Sonnet XXV: O Why Should Nature
O why should Nature niggardly restrain
That foreign nations relish not our tongue?
Else should my lines glide on the waves of Rhene
And crown the Pyrens with my living song.
But, bounded thus, to Scotland get you forth,
Thence take you wing unto the Orcades;
There let my verse get glory in the North,
Making my sighs to thaw the frozen seas;
And let the Bards within that Irish isle,
To whom my Muse with fiery wing shall pass,
Call back the stiff-neck'd rebels from exile,
And mollify the slaught'ring Gallowglass;
And when my flowing numbers they rehearse,
Let wolves and bears be charmed with my verse.
poem by Michael Drayton
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Related quotes
Lines on a Type Writer
Having received a letter from a gentleman, done with a type writer,
and glorying in its superiority to the pen; we replied as follows :-
You glory in your type writer,
And its virtues you rehearse,
But we prefer the old inditer-
Moves two-forty, prose and verse.
And let each man work his will,
But never, never do abuse
The ancient and glorious quil
From the wing of a noble goose. *
poem by James McIntyre
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To Mr. H. Lawes on His Airs
Harry, whose tuneful and well-measured song
First taught our English music how to span
Words with just note and accent, not to scan
With Midas’ ears, committing short and long,
Thy worth and skill exempts thee from the throng,
With praise enough for Envy to look wan;
To after age thou shalt be writ the man
That with smooth air couldst humour best our tongue.
Thou honour’st Verse, and Verse must lend her wing
To honour thee, the priest of Phœbus’ quire,
That tunest their happiest lines in hymn or story.
Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher
Than his Casella, whom he wooed to sing,
Met in the milder shades of Purgatory.
poem by John Milton
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Sonnet XLII: Some Men There Be
Some men there be which like my method well
And much commend the strangeness of my vein;
Some say I have a passing pleasing strain;
Some say that im my humor I excel;
Some, who not kindly relish my conceit,
They say, as poets do, I use to feign,
And in bare words paint out my passion's pain.
Thus sundry men their sundry words repeat;
I pass not, I, how men affected be,
Nor who commends or discommends my verse;
It pleaseth me, if I my woes rehearse,
And in my lines if she my love may see.
Only my comfort still consists in this,
Writing her praise I cannot write amiss.
poem by Michael Drayton
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Human Nature (feat. Claudette Ortiz)
[Verse 1:]
Looking out
Across the night-time
The city winks a sleepless eye
Hear her voice
Shake my window
Sweet seducing sighs
[Verse 2:]
Get me out
Into the night-time
Four walls won't hold me tonight
If this town
Is just an apple
Then let me take a bite
[Chorus:]
If they say
Why, why, tell 'em that is human nature
Why, why, does he do me that way
If they say
Why, why, just tell 'em that is human nature
Why, why, does he do me that way
[Verse 3:]
Reaching out
To touch a stranger
Electric eyes are ev'rywhere
See that girl
She knows I'm watching
She likes the way I stare
[Chorus:]
If they say
Why, why, tell 'em that is human nature
Why, why, does he do me that way
If they say
Why, why, just tell 'em that is human nature
Why, why, does he do me that way
I like livin' this way
I like lovin' this way
[Verse 4:]
Looking out
Across the morning
The city's heart begins to beat
Reaching out
I touch her shoulder
I'm dreaming of the street
[Chorus:]
If they say
Why, why, tell 'em that is human nature
Why, why, does he do me that way
If they say
Why, why, tell 'em that is human nature
Why, why, does he do me that way
[Chorus:]
If they say
Why, why, tell 'em that is human nature
Why, why, does he do me that way
If they say
Why, why, tell 'em that is human nature
Why, why, does he do me that way
song performed by by Boyz II Men
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet 13
XIII
To Mr. H. Lawes, on his Aires.
Harry whose tuneful and well measur'd Song
First taught our English Musick how to span
Words with just note and accent, not to scan
With Midas Ears, committing short and long;
Thy worth and skill exempts thee from the throng,
With praise enough for Envy to look wan;
To after age thou shalt be writ the man,
That with smooth aire couldst humor best our tongue
Thou honour'st Verse, and Verse must send her wing
To honour thee, the Priest of Phoebus Quire
That tun'st their happiest lines in Hymn or Story
Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher
Then his Casella, whom he woo'd to sing
Met in the milder shades of Purgatory.
