En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Lydia Is Gone This Many A Year

Lydia is gone this many a year,
Yet when the lilacs stir,
In the old gardens far or near,
The house is full of her.

They climb the twisted chamber stair;
Her picture haunts the room;
On the carved shelf beneath it there,
They heap the purple bloom.

A ghost so long has Lydia been,
Her cloak upon the wall,
Broidered, and gilt, and faded green,
Seems not her cloak at all.

The book, the box on mantel laid,
The shells in a pale row,
Are those of some dim little maid,
A thousand years ago.

And yet the house is full of her;
She goes and comes again;
And longings thrill, and memories stir,
Like lilacs in the rain.

Out in their yards the neighbors walk,
Among the blossoms tall;
Of Anne, of Phyllis, do they talk,
Of Lydia not at all.

poem by Lizette Woodworth Reese
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Lydia

Break forth, break forth, O Sudbury town,
And bid your yards be gay
Up all your gusty streets and down,
For Lydia comes to-day!

I hear it on the wharves below;
And if I buy or sell,
The good folk as they churchward go
Have only this to tell.

My mother, just for love of her,
Unlocks her carvëd drawers;
And springs of withered lavender
Drop down upon the floors.

For Lydia’s bed must have the sheet
Spun out of linen sheer,
And Lydia’s room be passing sweet
With odors of last year.

The violet flags are out once more
In lanes salt with the sea;
The thorn-bush at Saint Martin’s door
Grows white for such as she.

So, Sudbury, bid your gardens blow,
For Lydia comes to-day;
Of all the words that I do know,
I have but this to say.

poem by Lizette Woodworth Reese
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Lydia The Star

Lydia my cousin is charismatic you will find,
when you are with Lydia you will have a funtime.
Lydia has been an entertainer since she was three,
She now plays music and sings in Glee.
Lydia is also a lead singer in her own band,
“Dr. Pepper” is bands name I understand.
She performed at Kid’s Winter Rockfest,
they put on a great show, they were the best.
Lydia wants to learn how to play the guitar,
she will be a success hit by far.
I wish you Lydia the most brilliant success,
you are an original star a cut above the rest.
Written By Suzae Chevalier on February 6,2012

poem by Christina Sunrise
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Like Lydia

The innocence she has brings grace
Easy way love can be found in her face
She is incredible her beauty is amaze
suddenly i found like Lydia in unexpected place

Sympathy arising heart owner
Caring lady more deep fair
With the provoking laughter jokes player
I recognize her, like Lydia I found her layer

Her pleasure of sense is the best
Up on behaviour, so descent
No doubt she will win, that's all I bet
Like Lydia that is the sister I get

Dedicated to my adorable friend
Lidya.B

NB Like Lydia
Lydia from the Old temstament

poem by Luwi Habte
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L'Eau Dormante

Curled up and sitting on her feet.
Within the window's deep embrasure,
Is Lydia; and across the street,
A lad, with eyes of roguish azure,
Watches her buried in her book.
In vain he tries to win a look,
And from the trellis over there
Blows sundry kisses through the air,
Which miss the mark, and fall unseen,
Uncared for. Lydia is thirteen.

My lad, if you, without abuse,
Will take advise from one who's wiser,
And put his wisdom to more use
Than ever yet did your adviser;
If you will let, as none will do,
Another's heartbreak serve for two,
You'll have a care, some four years hence,
How you lounge there by yonder fence
And blow those kisses through that screen--
For Lydia will be seventeen.

poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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Lilacs At My Funeral

Lilacs at my funeral
Lilacs when I’m dead
Lilacs in my coffin
Placed gently by my head

Lilacs at my funeral
Lilacs when I’m gone
Lilacs to help send me
On my journey home

Lilacs at my funeral
Lilacs for my grave
Lilacs instead of roses
Think of the money you will save

1978

www.dakotaraeaustin.com

poem by Dakota Austin
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The IX Ode to Horace

HORACE.

While I was pleasing to your arms,
Nor any youth, of happier charms,
Thy snowy bosom blissful prest,
Not Portia's like me was blest.

LYDIA.

While for no other fair you burn'd,
Nor Lydia was for Chloe scorn'd
What maid was then so blest as thine?
Not [xx's] flame could equal mine.

HORACE.

Me Chloe now possesses whole,
Her voice her lyre command my soul;
For whom Ill gladly die, to save
Her dearer beauties from the grave.

LYDIA.

