A Bridal Measure
Come, essay a sprightly measure,
Tuned to some light song of pleasure.
Maidens, let your brows be crowned
As we foot this merry round.
From the ground a voice is singing,
From the sod a soul is springing.
Who shall say 't is but a clod
Quick'ning upward toward its God?
Who shall say it? Who may know it,
That the clod is not a poet
Waiting but a gleam to waken
In a spirit music-shaken?
Phyllis, Phyllis, why be waiting?
In the woods the birds are mating.
From the tree beside the wall,
Hear the am'rous robin call.
Listen to yon thrush's trilling;
Phyllis, Phyllis, are you willing,
When love speaks from cave and tree,
Only we should silent be?
When the year, itself renewing,
All the world with flowers is strewing,
Then through Youth's Arcadian land,
Love and song go hand in hand.
Come, unfold your vocal treasure,
Sing with me a nuptial measure,--
Let this springtime gambol be
Bridal dance for you and me.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Related quotes
Phyllis
PHYLLIS, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day,
Few are my years, but my griefs are not few,
Ever to youth should each day be a May-day,
Warm wind and rose-breath and diamonded dew—
Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day.
Oh for the sunlight that shines on a May-day!
Only the cloud hangeth over my life.
Love that should bring me youth's happiest heyday
Brings me but seasons of sorrow and strife:
Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day.
Sunshine or shadow, or gold day or gray day,
Life must be lived as our destinies rule;
Leisure or labor or work day or play day—
Feasts for the famous and fun for the fool;
Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Response
When Phyllis sighs and from her eyes
The light dies out; my soul replies
With misery of deep-drawn breath,
E'en as it were at war with death.
When Phyllis smiles, her glance beguiles
My heart through love-lit woodland aisles,
And through the silence high and clear,
A wooing warbler's song I hear.
But if she frown, despair comes down,
I put me on my sack-cloth gown;
So frown not, Phyllis, lest I die,
But look on me with smile or sigh.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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The Knotting Song
"Hears not my Phyllis how the birds
Their feathered mates salute?
They tell their passion in their words:
Must I alone be mute?"
Phyllis, without frown or smile,
Sat and knotted all the while.
"The god of love in thy bright eyes
Does like a tyrant reign;
But in thy heart a child he lies,
Without his dart of flame."
Phyllis, without frown or smile,
Sat and knotted all the while.
"So many months in silence past,
And yet in raging love,
Might well deserve one word at last
My passion should approve."
Phyllis, without frown or smile,
Sat and knotted all the while.
"Must then your faithful swain expire,
And not one look obtain,
Which he, to soothe his fond desire,
Might pleasingly explain?"
Phyllis, without frown or smile,
Sat and knotted all the while.
poem by Sir Charles Sedley
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A Pastoral Ballad III: Solicitude
Why will you my passion reprove?
Why term it a folly to grieve?
Ere I shew you the charms of my love,
She is fairer than you can believe.
With her mien she enamours the brave;
With her wit she engages the free;
With her modesty pleases the grave;
She is ev'ry way pleasing to me.
O you that have been of her train,
Come and join in my amorous lays;
I could lay down my life for the swain,
That will sing but a song in her praise.
When he sings, may the nymphs of the town
Come trooping, and listen the while;
Nay on him let not Phyllida frown;
-- But I cannot allow her to smile.
For when Paridel tries in the dance
Any favour with Phyllis to find,
O how, with one trivial glance,
Might she ruin the peace of my mind!
In ringlets he dresses his hair,
And his crook is be-studded around;
And his pipe -- oh may Phyllis beware
Of a magic there is in the sound.
'Tis his with mock passion to glow;
'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold,
``How her face is as bright as the snow,
And her bosom, be sure, is as cold?
How the nightingales labour the strain,
With the notes of his charmer to vie;
How they vary their accents in vain,
Repine at her triumphs, and die.''
To the grove or the garden he strays,
And pillages every sweet;
Then, suiting the wreath to his lays
He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
``O Phyllis, he whispers, more fair,
More sweet than the jessamine's flow'r!
What are pinks, in a morn, to compare?
What is eglantine, after a show'r?
Then the lily no longer is white;
Then the rose is depriv'd of its bloom;
Then the violets die with despight,
And the wood-bines give up their perfume.''
Thus glide the soft numbers along,
And he fancies no shepherd his peer;
-- Yet I never should envy the song,
Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear.
Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,
So Phyllis the trophy despise:
Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,
So they shine not in Phyllis's eyes.
The language that flows from the heart
Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue;
-- Yet may she beware of his art,
Or sure I must envy the song.
poem by William Shenstone
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Astrophel's Song Of Phyllida And Corydon
Fair in a morn (O fairest morn!),
Was never morn so fair,
There shone a sun, though not the sun
That shineth in the air.
