Song. To -- [Harriet]
Stern, stern is the voice of fate's fearful command,
When accents of horror it breathes in our ear,
Or compels us for aye bid adieu to the land,
Where exists that loved friend to our bosom so dear,
'Tis sterner than death o’er the shuddering wretch bending,
And in skeleton grasp his fell sceptre extending,
Like the heart-stricken deer to that loved covert wending,
Which never again to his eyes may appear--
And ah! he may envy the heart-stricken quarry,
Who bids to the friend of affection farewell,
He may envy the bosom so bleeding and gory,
He may envy the sound of the drear passing knell,
Not so deep is his grief on his death couch reposing,
When on the last vision his dim eyes are closing!
As the outcast whose love-raptured senses are losing,
The last tones of thy voice on the wild breeze that swell!
Those tones were so soft, and so sad, that ah! never,
Can the sound cease to vibrate on Memory’s ear,
In the stern wreck of Nature for ever and ever,
The remembrance must live of a friend so sincere.
AUGUST, 1810.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Song. To [Harriet]
Ah! sweet is the moonbeam that sleeps on yon fountain,
And sweet the mild rush of the soft-sighing breeze,
And sweet is the glimpse of yon dimly-seen mountain,
'Neath the verdant arcades of yon shadowy trees.
But sweeter than all was thy tone of affection,
Which scarce seemed to break on the stillness of eve,
Though the time it is past!--yet the dear recollection,
For aye in the heart of thy [Percy] must live.
Yet he hears thy dear voice in the summer winds sighing,
Mild accents of happiness lisp in his ear,
When the hope-winged moments athwart him are flying,
And he thinks of the friend to his bosom so dear.--
And thou dearest friend in his bosom for ever
Must reign unalloyed by the fast rolling year,
He loves thee, and dearest one never, Oh! never
Canst thou cease to be loved by a heart so sincere.
AUGUST, 1810.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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The Drowned Lover
I.
Ah! faint are her limbs, and her footstep is weary,
Yet far must the desolate wanderer roam;
Though the tempest is stern, and the mountain is dreary,
She must quit at deep midnight her pitiless home.
I see her swift foot dash the dew from the whortle,
As she rapidly hastes to the green grove of myrtle;
And I hear, as she wraps round her figure the kirtle,
'Stay thy boat on the lake,--dearest Henry, I come.'
II.
High swelled in her bosom the throb of affection,
As lightly her form bounded over the lea,
And arose in her mind every dear recollection;
'I come, dearest Henry, and wait but for thee.'
How sad, when dear hope every sorrow is soothing,
When sympathy's swell the soft bosom is moving,
And the mind the mild joys of affection is proving,
Is the stern voice of fate that bids happiness flee!
III.
Oh! dark lowered the clouds on that horrible eve,
And the moon dimly gleamed through the tempested air;
Oh! how could fond visions such softness deceive?
Oh! how could false hope rend, a bosom so fair?
Thy love's pallid corse the wild surges are laving,
O'er his form the fierce swell of the tempest is raving;
But, fear not, parting spirit; thy goodness is saving,
In eternity's bowers, a seat for thee there.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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I DON'T ENVY WOMEN 2...by talile ali
I DON'T ENVY WOMEN
NO I DON'T
THE STUFF THEY HAVE TO GO THRU
I DON'T ENVY WOMEN
NO I DON'T
HOW COULD REALITY BE SO CRUEL
I GOT A FRIEND
CUTE AS HELL
I'LL LOVE HER TILL THE BITTER END
BEEN RAPED SO MUCH
LOOKED TO GOOD TO TOUCH
MESSED UP PRICE FOR A PRETTY FACE, MY FRIEND
I DON'T ENVY WOMEN
NO I DON'T
THE SHIT THEY HAVE TO GO THRU HURTS SO MUCH
I DON'T ENVY WOMEN
NO I DON'T
HOW COULD REALITY BE SO CRUEL AND TRUE
I HAVE ANOTHER FRIEND
ALL OVER THE PLACE
AS IF SHE LOST HER MIND
WITH HEAVY FLOWS
AND HORMONE WOES
IT'S A MIRACLE SHE'S NOT DYIN
I DON'T ENVY WOMEN
NO I DON'T
THE STUFF THEY GO THRU BECAUSE WE JUST DON'T
I DON'T ENVY WOMEN
NO I DON'T
THE BRAINLESS CRUELTY JUST SIMPLY WON'T
THESE GIRLS I KNOW
THEY ALL OWN MY HEART
TO KNOW SUCH GREAT DESPAIR IS BEYOND JUST FAIR
NEVER KNOWING
A MOMENTS PEACE
AND UNTROUBLED LOVE THAT THEY CAN NEVER SHARE
I DON'T ENVY WOMEN
NO I DON'T
THE STUFF THEY ALL HAVE TO GO THRU
I DON'T ENVY WOMEN
NO I DON'T
HOW COULD THEIR LIFE BE SO CRUEL
poem by Talile Ali
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I Envy Nothing But One
I don’t envy the angels with wings who can fly
I’ve been soaring in the beautiful sky of your love
I don’t envy the beauty of the rainbow
You’ve made me the most beautiful woman in your love
I don’t envy the freedom of the dolphins swimming in the ocean
I’ve been swimming in the ocean of your loving eyes
I don’t envy Shakespeare for his love poems
I’ve become the greatest poet since I met you
I don’t envy Romeo’s faith to Juliet
You’ve never turned your heart from me, not even once
I don’t envy the softness of the dew the morning has
You’ve been kissing me gently with your tender lips
I don’t envy Monalisa’s wonderful smile Leonardo has
I’ve got one of mine on your face
I don’t envy the sweet sound a harp has
I’ve got a sweeter one when you whisper in my ears
I envy nothing but one
The way you love and make me feel this way
poem by Santi Dewi Sihombing
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Sister Rosa: A Ballad
I.