Note: 9 send] lend Cambridge Autograph MS.
poem by John Milton
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Human Nature
1st verse
Looking out
Across the night-time
The city winks a sleepless eye
Hear her voice
Shake my window
Sweet seducing sighs
2nd verse
Get me out
Into the night-time
Four walls won't hold me tonight
If this town
Is just an apple
Then let me take a bite
Chorus
If they say
Why, why, tell 'em that is human nature
Why, why, does he do me that way
If they say
Why, why, just tell 'em that is human nature
Why, why, does he do me that way
3rd verse
Reaching out
To touch a stranger
Electric eyes are ev'rywhere
See that girl
She knows I'm watching
She likes the way I stare
Chorus
If they say
Why, why, tell 'em that is human nature
Why, why, does he do me that way
If they say
Why, why, just tell 'em that is human nature
Why, why, does he do me that way
I like livin' this way
I like lovin' this way
4th verse
Looking out
Across the morning
The city's heart begins to beat
Reaching out
I touch her shoulder
I'm dreaming of the street
Chorus
If they say
Why, why, tell 'em that is human nature
Why, why, does he do me that way
If they say
Why, why, tell 'em that is human nature
Why, why, does he do me that way
(repeat chorus)
song performed by by Boyz II Men
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Little Wing
By jimi hendrix
Well shes walking through the clouds
With a circus mind thats running round.
Butterflies and zebras, fairy tales,
Thats all she ever thinks about.
When Im sad she comes to me
With a thousand smiles she gives to me free.
Said, its all right, take anything you want,
Anything you want, anything.
First verse
Second verse
Fly on, little wing.
song performed by by Eric Clapton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To S. M. A Young African Painter, On Seeing His Works
TO show the lab'ring bosom's deep intent,
And thought in living characters to paint,
When first thy pencil did those beauties give,
And breathing figures learnt from thee to live,
How did those prospects give my soul delight,
A new creation rushing on my sight?
Still, wond'rous youth! each noble path pursue,
On deathless glories fix thine ardent view:
Still may the painter's and the poet's fire
To aid thy pencil, and thy verse conspire!
And may the charms of each seraphic theme
Conduct thy footsteps to immortal fame!
High to the blissful wonders of the skies
Elate thy soul, and raise thy wishful eyes.
Thrice happy, when exalted to survey
That splendid city, crown'd with endless day,
Whose twice six gates on radiant hinges ring:
Celestial Salem blooms in endless spring.
Calm and serene thy moments glide along,
And may the muse inspire each future song!
Still, with the sweets of contemplation bless'd,
May peace with balmy wings your soul invest!
But when these shades of time are chas'd away,
And darkness ends in everlasting day,
On what seraphic pinions shall we move,
And view the landscapes in the realms above?
There shall thy tongue in heav'nly murmurs flow,
And there my muse with heav'nly transport glow:
No more to tell of Damon's tender sighs,
Or rising radiance of Aurora's eyes,
For nobler themes demand a nobler strain,
And purer language on th' ethereal plain.
Cease, gentle muse! the solemn gloom of night
Now seals the fair creation from my sight.
poem by Phillis Wheatley
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Try It
(clarke / hicks / nash)
Travel by the silver line
To a place that has no time.
Why dont you try it now?
Working hard to see the light,
Let your mind take up in flight.
Why dont you try it now?
Its beautiful, seeing all the colors of the rainbow,
Beautiful, covering the people that we know.
See the color of health
Flowing from your older self.
Why dont you try it now?
Living good, stopped playing games,
Traveling the astral planes.
Why dont you try it now?
Chorus x 2
Verse 1
Verse 2
Verse 3
Verse 4
song performed by by Hollies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Elegy VI. To Charles Diodati, When He Was Visiting In The Country (Translated From Milton)
With no rich viands overcharg'd, I send
Health, which perchance you want, my pamper'd friend;
But wherefore should thy Muse tempt mine away
From what she loves, from darkness into day?
Art thou desirous to be told how well
I love thee, and in verse? Verse cannot tell.
For verse has bounds, and must in measure move;
But neither bounds nor measure knows my love.
How pleasant in thy lines described appear
December's harmless sports and rural cheer!