For the earth, and from the earth,
(Was never such a creature!)
Did come this face (was never face
That carried such a feature).
Upon a hill (O blessèd hill!
Was never hill so blessèd),
There stood a man (was never man
For woman so distressed):
This man beheld a heavenly view,
Which did such virtue give
As clears the blind, and helps the lame,
And makes the dead man live.
This man had hap (O happy man!
More happy none than he);
For he had hap to see the hap
That none had hap to see.
This silly swain (and silly swains
Are men of meanest grace):
Had yet the grace (O gracious gift!)
To hap on such a face.
He pity cried, and pity came
And pitied so his pain,
As dying would not let him die
But gave him life again.
For joy whereof he made such mirth
As all the woods did ring;
And Pan with all his swains came forth
To hear the shepherd sing;
But such a song sung never was,
Nor shall be sung again,
Of Phyllida the shepherds' queen,
And Corydon the swain.
Fair Phyllis is the shepherds' queen,
(Was never such a queen as she,)
And Corydon her only swain
(Was never such a swain as he):
Fair Phyllis hath the fairest face
That ever eye did yet behold,
And Corydon the constant'st faith
That ever yet kept flock in fold;
Sweet Phyllis is the sweetest sweet
That ever yet the earth did yield,
And Corydon the kindest swain
That ever yet kept lambs in field.
Sweet Philomel is Phyllis' bird,
Though Corydon be he that caught her,
And Corydon doth hear her sing,
Though Phyllida be she that taught her:
Poor Corydon doth keep the fields
Though Phyllida be she that owes them,
And Phyllida doth walk the meads,
Though Corydon be he that mows them:
The little lambs are Phyllis' love,
Though Corydon is he that feeds them,
The gardens fair are Phyllis' ground,
Though Corydon is he that weeds them.
Since then that Phyllis only is
The only shepherd's only queen;
And Corydon the only swain
That only hath her shepherd been,--
Though Phyllis keep her bower of state,
Shall Corydon consume away?
No, shepherd, no, work out the week,
And Sunday shall be holiday.
poem by Nicholas Breton
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Black And Blue (feat. Phyllis Hyman And Tom Scott)
(Duet with Phyllis Hyman)
LYRICS BY ADRIENNE ANDERSON
MUSIC BY BARRY MANILOW AND TOM KELLY
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
BARRY:
There are no stars tonight, There are no words to say
I feel my soul losing you
PHYLLIS:
Where did the good times go, Baby what can we do
Color our love
BOTH:
Black and blue, Black and blue
PHYLLIS:
When our hearts were young, Clinging to each other
Moonlight used to glow
BOTH:
When our hearts were young, Then there was no other
BARRY:
Whyd we let it go
Down on the avenue, You can forget your name
BOTH:
Paint pretty pictures, False and true
BARRY:
Picture what weve become
PHYLLIS:
Running is all we do
Color our love
BOTH:
Black and blue, Black and blue
Looks like a storm tonight
A storm is overdue
Color our love
Black and blue, Black and blue, Oh
song performed by by Barry Manilow
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Phyllis's Age
How old may Phyllis be, you ask,
Whose beauty thus all hearts engages?
To answer is no easy task;
For she has really two ages.
Stiff in brocard, and pinch'd in stays,
Her patches, paint, and jewels on;
All day let envy view her face;
And Phyllis is but twenty-one.
Paint, patches, jewels laid aside,
At night astronomers agree,
The evening has the day belied;
And Phyllis is some forty-three.
poem by Matthew Prior
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A Pastoral.
Sweet birds! that sit and sing among the shady valleys,
And see how sweetly Phyllis walks amid her garden alleys,
Go round about her bower, and sing as ye are bidden:
To her is only known his faith that from the world is hidden,
And she among you all that hath the sweetest voice,
Go chirp of him that never told, yet never changed, his voice.
And not forget his faith that lived forever loved
Yet never made his fancy known, nor ever favor moved;
And ever let your ground of all your grace be this-
'To you, to you, to you the due of love and honor is,
On you, on you, on you our music all attendeth,
For as on you our Muse begun, in you all music endeth.'
poem by Nicholas Breton
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Of one thing I am certain, the body is not the measure of healing, peace is the measure.
quote by Phyllis McGinley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Phyllis, farewell
Phyllis, farewell, I may no longer live;
Yet if I die, fair Phyllis, I forgive.
I live too long; come, gentle death and end
My endless torment, or my grief amend.
poem by Thomas Bateson
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To Phyllis
Phyllis! why should we delay
Pleasures shorter than the day?
Can we (which we never can)
Stretch our lives beyond their span,
Beauty like a shadow flies,
And our youth before us dies.
Or, would youth and beauty stay,
Love has wings, and will away.
