks of the Long Ago
Where his dead hopes buried lie;
One with chubby cheeks aglow
Prattleth of the By-and-By;
Side by side, they build their blocks--
Shuffle-Shoon and Amber-Locks.
poem by Eugene Field
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Another Imitation Of Anacreon
PRONE, on my couch I calmly slept
Against my wont. A little child
Awoke me as he gently crept
And beat my door. A tempest wild
Was raging-dark and cold the night.
"Have pity on my naked plight,"
He begged, "and ope thy door".--"Thy name?"
I asked admitting him.--"The same
"Anon I'll tell, but first must dry
"My weary limbs, then let me try
"My mois'ened bow."--Despite my fear
The hearth I lit, then drew me near
My guest, and chafed his fingers cold.
"Why fear?" I thought. "Let me be bold
"No Polyphemus he; what harm
"In such a child?--Then I'll be calm!"
The playful boy drew out a dart,
Shook his fair locks, and to my heart
His shaft he launch'd.--"Love is my name,"
He thankless cried, "I hither came
"To tame thee. In thine ardent pain
"Of Cupid think and young Climene."--
"Ah! now I know thee, little scamp,
"Ungrateful, cruel boy! Decamp!"
Cupid a saucy caper cut,
Skipped through the door, and as it shut,
"My bow," he taunting cried, "is sound,
"Thy heart, poor comrade, feels the wound."
poem by La Fontaine
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You Are Old Father William
"You are old, father William," the young man said,
"And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head --
Do you think, at your age, it is right?
"In my youth," father William replied to his son,
"I feared it might injure the brain;
But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again."
"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,
And you have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door --
Pray what is the reason for that?"
"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
"I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment -- one shilling a box --
Allow me to sell you a couple?"
"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak --
Pray, how did you mange to do it?"
"In my youth," said his fater, "I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life."
"You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as every;
Yet you balanced an eel on the tend of your nose --
What made you so awfully clever?"
"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
Said his father. "Don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs.
poem by Lewis Carroll
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The Subalterns
I
"Poor wanderer," said the leaden sky,
"I fain would lighten thee,
But there are laws in force on high
Which say it must not be."
II
--"I would not freeze thee, shorn one," cried
The North, "knew I but how
To warm my breath, to slack my stride;
But I am ruled as thou."
III
--"To-morrow I attack thee, wight,"
Said Sickness. "Yet I swear
I bear thy little ark no spite,
But am bid enter there."
IV
--"Come hither, Son," I heard Death say;
"I did not will a grave
Should end thy pilgrimage to-day,
But I, too, am a slave!"
V
We smiled upon each other then,
And life to me had less
Of that fell look it wore ere when
They owned their passiveness.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Song
I
Nay but you, who do not love her,
Is she not pure gold, my mistress?
Holds earth aught—speak truth—above her?
Aught like this tress, see, and this tress,
And this last fairest tress of all,
So fair, see, ere I let it fall?
II
Because, you spend your lives in praising;
To praise, you search the wide world over:
Then why not witness, calmly gazing,
If earth holds aught—speak truth—above her?
Above this tress, and this, I touch
But cannot praise, I love so much!
poem by Robert Browning from Dramatic Romances and Lyrics (1845)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Gardener XXVI: What Comes From Your Willing Hands
"What comes from your willing
hands I take. I beg for nothing
more."
"Yes, yes, I know you, modest
mendicant, you ask for all that one
has."
"If there be a stray flower for me
I will wear it in my heart."
"But if there be thorns?"
"I will endure them."
"Yes, yes, I know you, modest
mendicant, you ask for all that one
has."
"If but once you should raise your
loving eyes to my face it would make
my life sweet beyond death."
"But if there be only cruel
glances?"
"I will keep them piercing my
heart."
"Yes, yes, I know you, modest
mendicant, you ask for all that one
has."
