Tadium Vita
TO stab my youth with desperate knives, to wear
This paltry age's gaudy livery,
To let each base hand filch my treasury,
To mesh my soul within a woman's hair,
And be mere Fortune's lackeyed groom,--I swear
I love it not! these things are less to me
Than the thin foam that frets upon the sea,
Less than the thistle-down of summer air
Which hath no seed: better to stand aloof
Far from these slanderous fools who mock my life
Knowing me not, better the lowliest roof
Fit for the meanest hind to sojourn in,
Than to go back to that hoarse cave of strife
Where my white soul first kissed the mouth of sin.
poem by Oscar Wilde
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Related quotes
Taedium Vitae
To stab my youth with desperate knives, to wear
This paltry age's gaudy livery,
To let each base hand filch my treasury,
To mesh my soul within a woman's hair,
And be mere Fortune's lackeyed groom, - I swear
I love it not! these things are less to me
Than the thin foam that frets upon the sea,
Less than the thistledown of summer air
Which hath no seed: better to stand aloof
Far from these slanderous fools who mock my life
Knowing me not, better the lowliest roof
Fit for the meanest hind to sojourn in,
Than to go back to that hoarse cave of strife
Where my white soul first kissed the mouth of sin.
poem by Oscar Wilde
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For you woman I shall not die
For you woman I shall not die
You woman of notorious name and high fame
Only foolish men with piercing eyes you may slay
But I and they are not the same
Why should I expire
for your eyes' fire
Ha slender waist? So what?
And for your swanlike limbs? I say tat
But I run from your round breast
the fresh skin, the crimson checks
hair like a waterfall, long and rich
Indeed, Indeed I shall hold
through sturdy high walls and wide moat
Please God! Not me for any such
yet the golden hair my eyes enthralled
the forehead thin, the gracious ears
the rounded heel, the languid tone
Oh fools! For fools alone find death from these
Mercy, your sharp wit, your perfect palm
The chaste mien, the white neck,
the brown eyes, your beautiful soul
has my heart as its goal
You graceful woman as a swan
wise man, while still wise, run
Or else plea to guardian God:
Save me or stab me before I succumb
Little palm? A White neck? or a bright eyes?
I shall not die for thee
Oh God let it not be me
copy rights 2010
Of Souls And Angels
she says in all honesty
that she has not seen
a single soul
or felt its coldest touch
in her skin as others
seem to imply from
their hair raising experiences
first hand direct
from the horse's mouth
and it is the same with
angels
how could she not have
seen one with
white wings
and angelic faces?
how could she ever
relate to all these
tales and myths
and legends and
storied told by
fools, she says
i know. She has no soul
and She was never once an
angel in those heavenly skies.
So they all condemn
an honest woman like those
witches burned at those stakes.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I shall not die for thee
FOR thee, I shall not die,
Woman of high fame and name;
Foolish men thou mayest slay
I and they are not the same.
Why should I expire
For the fire of an eye,
Slender waist or swan-like limb,
Is't for them that I should die?
The round breasts, the fresh skin,
Cheeks crimson, hair so long and rich;
Indeed, indeed, I shall not die,
Please God, not I, for any such.
The golden hair, the forehead thin,
The chaste mien, the gracious ease,
The rounded heel, the languid tone,—
Fools alone find death from these.
Thy sharp wit, thy perfect calm,
Thy thin palm like foam o' the sea;
Thy white neck, thy blue eye,
I shall not die for thee.
Woman, graceful as the swan,
A wise man did nurture me.
Little palm, white neck, bright eye,
I shall not die for ye.