Love has swifter wings than Time;
Change in love to heaven doth climb.
Gods, that never change their state,
Vary oft their love and hate.
Phyllis! to this truth we owe
All the love betwixt us two.
Let not you and I inquire
What has been our past desire;
On what shepherds you have smiled,
Or what nymphs I have beguiled;
Leave it to the planets too,
What we shall hereafter do;
For the joys we now may prove,
Take advice of present love.
poem by Edmund Waller
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September's Brought The Spring
The golden whistler whistles on the gray gum tree
And lyrebird in good mood for mimicry
And magpie piping in the morning gray
And currawong tell rain not far away.
I love the hills of Sherbrooke in the Spring
When wattles bloom and all the free birds sing
The voice of yellow tailed black cockatoo
And spotted dove utter his mating coo.
The rhododendrons flushed with bright pink flowers
And the trees look greener after cool spring showers
September brings with it rich greenery
And nest building birds prepare for family.
Were I a bard born with the gift of rhyme
I'd write a song for Sherbrooke in Springtime
And I'd sing my song that some might wish to hear
Of Sherbrooke in September of the year.
The yellow robin singing in the wind and rain
And the sky turn bright and the sun shine out again
And in Sherbrooke woods the wild and free birds sing
And September's come and brought with it the Spring.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Phyllis Is My Only Joy
Phyllis is my only joy,
Faithless as the winds or seas;
Sometimes coming, sometimes coy,
Yet she never fails to please;
If with a frown
I am cast down,
Phyllis smiling,
And beguiling,
Makes me happier than before.
Though, alas! too late I find
Nothing can her fancy fix,
Yet the moment she is kind
I forgive her all her tricks;
Which, though I see,
I can't get free;
She deceiving,
I believing;
What need lovers wish for more?
poem by Sir Charles Sedley
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Mom And Dad
If my Mom and Dad had not died
When I was young
What would my life have been like?
Would my Mom had showed me
How to use make-up;
And tell me, “not too much,
Or it will cake-up.”
What about the Father and Daughter dance;
Would my Dad had taken me,
If he had the chance.
I wonder if my Mom
Would have talked to me
About my little monthly friend;
And bring me a hot cup of tea
Every month that it began,
And let me lie in bed
With a warm heating pad.
Would my Dad had talked
To me about boys;
The one’s I should date,
The one’s to avoid.
I wonder what it would be like
To have living parents when you’re grown
Would your Mom still hold you;
And hum a happy song.
If you had a day
That didn’t go right;
Would your Dad take you out,
For a Father and Daughter night.
I wonder if I would have
Asked my Dad for money;
Would he just reach in his wallet,
And say “here you go honey.”
I wonder if my Mom and Dad
Would have cried at my first wedding.
What emotion at my divorce?
Cried at my second wedding.
At the birth of my child rejoice.
Would my Mom be in the room
When I had my first baby;
Would she had held my hand,
And said “it’s part of being a lady.”
If my parents had not died
When I was young;
Would they be proud of me?
What I grew-up to be.
Copyright © by Phyllis Strong
poem by Phyllis Strong
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Horace to phyllis
Come, Phyllis, I've a cask of wine
That fairly reeks with precious juices,
And in your tresses you shall twine
The loveliest flowers this vale produces.
My cottage wears a gracious smile,--
The altar, decked in floral glory,
Yearns for the lamb which bleats the while
As though it pined for honors gory.
Hither our neighbors nimbly fare,--
The boys agog, the maidens snickering;
And savory smells possess the air
As skyward kitchen flames are flickering.
You ask what means this grand display,
This festive throng, and goodly diet?
Well, since you're bound to have your way,
I don't mind telling, on the quiet.
'Tis April 13, as you know,--
A day and month devote to Venus,
Whereon was born, some years ago,
My very worthy friend Maecenas.
Nay, pay no heed to Telephus,--
Your friends agree he doesn't love you;
The way he flirts convinces us
He really is not worthy of you!
Aurora's son, unhappy lad!
You know the fate that overtook him?
And Pegasus a rider had--
I say he had before he shook him!
Haec docet (as you must agree):
'T is meet that Phyllis should discover
A wisdom in preferring me
And mittening every other lover.
So come, O Phyllis, last and best
Of loves with which this heart's been smitten,--
Come, sing my jealous fears to rest,
And let your songs be those I've written.
poem by Eugene Field
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From: Horace To: Phyllis Subject: Invitation
Horace: Book IV, Ode 11
"Est mihi nonum superantis annum--"
Phyllis, I've a jar of wine,
(Alban, B.C. 49)
Parsley wreathes, and, for your tresses,
Ivy that your beauty blesses.
Shines my house with silverware;
Frondage decks the altar stair--
Sacred vervain, a device
For a lambkin's sacrifice.
Up and down the household stairs
What a festival prepares!
