The Happy Shepherd
Thrice, oh, thrice happy, shepherd's life and state!
When courts are happiness' unhappy pawns!
His cottage low and safely humble gate
Shuts out proud Fortune with her scorns and fawns
No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep,
Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep;
Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep.
No Syrian worms he knows, that with their thread
Draw out their silken lives: nor silken pride:
His lambs' warm fleece well fits his little need,
Not in that proud Sidonian tincture dyed:
No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright;
For begging wants his middle fortune bite:
But sweet content exiles both misery and spite.
Instead of music, and base flattering tongues,
Which wait to first salute my lord's uprise;
The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs,
And birds' sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes
In country plays is all the strife he uses;
Or sing, or dance unto the rural muses;
And but in music's sports all difference refuses.
His certain life, that never can deceive him,
Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content;
The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive him
With coolest shades, till noontide rage is spent;
His life is neither toss'd in boist'rous seas
Of troublous word, nor lost in slothful ease:
Pleased and full blest he lives, when he his God can please.
His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps,
While by his side his faithful spouse hath place;
His little son into his bosom creeps,
The lively picture of his father's face:
Never his humble house nor state torment him:
Less he could like, if less his God had sent him;
And when he dies, green turfs, with grassy tomb, content him.
poem by Phineas Fletcher
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Related quotes
Sweet are the Thoughts that Savour of Content
Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content;
The quiet mind is richer than a crown;
Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent;
The poor estate scorns fortune's angry frown:
Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss,
Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss.
The homely house that harbours quiet rest;
The cottage that affords no pride nor care;
The mean that 'grees with country music best;
The sweet consort of mirth and music's fare;
Obscured life sets down a type of bliss:
A mind content both crown and kingdom is.
poem by Robert Greene
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Maesia's Song
SWEET are the thoughts that savor of content;
The quiet mind is richer than a crown;
Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent;
The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry frown.
Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss,
Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss.
The homely house that harbors quiet rest;
The cottage that affords no pride nor care;
The mean that 'grees with country music best;
The sweet consort of mirth and music's fare;
Obscurèd life sets down a type of bliss:
A mind content both crown and kingdom is.
poem by Robert Greene
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Farewell to Folly
1 Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content;
2 The quiet mind is richer than a crown;
3 Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent;
4 The poor estate scorns fortune's angry frown:
5 Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss,
6 Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss.
7 The homely house that harbours quiet rest;
8 The cottage that affords no pride nor care;
9 The mean that 'grees with country music best;
10 The sweet consort of mirth and music's fare;
11 Obscured life sets down a type of bliss:
12 A mind content both crown and kingdom is.
poem by Robert Greene
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The Country Life:
TO THE HONOURED MR ENDYMION PORTER, GROOM OF
THE BED-CHAMBER TO HIS MAJESTY
Sweet country life, to such unknown,
Whose lives are others', not their own!
But serving courts and cities, be
Less happy, less enjoying thee.
Thou never plough'st the ocean's foam
To seek and bring rough pepper home:
Nor to the Eastern Ind dost rove
To bring from thence the scorched clove:
Nor, with the loss of thy loved rest,
Bring'st home the ingot from the West.
No, thy ambition's master-piece
Flies no thought higher than a fleece:
Or how to pay thy hinds, and clear
All scores: and so to end the year:
But walk'st about thine own dear bounds,
Not envying others' larger grounds:
For well thou know'st, 'tis not th' extent
Of land makes life, but sweet content.
When now the cock (the ploughman's horn)
Calls forth the lily-wristed morn;
Then to thy corn-fields thou dost go,
Which though well soil'd, yet thou dost know
That the best compost for the lands
Is the wise master's feet, and hands.
There at the plough thou find'st thy team,
With a hind whistling there to them:
And cheer'st them up, by singing how
The kingdom's portion is the plough.
This done, then to th' enamell'd meads
Thou go'st; and as thy foot there treads,
Thou seest a present God-like power
Imprinted in each herb and flower:
And smell'st the breath of great-eyed kine,
Sweet as the blossoms of the vine.
Here thou behold'st thy large sleek neat
Unto the dew-laps up in meat:
And, as thou look'st, the wanton steer,
The heifer, cow, and ox draw near,
To make a pleasing pastime there.