The death-bell beats!--
The mountain repeats
The echoing sound of the knell;
And the dark Monk now
Wraps the cowl round his brow,
As he sits in his lonely cell.
II.
And the cold hand of death
Chills his shuddering breath,
As he lists to the fearful lay
Which the ghosts of the sky,
As they sweep wildly by,
Sing to departed day.
And they sing of the hour
When the stern fates had power
To resolve Rosa’s form to its clay.
III.
But that hour is past;
And that hour was the last
Of peace to the dark Monk’s brain.
Bitter tears, from his eyes, gushed silent and fast;
And he strove to suppress them in vain.
IV.
Then his fair cross of gold he dashed on the floor,
When the death-knell struck on his ear.--
'Delight is in store
For her evermore;
But for me is fate, horror, and fear.'
V.
Then his eyes wildly rolled,
When the death-bell tolled,
And he raged in terrific woe.
And he stamped on the ground,--
But when ceased the sound,
Tears again began to flow.
VI.
And the ice of despair
Chilled the wild throb of care,
And he sate in mute agony still;
Till the night-stars shone through the cloudless air,
And the pale moonbeam slept on the hill.
VII.
Then he knelt in his cell:--
And the horrors of hell
Were delights to his agonized pain,
And he prayed to God to dissolve the spell,
Which else must for ever remain.
VIII.
And in fervent pray'r he knelt on the ground,
Till the abbey bell struck One:
His feverish blood ran chill at the sound:
A voice hollow and horrible murmured around--
'The term of thy penance is done!'
IX.
Grew dark the night;
The moonbeam bright
Waxed faint on the mountain high;
And, from the black hill,
Went a voice cold and still,--
'Monk! thou art free to die.'
X.
Then he rose on his feet,
And his heart loud did beat,
And his limbs they were palsied with dread;
Whilst the grave's clammy dew
O'er his pale forehead grew;
And he shuddered to sleep with the dead.
XI.
And the wild midnight storm
Raved around his tall form,
As he sought the chapel's gloom:
And the sunk grass did sigh
To the wind, bleak and high,
As he searched for the new-made tomb.
XII.
And forms, dark and high,
Seemed around him to fly,
And mingle their yells with the blast:
And on the dark wall
Half-seen shadows did fall,
As enhorrored he onward passed.
XIII.
And the storm-fiends wild rave
O’er the new-made grave,
And dread shadows linger around.
The Monk called on God his soul to save,
And, in horror, sank on the ground.
XIV.
Then despair nerved his arm
To dispel the charm,
And he burst Rosa's coffin asunder.
And the fierce storm did swell
More terrific and fell,
And louder pealed the thunder.
XV.
And laughed, in joy, the fiendish throng,
Mixed with ghosts of the mouldering dead:
And their grisly wings, as they floated along,
Whistled in murmurs dread.
XVI.
And her skeleton form the dead Nun reared
Which dripped with the chill dew of hell.
In her half-eaten eyeballs two pale flames appeared,
And triumphant their gleam on the dark Monk glared,
As he stood within the cell.
XVII.
And her lank hand lay on his shuddering brain;
But each power was nerved by fear.--
'I never, henceforth, may breathe again;
Death now ends mine anguished pain.--
The grave yawns,--we meet there.'
