Prelude To A Volume Printed In Raised Letters For The Blind
DEAR friends, left darkling in the long eclipse
That veils the noonday,--you whose finger-tips
A meaning in these ridgy leaves can find
Where ours go stumbling, senseless, helpless, blind.
This wreath of verse how dare I offer you
To whom the garden's choicest gifts are due?
The hues of all its glowing beds are ours,
Shall you not claim its sweetest-smelling flowers?
Nay, those I have I bring you,--at their birth
Life's cheerful sunshine warmed the grateful earth;
If my rash boyhood dropped some idle seeds,
And here and there you light on saucy weeds
Among the fairer growths, remember still
Song comes of grace, and not of human will:
We get a jarring note when most we try,
Then strike the chord we know not how or why;
Our stately verse with too aspiring art
Oft overshoots and fails to reach the heart,
While the rude rhyme one human throb endears
Turns grief to smiles, and softens mirth to tears.
Kindest of critics, ye whose fingers read,
From Nature's lesson learn the poet's creed;
The queenly tulip flaunts in robes of flame,
The wayside seedling scarce a tint may claim,
Yet may the lowliest leaflets that unfold
A dewdrop fresh from heaven's own chalice hold.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Related quotes
Mother Mind
I never made a poem, dear friend--
I never sat me down, and said,
This cunning brain and patient hand
Shall fashion something to be read.
Men often came to me, and prayed
I should indite a fitting verse
For fast, or festival, or in
Some stately pageant to rehearse.
(As if, than Balaam more endowed,
I of myself could bless or curse.)
Reluctantly I bade them go,
Ungladdened by my poet-mite;
My heart is not so churlish but
Its loves to minister delight.
But not a word I breathe is mine
To sing, in praise of man or God;
My Master calls, at noon or night,
I know his whisper and his nod.
Yet all my thoyghts to rhythms run,
To rhyme, my wisdom and my wit?
True, I consume my life in verse,
But wouldst thou know how that is writ?
'T is thus--through weary length of days,
I bear a thought within my breast
That greatens from my growth of soul,
And waits, and will not be expressed.
It greatens, till its hour has come,
Not without pain, it sees the light;
'Twixt smiles and tears I view it o'er,
And dare not deem it perfect, quite.
These children of my soul I keep
Where scarce a mortal man may see,
Yet not unconsecrate, dear friend,
Baptismal rites they claim of thee.
poem by Julia Ward Howe
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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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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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There can only be one absolute truth.
I thought I wrote but only dreamt a poem showing my contempt
For those who claim to know the truth. I realised when but a youth.
They claim divine authority but had no proof to offer me
I can’t believe that any creed can provide the proof I need.
Amongst themselves they can’t agree so they argue perpetually
Nor do they practice what they preach I think the truth’s beyond their reach
I can accept the faith you hold. I would not dare to be so bold
To think I dare to criticise what you believe. I’ve found it wise.
To tolerate whatever creed which seems to satisfy a need?
That can bring great comfort to those followers to whom it’s true
I seek for truth I cannot find; but would it bring me peace of mind
Or would I feel compelled to share the truth with all men every where
I do not think I could achieve a change in what folks now believe.
I will continue with my quest, I am convinced it’s for the best.
The knowledge gained from all I’ve read is safely stored inside my head
For me to ponder quietly. Beliefs peculiar to me
Although I know they may not be true. I think for now they’ll have to do
Until I find fresh evidence which seems to me make good sense
I believe only bodies die. The soul goes on triumphantly
Transmuted to a higher plane before being reborn again
What I believe may not be true what you believe is up to you
We will find out eventually that is a solid certainty.
24/10/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Sonnet. The bee
The honey-bee that wanders all day long,
The field, the woodland, and the garden o'er,
To gather in his fragrant winter store,
Humming in calm content his quiet song,
Seeks not alone the rose's glowing breast,
The lily's dainty cup, the violet's lips, --
But from all rank and noxious weeds he sips
The single drop of sweetness closely press'd
Within the poison chalice. Thus, if we
Seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet,
In all the varied human flowers we meet,
In the wide garden of humanity,
And like the bee, if home the spoil we bear,
Hived in our hearts it turns to nectar there.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Winter Roses
My garden roses long ago
Have perished from the leaf-strewn walks;
Their pale, fair sisters smile no more
Upon the sweet-brier stalks.
Gone with the flower-time of my life,
Spring's violets, summer's blooming pride,
And Nature's winter and my own
Stand, flowerless, side by side.