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Astrophel And Stella-Sonnet LIV
Because I breathe not love to every one,
Nor do not use set colours for to wear,
Nor nourish special locks of vowed hair,
Nor give each speech a full point of a groan,
The courtly nymphs, acquainted with the moan
Of them who in their lips Love's standard bear,
"What, he!" say they of me, "now I dare swear
He cannot love. No, no, let him alone."—
And think so still, so Stella know my mind!
Profess indeed I do not Cupid's art;
But you, fair maids, at length this true shall find,
That his right badge is worn but in the heart.
Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers prove:
They love indeed who quake to say they love.
poem by Philip Sidney
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The Prince's Progress (excerpt)
"Too late for love, too late for joy,
Too late, too late!
You loitered on the road too long,
You trifled at the gate:
The enchanted dove upon her branch
Died without a mate.
The enchanted princess in her tower
Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
You made it wait.
"Ten years ago, five years ago,
One year ago,
Even then you had arrived in time,
Though somewhat slow;
Then you had known her living face
Which now you cannot know:
The frozen fountain would have leaped,
The buds gone on to blow,
The warm south wind would have awaked
To melt the snow.
"Is she fair now as she lies?
Once she was fair;
Meet queen for any kingly king,
With gold-dust on her hair.
Now these are poppies in her locks,
White poppies she must wear;
Must wear a veil to shroud her face
And the want graven there:
Or is the hunger fed at length,
Cast off the care?
"We never saw her with a smile
Or with a frown;
Her bed seemed never soft to her,
Though tossed of down;
She little heeded what she wore,
Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;
We think her white brows often ached
Beneath her crown,
Till silvery hairs showed in her locks
That used to be so brown.
"We never heard her speak in haste;
Her tones were sweet,
And modulated just so much
As it was meet:
Her heart sat silent through the noise
And concourse of the street.
There was no hurry in her hands,
No hurry in her feet;
There was no bliss drew nigh to her,
That she might run to greet.
"You should have wept her yesterday,
Wasting upon her bed:
But wherefore should you weep to-day
That she is dead?
Lo we who love weep not to-day,
But crown her royal head.
Let be these poppies that we strew,
Your roses are too red:
Let be these poppies, not for you
Cut down and spread."
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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At play
Play that you are mother dear,
And play that papa is your beau;
Play that we sit in the corner here,
Just as we used to, long ago.
Playing so, we lovers two
Are just as happy as we can be,
And I'll say "I love you" to you,
And you say "I love you" to me!
"I love you" we both shall say,
All in earnest and all in play.
Or, play that you are that other one
That some time came, and went away;
And play that the light of years agone
Stole into my heart again to-day!
Playing that you are the one I knew
In the days that never again may be,
I'll say "I love you" to you,
And you say "I love you" to me!
I love you!" my heart shall say
To the ghost of the past come back to-day!
Or, play that you sought this nestling-place
For your own sweet self, with that dual guise
Of your pretty mother in your face
And the look of that other in your eyes!
So the dear old loves shall live anew
As I hold my darling on my knee,
And I'll say "I love you" to you,
And you say "I love you" to me!
Oh, many a strange, true thing we say
And do when we pretend to play!
poem by Eugene Field
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Lead "me" to "me
What is this place?
Where have I reached?
I stand infront
The mirror,
As a stranger
Stares back at me.
Do I know her?
Have we met before?
Why do I see in her traces of' me'?
Or is this…
The new ‘me"?
Do I like her?
Brazen she stands…
Her hair wind swept,
Her eyes, wild
No longer windows
To the divinity of her soul.
But her smile has
Traces of "me".
That strange
Devil in "me".
As I shudder in peril,
Where have I reached?
Its miles and miles of mist,
Paths untread,
Lonely beings.
But…
Its this mysterious "me"
Which terrifies my soul.
Did I ever want to be
"her"?
Do I have a choice?
Is it too late to decide,
Revert, run back?
Where did I lose the "me"
I was so proud about?
Pray, give me your magic hand
Do lead "me to"me"…
For without "you" holding "me"
I remain not even "me"
Daddy…
your little 'ai'is all lost
Please lead "me" to "me"….
poem by Anjali Kakati
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Sonnet V: Nothing But No
Nothing but "No," and "Aye," and "Aye," and "No"?
