Miranda’s Tomb
MIRANDA? She died soon, and sick for home.
And dark Ilario the Milanese
Carved her in garments 'scutcheoned to the knees,
Holding one orchard-spray as fresh as foam.
One heart broke, many grieved. Ilario said:
'The summer is gone after her. Who knows
If any season shall renew his rose?
But this rose lives till Beauty's self be dead.'
So wrought he, days and years, and half aware
Of a small, striving, sorrowing quick thing,
Wrapped in a furred sea-cloak, and deft to bring
Tools to his hand or light to the dull air.
Ghost, spirit, flame, he knew not,–could but tell
It had loved her, and its name was Ariel.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Just One Rose...
that's a homework i need you to tell me if i should hand it to the teacher or not...(:
just one rose, a pretty rose...
just one rose for me with no coze...
just one rose pure and true...
just one rose for me is all i can do...
just one rose somewhere out there...
just one rose for me to care...
just one rose when dark days prevail...
just one rose when people only use petrail...
just one rose and all the time...
just one rosefor me is a crime...
poem by rose of death XxX
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Bought You A Rose
the problem is
the grandfather clock
in the adjacent room
it chimes
on the hour
every hour
through the night
it keeps me awake
through the night
the night in which
i think of you
because
i hold the rose
in my hand
through the night
the rose that i bought you
in the afternoon
the rose that you did not want
in the evening
the evening when i took you out
and you said
you did not want the rose
you wanted it to be over between us
you said it was no use
a rose was no use
a rose could not
bring us together
a rose could not
keep us together
a rose by any other name
is still just a rose
you said
i should keep my rose
you said
you said it when i offered you the rose
you said it again
when the evening was over
when we left each other
and so i took it home
the rose that i bought you
i thought of you
on my way home
with the rose
i thought of how it had been
between us
i thought of how it might have been
between us
i tried to forget
how it had been
between us
i tried to forget
how it might have been
between us
but the rose reminded me
how it was
between us
i took the rose with me
when i got into bed
when i tried to sleep
it had been deep red
but it seemed to me
now it was not so deep red
as it had been before
each time i woke
i looked at the rose
each time it seemed
not so deep red
as it had been before
each time it seemed
a little more faded
a little more dry
a little less red
a little less fresh
each time
its scent also
had been beautiful
like you were beautiful
its scent also seemed to me
a little more faded
a little less fresh
a little less beautiful
a little less able
to evoke you
a little less able
to keep you
to keep your memory
alive
alive in the night
even when i turned on the light
to look again
at the rose
to inhale again
the perfume of the rose
i saw it fading
i saw you fading
i saw your beauty fading
through the night
and i saw that you were right
about the rose
that a rose is just a rose
that a rose could not
bring us together
that a rose could not
keep us together
that a rose by any other name
is still just a rose
that you by any other name
are still just a rose
fading through the night
i cannot keep you
for i cannot keep you
from fading through the night
like this rose i bought you
like any rose
like anything i ever bought you
the problem is
the grandfather clock
in the adjacent room
it chimes
on the hour
every hour
through the night
poem by Rory Hudson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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(Rose poems) Mend my heart! You beautylicious rose!
Mend my heart heart,
Beautiful rose!
Mend my spirit you fabulous
Gorgeous lovely rose!
Mend my soul my
Glittering pretty rose!
Calm the fire in my heart
Oh rose!
Bring peace to my restless spirit
You trusted rose!
Heal my body rose! And cleanse
My soul of sin....oh rose!
You are loved!
Beautiful rose!
poem by Ngaka Motaung
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lay It Away
We will lay our summer away, my friend,
So tenderly lay it away.
It was bright and sweet to the very end,
Like one long, golden day.
Nothing sweeter could come to me,
Nothing sweeter to you.
We will lay it away, and let it be,
Hid from the whole world’s view.
We will lay it away like a dear, dead thing –
Dead, yet for ever fair;
And the fresh green robes of a deathless spring,
Though dead, it shall alaways wear.
We will not hide it in grave or tomb,
But lay it away to sleep,
Guarded by beauty, and light, and bloom,
Wrapped in a slumber deep.