These seen, thou go'st to view thy flocks
Of sheep, safe from the wolf and fox,
And find'st their bellies there as full
Of short sweet grass, as backs with wool:
And leav'st them, as they feed and fill,
A shepherd piping on a hill.
For sports, for pageantry, and plays,
Thou hast thy eves, and holydays:
On which the young men and maids meet,
To exercise their dancing feet:
Tripping the comely country Round,
With daffadils and daisies crown'd.
Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast,
Thy May-poles too with garlands graced;
Thy Morris-dance; thy Whitsun-ale;
Thy shearing-feast, which never fail.
Thy harvest home; thy wassail bowl,
That's toss'd up after Fox i' th' hole:
Thy mummeries; thy Twelve-tide kings
And queens; thy Christmas revellings:
Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit,
And no man pays too dear for it.--
To these, thou hast thy times to go
And trace the hare i' th' treacherous snow:
Thy witty wiles to draw, and get
The lark into the trammel net:
Thou hast thy cockrood, and thy glade
To take the precious pheasant made:
Thy lime-twigs, snares, and pit-falls then
To catch the pilfering birds, not men.
--O happy life! if that their good
The husbandmen but understood!
Who all the day themselves do please,
And younglings, with such sports as these:
And lying down, have nought t' affright
Sweet Sleep, that makes more short the night.
CAETERA DESUNT--
poem by Robert Herrick
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Sweet Stay-at-Home
Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-content,
Thou knowest of no strange continent;
Thou hast not felt thy bosom keep
A gentle motion with the deep;
Thou hast not sailed in Indian seas,
Where scent comes forth in every breeze.
Thou hast not seen the rich grape grow
For miles, as far as eyes can go:
Thou hast not seen a summer's night
When maids could sew by a worm's light;
Nor the North Sea in spring send out
Bright hues that like birds flit about
In solid cages of white ice --
Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Love-one-place,
Thou hast not seen black fingers pick
White cotton when the bloom is thick,
Nor heard black throats in harmony;
Nor hast thou sat on stones that lie
Flat on the earth, that once did rise
To hide proud kings from common eyes.
Thou hast not seen plains full of bloom
Where green things had such little room
They pleased the eye like fairer flowers --
Sweet Stay-at-Home, all these long hours.
Sweet Well-content, sweet Love-one-place,
Sweet, simple maid, bless thy dear face;
For thou hast made more homely stuff
Nurture thy gentle self enough;
I love thee for a heart that's kind --
Not for the knowledge in thy mind.
poem by William Henry Davies
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Refrain
Of all the songs which poets sing
The ones which are most sweet
Are those which at close intervals
A low refrain repeat;
Some tender word, some syllable,
Over and over, ever and ever,
While the song lasts,
Altering never,
Music if sung, music if said,
Subtle like some golden thread
A shuttle casts,
In and out on a fabric red,
Till it glows all through
With the golden hue.
Oh! of all the songs sung,
No songs are so sweet
As the songs with refrains,
Which repeat and repeat.
Of all the lives lived,
No life is so sweet,
As the life where one thought,
In refrain doth repeat,
Over and over, ever and ever,
Till the life ends,
Altering never,
Joy which is felt, but is not said,
Subtler than any golden thread
Which the shuttle sends
In and out in a fabric red,
Till it glows all through
With a golden hue.
Oh! of all the lives lived,
Can be no life so sweet,
As the life where one thought
In refrain doth repeat,
"Now name for me a thought
To make life so sweet,
A thought of such joy
Its refrain to repeat."
Oh! foolish to ask me. Ever, ever
Who loveth believes,
But telleth never.
It might be a name, just a name not said,
But in every thought; like a golden thread
Which the shuttle weaves
In and out on a fabric red,
Till it glows all through
With a golden hue.
Oh! of all sweet lives,
Who can tell how sweet
Is the life which one name
In refrain doth repeat?
poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
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Humility And Pride
Two emotions deep down inside, are those of humility and pride,
They produce what men may see, in the life of both you and me.
A haughty spirit can sure reside, in a heart that’s filled with pride.
A humble spirit is in you and me, when you’re filled with humility.
You can lift yourself up with pride, but God’s Word is not denied,
And God’s Word is clear and loud, God will humble all the proud.