My heart young Calats inspires,
Whose bosom glows with mutal fires,
For whom I twice would die with joy,
If death would spare the charming boy.

HORACE.

Yet what if love, whole bards we broke,
Again should tame us to the yoke;
Should I shake off bright Chloe's chain,
And take my Lydia home again?--

LYDIA.

Though he exceed in beauty far
The rising lustre of a star;
Though light as cork thy fancy strays,
Thy passions wild as angry seas,
When vex'd with storms; yet gladly I
With thee would live, with thee would die.

poem by Major Henry Livingston Jr.
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One Leg Anne and the Innocent Flirt.

Sister Mary pushed Anne
in her wheelchair
to the white table
where you were sitting

with Lydia Sad
and Malcolm
and a curly headed girl
with burn scars

on her face and neck
there
said the nun
here you can sit

and wait for breakfast
and catch the morning sun
Anne looked glumly
at the sky

and said nothing
as the nun
walked away
I wonder

what's for breakfast?
Malcolm asked
stewed cat on toast
Anne said

looking at Lydia Sad
whose blonde hair
and blue eyes
gave her

an angelic look
that's horrible
the girl with burn scars said
don't eat it then

Anne said
Malcolm looked at you
it wouldn't be that
would it?

He asked
no
you said
Anne's just having you on

why do you have to spoil
my fun Skinny Boy?
Anne said
it's not funny

Lydia muttered
not funny to say that
about cats being on toast
how are your haemorrhoids?

Anne asked Lydia
saw the fat nun
giving you the bum pill
Lydia blushed

and Malcolm looked
at the white table top
I'm telling Sister Bernadette
about you

the girl with burn scars said
go put your head
between your thighs
and breathe the air

Anne said
the girl got up
and left the table
followed by Lydia

and Malcolm
that's got rid of them
Skinny Boy
Anne said

why are you so horrible?
you asked
looking at her red skirt
just covering the stump

of her amputated leg
have a good look Skinny Boy
and she pulled up
her skirt to reveal

the naked flesh
and plump stump
you noticed
how the scar

seemed to pull
into a smooth redness
what do you think?
Anne asked

I've seen it before
you replied
when?
She asked

you showed me
the other week
while you were being weight
in the bathroom

she smiled
and pulled down
her skirt
I like you Skinny Boy

you're just
an innocent flirt
and she laughed
and her wheelchair rocked

and you smiled
and wondered
what she meant
by the word flirt

and looked discreetly
at her short red skirt.

poem by Terry Collett
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Ninth Ode of the Third Book of Horace

Horace.

While I was your beloved one,
And while no other youth threw his fond arms around
Your white neck so easily,
Than the King of the world I was far happier.

Lydia..

While you loved not another one,
While you did not prefer Chloë to Lydia,
I then thought myself happier
Than the mother of Rome, great Rhea Silvia.

Horace..

Thracian Chloë now governs me,
She can merrily sing, playing the cithara;
I'd not scruple to die for her,
If the Implacable spared Chloë, the auburn haired.

Lydia.

I now love and am loved again,
By my Calaïs, son of the old Ornytus;
Twice I'd die for him willingly,
If the terrible fates spared but my Calaïs.

Horace.

What if love should return again,
And unite us by ties more indissoluble?
What if Chloë were cast away,
And the long-closed door open to Lydia?

Lydia.

My love's brighter than any star;
You, too, lighter than cork, tossed on the waves of the Hadriatic so terrible;
Still I'd live but with thee, and I could die with thee.

poem by James Clerk Maxwell
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Horace and Lydia Reconciled

HORACE

When you were mine in auld lang syne,
And when none else your charms might ogle,
I'll not deny,
Fair nymph, that I
Was happier than a Persian mogul.

LYDIA

Before she came--that rival flame!--
(Was ever female creature sillier?)
In those good times,
Bepraised in rhymes,
I was more famed than Mother Ilia!

HORACE

Chloe of Thrace! With what a grace
Does she at song or harp employ her!
I'd gladly die
If only I
Might live forever to enjoy her!

LYDIA

My Sybaris so noble is
That, by the gods! I love him madly--
That I might save
Him from the grave
I'd give my life, and give it gladly!

HORACE

What if ma belle from favor fell,
And I made up my mind to shake her,
Would Lydia, then,
Come back again
And to her quondam flame betake her?