We were willing to let the summer go –
Willing to go our own ways;
But never on earth again I know
Will either find such days.
You are my friend, and it may seem strange,
But I would not see you again;
I would think of you, though all things change,
Just as I knew you then.
If we should go back to the olden place,
And the summer time went too,
It would be like looking a ghost in the face,
So much would be changed and new.
We cannot live it over again,
Not even a single day;
And as something sweet, and free from pain,
We had better let it away.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Lover To His Lass
Crown her with stars, this angel of our planet,
Cover her with morning, this thing of pure delight,
Mantle her with midnight till a mortal cannot
See her for the garments of the light and the night.
How far I wandered, worlds away and far away,
Heard a voice but knew it not in the clear cold,
Many a wide circle and many a wan star away,
Dwelling in the chambers where the worlds were growing old.
Saw them growing old and heard them falling
Like ripe fruit when a tree is in the wind;
Saw the seraphs gather them, their clarion voices calling
In rounds of cheering labour till the orchard floor was thinned.
Saw a whole universe turn to its setting,
Old and cold and weary, gray and cold as death,
But before mine eyes were veiled in forgetting,
Something always caught my soul and held its breath.
Caught it up and held it, now I know the reason;
Governed it and soothed it, now I know why;
Nurtured it and trained it and kept it for the season
When new worlds should blossom in the springtime sky.
How have they blossomed, see the sky is like a garden!
Ah! how fresh the worlds look hanging on the slope!
Pluck one and wear it, Love, and ask the Gardener's pardon,
Pluck out the Pleiads like a spray of heliotrope.
See Aldebaran like a red rose clamber,
See brave Betelgeux pranked with poppy light;
This young earth must float in floods of amber
Glowing with a crocus flame in the dells of night.
O you cannot cheat the soul of an inborn ambition,
'Tis a naked viewless thing living in its thought,
But it mounts through errors and by valleys of contrition
Till it conquers destiny and finds the thing it sought.
Crown her with stars, this angel of our planet,
Cover her with morning, this thing of pure delight,
Mantle her with midnight till a mortal cannot
See her for the garments of the light and the night.
poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Day I Died
Yes, it was just another day -
The sun rose once again
To send the night upon its way
And light the world of men.
The children woke to go to school,
While I slept on in bed.
Old men feel tired as a rule,
So I dreamt on instead.
At ten o'clock, I got up, too.
I got dressed as before.
I did the things I had to do,
Although they were a chore.
I opened letters, read them all
And put the TV on.
The cup I held began to fall...
My balance now was gone.
I hit the floor quite suddenly,
Confusion then set in.
The ceiling stared right back at me.
I knew I couldn't win.
So there I was, with nervous breath,
My hand upon my heart...
Aware, above all, facing death -
Expecting to depart.
I lay there, waiting on the Lord,
My Saviour and my King -
To whom I turned for each reward
And every blessed thing.
I heard no voice, no angel came,
No vision at that time
And yet, by faith, I spoke Christ's Name,
With hope that felt sublime.
My spirit left my body there
And left my world behind...
I rose to meet Christ in the air,
The Saviour of Mankind.
Eternal life had been bestowed
The second I believed.
My spirit felt no heavy load,
For I no longer grieved.
The day I died, no more to roam,
Was just a stepping stone...
The precious day Christ called me home...
To kneel before God's Throne...
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To See A Rose
To see a rose,
first you have to look at its thorns,
so that you can't feel happinness,
if you haven't experienced sadness.
To see a rose,
you have to take her carefully,
you have to love her beauty,
and be aware of her danger.
To see a rose,
you have to be humble,
not envy her beauty,
nor destroy her perfecion.
To see a rose,
you have to be realistic,
to know there's no such beautiful thing in the world,
as the delicate perfection and beauty of a rose.
January 8,2009
poem by Ana Lia Zaldivar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Guardian and BloodRose
BloodRose,
Rose of my love,
My love for Dark moon,
Dark as my heart,
Black as my soul,
And gave me my rose.