Men may believe that they are wise; but that is only in their eyes.
For all of pride, my dear friend, by The Lord shall be condemned.
Men who are humble and meek, by proud men considered weak,
By The Lord are never despised, but truly favored in God’s eyes.
The Lord will exalt humble men; for this is in His Word my friend,
They will be lifted up by The Lord, as by God they’re not ignored.
On the cross there was no pride, as Jesus Christ our Savior died.
Christ had displayed for us humility, as The Savior of all humanity.
The Eternal God, far from weak, was to all men humble and meek.
God’s example is for all to behold, and His Word will not grow old.
Friend pride can be a hindrance, to the life Christ has given to us,
Pride will never be used by God, but it shall be judged by His rod.
Allow Christ’s humble spirit within, then you shall be used by Him,
As only a meek and humble life, truly displays the power of Christ.
(Copyright ©05/2006)
Seven deadly sins
Greed 1
Those who consume more than they need.
Must surely merit punishment.
In time will suffer for their greed.
Those who consume more than they need
With selfishness their only creed
to others peoples detriment.
Those who consume more than the need
must surely merit punishment.
Envy 2
To covet that which you do not have,
leads to a life of misery
best to be content with your lot
To covet that which you have not
for envy of no matter what.
To covet that which you have not,
leads to a life of misery.
Lust 3
Succumb to lust, a foolish game.
A trap into which most may fall.
If pleasure is their only aim.
Succumb to lust a foolish game
an urge, the wise ones try to tame
.For empty pleasures soon must pall.
Succumb to lust a foolish game,
a trap into which most may fall.
Gluttony 4
A glutton will refill his plate
he lives to eat. Not eats to live
His tastes are far from delicate.
A glutton will refill his plate,
his appetite he cannot sate
He eats to prove he is alive.
A glutton will refill his plate
He lives to eat. Not eats to live
Anger. 5
Intemperate he shows his rage.
His wrath conceals his mortal fear.
His fury merely camouflage.
Intemperate he shows his rage.
He acts a part as though on stage,
his lip curled back into a sneer
Intemperate he show his rage,
his wrath conceals his mortal fear
Sloth 6
Procrastination is his way.
A life of slothful idleness,
tomorrow is another day.
Procrastination is his way
I am too tired he will say
when chided for his laziness.
Procrastination is his way
a life of slothful idleness.
Pride 7
He who is proud is sure to fall.
The grave renders all men to dust.
In death all men become equal
He who is proud is sure to fall
Wrapped in sack cloth or silken shawl
All men decay because they must
He who is proud is sure to fall.
The grave renders all men to dust
14-Aug-07
poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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I Salute You Zaingair
Proud be you
You Zaingair
of thy unique name
of thy unique identity
Proud be you
You Zaingair
of thy waters
Sweet thy waters seem
but poisonous they are
Proud be you
you Zaingair
Of thy sheep
innocent they seem
but cunning they are
Proud be you
You Zaingair
Of thy variety of serpents
Meek they seem
But venomous they are
Proud be you
You Zaingair
Of thy singing birds
Depth in their songs seem
But shallow they are
Proud be you
You Zaingair
Of thy huge mountains
Consistent they seem
But vacillating they are
Proud be you
You Zaingair
Of thy monkeys
Social they seems
but aliens they are
I salute you
You Zaingair, i salute you
for the variety of beasts
You have begotten
And you do nurture
poem by Showkat Ahmad Bhat
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A Petition To Time
TOUCH us gently, Time!
Let us glide adown thy stream
Gently,—as we sometimes glide
Through a quiet dream.
Humble voyagers are We,
Husband, wife, and children three—
(One is lost,—an angel, fled
To the azure overhead.)
Touch us gently, Time!
We ’ve not proud nor soaring wings:
Our ambition, our content,
Lies in simple things.
Humble voyagers are We,
O’er Life’s dim, unsounded sea,
Seeking only some calm clime;—
Touch us gently, gentle Time!
poem by Barry Cornwall
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To The Cricket
Didst thou not tease and fret me to and fro,
Sweet spirit of this summer-circled field,
With that quiet voice of thine that would not yield
Its meaning, though I mused and sought it so?