So might I yesterday have sung;
To-day, in bleak December's noon,
Come sweetest fragrance, shapes, and hues,
The rosy wealth of June!
Bless the young bands that culled the gift,
And bless the hearts that prompted it;
If undeserved it comes, at least
It seems not all unfit.
Of old my Quaker ancestors
Had gifts of forty stripes save one;
To-day as many roses crown
The gray head of their son.
And with them, to my fancy's eye,
The fresh-faced givers smiling come,
And nine and thirty happy girls
Make glad a lonely room.
They bring the atmosphere of youth;
The light and warmth of long ago
Are in my heart, and on my cheek
The airs of morning blow.
O buds of girlhood, yet unblown,
And fairer than the gift ye chose,
For you may years like leaves unfold
The heart of Sharon's rose
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Human
You are not an evil person
But you hurt me a lot unconsciously
You are not someone who could kill with your bare hand
But your words keep breaking my soul
I try to find the light
So I could stand much longer
I try to remember the laugh
So I could hold back the tears
But I'm also just human
I'm not some kind of superhero
Can you feel the darkness that creeping in my heart?
Or are you just too ignorant
For some kind of human
You keep demanding some more
But what can you offer?
Because I'm the one you could use
Should I'm the one who sacrifice my freedom for your own?
I try to swallow the blame
But it choked in my throat
I try to gain the strength
But all smiles will be faking
And I'm just human
The one who could love but also could hate fiercely without any reason
Have you ever heard my crying fear?
Do you ever reach me to the deepest core?
Or are you just too blind
Like some kind of human
So in the end
What will you do to make me stay?
A command from your authority mind
Or a pitiful plea to my ears
So in the end
Who will gonna be win?
A raging desperate man
Or a wounded pride man
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Bring Them Home(song)
verse1:
oh how I tried
to change this evil
that's taking over
too many crow
squawkin' freely
they have to go
we need to
take back the earth
and claim it for the humble
greedy hyenas
laughing with their money
creating more weaklings
the price of life
is too expensive
even the fittest will die
chorus1:
how can you ask
me to understand
your greedy tendencies
I am human too
your mistakes
need correction
need correction
need correction
verse 2:
what do you want
you need to be more practical
what do you need
it can't be greed
because you are sending life
bring them home
bring
them
home
bring
them
home
they fight for you
and not the people
I support them
bring them home
chorus 2:
how can you ask
me to understand
your greedy tendencies
I am human too
your mistakes
need correction
need correction
need correction
bridge:
I don't want your false knowledge
I'd rather be dumb
Your the scum
I am the soup
Clean up your act
And bring them home
short verse:
Bring
them
home
bring
them
home
bring
them
home
chorus 3:
how can you ask
me to understand
your greedy tendencies
I am human too
your mistakes
need correction
need correction
need correction
verse1 ending:
bring
them
home
poem by Cokbod Lodwogo
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A simple, cheerful active life on earth
A simple, cheerful, active life on earth,
A cup I’d not exchange for monarch’s chalice,
In noble forebears’ tracks a path since birth,
With equal dignity in hut and palace,
With eye as when created heav’nward turned,
All beauty here and grandness keenly knowing,
Familiar though with those things deeply yearned,
Stilled only by eternity’s bright glowing.
I wished for all my line just such a life,
And zealously I planned for its fruition,
And when my soul grew tired from toil and strife,
The ‘Lord’s Prayer’ was its rest and its nutrition.
Then from truth’s spirit I great comfort gained,
And felt joy hover o’er each garden border,
When dust is placed in its creator’s hand
And all is waited for in nature’s order:
Just fresh, green buds that sprout in early spring,
And in the summer heat the flowers’ profusion;
And when the plants mature and long to bring
Their harvest fruit to autumn’s full conclusion!
The human span assigned is short or long,
It is for common weal, its yield is growing;
The day that started well will end as strong,
And just as sweet will be its afterglowing.
poem by Nicolaj Frederik Severin Grundtvig
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A Poet To Be
A poet I claim not to be,
For words are never there.
In all the years I've tried to write,
I have no words to share.
I sit and think but nothing comes,
No inspiration here.
I want to write of anything,
But still no words I fear.
I read the works of other poets,
I wish I were like them.
How do they write such beautiful lines,
A poet, I'm not him.
I try to write from the heart,
From deep within my soul.
