En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Before A Little Coffin

Mother has painted the coffin brightly.
The tiny one sleeps in Sunday attire.
Onto the forehead no longer is falling
The light-brown hair;

A round comb no longer is pressing,
Having seen so little, of the child's head;
Only of joy knew
The heart of the kid.

For five years so happily lived she
Much played the deft arms!
Fantasies, fantasies mid lilies,
Nobody disturbed them.

The flowers seek a place nearer to her,
(She seems tight in her new bed).
The flowers know: Little Katya
A golden heart had.

poem by Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

If your sexual fantasies were truly of interest to others, they would no longer be fantasies.

quote by Fran Lebowitz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Epitaph

He lived, he played, a little laughing sprite:
Why, Nature, didst thou snatch him from the light?
Hast thou not myriad birds within thy bowers?
Stars, and great woods, blue skies, and ocean wild?
Why, then, from his lone mother snatch the child,
And hid him underneath the bed of flowers?

This one child more cannot enlarge thy reign,
Star-spangled Nature; thou no joy dost gain.
The Mother's heart so many cares oppress—
That heart whose joys do equal pangs create—
Abyss, as thou, O Nature! deep and great,
Is empty made and void, by this child less.

poem by Victor Hugo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Old Child

Child. Old child,
No longer wild;
No longer speaking,
No longer beguiled;
I have become
A quiet old child.

Child. Old child,
No longer cold;
Never an old man,
Always too old;
I have become
An old child tenfold.

Child. Old child,
Forever a child;
Always rethinking,
Always exiled.
I should become
A happy old child.

Child. Old child.
Always soft-spoken;
No longer breaking,
Still being broken;
I have become
An old child, unspoken.

Child. Old child,
No longer bold;
By thinking, rethinking
Of stories untold,
All through my childhood,
I've become... old.

poem by Mihai Cosmescu
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

All our morning glory days are done

All our morning glory days are done
just like the flowers
that you made me rip out
from where they grew
towering under the sun.

The garden is empty
and stripped of the violet flowers
that grew everywhere
and I am no longer there

and wonder if the geraniums,
irises, marigolds, white lilies,
red roses and lavender
are still being watered

or is every thing in your life
just fading away
into death
with the falling leaves
of this autumn?

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Sorrow

I walked into the park and saw a young man sitting by a flower bed
I asked him why he looked so miserable and this is what he said,
“Sixty years ago I fell in love with a beautiful girl and now she has to die
I knew her time would come one day, but the years have just flashed by.

I knew that it was wrong to love her, but my heart ruled over my head.
I was there when she was born at home and I stood by her mother’s bed.
As the years passed I watched over her, and proposed when she was sixteen.
She was so young and beautiful then, and everyday we lived a dream.

She didn’t know that I was different and I just couldn’t bear to tell her so,
but she had suspicions as her hair greyed, and my age didn’t show.
And now my heart is breaking because I want to die and be with my wife,
without her my life isn’t worth living, and I no longer want this life.

For sixty years life has been wonderful for me and my only true love,
but soon I must take her up and leave her in the heavens above.
I don’t know how I’m going to take the woman I adore from my side.
I’m sorry for sharing my sorrow with you, ” and as he left he cried.

poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Lovely White Flowers

He went inside the cafe where they used to sit together.
It was here, three months ago, that his friend told him:
'We're completely broke -so hard up, the two of us,
that we're stuck with the cheapest places.
I can't go around with you any more -it's no use hiding the fact.
I've got to tell you, somebody else is after me.'
The 'somebody else' had promised him two suits, some silk handkerchiefs.
He himself, to get his friend back,
went through hell rounding up twenty pounds.
His friend came back to him for the twenty pounds-
but along with that, for their old intimacy,
their old love, for the deep feeling between them.
The 'somebody else' was a liar, a real bum:
he'd ordered only one suit for his friend,
and that under pressure, after much begging.
But now he doesn't want the suits any longer,
he doesn't want the silk handkerchiefs at all,
or twenty pounds, or twenty piastres even.
Sunday they buried him, at ten in the morning.
Sunday they buried him, almost a week ago.
He laid flowers on his cheap coffin,
lovely white flowers, very much in keeping
with his beauty, his twenty-two years.
When he went to the cafe that evening
he happened to have some vital business there
to that same cafe where they used to go together,
it was a knife in his heart,
that dead cafe where they used to go together.

poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Sweet Child

Your sweet child is sleeping but,
My sweet child is on the way;
So swift be thy flight oh my little one,
And like fresh shower for the thirsty flowers.

To rest on their mothers breasts and,
To feed on their mothers breasts;
And from love's shining circles on this issue,
But listen to the springs like a flowing music.

When friendship decays, true love lies withered;
But i will swing along with my child on the wings of love!
And like the blossom of the heavens with the gates of light.

Oh Isles of perfume,
In a vale of flowers to seek for your children;
And like a gift that is wrapped with love than hate,
For my muse will find a way to touch your hearts.

Life is like a child at play when her mother sleeps,
But in the land of roses i have found my love;
And with beautiful flowers singing to us for peace,
For in a humble prayer i will come to you with joy.

Oh lights of lovely scent afar,
Hymns of joy and sweet bed of flowers;
I married very late but,
I will like to see my grandchild before i die.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Ee Valliyil Ninnu Chemme

Child: Oh mother! Look, all the flowers on
This plant are flying away
Mother: No! You are wrong my child
These are not flowers, they are butterflies.
Child: Look mother! They look so beautiful
Going one on top of the other into the sky
Oh! How I wish to play with them mother
But like them I cannot fly…
Mother: Don’t waste your precious tears my child
By crying about things you cannot do
You can walk around and play
But can the flowers walk like you?
Child: Mother, can you tell me why these things happen
I shall give you a kissy if you do.
Mother: We know very little about the secrets of life
Though I know God created them for me and you!!

poem by Kumaranashan, translated by Risha Ahmed
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Flowers

(orbison/dees)
When I was a boy I ran among the flowers
Looking left and right at the bright array
I played through the spring, whiled away the hours
Lingered with the flowers every day
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, lifes bouquet
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, along the way
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, lifes bouquet
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, along the way
When the summer ends and the storms of life are over
When the winter comes and the petals fall away
They may write it on my stone, he was just a roller
But he stopped to pick some flowers along the way
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, lifes bouquet
Flowers, picked some flowers, along the way

song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

From The Portuguese

I

When I lived in the village of youth
There were lilies in all the orchards,
Flowers in the orange-gardens
For brides to wear in their hair.
It was always sunshine and summer,
Roses at every lattice,
Dreams in the eyes of maidens,
Love in the eyes of men.

When I lived in the village of youth
The doors, all the doors, stood open;
We went in and out of them laughing,
Laughing and calling each other
To shew each other our fairings,
The new shawl, the new comb, the new fan,
The new rose, the new lover.

Now I live in the town of age
Where are no orchards, no gardens.
Here, too, all the doors stand open,
But no one goes in or goes out.
We sit alone by the hearthstone
Where memories lie like ashes
Upon a hearth that is cold;

And they from the village of youth
Run by our doorsteps laughing,
Calling, to shew each other
The new shawl, the new comb, the new fan,
The new rose, the new lover.

Once we had all these things -
We kept them from the old people,
And now the young people have them
And will not shew them to us -
To us who are old and have nothing
But the white, still, heaped-up ashes
On the hearth where the fire went out
A very long time ago.

II

I had a mistress; I loved her.
She left me with memories bitter,
Corroding, eating my heart
As the acid eats into the steel
Etching the portrait triumphant.
Intolerable, indelible,
Never to be effaced.