French spirits kindling with caerulean fires,
And all such gambols as the time inspires!
Think not that Wine against good verse offends;
The Muse and Bacchus have been always friends,
Nor Phoebus blushes sometimes to be found
With Ivy, rather than with Laurel, crown'd.
The Nine themselves oftimes have join'd the song
And revels of the Bacchanalian throng.
Not even Ovid could in Scythian air
Sing sweetly--why? no vine would flourish there.
What in brief numbers sang Anacreon's muse?
Wine, and the rose, that sparkling wine bedews.
Pindar with Bacchus glows--his every line
Breathes the rich fragrance of inspiring wine,
While, with loud crash o'erturn'd, the chariot lies
And brown with dust the fiery courser flies.
The Roman lyrist steep'd in wine his lays
So sweet in Glycera's, and Chloe's praise.
Now too the plenteous feast, and mantling bowl
Nourish the vigour of thy sprightly soul;
The flowing goblet makes thy numbers flow,
And casks not wine alone, but verse, bestow.
Thus Phoebus favours, and the arts attend
Whom Bacchus, and whom Ceres, both befriend.
What wonder then, thy verses are so sweet,
In which these triple powers so kindly meet.
The lute now also sounds, with gold inwrought,
And touch'd with flying Fingers nicely taught,
In tap'stried halls high-roof'd the sprightly lyre
Directs the dancers of the virgin choir.
If dull repletion fright the Muse away,
Sights, gay as these, may more invite her stay;
And, trust me, while the iv'ry keys resound,
Fair damsels sport, and perfumes steam around,
Apollo's influence, like ethereal flame
Shall animate at once thy glowing frame,
And all the Muse shall rush into thy breast,
By love and music's blended pow'rs possest.
For num'rous pow'rs light Elegy befriend,
Hear her sweet voice, and at her call attend;
Her, Bacchus, Ceres, Venus, all approve,
And with his blushing Mother, gentle Love.
Hence, to such bards we grant the copious use
Of banquets, and the vine's delicious juice.
But they who Demigods and Heroes praise
And feats perform'd in Jove's more youthful days,
Who now the counsels of high heav'n explore,
Now shades, that echo the Cerberean roar,
Simply let these, like him of Samos live,
Let herbs to them a bloodless banquet give;
In beechen goblets let their bev'rage shine,
Cool from the chrystal spring, their sober wine!
Their youth should pass, in innocence, secure
From stain licentious, and in manners pure,
Pure as the priest's, when robed in white he stands
The fresh lustration ready in his hands.
Thus Linus liv'd, and thus, as poets write,
Tiresias, wiser for his loss of sight,
Thus exil'd Chalcas, thus the bard of Thrace,
Melodious tamer of the savage race!
Thus train'd by temp'rance, Homer led, of yore,
His chief of Ithaca from shore to shore,
Through magic Circe's monster-peopled reign,
And shoals insidious with the siren train;
And through the realms, where griesly spectres dwell,
Whose tribes he fetter'd in a gory spell;
For these are sacred bards, and, from above,
Drink large infusions from the mind of Jove.
Would'st thou (perhaps 'tis hardly worth thine ear)
Would'st thou be told my occupation here?
The promised King of peace employs my pen,
Th'eternal cov'nant made for guilty men,
The new-born Deity with infant cries
Filling the sordid hovel, where he lies;
The hymning Angels, and the herald star
That led the Wise who sought him from afar,
And idols on their own unhallow'd floor
Dash'd at his birth, to be revered no more!
This theme on reeds of Albion I rehearse;
The dawn of that blest day inspired the verse;
Verse that, reserv'd in secret, shall attend
Thy candid voice, my Critic and my Friend!
poem by William Cowper
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Walked In The Rain
I've been away
High on a breeze
Tasted the salt of the seven blue seas Verse 1
Washed upon shores
Sun in my eyes
Stayed long enough just to say my goodbyes...
I walked in the rain
Wet me through and through
Following rainbows that lead me back to you Chorus
I've always believed
In what I've been told
Where rainbows end there's a pot of gold...
I'll read the stars
Talk to the moon
Stop when I hear somebody playing our tune Verse 2
Any excuse
And you'll see me
Drifting back home to the place I should be...