I try to write of the love I have,
But cannot reach my goal.
But why I ask, why can't I write,
Of love so pure and true.
Why can't I write about her eyes,
A mix of green and blue.
I want to write about her smile,
It brightens up my day.
I try to think of anything,
But words I cannot say.
I wish I knew how to write,
A poem with such bliss.
I wish I knew how to describe,
Her soft but tender kiss.
I cannot even begin to write,
How she holds me tight.
How her arms around me,
Makes everything just right.
A poet does not have to think,
The words flow right out.
When I sit and try to write,
I want to scream and shout.
I mean come on, how hard can it be,
To write about her hair.
Such long beautiful natural blonde,
That flows in the air.
I try to write about her laugh,
The words will not fly.
Time passes and finally,
I say it's soft and high.
It's been an hour and a half,
I'm here on verse twelve.
I had to go to Rhymezone,
To find out the rhyme is shelve.
A poet does not do that,
Go online to find a rhyme.
A poet has it in his head,
And can write at any time.
But a poet I am not,
For I cannot write of love.
How the girl I am with,
Is an angel from up above.
How I love her with all my heart,
And want to spend my life with her.
How her love for me is more,
Than I can ever be for sure.
As I draw near the end,
My mind is not so numb.
I realize I've just written of love,
A poet I have become.
poem by Adam McKim
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Song Of A Nature Loving Man
Were I a nature lyric poet my special gifts I'd share
With all who'd care to read my verse people from everywhere
But I don't have the gift of verse or so 'twould seem to me
So I can't share what I don't have with all humanity.
I'm just going back a few short months a pleasant memory
A koala with her baby on top branch of gum tree
On evening in mid april an evening bright though cool
At Tower hill just a short drive from the town of Warrnambool.
Were I a nature lyrist in words I'd celebrate
And my sense of joy at what I'd seen to all I would relate
A leaf eating nature mother with offspring on her back
Not unlike human mother with baby in knapsack.
To hear a yellow robin when spring is in her prime
On low down branch of wattle and shielded from sun shine
Sing his sad song of november his plaintive melody
Were I a bard I'd capture his song in poetry.
I find nature fascinating just look at simple honey bee
Whose ways are not so simple as they appear to be
Had I the gift of lyric of honeybees I'd write
A simple song of nature a song to give delight.
I see my God in Nature his creatures everywhere
The kangaroo with babe in pouch, the swallows of the air
The platypus and echidna, the wombat and emu
The lorikeet and rosella, the galah and cockatoo.
The laughing kookaburra whose laughter pierce quiet morn
A gold billed blackbird whistling at twilight on whitethorn
The noisy miner's cheerful song and wattlebird's hoarse like call
And bell magpie fluting notes of joy the sweetest sound of all.
A wallaby at forest edge in fading light of day
Standing almost statue like by quiet bush roadway
Were I a bard I'd capture this and on paper write it down
And bring the bush to living rooms of people in the town
And though I'm no bard I'm realist and I do know what I am
I'm one who comes from distant hills a 'Nature loving man'
And I feel happier of late happy and worry free
For I've found god after long search and nature's god to me.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Even-Song
IT may be, yes, it must be, Time that brings
An end to mortal things,
That sends the beggar Winter in the train
Of Autumn's burdened wain,--
Time, that is heir of all our earthly state,
And knoweth well to wait
Till sea hath turned to shore and shore to sea,
If so it need must be,
Ere he make good his claim and call his own
Old empires overthrown,--
Time, who can find no heavenly orb too large
To hold its fee in charge,
Nor any motes that fill its beam so small,
But he shall care for all,--
It may be, must be,--yes, he soon shall tire
This hand that holds the lyre.
Then ye who listened in that earlier day
When to my careless lay
I matched its chords and stole their first-born thrill,
With untaught rudest skill
Vexing a treble from the slender strings
Thin as the locust sings
When the shrill-crying child of summer's heat
Pipes from its leafy seat,
The dim pavilion of embowering green
Beneath whose shadowy screen
The small sopranist tries his single note
Against the song-bird's throat,
And all the echoes listen, but in vain;
They hear no answering strain,--
Then ye who listened in that earlier day
Shall sadly turn away,
Saying, 'The fire burns low, the hearth is cold
That warmed our blood of old;
Cover its embers and its half-burnt brands,
And let us stretch our hands
Over a brighter and fresh-kindled flame;
Lo, this is not the same,
The joyous singer of our morning time,
Flushed high with lusty rhyme!