Everybody's superintending--
See the sooty smoke ascending!
What, you ask me, is the date
Of the day we celebrate?
13th April, month of Venus--
Birthday of my boss, Mycænas.
Let me, Phyllis, say a word
Touching Telephus, a bird
Ranking far too high above you;
(And the loafer doesn't love you).
Lessons, Phyllie, may be learned
From Phaëton--how he was burned!
And recall Bellerophon was
One equestrian who thrown was.
Phyllis, of my loves the last,
My philandering days are past.
Sing you, in your clear contralto,
Songs I write for the rialto.
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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God Has Blessed America
God has blessed America
with the ability to choose.
And we lean to our own understanding;
not asking him what to do.
God has blessed America
with landscape’s that will take your breath away.
And we dig-up and cut-down,
and litter everyday.
When God made the earth
He said, “It is good.”
And we’re not taking care of it;
like we know we really should.
God has blessed America
more than we deserve;
With his love and compassion,
His mercies new each day.
God has blessed America
With the babies that he give;
and we abuse and neglect them,
and kill them daily still.
God has Blessed America
Oh how he blessed us so.
We have freedom in our country;
More than other countries will know.
God has blessed America
with oceans blue as the sky;
and we pollute them, killing sea life,
not caring that they die.
God has blessed America
we have freedom of speech;
and we destroy; killing spirits
with the poison that we speak.
God has blessed America
The land we say we love;
But we continue to destroy it,
The land we’re unworthy of.
Copyright © 2010 by-Phyllis Strong
poem by Phyllis Strong
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A Pastoral Ballad I: Absence
Arbusta humilesque myricæ. Virg.
Ye shepherds so chearful and gay,
Whose flocks never carelessly roam;
Should Corydon's happen to stray,
Oh! call the poor wanderers home.
Allow me to muse and to sigh,
Nor talk of the change that ye find;
None once was so watchful as I;
-- I have left my dear Phyllis behind.
Now I know what it is, to have strove
With the torture of doubt and desire;
What it is, to admire and to love,
And to leave her we love and admire.
Ah lead forth my flock in the morn,
And the damps of each ev'ning repel;
Alas! I am faint and forlorn:
-- I have bade my dear Phyllis farewel.
Since Phyllis vouchsaf'd me a look,
I never once dreamt of my vine;
May I lose both my pipe and my crook,
If I knew of a kid that was mine.
I priz'd every hour that went by,
Beyond all that had pleas'd me before;
But now they are past, and I sigh;
And I grieve that I priz'd them no more.
But why do I languish in vain;
Why wander thus pensively here?
Oh! why did I come from the plain,
Where I fed on the smiles of my dear?
They tell me, my favourite maid,
The pride of that valley, is flown;
Alas! where with her I have stray'd,
I could wander with pleasure, alone.
When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at my heart!
Yet I thought -- but it might not be so --
'Twas with pain that she saw me depart.
She gaz'd, as I slowly withdrew;
My path I could hardly discern;
So sweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me return.
The pilgrim that journeys all day
To visit some far-distant shrine,
If he bear but a relique away,
Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus widely remov'd from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
Soft hope is the relique I bear,
And my solace wherever I go.
poem by William Shenstone
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The Useless Ones
Poets should not reason:
Let them sing!
Argument is treason —
Bells should ring.
Statements none, nor questions;
Gnomic words.
Spirit-cries, suggestions,
Like the birds.
He may use deduction
Who must preach;
He may praise instruction
Who must teach;
But the poet duly
Fills his part
When the song bursts truly
From his heart.
For no purpose springing;
For no pelf:
He must do the singing
For itself.
Not in lines austerely
Let him build;
Not the surface merely
Let him gild.
Fearless, uninvited,
Like a spring.
Opal-words, inlighted,
Let him sing.
As the leaf grows sunward
Song must grow;
As the stream flows onward
Song must flow.
Useless? Ay, — for measure;
Roses die,
But their breath gives pleasure —
God knows why!
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Id Like To Teach The World To Sing
(r. cook/r. greenway/b. backer/b. davis)
Id like to build the world a home
And furnish it with love
Grow apple trees and honey bees
And snow-white turtle doves
Chorus:
Id like to teach the world to sing
In perfect harmony
Id like to hold it in my arms
And keep it company
(thats the song I hear)
Id like to see the world for once
(let the world sing today)
All standing hand in hand
And hear them echo through the hills
For peace throughout the land
Thats the song I hear
(thats the song I hear)
Let the world sing today
(let the whole wide world keep singing)
A song of peace that echoes on
And never goes away
(repeat 1st stanza and chorus)
Put your hand in my hand
Lets begin today
Put your hand in my hand
Help me find a way
(repeat chorus til fade)
song performed by by Lea Salonga
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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