XVIII.
And her skeleton lungs did utter the sound,
So deadly, so lone, and so fell,
That in long vibrations shuddered the ground;
And as the stern notes floated around,
A deep groan was answered from hell.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Elegiac Stanzas On The Death Of Sir Peter Parker, Bart.
There is a tear for all that die,
A mourner o'er the humblest grave;
But nations swell the funeral cry,
And Triumph weeps above the brave.
For them is Sorrow's purest sigh
O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent:
In vain their bones unburied lie,
All earth becomes their monument!
A tomb is theirs on every page,
An epitaph on every tongue:
The present hours, the future age,
For them bewail, to them belong.
For them the voice of festal mirth
Grows hush'd, their name the only sound;
While deep Remembrance pours to Worth
The goblet's tributary round.
A theme to crowds that knew them not,
Lamented by admiring foes,
Who would not share their glorious lot?
Who would not die the death they chose?
And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined
Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be;
And early valour, glowing, find
A model in thy memory.
But there are breasts that bleed with thee
In woe, that glory cannot quell;
And shuddering hear of victory
Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell.
Where shall they turn to mourn thee less?
When cease to hear thy cherish'd name?
Time cannot teach forgetfulness
While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame.
Alas! for them, though not for thee,
They cannot choose but weep the more;
Deep for the dead the grief must be,
Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before.
October 1814.
The Rebel
WITH none to heed or mark
The prisoner in his cell,
In a dungeon, lone and dark,
He tuned his wild farewell.
The harp whose strings might never breathe again
The joyous sounds it gave to Freedom's strain,
With hurried chords, his trembling fingers woke;
And thus the brave, but captive rebel spoke :--
Farewell! mine own dear land!
That I have loved thee well,
This faint, but blood-red hand,
These iron fetters tell:
And if I weep, it is not for the breeze,
At summer evenings whispered thro' the trees;
Though I would die to breathe that air again--
I weep, to think upon my country's chain!
Farewell to those I loved,
Whom I no more shall see;
And, oh! in sorrow proved,
To those who once loved me,
With whom beneath the chesnut's spreading shade
In happy days of infancy, I played;
Who never more will hear the rebel's name
Without a blush, a crimson blush, of shame.
Oh! I am young to die,
Forsaken thus by all:
With none to hear me sigh,
With none to weep my fall.
How my heart yearns for joys for ever flown--
My mother's hand--my sister's gentle tone!
And wishes wild within my bosom swell,
In sorrow's broken tones to bid farewell!
Land of untrodden hills!
Where still, in happy dreams,
I hear the mountain rills,
Leap forth in gushing streams:
I love thee so, that fearfully I shrink
From death, whose power will burst each galling link;
And sigh to live, though life no more be free,
Lest, in the grave, I dream no more of thee!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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On The Death Of Rev. William Benwell, M.A.
Thou camest with kind looks, when on the brink
Almost of death I strove, and with mild voice
Didst soothe me, bidding my poor heart rejoice,
Though smitten sore: Oh, I did little think
That thou, my friend, wouldst the first victim fall
To the stern King of Terrors! Thou didst fly,
By pity prompted, at the poor man's cry;
And soon thyself were stretched beneath the pall,
Livid infection's prey. The deep distress
Of her, who best thy inmost bosom knew,
To whom thy faith was vowed; thy soul was true,
What powers of faltering language shall express?
As friendship bids, I feebly breathe my own,
And sorrowing say, Pure spirit, thou art gone!
poem by William Lisle Bowles
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To the Departed Soul of my dear friend KASTHURI-Poem-1
To the departed soul
of my dear friend
KASTHURI
POEM -1
Oh! my Kasthuri!
My dear, dear friend!
My beloved, revered, a God-send!
I know not
What sin of any sort
I ever did commit, even in thought
To lose you,
A gem of lives few
Who attained full nobility true!
To your duty tightly tied,
You were kindness personified,
With simplicity swinging in your stride!
Beauty you ardently loved,
Gulping it to your heart's content, you roved,
But by fate's cruel hand were you shoved!
Books and books you read,
All day your eyes on them, you shed,
Peace they instilled even in thy death-bed!
A loving dear indeed!
My heart's fond friend in need;
From Death's icy hands, her life I couldn't plead!
Wherever can I find
A true friend of thy kind
Taking my heart behind? .
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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Death, My Friend
Death, my friend - so good to see you!
Stand aloft and view my soul!
I have to say you’re looking frightful -
Bony chum, you affable ghoul.
Death, my friend, so charmed I’m sure!