Speak kindly, for he bears a human heart,
But whisper him apart,--
Tell him the woods their autumn robes have shed
And all their birds have fled,
And shouting winds unbuild the naked nests
They warmed with patient breasts;
Tell him the sky is dark, the summer o'er,
And bid him sing no more!'
Ah, welladay! if words so cruel-kind
A listening ear might find!
But who that hears the music in his soul
Of rhythmic waves that roll
Crested with gleams of fire, and as they flow
Stir all the deeps below
Till the great pearls no calm might ever reach
Leap glistening on the beach,--
Who that has known the passion and the pain,
The rush through heart and brain,
The joy so like a pang his hand is pressed
Hard on his throbbing breast,
When thou, whose smile is life and bliss and fame
Hast set his pulse aflame,
Muse of the lyre! can say farewell to thee?
Alas! and must it be?
In many a clime, in many a stately tongue,
The mighty bards have sung;
To these the immemorial thrones belong
And purple robes of song;
Yet the slight minstrel loves the slender tone
His lips may call his own,
And finds the measure of the verse more sweet,
Timed by his pulse's beat,
Than all the hymnings of the laurelled throng.
Say not I do him wrong,
For Nature spoils her warblers,--them she feeds
In lotus-growing meads
And pours them subtle draughts from haunted streams
That fill their souls with dreams.
Full well I know the gracious mother's wiles
And dear delusive smiles!
No callow fledgling of her singing brood
But tastes that witching food,
And hearing overhead the eagle's wing,
And how the thrushes sing,
Vents his exiguous chirp, and from his nest
Flaps forth--we know the rest.
I own the weakness of the tuneful kind,--
Are not all harpers blind?
I sang too early, must I sing too late?
The lengthening shadows wait
The first pale stars of twilight,--yet how sweet
The flattering whisper's cheat,--
'Thou hast the fire no evening chill can tame,
Whose coals outlast its flame!'
Farewell, ye carols of the laughing morn,
Of earliest sunshine born!
The sower flings the seed and looks not back
Along his furrowed track;
The reaper leaves the stalks for other hands
To gird with circling bands;
The wind, earth's careless servant, truant-born,
Blows clean the beaten corn
And quits the thresher's floor, and goes his way
To sport with ocean's spray;
The headlong-stumbling rivulet scrambling down
To wash the sea-girt town,
Still babbling of the green and billowy waste
Whose salt he longs to taste,
Ere his warm wave its chilling clasp may feel
Has twirled the miller's wheel.
The song has done its task that makes us bold
With secrets else untold,--
And mine has run its errand; through the dews
I tracked the flying Muse;
The daughter of the morning touched my lips
With roseate finger-tips;
Whether I would or would not, I must sing
With the new choirs of spring;
Now, as I watch the fading autumn day
And trill my softened lay,
I think of all that listened, and of one
For whom a brighter sun
Dawned at high summer's noon. Ah, comrades dear,
Are not all gathered here?
Our hearts have answered.--Yes! they hear our call:
All gathered here! all! all!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Song Of A Rhyming Man
I love the sound of rhyming words like Dan will rhyme with Ann
And I could never be a poet just call me rhyming man
This modern verse too much for me it's way above my head
Though modern poets are now the rage and Rhyme is with the dead.
I love the sound of rhyming words, I love the verse that rhyme
To blank or free or non rhyme verse prefer it every time
And there's many who will disagree and most will say I'm wrong
But give me ballad or rhyme verse or good old rhyming song.
You may say I am limited and with you most will agree
That I'm not into modern verse of twenty first century
But I've been an old style rhyming man since nineteen seventy three
And I am in my sixties now and there's no changing me.
I love the sound of rhyming words like Dan will rhyme with Ann
And I could never be a poet just call me rhyming man
And I am guilty of no sin and I can't see no crime
In liking sound of rhyming verse and loving words that rhyme
poem by Francis Duggan
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We are Animal
Stop.
These arrogant beliefs.
You call yourself Human?
Humanity is a serration
That tears apart the
Earthly realm they claim to own,
Thrusting other creatures
Away, uncaring.
You, Human,
Are no better.
You are not a guardian,
And they, not resources.
Humans and Falcons,
Lions and Salmon.
Perceive, Human,
I am Animal.
How dare you call others
Bestial, whilst you create napalm?
How dare you say others
Do not comprehend?
Do you read their minds?
Understand, Human,
They are Animal.