A wife was mine to my heart,
Beautiful flower of my garden,
Lily I worshipped by day,
Scented rose of my nights.
Now the night wind sighing
Blows white rose petals only
Over the bed where she sleeps
Dreamless alone.

I had a son; I loved him.
Mother of God, bear witness
How all my manhood loved him
As thy womanhood loved thy Son!
When he was grown to his manhood
He crucified my heart,
And even as it hung bleeding
He laughed with his bold companions,
Mocked and turned away
With laughter into the night.

Those three I loved and lost;
But there was one who loved me
With all the fire of her heart.
Mine was the sacred altar
Where she burnt her life for my worship.
She was my slave, my servant;
Mine all she had, all she was,
All she could suffer, could be.
That was the love of my life,
I did not say, 'She loves me';
I was so used to her love
I never asked its name,
Till, feeling the wind blow cold
Where all the doors were left open,
And seeing a fireless hearth
And the garden deserted and weed-grown
That once was full of flowers for me,
I said, 'What has changed? What is it
That has made all the clocks stop?'
Thus I asked and they answered:
'It is thy mother who is dead.'

And now I am alone.
My son, too, some day will stand
Here, where I stand and weep.
He too will weep, knowing too late
The love that wrapped round his life.
Dear God spare him this:
Let him never know how I loved him,
For he was always weak.
He could not endure as I can.
Mother, my dear, ask God
To grant me this, for my son!

poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

River Lilies

Saw a boy three lilies white,
Lilies in the river,
Half heart-open to the light,
Full of golden arrows bright,
Each a silver quiver.
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.

Said the boy, “I’ll pluck you there,
Lilies in the river!”
Said the lilies, “If you dare
You shall drown, or homeward fare
Dripping and a-shiver!”
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.

Wilful still the boy would clasp
Lilies in the river;
Tumbled in ere he could grasp,
Scrambled out with puff and gasp,
Plucked no lilies ever.
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.

poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Sunday Afternoons

I sit at home
at my desk alone
as I used to do
on many sunday afternoons
when you came back to me,
your arms ached for me,
and your arms would close me in
though they smelled of other women.

I think of you
on Sunday afternoons.

Your sweet head would bow,
like a child somehow,
down to me -
and your hair and your eyes were wild.

We would embrace on the floor-
You see my back´s still sore.
You knew how easily I bruised,
It´s a soreness I would never lose.

I think of you
on Sunday afternoons.

poem by Erica Jong
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

A Child Was Hurt

When I was a child you hurt me.
I was nothing but a mere girl.
I was only 5 years old.
I couldnt fight you couldnt fend you off.
A child was hurt.

A child was hurt for your fantasies.
That child was me.
I was only a wee girl.
A child was hurt.

It used to be a cool place to play.
It once was my faviorate place to go.
But you took that from me.
As well as raping me.
A child was hurt.

You said it was a game.
I knew it was rong.
It didnt feel right.
I begged you to stop.
You looked laughed and carried in.
A child was hurt.

A child was hurt.
I was so much smaller than you.
You towered over me.
You had the power.
And you didnt care.
A child was hurt

poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Given And Taken

The snow-flakes were softly falling
Adown on the landscape white,
When the violet eyes of my first born
Opened unto the light;
And I thought as I pressed him to me,
With loving, rapturous thrill,
He was pure and fair as the snow-flakes
That lay on the landscape still.

I smiled when they spoke of the weary
Length of the winter’s night,
Of the days so short and so dreary,
Of the sun’s cold cheerless light—
I listened, but in their murmurs
Nor by word nor thought took part,
For the smiles of my gentle darling
Brought light to my home and heart.

Oh! quickly the joyous springtime
Came back to our ice-bound earth,
Filling meadows and woods with sunshine,
And hearts with gladsome mirth,
But, ah! on earth’s dawning beauty
There rested a gloomy shade,
For our tiny household blossom
Began to droop and fade.