poem by Douglas Hyde
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Youth Of 1,000 Summers
He's the youth of a thousand summers
He's the youth of a thousand summers
Like a sweet bird of youth
Like a sweet bird of youth
In my soul. in my soul, in my soul
In my soul. in my soul. in my soul
And he looks so radiant
And he shines like the sun
And he looks so radiant
And he lights up the world
He's the youth of a thousand summers
He's the youth of a thousand summers
Like a sweet bird of youth
Like a sweet bird of youth
In my soul, in my soul, in my soul
In my soul, in my soul, in my soul
Yeah, love it, yeah, love it
In my soul, in my soul, in my soul
In my soul, in my soul, in my soul
He's the king of the mountain
And the clear crystal fountain
He's the saint of the river
He's the ancient of days
He's the youth of a thousand summers
He's the youth of a thousand summers
Like a sweet bird of youth
Like a sweet bird of youth
In my soul, in my soul, in my soul
In my soul, in my soul, in my soul
And he makes you go skipping
And he makes you go dancing
And he gets you in rhythm
And he moves you in song
He's the youth of a thousand summers
He's the youth of a thousand summers
Like a sweet bird of youth
Like a sweet bird of youth
In my soul, in my soul, in my soul
In my soul, in my soul, in my soul
In my soul, in my soul, in my soul
Oh, in my soul, in my soul, in my soul
And a sweet bird of youth
In my soul (repeat)
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The New Remorse
The sin was mine; I did not understand.
So now is music prisoned in her cave,
Save where some ebbing desultory wave
Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.
And in the withered hollow of this land
Hath Summer dug herself so deep a grave,
That hardly can the leaden willow crave
One silver blossom from keen Winter's hand.
But who is this who cometh by the shore?
(Nay, love, look up and wonder!) Who is this
Who cometh in dyed garments from the South?
It is thy new-found Lord, and he shall kiss
The yet unravished roses of thy mouth,
And I shall weep and worship, as before.
poem by Oscar Wilde
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To Sir Henry Wotton At His Going Ambassador To Venice
AFTER those reverend papers, whose soul is
Our good and great king's loved hand and fear'd name ;
By which to you he derives much of his,
And, how he may, makes you almost the same,
A taper of his torch, a copy writ
From his oiginal, and a fair beam
Of the same warm and dazzling sun, though it
Must in another sphere his virtue stream ;
After those learned papers which your hand
Hath stored with notes of use and pleasures too,
From which rich treasury you may command
Fit matter whether you will write or do ;
After those loving papers where friends send,
With glad grief to your sea-ward steps, farewell,
Which thicken on you now, as prayers ascend
To heaven in troops, at a good man's passing-bell ;
Admit this honest paper, and allow
It such an audience as yourself would ask ;
What you must say at Venice, this means now,
And hath for nature, what you have for task.
To swear much love, not to be changed before
Honour, alone will to your fortune fit ;
Nor shall I then honour your fortune, more
Than I have done your honour, wanting it.
But 'tis an easier load, though both oppress,
To want, than govern greatness, for we are
In that, our own and only business,
In this, we must for others' vices care.
'Tis therefore well your spirits now are placed
In their last furnace, in activity ;
Which fits them—schools and courts and wars o'erpast—
To touch and test in any best degree.
For me—if there be such a thing as I—
Fortune—if there be such a thing as she—
Spies that I bear so well her tyranny,
That she thinks nothing else so fit for me.
But, though she part us, to hear my oft prayers
For your increase, God is as near me here ;
And to send you what I shall beg, His stairs
In length and ease are alike everywhere.
poem by John Donne
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Here And Now
HERE AND NOW.
Here, in the heart of the world,
Here, in the noise and the din,
Here, where our spirits were hurled
To battle with sorrow and sin,
This is the place and the spot
For knowledge of infinite things;
This is the kingdom where Thought
Can conquer the prowess of kings.
Wait for no heavenly life,
Seek for no temple alone;
Here, in the midst of the strife,
Know what the sages have known.
See what the Perfect Ones saw-
God in the depth of each soul,
God as the light and the law,
God as beginning and goal.
Earth is one chamber of Heaven,
Death is no grander than birth.
Joy in the life that was given,
Strive for perfection on earth.
Here, in the turmoil and roar,
Show what it is to be calm;
Show how the spirit can soar
And bring back its healing and balm.
Stand not aloof nor apart,
Plunge in the thick of the fight.
There in the street and the mart,
That is the place to do right.