To you, reaver,
I say you
Do not comprehend
How similar you are.
What Human is more loyal than a Dog?
What Human is more powerful than a Bull?
All that makes you strong
Is the destructive technology
You invent. You have an
Egocentric concept of Human
Superiority.
When another Animal
Wounds a Human,
They are put to
Death.
Yet when a Human Kills
Ten Wolf and twenty Raven,
Slaughters thirty Deer
And turns a beautiful Ecosystem
To dust,
He is
Fined.
This is justice?
Fathom, Human,
You are Animal.
Your persistent idea
That you are different,
However, is correct,
You are not the same
As any other Animal.
Nature has granted you great
Intelligence. But this is
Just as a cheetah has speed.
So why are you so Ignorant?
What flawed conception
Made you think
You are so
Special?
Realize, Human,
We are Animal.
poem by Bryce Aubrey
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Summer
Some men there are who find in nature all
Their inspiration, hers the sympathy
Which spurs them on to any great endeavor,
To them the fields and woods are closest friends,
And they hold dear communion with the hills;
The voice of waters soothes them with its fall,
And the great winds bring healing in their sound.
To them a city is a prison house
Where pent up human forces labour and strive,
Where beauty dwells not, driven forth by man;
But where in winter they must live until
Summer gives back the spaces of the hills.
To me it is not so. I love the earth
And all the gifts of her so lavish hand:
Sunshine and flowers, rivers and rushing winds,
Thick branches swaying in a winter storm,
And moonlight playing in a boat's wide wake;
But more than these, and much, ah, how much more,
I love the very human heart of man.
Above me spreads the hot, blue mid-day sky,
Far down the hillside lies the sleeping lake
Lazily reflecting back the sun,
And scarcely ruffled by the little breeze
Which wanders idly through the nodding ferns.
The blue crest of the distant mountain, tops
The green crest of the hill on which I sit;
And it is summer, glorious, deep-toned summer,
The very crown of nature's changing year
When all her surging life is at its full.
To me alone it is a time of pause,
A void and silent space between two worlds,
When inspiration lags, and feeling sleeps,
Gathering strength for efforts yet to come.
For life alone is creator of life,
And closest contact with the human world
Is like a lantern shining in the night
To light me to a knowledge of myself.
I love the vivid life of winter months
In constant intercourse with human minds,
When every new experience is gain
And on all sides we feel the great world's heart;
The pulse and throb of life which makes us men!
poem by Amy Lowell
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Incarnation
OUR little queen of dreams,
Our image of delight,
Which whitens east and gleams
And beckons from the height,
Takes on her human form—is here in mortal sight.
We two have loved her long,
Have known her eyes for years;
We worshipped her with song
The spirit only hears,
And now she comes to us new-washed with blood and tears.
Her radiant self she veils
With vesture meet for earth,
And, knowing all, inhales
The lethal air of birth,
And wakes to restless dreams of misery and mirth.
The fogs of learning rise
And hide the light above,
But in her steadfast eyes
Will shine the light of love,
Which many a gloomy dale may know the gladness of.
What gift is ours to give,
What truth is ours to teach
That she may learn to live
With joy within her reach?
We can but let her learn the sound of human speech.
By custom-fettered fools
Her freedom will be blamed,
Because by sleepy rules
Her soul shall be untamed,
And she will front the sun brown-skinned and unashamed.
Her kinship she will know
With beast and rock and tree,
Wherever she may go
The sky her home will be,
The winds will be her mates,
her crooning nurse the sea.
poem by John Le Gay Brereton
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My Annual
How long will this harp which you once loved to hear
Cheat your lips of a smile or your eyes of a tear?
How long stir the echoes it wakened of old,
While its strings were unbroken, untarnished its gold?
Dear friends of my boyhood, my words do you wrong;
The heart, the heart only, shall throb in my song;
It reads the kind answer that looks from your eyes,--
'We will bid our old harper play on till he dies.'
Though Youth, the fair angel that looked o'er the strings,
Has lost the bright glory that gleamed on his wings,
Though the freshness of morning has passed from its tone
It is still the old harp that was always your own.
I claim not its music,--each note it affords
I strike from your heart-strings, that lend me its chords;
I know you will listen and love to the last,
For it trembles and thrills with the voice of your past.
Ah, brothers! dear brothers! the harp that I hold
No craftsman could string and no artisan mould;
He shaped it, He strung it, who fashioned the lyres
That ring with the hymns of the seraphim choirs.