How falls it out so strangely you reply?
I tell ye, Fair, I'll not be answer'd so,
With this affirming "No," denying "Aye."
I say, "I love," you slightly answer "Aye";
I say, "You love," you pule me out a "No";
I say, "I die," you echo me an "Aye";
"Save me," I cry, you sigh me out a "No";
Must woe and I have nought but "No" and "Aye"?
No I am I, if I no more can have;
Answer no more, with silence make reply,
And let me take myself what I do crave.
Let "No" and "Aye" with I and you be so;
Then answer "No," and "Aye," and "Aye" and "No."
poem by Michael Drayton
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Cutting edge
Like a sharp knife
cutting through a bitter lemon
into red lips dripping
the hairdresser takes my pleasantries,
chops them with a cruel hand,
throws them back in pieces in my face
snip snip into blond hair, brown hair, black, grey, white,
what heroic restraint, condemned
to a lifetime’s cutting, and not
to plunge the scissors into a spinal cord…
this little girl who cut her finger with
her mother’s scissors perhaps
to try to explain how they cut her heart
her love that would grow like hair
how can I know the heart
of this woman who cuts my hair
so expertly.. snip, snip..
poem by Michael Shepherd
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When The Fox Dies, His Skin Counts
WE young people in the shade
Sat one sultry day;
Cupid came, and "Dies the Fox"
With us sought to play.
Each one of my friends then sat
By his mistress dear;
Cupid, blowing out the torch,
Said: "The taper's here!"
Then we quickly sent around
The expiring brand;
Each one put it hastily
ln his neighbour's hand.
Dorilis then gave it me,
With a scoffing jest;
Sudden into flame it broke,
By my fingers press'd.
And it singed my eyes and face,
Set my breast on fire;
Then above my head the blaze
Mounted ever higher.
Vain I sought to put it out;
Ever burned the flame;
Stead of dying, soon the Fox
Livelier still became.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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At Lulworth Cove a Century Back
Had I but lived a hundred years ago
I might have gone, as I have gone this year,
By Warmwell Cross on to a Cove I know,
And Time have placed his finger on me there:
"You see that man?" -- I might have looked, and said,
"O yes: I see him. One that boat has brought
Which dropped down Channel round Saint Alban's Head.
So commonplace a youth calls not my thought."
"You see that man?" -- "Why yes; I told you; yes:
Of an idling town-sort; thin; hair brown in hue;
And as the evening light scants less and less
He looks up at a star, as many do."
"You see that man?" -- "Nay, leave me!" then I plead,
"I have fifteen miles to vamp across the lea,
And it grows dark, and I am weary-kneed:
I have said the third time; yes, that man I see!"
"Good. That man goes to Rome -- to death, despair;
And no one notes him now but you and I:
A hundred years, and the world will follow him there,
And bend with reverence where his ashes lie."
poem by Thomas Hardy
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The Two Sisters
There was twa sisters in a bowr,
Edinburgh, Edinburgh
There was twa sisters in a bowr,
Stirling for ay
There was twa sisters in a bowr,
There came a knight to be their wooer.
Bonny Saint Johnston stands upon Tay.
He courted the eldest wi glove an ring,
But he lovd the youngest above a' thing.
He courted the eldest wi brotch an knife,
But lovd the youngest as his life.
The eldest she was vexed sair,
An much envi'd her sister fair.
Into her bowr she could not rest,
Wi grief an spite she almos brast.
Upon a morning fair an clear,
She cried upon her sister dear:
"O sister, come to yon sea stran,
An see our father's ships come to lan."
She's taen her by the milk-white han,
An led her down to yon sea stran.
The youngest stood upon a stane,
The eldest came an threw her in.
She tooke her by the middle sma,
An dashd her bonny back to the jaw.
"O sister, sister, tak my han,
An Ise mack you heir to a' my lan.
"O sister, sister, tak my middle,
An yes get my goud and my gouden girdle.