State your case and tell me straight -
Am I worthy of reward, so
Venture I to Heaven’s Gate?
Death, my friend, a new acquaintance!
You're always welcome in my home -
Though the stare from empty sockets
Indicates to Hell we roam!
Death, my friend - my bosom buddy.
My! your finger points at me!
Be you tired of my frivolity?
Aha, I see - Oblivion, we!
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
Death death death death death death
Death death death death death death
Death death death death death death
Death death death death death death
Death death death death death death
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Voice From The Mountain
Voice from the mountain
And a voice from the sea
Voice in my neighbourhood
And a voice calling me.
Tell me my friend my friend
Tell me with love
Where can it end it end
Voice from above.
The sound on the ocean wave
And the sound in the tree
Sound in a country lane
Say you can be free.
Tell me you crowd you crowd
Tell me again
Tell me out loud out loud
This sound is rain.
Tune from the hillside
And tune full of light
A flute in the morning
And a chime in the night.
I know the game again
I know the score
I know my name my name
But this tune is more.
Voice from the mountain
And voice from the sea
Voice from in my neighbourhood
And a voice calling me.
Tell me my friend my friend
Tell me with love
Where can it end it end
Voice from above.
song performed by by Nick Drake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Lover's Envy
I envy every flower that blows
Along the meadow where she goes,
And every bird that sings to her,
And every breeze that brings to her
The fragrance of the rose.
I envy every poet's rhyme
That moves her heart at eventime,
And every tree that wears for her
Its brightest bloom, and bears for her
The fruitage of its prime.
I envy every Southern night
That paves her path with moonbeams white,
And silvers all the leaves for her,
And in their shadow weaves for her
A dream of dear delight.
I envy none whose love requires
Of her a gift, a task that tires:
I only long to live to her,
I only ask to give to her
All that her heart desires.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Sea Song of the Exiles
Dear land, farewell!
Waves surge and swell.
Dear land, farewell, --
Blue sky!
Farewell, white cot whence the ripe grapes fall,
Gold blooms that bask on the mossy wall!
Dear land, farewell!
Hill, plain, and dell!
Dear land, farewell, --
Blue sky!
Dear land, farewell!
Waves surge and swell.
Dear land, farewell, --
Blue sky!
Farewell, betrothed, with the pure, pale brow;
'Neath sombre heaven dark billows we plough.
Dear land, farewell!
In thee our loves dwell;
Dear land, farewell, --
Blue sky!
Dear land, farewell!
Waves surge and swell.
Dear land, farewell, --
Blue sky!
Our eyes, whose tears all brightness blot,
Leave the dark wave for a darker lot!
Dear land, farewell!
In our heart's a knell.
Dear land, farewell, --
Blue sky!
poem by Victor Hugo
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The Outcast
“There is a race of people inhabiting the Vale of Lieze,
on the French side of the Pyrenees, who are supposed to be
descended from the Saracens, and are entirely excluded from
communion with the rest of mankind.—They are even obliged to
enter the churches by a separate door, and no one will make use
of the holy water which their touch has polluted.”
The vineyards of France ‘neath their fruitage were bending,
And spread their rich clusters of blue to the sun,
And high o'er the steep of the mountain ascending,
The soft voice of song, with wild merriment blending,
Told where the gay harvester's toil was begun.
The sun its last glance o'er the landscape was flinging,
And sounds from afar came distinctly and clear;
The birds from each covert their vespers were singing,
And far in the vale the deep convent-bell ringing,
Sent up its sad tones to the wanderer's ear.
He flung himself down with an aspect of sadness,
And listlessly gazed on the landscape below;
His spirit by scorn had been goaded to madness,
And now that bright scene, and those murmurs of gladness,
Seem'd rising before him to mock at his woe.
“Oh why,” he exclaim'd, as the bitter tear started,
“Oh why was I form'd with a bosom to feel!
Since thus I was doom'd from mankind to be parted,
An outcast on earth, lone, and desolate-hearted,
Too vile with the vilest in worship to kneel.
“And thou—loved and lost one—oh why didst thou nourish
The weed that was trampled by all, save by thee;
The gleamings of light in my young spirit cherish,
And waken high feelings and hopes but to perish,
And leave my dark fate doubly dreadful to me?
“In the hours of my slumber proud visions come o'er me,
And life for a moment seems brightly to smile,
The pathway of glory and fame is before me,
The noble caress, and the lovely adore me,
And every sad thought from my bosom beguile.
“But, ah! from those dreams soon and sadly I waken,
To find all around me thrice gloomy and drear;
To know that thou, too, from my arms hast been taken,
Thou blest and revered one, whose friendship unshaken,
The darkest, the saddest, of moments would cheer.