But now I am content to let it go,
To lie at length and watch the swallows pass,
As blithe and restful as this quiet grass,
Content only to listen and to know
That years shall turn, and summers yet shall shine,
And I shall lie beneath these swaying trees,
Still listening thus; haply at last to seize,
And render in some happier verse divine
That friendly, homely, haunting speech of thine,
That perfect utterance of content and ease.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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A Greek Girl
I may not weep, not weep, and he is dead.
A weary, weary weight of tears unshed
Through the long day in my sad heart I bear;
The horrid sun with all unpitying glare
Shines down into the dreary weaving-room,
Where clangs the ceaseless clatter of the loom,
And ceaselessly deft maiden-fingers weave
The fine-wrought web; and I from morn till eve
Work with the rest, and when folk speak to me
I smile hard smiles; while still continually
The silly stream of maiden speech flows on:--
And now at length they talk of him that's gone,
Lightly lamenting that he died so soon--
Ah me! ere yet his life's sun stood at noon.
Some praise his eyes, some deem his body fair,
And some mislike the colour of his hair!
Sweet life, sweet shape, sweet eyes, and sweetest hair,
What form, what hue, save Love's own, did ye wear?
I may not weep, not weep, for very shame.
He loved me not. One summer's eve he came
To these our halls, my father's honoured guest,
And seeing me, saw not. If his lips had prest
My lips, but once, in love; his eyes had sent
One love-glance into mine, I had been content,
And deemed it great joy for one little life;
Nor envied other maids the crown of wife:
The long sure years, the merry children-band--
Alas, alas, I never touched his hand!
And now my love is dead that loved not me.
Thrice-blest, thrice-crowned, of gods thrice-lovèd she--
That other, fairer maid, who tombward brings
Her gold, shorn locks and piled-up offerings
Of fragrant fruits, rich wines, and spices rare,
And cakes with honey sweet, with saffron fair;
And who, unchecked by any thought of shame,
May weep her tears, and call upon his name,
With burning bosom prest to the cold ground,
Knowing, indeed, that all her life is crown'd,
Thrice-crowned, thrice honoured, with that love of his;--
No dearer crown on earth is there, I wis.
While yet the sweet life lived, more light to bear
Was my heart's hunger; when the morn was fair,
And I with other maidens in a line
Passed singing through the city to the shrine,
Oft in the streets or crowded market-place
I caught swift glimpses of the dear-known face;
Or marked a stalwart shoulder in the throng;
Or heard stray speeches as we passed along,
In tones more dear to me than any song.
These, hoarded up with care, and kept apart,
Did serve as meat and drink my hungry heart.
And now for ever has my sweet love gone;
And weary, empty days I must drag on,
Till all the days of all my life be sped,
By no thought cheered, by no hope comforted.
For if indeed we meet among the shades,
How shall he know me from the other maids?--
Me, that had died to save his body pain!
Alas, alas, such idle thoughts are vain!
O cruel, cruel sunlight, get thee gone!
O dear, dim shades of eve, come swiftly on!
That when quick lips, keen eyes, are closed in sleep,
Through the long night till dawn I then may weep.
The dead babe
Last night, as my dear babe lay dead,
In agony I knelt and said:
"0 God! what have I done,
Or in what wise offended Thee,
That Thou should'st take away from me
My little son?
"Upon the thousand useless lives,
Upon the guilt that vaunting thrives,
Thy wrath were better spent!
Why should'st Thou take my little son -
Why should'st Thou vent Thy wrath upon
This innocent?"
Last night, as my dear babe lay dead,
Before mine eyes the vision spread
Of things that might have been:
Licentious riot, cruel strife,
Forgotten prayers, a wasted life
Dark red with sin!
Then, with sweet music in the air,
I saw another vision there:
A Shepherd in whose keep
A little lamb - my little child!
Of worldly wisdom undefiled,
Lay fast asleep!
Last night, as my dear babe lay dead,
In those two messages I read
A wisdom manifest;
And though my arms be childless now,
I am content - to Him I bow
Who knoweth best.
poem by Eugene Field
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Psalm 23
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
Even when in a famished state I hunt,
In pastures green and lush with abundance,
He renews my spry and exuberance.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
In gardens of drought He will fortune plant.