LYDIA

My other beau should surely go,
And you alone should find me gracious;
For no one slings
Such odes and things
As does the lauriger Horatius!

poem by Eugene Field
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The Doughboy's Horace

Horace: Book III, Ode 9

"Donec eram gratus tibi--"

HORACE, PVT. --TH INFANTRY, A.E.F., WRITES:

While I was fussing you at home
You put the notion in my dome
That I was the Molasses Kid.
I batted strong. I'll say I did.

LYDIA, ANYBURG U.S.A., WRITES:

While you were fussing me alone
To other boys my heart was stone.
When I was all that you could see
No girl had anything on me.

HORACE:

Well, say, I'm having some romance
With one Babette, of Northern France.
If that girl gave me the command
I'd dance a jig in No-Man's Land.

LYDIA:

I, too, have got a young affair
With Charley--say, that boy is there!
I'd just as soon go out and die
If I thought it'd please that guy

HORACE:

Suppose I can this foreign wren
And start things up with you again?
Suppose I promise to be good?
I'd love you Lyd. I'll say I would.

LYDIA:

Though Charley's good and handsome--oh, boy!
And you're a stormy fickle doughboy,
So give the Hun his final whack,
And I'll marry you when you come back.

poem by Franklin P. Adams
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City Love

I never liked this apple much
It always seemed too big to touch
I can't remember how I found
My way before she came around

I tell everyone
I smile just because
I've got a city love
I found it in Lydia
And I can't remember life before her name

She keeps a toothbrush at my place
As if I had the extra space
She steals my clothes to wear to work
I know - her hairs are on my shirts

I tell everyone
I smile just because
I've got a city love
I found it in Lydia
And I can't remember life before
The day
She called up and came to me
Covered in rain
And dinnertime shadowing
And as her clothes spun

song performed by by John Mayer from Room For Squares
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Familiarity Dangerous

As in her ancient mistress’ lap
The youthful tabby lay,
They gave each other many a tap,
Alike disposed to play.

But strife ensues. Puss waxes warm,
And with protruded claws
Ploughs all the length of Lydia’s arm,
Mere wantonness the cause.

At once, resentful of the deed,
She shakes her to the ground
With many a threat that she shall bleed
With still a deeper wound.

But, Lydia, bid thy fury rest:
It was a venial stroke:
For she that will with kittens jest
Should bear a kitten’s joke.

poem by William Cowper
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Shadwell Stair

I am the ghost of Shadwell Stair.
Along the wharves by the water-house,
And through the cavernous slaughter-house,
I am the shadow that walks there.

Yet I have flesh both firm and cool,
And eyes tumultuous as the gems
Of moons and lamps in the full Thames
When dusk sails wavering down the pool.

Shuddering the purple street-arc burns
Where I watch always; from the banks
Dolorously the shipping clanks
And after me a strange tide turns.

I walk till the stars of London wane
And dawn creeps up the Shadwell Stair.
But when the crowing syrens blare
I with another ghost am lain.

poem by Wilfred Owen
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Stop The Train (feat. Peter Tosh)

Stir it up little darling, stir it up
Come on baby come on and stir it up little darling, stir it up
It's been a long long time since I've got you on my mind
And now you are here
I say it's so clear
To see what we can do, honey, just me and you
Come on and stir it up, little darling, stir it up
Come on baby come on and stir it up little darling, stir it up
I'll push the wood, I'll blaze your fire
Then I'll satisfy your heart's desire
Said I'll stir it up, yeah, ev'ry minute, yeah
All you got to do is keep it in, baby
And stir it up, little darling, stir it up
Come on and stir it up, oh, little darling, stir it up, yeah
Oh, will you quench me while I'm thirsty?
Come and cool me down when I'm hot?
Your recipe, darling, is so tasty
And you sure can stir your pot
So stir it up, little darling, stir it up
Come on and stir it up, oh, little darling, stir it up
Come on and stir it up, oh, little darling, stir it up

song performed by by Bob Marley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pictures In A Book

High on a tree a red cardinal sings
Snow melts under a free blue sky
It is Sunday and church bells ring
I love to watch the spring geese fly

The kitchen with flowers in the vase
She loved lavender lilacs on the table
Some memories never do get erased
Give your love while your still able

Now the rains and the winds blow
Mountains fill with great waterfalls
Streams swell with melting snow
Pine trees grow stalwart and tall

I remember roses on her summer dress
We loved to walk a moonlit mile
Her long hair flowing down her breast
Haunted by her laugh and sweet smile

Soon the fine tulips will start to bloom
The brown grass will turn deep green
Frogs will breed under the full moon
Wild flowers will grow by oak trees

I wonder if she often thinks of me?
We met when apple blossoms grow
Love seemed like an eternal sea
Parted when fall winds turned to snow

Now we are memories from another day
Pictures in a book neatly tucked away

poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Lydia Dick

When I was a boy at college,
Filling up with classic knowledge,
Frequently I wondered why
Old Professor Demas Bently
Used to praise so eloquently
'Opera Horatii.'