Not mine are the visions of beauty it brings,
Not mine the faint fragrance around it that clings;
Those shapes are the phantoms of years that are fled,
Those sweets breathe from roses your summers have shed.
Each hour of the past lends its tribute to this,
Till it blooms like a bower in the Garden of Bliss;
The thorn and the thistle may grow as they will,
Where Friendship unfolds there is Paradise still.
The bird wanders careless while summer is green,
The leaf-hidden cradle that rocked him unseen;
When Autumn's rude fingers the woods have undressed,
The boughs may look bare, but they show him his nest.
Too precious these moments! the lustre they fling
Is the light of our year, is the gem of its ring,
So brimming with sunshine, we almost forget
The rays it has lost, and its border of jet.
While round us the many-hued halo is shed,
How dear are the living, how near are the dead!
One circle, scarce broken, these waiting below,
Those walking the shores where the asphodels blow!
Not life shall enlarge it nor death shall divide,--
No brother new-born finds his place at my side;
No titles shall freeze us, no grandeurs infest,
His Honor, His Worship, are boys like the rest.
Some won the world's homage, their names we hold dear,--
But Friendship, not Fame, is the countersign here;
Make room by the conqueror crowned in the strife
For the comrade that limps from the battle of life!
What tongue talks of battle? Too long we have heard
In sorrow, in anguish, that terrible word;
It reddened the sunshine, it crimsoned the wave,
It sprinkled our doors with the blood of our brave.
Peace, Peace comes at last, with her garland of white;
Peace broods in all hearts as we gather to-night;
The blazon of Union spreads full in the sun;
We echo its words,--We are one! We are one!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Verses From God
I’m just the pen; God is the ink, Who fills me as I write and think,
And God’s ink never runs dry, as it flows from His Spirit on high.
Penning verse that never ends, as He talks to a world of friends,
As I go to God in prayer, He pens down each blessing and care.
In a trial God helps me through, He pens verse to share with you,
And the blessing He brings my way, as He helps me, day to day.
As I write every word and line, I do not claim the verses as mine,
For as the pen to page is pressed, it is my heart that is blessed.
Blessing seem to come my way, as He helps me, in what to say,
To illustrate to all those who read, that Jesus is The Lord indeed.
His Words just seem to flow, not knowing where His idea will go,
But His point He makes every time, as God speaks on each line.
He draws from deep inside, my heart, where His Scriptures hide,
Always used at the proper place, to pen down a verse of Grace.
And as the page begins to fill, it is not my poem, but God’s will,
That fills lines with His Word, which some who read, never heard.
It’s God above who fills my pen, with words for the eyes of men,
By means of only poetic verse, to claim victory, over sin’s curse.
The page is filled by God above, with true examples of His Love,
Penning Truth for men to see, He’s a God who loves you and me.
(Copyright ©08/2007)
Lines from
I'd rather have my verses win
A place in common people's hearts,
Who, toiling through the strife and din
Of life's great thoroughfares, and marts,
May read some line my hand has penned;
Some simple verse, not fine, or grand,
But what their hearts can understand
And hold me henceforth as a friend,--
I'd rather win such quiet fame
Than by some fine thought, bolished so
But those of learned minds would know,
Just what the meaning of my song,--
To have the critics sound my name
In high-flown praises, loud and long.
I sing not for the critic's ear,
But for the masses. If they hear
Despite the turmoil, noise, and strife
Some least low note that gladdens life,
I shall be wholly satisfied,
Though critics to the end deride.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Woman Of Rhyme
She is not what you'd call beautiful though still in her prime
And to those who know her she is known as The Woman of Rhyme
In Local Literary circles not even one of note
As she does not fit the bill of the Modern Poet.
But the rhyme from her gushes and it races along
And in five minutes flat she can pen you a song
And though not classified as a poet her verse is not doggerel
And with her gift of rhyme one might say she does well.
Some fifty years ago she would have known fame
And her's would have been a great Literary name
But rhyme it would seem has passed it's use by date
And what's now seen as old fashioned was once seen as great.
Even the best of the Local modern poets seem strangers to renown
But then such is life in a football mad Town
In the pubs the names of famed poets and artists they never recall
Their small talk mostly of sports, footballers and football.
For what she is good at she is not recognized
But having said that I am not really surprised
since rhyme verse has long passed it's glorious time
And none to applaud the young Woman of Rhyme.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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