Not in some cloister or cave,
Not in some kingdom above,
Here, on this side of the grave,
Here, should we labor and love.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Soul Doctor
Well I woke up this morning
Took your advice
I dialed the number
And I let it ring twice
Then I hung up
Now I tried to do
Everything I could
To save our love
And make it feel good again
I cant fight it, theres nobody home
Hard hearted and all alone
I give you love, you aint giving it back
I cant take it
I need to see the soul doctor
Before the fever begins
You know Im searching for the soul doctor
When love is wearing thin
Doctor soul is in
Ive been kicked in the corner
Im down in the dirt
I cant feel a thing
But I know it ought to hurt
Now your shaking my spirit
Im breaking my back
Im too blind to hear it
So I over react to satisfaction
If I could get me some
I aint talking, theres nothing to say
Misunderstandin, your walking away
Maybe baby, its gonna take time, time, time
I need to see the soul doctor
Before the fever begins
You know Im searching for the soul doctor
When love is wearing thin
Doctor soul is in
I need to see the soul doctor
You know things are looking grim
I keep searching for the soul doctor
Doctor soul is in
The doctors soul intention
Let it be understood
Cant pull the strings of my heart
I aint made out of wood
Now I take what I get
To get what it takes
Need a little bit a love
Got a whole lotta heartaches
I cant fight it, theres nobody home
Hard hearted and all alone
Maybe baby, its gonna take time, time, time
I need to see the soul doctor
Before the fever begins
You know Im searching for the soul doctor
When love is wearing thin
Doctor soul is in
I need to see the soul doctor
You know things are looking grim
I keep searching for the soul doctor
Doctor soul is in
Hey, a little bit of soul, oh yeah
Doctor soul is in
Heart and soul doctor
I need to see the soul doctor, soul doctor
Doctor soul is in
Doctor, doctor, doctor, doctor save my soul
Doctor soul is in
Ooh
song performed by by Foreigner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hope Dieth: Hope Liveth
Strong are thine arms, O love, & strong
Thine heart to live, and love, and long;
But thou art wed to grief and wrong:
Live, then, and long, though hope be dead!
Live on, & labour thro’ the years!
Make pictures through the mist of tears,
Of unforgotten happy fears,
That crossed the time ere hope was dead.
Draw near the place where once we stood
Amid delight’s swift-rushing flood,
And we and all the world seemed good
Nor needed hope now cold and dead.
Dream in the dawn I come to thee
Weeping for things that may not be!
Dream that thou layest lips on me!
Wake, wake to clasp hope’s body dead!
Count o’er and o’er, and one by one
The minutes of the happy sun
That while agone on kissed lips shone,
Count on, rest not, for hope is dead.
Weep, though no hair’s breadth thou shalt move
The living Earth, the heaven above
By all the bitterness of love!
Weep and cease not, now hope is dead!
Sighs rest thee not, tears bring no ease,
Life hath no joy, and Death no peace:
The years change not, though they decrease,
For hope is dead, for hope is dead.
Speak, love, I listen: far away
I bless the tremulous lips, that say,
“Mock not the afternoon of day,
Mock not the tide when hope is dead!”
I bless thee, O my love, who say’st:
“Mock not the thistle-cumbered waste;
I hold Love’s hand, and make no haste
Down the long way, now hope is dead.
With other names do we name pain,
The long years wear our hearts in vain.
Mock not our loss grown into gain,
Mock not our lost hope lying dead.
Our eyes gaze for no morning-star,
No glimmer of the dawn afar;
Full silent wayfarers we are
Since ere the noon-tide hope lay dead.
Behold with lack of happiness
The master, Love, our hearts did bless
Lest we should think of him the less:
Love dieth not, though hope is dead!”
poem by William Morris
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Dedication To His Love
SWEETEST, in desperate hours
Of clouds and lightning and rain,
You came like a vision of flowers
And summer and song once again:
You came, and I could not receive you,
Seared in my flesh, in my sight.
I heedlessly turned back to leave you;
We passed on into the night.
(Heart, soul and all, sweet, never to sever, Love me for ever!)
Dearest, in hours of twilight,
Terrible, silent and lone,
When the light, long sought for as my light
And found, for ever seemed gone —
When the hope of the love-dream of boyhood
Passed sad with unknowing rebuff,
With your passionate patience and joyhood
You came, O my Priestess of Love!
(Heart, soul and all, dear, never to sever, Love me for ever!)
With your lips to mine deathly-reposing,
You kissed back the blood and the sighs:
You lit up my tired eyes unclosing
With the light of your beautiful eyes.
You held me close-pressed to your bosom,
Your heart to my heart, beating strong,
In mine eyes put your life like a blossom,
Put my love in your lips like a song!
(Heart, soul and all, sweet, never to sever,
Love me for ever!)