"O sister, sister, save my life,
An I swear Ise never be nae man's wife."
"Foul fa the han that I should tacke,
It twin'd me an my wardles make.
"Your cherry cheeks an yallow hair
Gars me gae maiden for evermair."
Sometimes she sank, an sometimes she swam,
Till she came down yon bonny mill-dam.
O out it came the miller's son,
An saw the fair maid swimmin in.
"O father, father, draw your dam,
Here's either a mermaid or a swan."
The miller quickly drew the dam,
An there he found a drownd woman.
You coudna see her yallow hair
For gold and pearle that were so rare.
You coudna see her middle sma
For gouden girdle that was sae braw.
You coudna see her fingers white,
For gouden rings that was sae gryte.
An by there came a harper fine,
That harped to the king at dine.
When he did look that lady upon,
He sighd and made a heavy moan.
He's taen three locks o her yallow hair,
An wi them strung his harp sae fair.
The first tune he did play and sing,
Was, "Farewell to my father the king."
The nextin tune that he playd syne,
Was, "Farewell to my mother the queen."
The lasten tune that he playd then,
Was, "Wae to my sister, fair Ellen."
poem by Anonymous Americas
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The Straying Sheep
How many sheep are straying
Lost from the Savior's fold!
Upon the lonely mountain, They shiver with the cold:
Within the tangled thickets,
Where poison vines do creep,
And over rocky ledges
Still roam the poor lost sheep.
O come, let us go and find them!
In the paths of death they roam.
At the close of the day 'twill be sweet to say:
"I have brought some lost one home."
O who will go to find them?
Who, for the Savior's sake,
Will search with tireless patience
Through brier and through brake
Unheeding thirst or hunger,
Who still from day to day,
Will seek, as for treasure,
The sheep that go astray?
O come, let us go and find them!
In the paths of death they roam.
At the close of the day 'twill be sweet to say:
"I have brought some lost one home."
Say, will you seek to find them?
From pleasant bow'rs of ease
Will you go forth determined
To find the least of these?
For still the Savior calls them,
And looks across the wold,
And still He holds wide open
The door into His fold.
O come, let us go and find them!
In the paths of death they roam.
At the close of the day 'twill be sweet to say:
"I have brought some lost one home."
How sweet 'twound be at evening
If you and I could say,
"Good Shepherd we've been seeking
The sheep that went astray!
Heartsore and faint with hunger,
We heard them making moan,
And lo! we come at nightfall,
And bear them safely home."
O come, let us go and find them!
In the paths of death they roam.
At the close of the day 'twill be sweet to say:
"I have brought some lost one home."
poem by Robert Wadsworth Lowry
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Bill 'Awkins
"'As anybody seen Bill 'Awkins?"
"Now 'ow in the devil would I know?"
"'E's taken my girl out walkin',
An' I've got to tell 'im so --
Gawd -- bless -- 'im!
I've got to tell 'im so."
"D'yer know what 'e's like, Bill 'Awkins?"
"Now what in the devil would I care?"
"'E's the livin', breathin' image of an organ-grinder's monkey,
With a pound of grease in 'is 'air --
Gawd -- bless -- 'im!
An' a pound o' grease in 'is 'air."
"An' s'pose you met Bill 'Awkins,
Now what in the devil 'ud ye do?"
"I'd open 'is cheek to 'is chin-strap buckle,
An' bung up 'is both eyes, too --
Gawd -- bless -- 'im!
An' bung up 'is both eyes, too!"
"Look 'ere, where 'e comes, Bill 'Awkins!
Now what in the devil will you say?"
"It isn't fit an' proper to be fightin' on a Sunday,
So I'll pass 'im the time o' day --
Gawd -- bless -- 'im!
I'll pass 'im the time o' day!"
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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I get Lonely
I get lonely
When the upstairs
Neighbors arrive
They’re in love
They laugh
Eat dinner
Watch TV
Make love by candlelight
Flickering thru window
On to tress.
Tress see, feel
And grow to
Damp sex on wind Spread forth kisses,
Drop on hands, heads, and chests.