The rose of blood,
With petals soft and black,
Never as a rose so beautiful,
Grown not in light,
But under a dark moon lit sky.
Guardian,
Yes a guardian of BloodRose,
With teeth long and sharp,
Claws hard as diamonds,
Scales as dark as night.
My dear sweet guardian,
Guardian black as my heart,
Fire in your eyes,
Shadows in your soul,
A dragon of the dark moon.
A single rose,
With petals so fare,
As dark as my heart,
I now hold in my hand,
The rose of blood.
You are my darkness,
Fear of this love,
This love for you,
Love for darkness,
The cold shadows in my heart
That makes me yearn for you.
Now as you lay dying,
I hold a single rose,
The rose you gave me,
And as I hold it tight,
The thorns slice my hand,
Covered with blood,
My blood.
I have one fear,
The fear of death,
Symbol of my lost love,
Rose as dark as me,
Laying in a pool of blood,
Blood from me.
As I lay dying,
I remember my name,
BloodRose,
I am the rose of blood,
And I died of my own creation.
A creation of perfect beauty,
Petals dark black,
Thorns like small daggers,
Grown from my love,
My love for a dragon,
A dragon as dark as my heart.
Even in my death,
I think of you,
And the rose you gave me,
The rose that killed me,
The Rose of Blood.
poem by Nicolette Gonzalez
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Last Rose Of Summer
Throughout the soft and timeless days of august
til now the shadows begin to grow much longer
The sunsets fire has deepened blood red
I give you this, the last rose of summer
A token of my unyielding love
So when the winters mantle stills the earth
And all around seems dead and cold
This rose reminds you of a time when all was warm and living
Do not despair, mother nature simply rests
In sleep she has well earned
til one day not so very far from now
With the opening of the first rose buds I shall return
A token of my unyielding love
So that when winters mettle steals the earth
And all around seems dead and cold
This rose reminds you of a time when all was warm and living
The last rose of summer
The last rose of summer
In your long shadows
The last rose of summer
In the sunset
The last rose of summer
Take this rose that I give you
The last rose of summer
The last rose of summer
Dont worry about the winter
The last rose of summer
I shall return
The last rose of summer
The last rose of summer
(fade)
song performed by by Judas Priest
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Miranda
At the end of the day
The end of the light
She remains of all of her foes
Miranda is dying with all of her might
She never comes
She always goes
She sticks the camera right into her arm
Anything to forget what the troubles about
It causes her pain
Thats part of the charm
Shes down for the count
And finally out
Miranda is taking the stars down
A little something to call her own
By the light there still goes miranda
And miranda is always alone
She sees her face in another magazine
And the walls all close in
As the fancy takes flight
Cant stand to be loved
But she loves to be seen
She slips headlong into the night
Miranda is taking the stars down
A little something to call her own
By the light there still goes miranda
And miranda is always alone
And then all at once
The sun starts to rise
She sees her father holding her down
All the daylight is poison to her eyes
She slips down the shade
And lets herself drown
Miranda is taking the stars down
A little something to call her own
By the light there still goes miranda
And miranda is always alone
The lights shot down in the arena
All across the safety zone
Loneliness follows miranda
And miranda is always alone
Miranda is always alone
Miranda is always alone
song performed by by Fleetwood Mac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rubies
There are nine rubies in this Indian ring,
And every blood-red ruby is a part
Of the nine-petalled rose that is my heart,
The elaborate rose of my own fashioning.
Not out of any garden have I sought
The rose that is more brief than dawn or dew:
Stones of the flame and ice, I find in you
The image of the heart that I have wrought.
For you are cold and burn as though with fire,
For you are hard, yet veil soft depths below,
And each divided ruby seems to glow
With the brief passion of its own desire.
Rose of my heart, shall this too be the same?
For, when one light catches the wandering rays,
They rush together in one consuming blaze
Of indivisible and ecstatic flame.
poem by Arthur Symons
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After A Journey
I come to interview a Voiceless ghost;
Whither, O whither will its whim now draw me?
Up the cliff, down, till I'm lonely, lost,
And the unseen waters' soliloquies awe me.