Dearest, of my heart-blood's Evangel
I hail you Queen, and of me:
Sweetest, I revere you Archangel
Of the better time that shall be.
So to these Songs, for my love's sake,
As Priestess of Love must you stand,
And, for the great Truth above's sake,
God's seraph with his sword in your hand!
(Heart, soul and all, dear, never to sever,
Love me for ever!)
poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
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Algernon Charles Swinburne
SHRIEKS out of smoke, a flame of dung-straw fire
That is not quenched but hath for only fruit
What writhes and dies not in its rotten root:
Two things made flesh, the visible desire
To match in filth the skunk, the ape in ire,
Mouthing before the mirrors with wild foot
Beyond all feebler footprint of pursuit,
The perfect twanger of the Chinese lyre!
A heart with generous virtues run to seed
In vices making all a jumbled creed:
A soul that knows not love nor trust nor shame,
But cuts itself with knives to bawl and bleed —
If thou we've known of late, art still the same,
What need, O soul, to sign thee with thy name?
Once on thy lips the golden-honeyed bees
Settling made sweet the heart that was not strong,
And sky and earth and sea swooned into song:
Once on thine eyes the light of agonies
Flashed through the soul and robbed the days of ease.
But tunes turn stale when love turns babe, and long
The exiled gentlemen grow fat with wrong,
And peasants, workmen, beggars, what are these?
O you who sang the Italian smoke above —
Mud-lark of Freedom, pipe of that vile band
Whose envy slays the tyrant, not the love
Of these poor souls none have the keeping of —
It is your hand — it is your pander hand
Smites the bruised mouth of pilloried Ireland!
poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
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When God And I Sang Love Songs
In the beginning was the word and the word wanted me
words many words haunted my days haunted my nights
sleepless nights so tired so tired yet the word wanted me
wanting needing to sleep yet words drove me would not let me be
words lines of verse filling filling my mind time after absorbent time
poems born in the night night visions night words wanting born life
no choice no choice the word commands commanded servant soul writes
hot summer nights sped youth hair dusty blond skin beach burnt brown
wind kissed bronze naked skin sea carried surging soul safe in wave water
salt spray wave spray sea foam wave burst white foam birth born surging
sea surge ocean surge wind wide sea beach breaking over wild soul free
swimming beach sand river tides water pulse washing over through soul
riding out hard fast with death wave laughing life rhythms tide fast run
words nights of words stone dropping given in love to God life codes
biorhythms still life lost thirty minutes hours blink in deep meditations
diving into quest states mind soaring soaring
through vast layered sea deep meaning
poems freeborn so many poems written intermixing
together rhythm worship never ending
poems life love wave vibrant harmonic ad hoc fusing
soul carried I sang our life songs of life
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Woman He Loves
(Troy Seals/Eddie Setser)
You can tell a lot about a man
By the woman he loves
'Cause nothing else shows a part of his soul
Like she does
And she'd be the one to swear that he hung
The moon above
Yeah you can tell a lot about a man
By the woman he loves
She knows him inside out
The things he dreams about
And makes them come true when she can
She knows all of his faults
The demons he's fought
With nothin' but his hard-workin' hands
And he calls out her name
In passion and pain
She makes him stronger each time
Yeah it's there on her lips
And her fingertips
That she's with him to 'til end of the line
(Yeah) you can tell a lot about a man
By the woman he loves (yes you can)
'Cause nothing else shows a part of his soul
Like she does and she'd be the one to swear that he hung
The moon above
Yeah you can tell a lot about a man
By the woman he loves
You can tell a lot about a man
By the woman he loves
'Cause nothing else shows a part of his soul
Like she does
And she'd be the one to swear that he hung
The moon above
Yeah you can tell a lot about a man
By the woman he loves
Yeah you can tell a lot about a man
By the woman he loves
He loves
He always loves
song performed by by Alabama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Marriage On A Sunday
the man is albanian
we think he is British, bloody british they'd say.
at six feet five, his built is horrendous,
if horrible means the same as that,
broad shoulders, pluffy, peachy cheeks
glowing in Philippine summer. He is the groom.
the woman is a Filipina, chinky, brownish,
short, petite, too small for his huge kind of
affection, they call it love. she is a mere five feet
long black hair, small arms,
frail, she is beautiful and too innocent
for this kind of an important affair. Marriage.