A slide of caressing fingers
Thur body hair.
Body lightening slowly crack
Open up body hair
A rush of passion
Seeks.
poem by David E. Patton
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Michael
"There's something in your face, Michael, I've seen it all the day;
There's something quare that wasn't there when first ye wint away. . . ."
"It's just the Army life, mother, the drill, the left and right,
That puts the stiffinin' in yer spine and locks yer jaw up tight. . . ."
"There's something in your eyes, Michael, an' how they stare and stare --
You're lookin' at me now, me boy, as if I wasn't there. . . ."
"It's just the things I've seen, mother, the sights that come and come,
A bit o' broken, bloody pulp that used to be a chum. . . ."
"There's something on your heart, Michael, that makes ye wake at night,
And often when I hear ye moan, I trimble in me fright. . . ."
"It's just a man I killed, mother, a mother's son like me;
It seems he's always hauntin' me, he'll never let me be. . . ."
"But maybe he was bad, Michael, maybe it was right
To kill the inimy you hate in fair and honest fight. . . ."
"I did not hate at all, mother; he never did me harm;
I think he was a lad like me, who worked upon a farm. . . ."
"And what's it all about, Michael; why did you have to go,
A quiet, peaceful lad like you, and we were happy so? . . ."
"It's thim that's up above, mother, it's thim that sits an' rules;
We've got to fight the wars they make, it's us as are the fools. . . ."
"And what will be the end, Michael, and what's the use, I say,
Of fightin' if whoever wins it's us that's got to pay? . . ."
"Oh, it will be the end, mother, when lads like him and me,
That sweat to feed the ones above, decide that we'll be free. . . ."
"And when will that day come, Michael, and when will fightin' cease,
And simple folks may till their soil and live and love in peace? . . ."
"It's coming soon and soon, mother, it's nearer every day,
When only men who work and sweat will have a word to say;
When all who earn their honest bread in every land and soil
Will claim the Brotherhood of Man, the Comradeship of Toil;
When we, the Workers, all demand: `What are we fighting for?' . . .
Then, then we'll end that stupid crime, that devil's madness -- War."
poem by Robert William Service
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Dolls
She said: "I am too old to play
With dolls," and put them all away,
Into a box, one rainy day.
I think she must have felt some pain,
She looked so long into the rain,
Then sighed: "I'll bring you out again;
"For I'll have little children too,
With sunny hair and eyes of blue
And they will play and play with you.
"And now good-bye, my pretty dears;
There in the dark for years and years,
Dream of your little mother's tears."
Eglantine, Pierrot and Marie Claire,
Topsy and Tiny and Teddy Bear,
Side by side in the coffer there.
Time went by; one day she kneeled
By a wooden Cross in Flanders Field,
And wept for the One the earth concealed;
And made a vow she would never wed,
But always be true to the deathless dead,
Until the span of her life be sped.
* *
* * *
* *
More years went on and they made her wise
By sickness and pain and sacrifice,
With greying tresses and tired eyes.
And then one evening of weary rain,
She opened the old oak box again,
And her heart was clutched with an ancient pain
For there in the quiet dark they lay,
Just as they were when she put them away...
O but it seemed like yesterday!
Topsy and Tiny and Teddy Bear,
Eglantine, Pierrot and Marie Claire,
Ever so hopefully waiting there.
But she looked at them through her blinding tears,
And she said: "You've been patient, my pretty dears;
You've waited and waited all these years.
"I've broken a promise I made so true;
But my heart, my darlings, is broken too:
No little Mothers have I for you.
"My hands are withered, my hair is grey;
Yet just for a moment I'll try to play
With you as I did that long dead day...
"Ah no, I cannot. I try in vain . . .
I stare and I stare into the rain . . .
I'll put you back in your box again.
"Bless you, darlings, perhaps one day,
Some little Mother will find you and play,
And once again you'll be glad and gay.
"But when in the friendly dark I lie,
No one will ever love you as I . . . .
My little children . . . good-bye . . . good-bye."
poem by Robert William Service
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