Toiling on a season longer
Till my reasoning power got stronger,
As my observation grew,
I became convinced that mellow,
Massic-loving poet fellow
Horace knew a thing or two

Yes, we sophomores figured duly
That, if we appraised him truly,
Horace must have been a brick;
And no wonder that with ranting
Rhymes he went a-gallivanting
Round with sprightly Lydia Dick!

For that pink of female gender
Tall and shapely was, and slender,
Plump of neck and bust and arms;
While the raiment that invested
Her so jealously suggested
Certain more potential charms.

Those dark eyes of her that fired him--
Those sweet accents that inspired him,
And her crown of glorious hair--
These things baffle my description;
I should have a fit conniption
If I tried--so I forbear!

May be Lydia had her betters;
Anyway, this man of letters
Took that charmer as his pick;
Glad--yes, glad I am to know it!
I, a fin de siecle poet,
Sympathize with Lydia Dick!

Often in my arbor shady
I fall thinking of that lady
And the pranks she used to play;
And I'm cheered--for all we sages
Joy when from those distant ages
Lydia dances down our way.

Otherwise some folks might wonder
With good reason why in thunder
Learned professors, dry and prim,
Find such solace in the giddy
Pranks that Horace played with Liddy
Or that Liddy played on him.

Still this world of ours rejoices
In those ancient singing voices,
And our hearts beat high and quick,
To the cadence of old Tiber
Murmuring praise of roistering Liber
And of charming Lydia Dick.

Still, Digentia, downward flowing,
Prattleth to the roses blowing
By the dark, deserted grot;
Still, Soracte, looming lonely,
Watcheth for the coming only
Of a ghost that cometh not.

poem by Eugene Field
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Lilacs

Lilacs,
False blue,
White,
Purple,
Color of lilac,
Your great puffs of flowers
Are everywhere in this my New England.
Among your heart-shaped leaves
Orange orioles hop like music-box birds and sing
Their little weak soft songs;
In the crooks of your branches
The bright eyes of song sparrows sitting on spotted eggs
Peer restlessly through the light and shadow
Of all Springs.
Lilacs in dooryards
Holding quiet conversations with an early moon;
Lilacs watching a deserted house
Settling sideways into the grass of an old road;
Lilacs, wind-beaten, staggering under a lopsided shock of bloom
Above a cellar dug into a hill.
You are everywhere.
You were everywhere.
You tapped the window when the preacher preached his sermon,
And ran along the road beside the boy going to school.
You stood by the pasture-bars to give the cows good milking,
You persuaded the housewife that her dishpan was of silver.
And her husband an image of pure gold.
You flaunted the fragrance of your blossoms
Through the wide doors of Custom Houses—
You, and sandal-wood, and tea,
Charging the noses of quill-driving clerks
When a ship was in from China.
You called to them: “Goose-quill men, goose-quill men,
May is a month for flitting.”
Until they writhed on their high stools
And wrote poetry on their letter-sheets behind the propped-up ledgers.
Paradoxical New England clerks,
Writing inventories in ledgers, reading the “Song of Solomon” at night,
So many verses before bed-time,
Because it was the Bible.
The dead fed you
Amid the slant stones of graveyards.
Pale ghosts who planted you
Came in the nighttime
And let their thin hair blow through your clustered stems.
You are of the green sea,
And of the stone hills which reach a long distance.
You are of elm-shaded streets with little shops where they sell kites and marbles,
You are of great parks where every one walks and nobody is at home.
You cover the blind sides of greenhouses
And lean over the top to say a hurry-word through the glass
To your friends, the grapes, inside.