“Oh death! thou stern foe to the lovely and blooming,
Thou terror to those who are blessing and blest!
How freely this bosom would welcome thy coming,
How gladly, thy garment of darkness assuming,
Sink down into slumber and peace on thy breast!”
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Song. Translated From The German
Ah! grasp the dire dagger and couch the fell spear,
If vengeance and death to thy bosom be dear,
The dastard shall perish, death’s torment shall prove,
For fate and revenge are decreed from above.
Ah! where is the hero, whose nerves strung by youth,
Will defend the firm cause of justice and truth;
With insatiate desire whose bosom shall swell,
To give up the oppressor to judgement and Hell--
For him shall the fair one twine chaplets of bays,
To him shall each warrior give merited praise,
And triumphant returned from the clangour of arms,
He shall find his reward in his loved maiden's charms.
In ecstatic confusion the warrior shall sip,
The kisses that glow on his love's dewy lip,
And mutual, eternal, embraces shall prove,
The rewards of the brave are the transports of love.
OCTOBER, 1809.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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On An Old Roundel
Death, from thy rigour a voice appealed,
And men still hear what the sweet cry saith,
Crying aloud in thine ears fast sealed,
Death.
As a voice in a vision that vanisheth,
Through the grave's gate barred and the portal steeled
The sound of the wail of it travelleth.
Wailing aloud from a heart unhealed,
It woke response of melodious breath
From lips now too by thy kiss congealed,
Death
II.
Ages ago, from the lips of a sad glad poet
Whose soul was a wild dove lost in the whirling snow,
The soft keen plaint of his pain took voice to show it
Ages ago.
So clear, so deep, the divine drear accents flow,
No soul that listens may choose but thrill to know it,
Pierced and wrung by the passionate music's throe.
For us there murmurs a nearer voice below it,
Known once of ears that never again shall know,
Now mute as the mouth which felt death's wave o'erflow it
Ages ago.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Love Tucked Away
Love tucked away
In two hearts
Where neither jealousy
Or envy could enter.
You are always beside me
As sister, friend and mentor.
Love tucked away,
In all the kind things you
Have done to help me grow,
I just had to say it again,
So you would know
How much I cherish
The kind of friend you are,
Love tucked away,
Whether we are near or far.
Love tucked away,
A treasure so deep in my heart,
You've been my friend
Right from the start.
Since the day we first met,
My dear friend I have had
Not one moment of regret.
Love You!
(For Gertrude)
poem by Dorothy Holmes
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To D-
In thee I fondly hoped to clasp
A friend whom death alone could sever;
Till envy, with malignant grasp,
Detach’d thee from my breast for ever.
True, she has forced thee from my breast,
Yet in my heart thou keep’st thy seat;
There, there thine image still must rest,
Until that heart shall cease to beat.
And when the grave restores her dead,
When life again to dust is given,
On thy dear breast I’ll lay my head—-
Without thee where would be my heaven?
poem by Byron (1803)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Song. Despair
Ask not the pallid stranger's woe,
With beating heart and throbbing breast,
Whose step is faltering, weak, and slow,
As though the body needed rest.--
Whose 'wildered eye no object meets,
Nor cares to ken a friendly glance,
With silent grief his bosom beats,--
Now fixed, as in a deathlike trance.
Who looks around with fearful eye,
And shuns all converse with man kind,
As though some one his griefs might spy,
And soothe them with a kindred mind.
A friend or foe to him the same,
He looks on each with equal eye;
The difference lies but in the name,
To none for comfort can he fly.--
'Twas deep despair, and sorrow’s trace,
To him too keenly given,
Whose memory, time could not efface--
His peace was lodged in Heaven.--
He looks on all this world bestows,
The pride and pomp of power,
As trifles best for pageant shows
Which vanish in an hour.
When torn is dear affection's tie,
Sinks the soft heart full low;
It leaves without a parting sigh,
All that these realms bestow.
JUNE, 1810.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Sonnet: Envy
In human hearts, the fire of Envy burns,
All night and day, since birth until one’s death!
No matter what lessons the mind still learns,
The eyes of Envy stay green till last breath.
Why should Envy occupy the heart’s core?
Does God not give talents to all the men?
To everyone, He opens a new door!
Just sinless labor will earn him Heaven.
But not all men are made of same substance;
Yet, plenty can be done in any field;
One’s toil’s outweighed by environment and chance;
To suppress others, powers never wield!
The poison, Envy devours any heart,
And spells chaos and doom for any art.
poem by John Celes
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