Her chatmate finally now her groom.
Her saviour from poverty, and family honour.
It is none of my business really. But i have
doubts on this discrepancy.
Love, is this love? Can love bloom
between tall and short, between white
and brown, between the rich and the poor,
between an innocent Filipina girl and
and a bloody britisher? Forgive the word.
Tell me, who's the lucky one?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Poem for All Men and Women!
Woman,
Demean not your body
Given to you
For a divine purpose!
Woman,
You're not mere body, though!
A soul's passage
To an earthly sojourn
Is no spitoon!
The hips
That hold life secure
The breasts
That nourish growth
The body
That bears the world
Can never be a play-field
For the undeserving
For those who look upon it
As a booty to loot!
It's not for measly men
Who price it at their whim!
Woman,
Ridden with pain
Your body is a celebration too
Woman,
Your body is a unique creation
To house creation!
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Lyric four bulls
Woman walked in forest alone
Met man
Man aroused appetite for her
Man ran and knocked his head on tree
Tail grew out
Hairy jaw grew in mouth
Hind legs grew
Man metamorphosed because was
Lion cannibal
Tried to attack man
Woman asked cannibal
‘’where’re your four
red and white bulls’’
‘’Do you know them’’
‘’Yes, you sing their
Oldest lyric’’
Cannibal laughed
In hoarse voice
Sang,
‘’One red and white spotted bull is sold
One red and white bull spotted is stolen
One red and white spotted bull is swallowed
One red and white spotted bull is scattered
On earth, scattered on earth, on earth, on earth……………….., cannibal sang tune of ‘’scattered on earth’’ happily for long and until
He napped and woman disappeared.
poem by David Aoloch Bion
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The Raging Storm
Winds howled, while rain drummed on the roof, so loud,
The thin walls squeaked, as heard from shack within,
The flimsy roof, might as well be a shroud,
Of stick and grass, that now has spread so thin.
A gust, so strong, decreed the shack must lean,
While flying leaves and twigs, came speeding by;
Tomorrow's trash, the storm will leave to clean,
Just then a gust, has kissed the roof goodbye.
A calm ensued, but soon, winds howled anew,
No roof waits now, to delight the rain,
Debris, that back to where it came, all flew,
The shack that leaned, is now upright again.
And yet, more storms deep in the heart, still rage
With wayward winds that blow, and rain that strums,
Might sway the soul astray, the coward's wage,
But now a song of hope, within it hums.
poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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White Feather
(fish / marillion)
When I hit the streets back in 81
Found a heart in the gutter and a poets crown
I felt barbed wire kisses and icicle tears
Where have I been for all these years?
I saw political intrigue, political lies
Gonna wipe those smiles of self-satisfaction from their eyes
I will wear your white feather I will carry your white flag
I will swear I have no nation but Im proud to own my heart
I will wear your white feather I will carry your white flag
I will swear I have no nation but Im proud to own my heart
My heart, this is my heart
We dont need no uniforms, we have no disguise
Divided we stand, together well rise
We will wear your white feather
All the children
We will carry your white flag
We will swear we have no nations
Beirut children
But were proud to own our hearts
Jeruzalem children
We will wear your white feather
Tokio children
We will carry your white flag
Moscow children
We will swear we have no nations
Washington children
But were proud to own our hearts
Munich children
These are our hearts
Chicago children
These are our hearts
Cairo children
You cant take away our hearts ...
You cant steal our hearts away
I cant walk away I cant walk away
No more, no more, no more, no more...
song performed by by Marillion
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet XXIV: Rich Fools There Be
Rich fools there be, whose base and filthy heart
Lies hatching still the goods wherein they flow:
And damning their own selves to Tantal's smart,
Wealth breeding want, more blist more wretched grow.
Yet to those fools heav'n such wit doth impart
As what their hands do hold, their heads do know,
And knowing love, and loving, lay apart,
As sacred things, far from all danger's show.
But that rich fool who by blind Fortune's lot
The richest gem of love and life enjoys,
And can with foul abuse such beauties blot;
Let him, depriv'd of sweet but unfelt joys,
(Exil'd for aye from those high treasures, which
He knows not) grow in only folly rich.
poem by Philip Sidney
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