And I, shuddering, felt that the frailest
Of the flowers in the old woods dim
Had a surer hold on existence
Than I dared to hope for him.
In the flush of the summer’s beauty
On a sunny, golden day,
When flowers gemmed dell and upland,
My darling passed away.

Now I chafed at the brilliant sunshine
That flooded my lonely room,
Now I wearied of bounteous Nature,
So full of life and bloom;
I regretted the wintry hours
With the snow-flakes falling fast,
And the little form of my nursling
With his arms around me cast.

They laid his tiny garment
In an attic chamber high,
His coral, his empty cradle,
That they might not meet my eye;
And his name was never uttered,
What e’er each heart might feel,
For they wished the wound in my bosom
Might have tune to close and heal.

It has done so thanks to that Power
That has been my earthly stay,
And should you talk of my darling,
I could listen now all day,
For I know that each passing minute
Brings me nearer life’s last shore,
And nearer that glorious Kingdom
Where we both shall meet once more!

poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Captured

(e lewis)
Easier said than done
I should have known that the best was yet to come
As the object of my affection
Would I dare confess to you?
Fantasies that haunt me
Dreams of how our passions could be set free
Magic nights wed share
I never knew youd care
Quite like you said you did
You captured my heart
How many times did I try to say
It will be easier just to walk away
But at the mercy of my obsession
Didnt dare confess to you
How I long for you to want me
To my fantasies you hold the key
Passions that wed share
I never knew youd care quite like you said you did
You captured my heart
You dazzled me blind
Oh were flying high
A perfect love to find
You captured my heart
Oh please say you want to stay with me forever
How I long to kiss your lovely face, pretty baby
Every night you haunt my dreams
Theres no need to fantasize, youre here with me
Since I captured your heart
Captured captured my heart
Captured my heart
Captured captured my heart
Captured my heart
Captured captured my heart
Captured my heart
Captured captured my heart
Captured my heart

song performed by by Robert Palmer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

If This Was 1953

If this was 1953,
And I was still beset with fantasies...
I 'might' consider your challenge to compete with me,
Seriously.
But I am at a stage of my life,
I do not seek to dine in limelight.
Or humbly bow with the receiving of applause.

It has been over sixty years my craving has been fed,
With a wiping of nervous sweat from my forehead.
And I am extremely flattered you have chosen me to pick,
As someone you believe would be interested.

But...
If this was 1953,
And I was still beset with fantasies...
I 'might' consider your challenge to compete with me,
Seriously.
But I am at a stage of my life,
I do not seek to dine in limelight.
Or humbly bow with the receiving of applause.

My priorities have been narrowed,
To the getting out of bed.
And praying with a thankfulness,
Not to feel a new pain or ache to dread.
However...
I AM honored to 'think',
You believe me someone 'you' could hoodwink.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Sunflowers After Sex.

After the sex she stood
In front of the Van Gogh
Painting and gazed. Never
Saw that last night, she said.
It was dark, Max replied.
She touched the painting
With her fingers. Why have
A painting of flowers when
You can go out and buy some?
She asked. They last longer this
Way, he replied. So did you
Paint this? She asked in a state
Of semi undress, her eyes sleepy,
Her hair in a mess. No, Van Gogh
Did, he replied. Is he a friend of
Yours? She asked rubbing her breasts.
He sighed and shook his head. No,
Van Gogh painted that many years
Ago, now he’s dead. It’s a bit yellow,
She said, looking at the painting
Closer, what are those yellow flowers
Supposed to be? Sunflowers, he said,
They’re big flowers; people grow them
For real. She raised her eyebrows and
Pulled a face. What about that drink?
She asked. Sure, Max replied pouring
Her gin in a tall glass. She took, sipped
And winked an eye. What about more
Sex? She sighed. Sure, Max, looking at
Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, boringly replied.

poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The King's Daughter

WE WERE ten maidens in the green corn,
Small red leaves in the mill-water:
Fairer maidens never were born,
Apples of gold for the king’s daughter.