Some people say
Listen to me
Mostly I find that I disagree Verse 3
They tell me to change
Set myself free
I'm not convinced I don't want to be me
Maybe I'll stay
Maybe I'll go
Maybe I'll stick around I don't know Verse 4
One thing for sure
This I can say
I'm coming back; I've been so far away
song performed by by UB40 from Cover Up
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Evolution
Sun rising
flinging green fire
on flashing leaves
as birds flit
and call to each other
ancient songs of
lust, warning,
hunger.
In twisting architecture
they rise,
sure-footed, fleet of wing,
fearless,
while below I stand,
neck craned,
stiff with gazing.
Back to my room,
I go - back to
my comfortable cave,
my simian
roots.
poem by Steven Federle
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Dryden and Pope
Of our Laureate we now do sing-
His youthful muse had daring wing,
He then despised Baronhood,
And sang 'twas noble to be good.
None sang like him of knights of old,
He England's glory did uphold,
In wondrous song he hath arrayed.
Glorious charge of light brigade.
And he hath the people's benison.
Greatest of living poets, Tennyson.
Genius of Dryden and of Pope,
Both did take a mighty scope ;
The first he Virgil did translate,
The second showed us Troy's fate.
On English themes they loved to sing,
And high their muses flight did wing.
poem by James McIntyre
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The Triple Fool
I am two fools, I know,
For loving, and for saying so
In whining poetry;
But where's that wise man, that would not be I,
If she would not deny?
Then as th' earth's inward narrow crooked lanes
Do purge sea water's fretful salt away,
I thought, if I could draw my pains
Through rhyme's vexation, I should them allay.
Grief brought to numbers cannot be so fierce,
For he tames it, that fetters it in verse.
But when I have done so,
Some man, his art and voice to show,
Doth set and sing my pain;
And, by delighting many, frees again
Grief, which verse did restrain.
To love and grief tribute of verse belongs,
But not of such as pleases when 'tis read.
Both are increasèd by such songs,
For both their triumphs so are published,
And I, which was two fools, do so grow three.
Who are a little wise, the best fools be.
poem by John Donne
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Psalm 68 part 1
v.1-6,32-35
L. M.
The vengeance and compassion of God.
Let God arise in all his might,
And put the troops of hell to flight,
As smoke that sought to cloud the skies
Before the rising tempest flies.
[He comes arrayed in burning flames
Justice and Vengeance are his names:
Behold his fainting foes expire,
Like melting wax before the fire.]
He rides and thunders through the sky;
His name, Jehovah, sounds on high
Sing to his name, ye sons of grace;
Ye saints, rejoice before his face.
The widow and the fatherless
Fly to his aid in sharp distress;
In him the poor and helpless find
A Judge that's just, a Father kind.
He breaks the captive's heavy chain,
And prisoners see the light again;
But rebels that dispute his will
Shall dwell in chains and darkness still.
PAUSE.
Kingdoms and thrones to God belong;
Crown him, ye nations, in your song:
His wondrous names and powers rehearse;
His honors shall enrich your verse.
He shakes the heav'ns with loud alarms;
How terrible is God in arms!
In Isr'el are his mercies known,
Isr'el is his peculiar throne.
Proclaim him King, pronounce him blest;
He's your defence, your joy, your rest:
When terrors rise and nations faint,
God is the strength of every saint.
poem by Isaac Watts
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You Can Contribute A Verse
Contribute a verse, contribute a verse,
Who can contribute a verse?
Contribute a verse, contribute a verse,
You can contribute a verse.
You may be an underpaid lab’rer,
Streetsweeper or overworked nurse,
A migrant without any papers,
But you can contribute a verse.
You left school at sixteen with no GCSEs?
Did you graduate from Oxford with a First?
Makes no diff’rence, not one bit, for you both are fully fit,
Well-equipped to lay before the world a verse.
You may have no notes in your wallet,
You may have no coins in your purse,
No shoes on your feet, no breakfast to eat,
But you can contribute a verse.
Are you feeling sad and lonely,
In the depths of misery?
Do you feel this Life we’re living
Is not worth the entrance fee?
Are you sure that things will not get any better?
Quite persuaded they will go from bad to worse?
No great problem, drama, crisis, doesn’t matter,
As long as you can come up with a verse.
And it’s possible you’ve heard that our days upon this earth
Are not many, are not many, precious few.