Where you will next be there's no knowing,
Facing round about me everywhere,
With your nut-coloured hair,
And gray eyes, and rose-flush coming and going.
Yes: I have re-entered your olden haunts at last;
Through the years, through the dead scenes I have tracked you;
What have you now found to say of our past -
Viewed across the dark space wherein I have lacked you?
Summer gave us sweets, but autumn wrought division?
Things were not lastly as firstly well
With us twain, you tell?
But all's closed now, despite Time's derision.
I see what you are doing: you are leading me on
To the spots we knew when we haunted here together,
The waterfall, above which the mist-bow shone
At the then fair hour in the then fair weather,
And the cave just under, with a voice still so hollow
That it seems to call out to me from forty years ago,
When you were all aglow,
And not the thin ghost that I now frailly follow!
Ignorant of what there is flitting here to see,
The waked birds preen and the seals flop lazily,
Soon you will have, Dear, to vanish from me,
For the stars close their shutters and the dawn whitens hazily.
Trust me, I mind not, though Life lours,
The bringing of me here; nay, bring me here again!
I am just the same as when
Our days were a joy, and our paths through flowers.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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For Veronica, Instead
For centuries, poets have been getting it wrong.
They bring 'one perfect rose' to show their love
to their lovers, but now I think
they were mistaken.
I saw a rose today growing
behind the fence of someone's backyard.
The bloom was yellow edged with red
with the obligatory dew glistening on the petals,
the bud pouting open high in the green bush,
so I bent the branch down to me.
There I was on the sidewalk, the flower fresh in my hand
but forgive me.
I couldn't bring myself to snap the stem of the rose
so you could watch petals dropp for days
in the slow dying
displayed in a jar on the kitchen table.
Love is nothing like a dead rose anyway.
The florist will never tape this poem to his cash register
to sell flowers now,
since I left the rose among green leaves.
Instead, I bring you these words,
alive,
just like the rose.
poem by Eric Paul Shaffer
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The Return of Morgan and Fingal
And there we were together again—
Together again, we three:
Morgan, Fingal, fiddle, and all,
They had come for the night with me.
The spirit of joy was in Morgan’s wrist,
There were songs in Fingal’s throat;
And secure outside, for the spray to drench,
Was a tossed and empty boat.
And there were the pipes, and there was the punch,
And somewhere were twelve years;
So it came, in the manner of things unsought,
That a quick knock vexed our ears.
The night wind hovered and shrieked and snarled,
And I heard Fingal swear;
Then I opened the door—but I found no more
Than a chalk-skinned woman there.
I looked, and at last, “What is it?” I said—
“What is it that we can do?”
But never a word could I get from her
But “You—you three—it is you!”
Now the sense of a crazy speech like that
Was more than a man could make;
So I said, “But we—we are what, we three?”
And I saw the creature shake.
“Be quick!” she cried, “for I left her dead—
And I was afraid to come;
But you, you three—God made it be—
Will ferry the dead girl home.
“Be quick! be quick!—but listen to that
Who is that makes it?—hark!”
But I heard no more than a knocking splash
And a wind that shook the dark.
“It is only the wind that blows,” I said,
“And the boat that rocks outside.”
And I watched her there, and I pitied her there—
“Be quick! be quick!” she cried.
She cried so loud that her voice went in
To find where my two friends were;
So Morgan came, and Fingal came,
And out we went with her.
’T was a lonely way for a man to take
And a fearsome way for three;
And over the water, and all day long,
They had come for the night with me.
But the girl was dead, as the woman had said,
And the best we could see to do
Was to lay her aboard. The north wind roared,
And into the night we flew.
Four of us living and one for a ghost,
Furrowing crest and swell,
Through the surge and the dark, for that faint far spark,
We ploughed with Azrael.
Three of us ruffled and one gone mad,
Crashing to south we went;
And three of us there were too spattered to care
What this late sailing meant.
So down we steered and along we tore
Through the flash of the midnight foam:
Silent enough to be ghosts on guard.
We ferried the dead girl home.
We ferried her down to the voiceless wharf,
And we carried her up to the light;
And we left the two to the father there,
Who counted the coals that night.