We were ten maidens by a well-head,
Small white birds in the mill-water:
Sweeter maidens never were wed,
Rings of red for the king’s daughter.

The first to spin, the second to sing,
Seeds of wheat in the mill-water;
The third may was a goodly thing,
White bread and brown for the king’s daughter.

The fourth to sew and the fifth to play,
Fair green weed in the mill-water;
The sixth may was a goodly may,
White wine and red for the king’s daughter.

The seventh to woo, the eighth to wed,
Fair thin reeds in the mill-water;
The ninth had gold work on her head,
Honey in the comb for the king’s daughter.

The ninth had gold work round her hair,
Fallen flowers in the mill-water;
The tenth may was goodly and fair,
Golden gloves for the king’s daughter.

We were ten maidens in a field green,
Fallen fruit in the mill-water;
Fairer maidens never have been,
Golden sleeves for the king’s daughter.

By there comes the king’s young son,
A little wind in the mill-water;
“Out of ten maidens ye’ll grant me one,”
A crown of red for the king’s daughter.

“Out of ten mays ye’ll give me the best,”
A little rain in the mill-water;
A bed of yellow straw for all the rest,
A bed of gold for the king’s daughter.

He’s ta’en out the goodliest,
Rain that rains in the mill-water;
A comb of yellow shell for all the rest,
A comb of gold for the king’s daughter.

He’s made her bed to the goodliest,
Wind and hail in the mill-water;
A grass girdle for all the rest,
A girdle of arms for the king’s daughter.

He’s set his heart to the goodliest,
Snow that snows in the mill-water;
Nine little kisses for all the rest,
An hundredfold for the king’s daughter.

He’s ta’en his leave at the goodliest,
Broken boats in the mill-water;
Golden gifts for all the rest,
Sorrow of heart for the king’s daughter.

“Ye’ll make a grave for my fair body,”
Running rain in the mill-water;
“And ye’ll streek my brother at the side of me,”
The pains of hell for the king’s daughter.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Rock Me To sleep

Backward, turn backward, O time, in your flight;
Make me a child again, just for tonight!
Mother, come back from that echoless shore;
Take me again in your heart as of yore --
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair,
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep --
Rock me to sleep, mother -- rock me to sleep!

Backward, turn backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears --
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain --

Take them and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay --
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away --
Weary of sowing for others to reap --
Rock me to sleep, mother -- rock me to sleep!

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded -- our faces between --
Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I tonight for your presence again;
Come from the silence, mother -- rock me to sleep!

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old --
Let it drop over my forehead tonight,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light!
For, with its sunny-edged shadows once more,
Haply will throng all the visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep --
Rock me to sleep, mother -- rock me to sleep!

Mother, dear mother! the years have been long
Since I last listened to your lullaby song;
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood's years have been only a dream;
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep --
Rock me sleep, mother -- rock me to sleep!

poem by Elizabeth Akers Allen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Mid the Piteous Heaps of Dead

'MID the piteous heaps of dead
Goes one weary golden head
Tossing ever to and fro,
Calling loud and calling low.

Mother, mother, step so light,
Mother, lay your fingers white
On my forehead like a dew !
Mother, mother, where are you?

Still so loud he makes his cry
That the dying cannot die;
All the writhing field's one groan
While he lies and cries alone.

But his mother's far away;
Cannot hear him cry and say:
Mother, I am dying, come!
Mother, I am lost from home!

Mary, Mother of all men,
Come and comfort him in pain.
Take his young head to the breast
Where your Child and God had rest.

Mary, Mary, step so light.
Mary, lay your fingers white
On his forehead! He shall dream
That his mother comforts him.

Mary, Mother, croon him o'er
Lullabies you sang before!
Mary, ease him, crooning low,
In the way that mothers know!

poem by Katharine Tynan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!