Lilacs,
False blue,
White,
Purple,
Color of lilac,
You have forgotten your Eastern origin,
The veiled women with eyes like panthers,
The swollen, aggressive turbans of jeweled pashas.
Now you are a very decent flower,
A reticent flower,
A curiously clear-cut, candid flower,
Standing beside clean doorways,
Friendly to a house-cat and a pair of spectacles,
Making poetry out of a bit of moonlight
And a hundred or two sharp blossoms.
Maine knows you,
Has for years and years;
New Hampshire knows you,
And Massachusetts
And Vermont.
Cape Cod starts you along the beaches to Rhode Island;
Connecticut takes you from a river to the sea.
You are brighter than apples,
Sweeter than tulips,
You are the great flood of our souls
Bursting above the leaf-shapes of our hearts,
You are the smell of all Summers,
The love of wives and children,
The recollection of gardens of little children,
You are State Houses and Charters
And the familiar treading of the foot to and fro on a road it knows.
May is lilac here in New England,
May is a thrush singing “Sun up!” on a tip-top ash tree,
May is white clouds behind pine-trees
Puffed out and marching upon a blue sky.
May is a green as no other,
May is much sun through small leaves,
May is soft earth,
And apple-blossoms,
And windows open to a South Wind.
May is full light wind of lilac
From Canada to Narragansett Bay.

Lilacs,
False blue,
White,
Purple,
Color of lilac.
Heart-leaves of lilac all over New England,
Roots of lilac under all the soil of New England,
Lilac in me because I am New England,
Because my roots are in it,
Because my leaves are of it,
Because my flowers are for it,
Because it is my country
And I speak to it of itself
And sing of it with my own voice
Since certainly it is mine.

poem by Amy Lowell
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Donald & Lydia

Small town, bright lights, saturday night,
Pinballs and pool halls flashing their lights.
Making change behind the counter in a penny arcade
Sat the fat girl daughter of virginia and ray
(spoken:)
Lydia
Lydia hid her thoughts like a cat
Behind her small eyes sunk deep in her fat.
She read romance magazines up in her room
And felt just like sunday on saturday afternoon.
Chorus:
But dreaming just comes natural
Like the first breath from a baby,
Like sunshine feeding daisies,
Like the love hidden deep in your heart.
Bunk beds, shaved heads, saturday night,
A warehouse of strangers with sixty watt lights.
Staring through the ceiling, just wanting to be
Lay one of too many, a young pfc:
(spoken:)
Donald
There were spaces between donald and whatever he said.
Strangers had forced him to live in his head.
He envisioned the details of romantic scenes
After midnight in the stillness of the barracks latrine.
Repeat chorus:
Hot love, cold love, no love at all.
A portrait of guilt is hung on the wall.
Nothing is wrong, nothing is right.
Donald and lydia made love that night.
(spoken:)
Love
The made love in the mountains, they made love in the streams,
They made love in the valleys, they made love in their dreams.
But when they were finished there was nothing to say,
cause mostly they made love from ten miles away.
Repeat chorus:

song performed by by John Prine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Loving-Cup Song

COME, heap the fagots! Ere we go
Again the cheerful hearth shall glow;
We 'll have another blaze, my boys!
When clouds are black and snows are white,
Then Christmas logs lend ruddy light
They stole from summer days, my boys,
They stole from summer days.

And let the Loving-Cup go round,
The Cup with blessed memories crowned,
That flows whene'er we meet, my boys;
No draught will hold a drop of sin
If love is only well stirred in
To keep it sound and sweet, my boys,
To keep it sound and sweet.

Give me, to pin upon my breast,
The blossoms twain I love the best,
A rosebud and a pink, my boys;
Their leaves shall nestle next my heart,
Their perfumed breath shall own its part
In every health we drink, my boys,
In every health we drink.

The breathing blossoms stir my blood,
Methinks I see the lilacs bud
And hear the bluebirds sing, my boys;
Why not? Yon lusty oak has seen
Full tenscore years, yet leaflets green
Peep out with every spring, my boys,
Peep out with every spring.

Old Time his rusty scythe may whet,
The unmowed grass is glowing yet
Beneath the sheltering snow, my boys;
And if the crazy dotard ask,
Is love worn out? Is life a task?
We'll bravely answer No! my boys,
We 'll bravely answer No!

For life's bright taper is the same
Love tipped of old with rosy flame
That heaven's own altar lent, my boys,
To glow in every cup we fill
Till lips are mute and hearts are still,
Till life and love are spent, my boys,
Till life and love are spent.

poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Government ought not to be invested with power to control the affections, any more than the consciences of citizens. A man has at least as good a right to choose his wife, as he has to choose his religion. His taste may not suit his neighbors; but so long as his deportment is correct, they have no right to interfere with his concerns.

quote by Lydia Maria Child
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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