Then back we steered through the foam again,
But our thoughts were fast and few;
And all we did was to crowd the surge
And to measure the life we knew;—
Till at last we came where a dancing gleam
Skipped out to us, we three,—
And the dark wet mooring pointed home
Like a finger from the sea.
Then out we pushed the teetering skiff
And in we drew to the stairs;
And up we went, each man content
With a life that fed no cares.
Fingers were cold and feet were cold,
And the tide was cold and rough;
But the light was warm, and the room was warm,
And the world was good enough.
And there were the pipes, and there was the punch,
More shrewd than Satan’s tears:
Fingal had fashioned it, all by himself,
With a craft that comes of years.
And there we were together again—
Together again, we three:
Morgan, Fingal, fiddle, and all,
They were there for the night with me.
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Where Your First Rose?
Someone use to remember loved once after many years (first rose-First love) that we never forget. Looking for it again hence nothing can accomplishes first love. Time has changed every things...
____________________________________ ______________________
Where your first rose?
Where your first rose?
I know you looking for it
But you cannot find...
Where your first rose?
I know you having forget it
Somewhere that you don’t know...
Where your first rose?
Hiding some where
You cannot ever reach...
Where your first rose?
Beneath someone heart
That you don’t know the person...
Where your first rose?
That cherish for ever
You forget to rescue it...
Where your first rose?
That you need to smell it
But you didn’t...
Where your first rose?
Smell like angels perfume
You once smell...
Where your first rose?
That you looking every where
Run away from you...
Where your first rose?
That born together in every soul
But you chased away...
Where your first rose?
That gives you happiness
Forever and forever...
Where your first rose?
That you kissed it every day
When you have it...
Where your first rose?
That you still looking for it
After many years left by...
Where your first rose?
That gives you every thing
Warm, happiness and true love...
Where your first rose?
That only dedicated you
By a true angel on earth...
Where your first rose?
You will have it never
Again with jealous eyes...
Where your first rose?
That gives to you
Behalf of true love...
Where your first rose?
That’s become a disappear
After you say no...
Where your first rose?
That has an ocean deep of value
You value it forever...
Where your first rose?
Away from you now
That’s you call every day...
Where your first rose?
You call by dreams
But really cannot touch...
Where your first rose?
You call by name
But didn’t hear your voice...
Where your first rose?
Whispering with you
Every nights and days...
Where your first rose?
That sung a songs ever nights
To lullaby...
Where your first rose?
That you don’t know
where its still...
That’s with me
By
O.W.Palitha Ariyarathna
Copyright, O.W. Palitha Ariyarathna.2010
All Rights Reserved By Author: 2010
poem by Palitha Ariyarathna
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In War
Fret the nonchalant noon
With your spleen
Or your gay brow,
For the motion of your spirit
Ever moves with these.
When day shall be too quiet,
Deaf to you
And your dumb smile,
Untuned air shall lap the stillness
In the old space for your voice-
The voice that once could mirror
Remote depths
Of moving being,
Stirred by responsive voices near,
Suddenly stilled for ever.
No ghost darkens the places
Dark to One ;
But my eyes dream,
And my heart is heavy to think
How it was heavy once.
In the old days when death Stalked the world
For the flower of men,
And the rose of beauty faded
And pined in the great gloom,
One day we dug a grave :
We were vexed
With the sun's heat.
We scanned the hooded dead :
At noon we sat and talked.
How death had kissed their eyes
Three dread noons since,
How human art won
The dark soul to flicker
Till it was lost again :
And we whom chance kept whole-
But haggard,
Spent-were charged
To make a place for them who knew
No pain in any place.
The good priest came to pray ;
Our ears half heard,
And half we thought
Of alien things, irrelevant ;
And the heat and thirst were great.
The good priest read : 'I heard .
Dimly my brain
Held words and lost. . . .
Sudden my blood ran cold. . . .
God ! God ! It could not be.
He read my brother's name ; I sank-
I clutched the priest.
They did not tell me it was he
Was killed three days ago.