We have hardly enough time to take in all of the sights,
Or do the things that we would like to do.
For we’ve barely crawled out of the cradle,
Then they cart us away in a hearse.
So, in the meantime don’t be idle:
Be sure to contribute a verse!
27/9/06
poem by Denys E. W. Jones
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Gray
The loud, apt epithet, applying sure;
The dim-drawn image, artfully obscure;
The perfect stanza, framed of words as choice
And round as pearls, yet liquid to the voice;
A pith of phrase, and musical array
Of numbers;—these are the prime charms of Gray.
The naked majesty and open wonder
Of true sublimity heaped in lines of thunder;
That artless grace wherewith the olden time
Dandled the happy infancy of Rhyme;
That negligent melody which shames the trick
Of wire-drawn verse, and verse-drawn rhetoric:
These in our rich old Bards abound; but these
To Gray were literary heresies.
poem by Charles Harpur
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Ode to Della Crusca
ENLIGHTEN'D Patron of the sacred Lyre?
Whose ever-varying, ever-witching song
Revibrates on the heart
With magic thrilling touch,
Till ev'ry nerve with quiv'ring throb divine,
In madd'ning tumults, owns thy wondrous pow'r;
For well thy dulcet notes
Can wind the mazy song,
In labyrinth of wild fantastic form;
Or with empassion'd pathos woo the soul
With sounds more sweetly mild,
Than SAPPHO's plaint forlorn,
When bending o'er the wave she sung her woes,
While pitying ECHO hover'd o'er the deep,
Till in their coral caves,
The tuneful NEREIDES wept.
AH! whither art thou flown? where pours thy song?
The model and the pride of British bards!
Sweet STAR of FANCY's orb,
"O, tell me, tell me, where?"
Say, dost thou waste it on the viewless air
That bears it to the confines of high Heav'n?
Or does it court the meed
Of proud pre-eminence?
Or steals it o'er the glitt'ring Sapphire wave,
Calming the tempest with its silver sounds?
Or does it charm to love
The fond believing maid?
Or does it hover o'er the ALPINE steep,
Or softly breathing under myrtle shades,
With SYMPATHY divine,
Solace the child of woe?
Where'er thou art, Oh! let thy gentle strain
Again with magic pow'r delight mine ear,
Untutor'd in the spells,
And mysteries of song.
Then, on the margin of the deep I'll muse,
And bless the rocking bark ordain'd to bear
My sad heart o'er the wave,
From this ungrateful isle;
When the wan queen of night, with languid eye,
Peeps o'er the mountain's head, or thro' the vale
Illumes the glassy brook,
Or dew-besprinkled heath,
Or with her crystal lamp, directs the feet
Of the benighted TRAV'LLER, cold, and sad,
Thro' the long forest drear,
And pathless labyrinth,
To the poor PEASANT's hospitable cot,
For ever open to the wretch forlorn;
O, then I'll think on THEE,
And iterate thy strain,
And chaunt thy matchless numbers o'er and o'er,
And I will court the sullen ear of night,
To bear the rapt'rous sound,
On her dark shad'wy wing,
To where encircled by the sacred NINE,
Thy LYRE awakes the never-dying song!
Now, BARD admir'd, farwel!
The white sail flutters loud,
The gaudy streamers lengthen in the gale,
Far from my native shore I bend my way;
Yet, as my aching eye
Shall view the less'ning cliff,
'Till its stupendous head shall scarce appear
Above the surface of the swelling deep;
I'll snatch a ray of hope,
For HOPE's the lamp divine
That lights and vivifies the fainting soul,
With extacies beyond the pow'rs of song!
That ere I reach those banks
Where the loud TIBER flows,
Or milder ARNO slowly steals along,
To the soft music of the summer breeze,
The wafting wing of TIME
May bear this last ADIEU,
This wild untutor'd picture of the heart,
To HIM, whose magic verse INSPIR'D THE STRAIN.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Sonnet 38:
How can my muse want subject to invent,
While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
O! give thy self the thanks, if aught in me
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;
For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thy self dost give invention light?
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
If my slight muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.
poem by William Shakespeare
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Sonnet 38: How can my Muse want subject to invent
How can my Muse want subject to invent
While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight,
For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thyself dost give invention light?
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
If my slight Muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.
poem by William Shakespeare
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