What are the great sceptred dooms
To us, caught
In the wild wave
We break ourselves on them,
My brother, our hearts and years.
THE DEAD HEROES
Flame out, you glorious skies,
Welcome our brave;
Kiss their exultant eyes ;
Give what they gave.
Flash, mailed seraphim,
Your burning spears;
New days to outflame their dim
Heroic years.
Thrills their baptismal tread
The bright proud air ;
The embattled plumes outspread
Burn upwards there.
Flame out, flame out, 0 Song !
Star ring to star;
Strong as our hurt is strong
Our children are.
Their blood is England's heart ;
By their dead hands
It is their noble part
That England stands.
England-Time gave them thee;
They gave back this
To win Eternity
And claim God's kiss.
poem by Isaac Rosenberg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Bad Season Makes The Poet Sad
Dull to myself, and almost dead to these,
My many fresh and fragrant mistresses;
Lost to all music now, since every thing
Puts on the semblance here of sorrowing.
Sick is the land to th' heart; and doth endure
More dangerous faintings by her desperate cure.
But if that golden age would come again,
And Charles here rule, as he before did reign;
If smooth and unperplex'd the seasons were,
As when the sweet Maria lived here;
I should delight to have my curls half drown'd
In Tyrian dews, and head with roses crown'd:
And once more yet, ere I am laid out dead,
Knock at a star with my exalted head.
poem by Robert Herrick
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rose’s rose rose
Rose’s rose rose
In the light of the day
While the wind blows
Round its flowers of the lightest rosé.
Rose’s rose rose
In a way Rose may
When she grows
As her rose
Shows
How it grows
And by the end of the day
When her rose’s flowers’d close
And its head would sway
In the wind, Rose would say:
“My rose, as you rose
In the light of the day
Did you notice those,
The sounds of your stay?
Not only those of the day,
But, too, the ones of the dark, rose,
The ones of the dark and the moon in its pose.
Did you notice those, rose?
Did you notice those? ”
And the rose would know
What Rose would want to say
And it would sleep
With its flowers of the lightest rosé.
The Dead Can Never Be Forgotten
The rose turns black, the eyes turn red. A ghost haunting my soul. Still you right next to me. Seven years seems so long, dead and gone. You are missed as is your succulent kiss. Lost in the night fog, the glass broke I held you in my arms, carried you safety but it was already too late, you complained of being cold. And it took all i had to hold the tears from falling. I died inside. I was weak and imbudent. It destroyed everything I loved and knew. Even now you are still in my thoughts, driving me with last words that were to me. I love you but you must let go. You already knew. For better or worse, i wanted to curse the world at that moment. You were gone pronounced dead on the spot. You were the best I ever had. To replace that hole in my heart hasn't happen yet. I live with many regrets but not that night. I wouldn't have wanted it any other way. I still pray for the day when I get to see you again. But I must keep going, keep looking on how to fill the void its still there, even after all the time. Most wouldn't understand, you were the one of a million. I've tried and tried. Its still not working, its still hurting, but it has become dull a faded. But must never forget what it meant the time we spent together. Every waking moment just another mistake on top of greatest love I ever had. But finally I have truly moved on this was the closest I ever felt to love I had for you. And now I fucked it up yet again. Its okay there will be another day when the sun shines bright again.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pondering upon the Rose on a Sunday Morning......
The symbol of love
When giving in love a rose speaks for itself
The beauty is picturesque
The scent it gives lasting for ever
The rose never seen without her thorns
Still who can not feel happiness when a rose is seen or given?
Even for a brief minute, a second the rose brings a smile
Or perhaps a small sigh of delight
If one were to think upon a rose…
The thorns… the beauty…
The petals that carry the essence…
That lingers even after it is withered
If one were compare to our Lord…
He held thorns upon his precious head; the head of the rose is above the thorns
His love was known for its beauty and compassion, the rose noted for love
His words and Spirit lingers for eternity much like the scent of the rose
My Lord created the Rose
Perhaps he created it for remembrance of His son
Looking upon the rose I see it all so clearly
The meaning of love
The beauty
An essence that shall always be with me
poem by Patricia Gale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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