He leads to quiet pools of fresh water
from which I draw strength and endless laughter.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He does my requests for pleasant paths grant.
Even when to deepest darkness I stray,
He lovingly paves a most glorious way.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
Even when my foes seek my life to hunt,
His rod and staff give me all the comfort
that allay my fears of every discomfort.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He does my sumptuous feasts and banquets flaunt
for my blood thirsty adversaries to see
from abased locations on bended knee.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
Even when Satan tries my soul to haunt,
His goodness and mercy will follow me
until His heavenly abode I see.
poem by Joseph C Ogbonna (3 July 2022)
Submitted by Joseph C Ogbonna
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Thank You For The Music
Im nothing special, in fact Im a bit of a bore
If I tell a joke, youve probably heard it before
But I have a talent, a wonderful thing
cause everyone listens when I start to sing
Im so grateful and proud
All I want is to sing it out loud
So I say
Thank you for the music, the songs Im singing
Thanks for all the joy theyre bringing
Who can live without it, I ask in all honesty
What would life be?
Without a song or a dance what are we?
So I say thank you for the music
For giving it to me
Mother says I was a dancer before I could walk
She says I began to sing long before I could talk
And Ive often wondered, how did it all start?
Who found out that nothing can capture a heart
Like a melody can?
Well, whoever it was, Im a fan
So I say
Thank you for the music, the songs Im singing
Thanks for all the joy theyre bringing
Who can live without it, I ask in all honesty
What would life be?
Without a song or a dance what are we?
So I say thank you for the music
For giving it to me
Ive been so lucky, I am the girl with golden hair
I wanna sing it out to everybody
What a joy, what a life, what a chance!
So I say
Thank you for the music, the songs Im singing
Thanks for all the joy theyre bringing
Who can live without it, I ask in all honesty
What would life be?
Without a song or a dance what are we?
So I say thank you for the music
For giving it to me
song performed by by ABBA
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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She as life itself
She passes through life
with grace and ease and lightness
like a fine bright silken sari
caught by the gentle breeze
on an early sunny morning
and life itself seems content in that,
and smiles on her
and we who see her, feel ourselves
graceful, easy, light of heart,
love her for it,
and loving her,
love ourselves.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Lilian Stewart
I was the daughter of Lambert Hutchins,
Born in a cottage near the grist-mill,
Reared in the mansion there on the hill,
With its spires, bay-windows, and roof of slate.
How proud my mother was of the mansion!
How proud of father's rise in the world!
And how my father loved and watched us,
And guarded our happiness.
But I believe the house was a curse,
For father's fortune was little beside it;
And when my husband found he had married
A girl who was really poor,
He taunted me with the spires,
And called the house a fraud on the world,
A treacherous lure to young men, raising hopes
Of a dowry not to be had;
And a man while selling his vote
Should get enough from the people's betrayal
To wall the whole of his family in.
He vexed my life till I went back home
And lived like an old maid till I died,
Keeping house for father.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Sonnet 98: Ah Bed, The field Where Joy's Peace
Ah bed, the field where joy's peace some do see,
The field where all my thought to war be train'd,
How is thy grace by my strange fortune stain'd!
How thy lee shores by my sighs stormed be!
With sweet soft shades thou oft invitest me
To steal some rest, but wretch I am constrain'd
(Spurr'd with Love's spur, though gall'd and shortly rein'd
With Care's hand) to turn and toss in thee.
While the black horrors of the silent night
Paint woe's black face so lively to my sight,
That tedious leisure marks each wrinkled line:
But when Aurora leads out Phoebus' dance
Mine eyes then only wink, for spite perchance,
That worms should have their Sun, and I want mine.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Content In The Lord
I want to be content down here, while we live upon this earth,
Living each day in Godly fear, with a focus on eternal worth,
A sojourner on a temporal sphere, in the power of New Birth,
Making it to others very clear; Heaven’s home, not this earth.
Within my heart I take a stance, as God’s Truth I do embrace,
Since He knows all in advance, content I can be in any place,
Content through any circumstance, whatever it is I must face,
For in God, there is no chance, as He supplies all with Grace.
Life on this present terrestrial ball, isn’t the final place for me,
Nor will it be for every other soul, as all shall move to eternity,
And I’m content through it all, having my faith through Calvary,
As God saved me from the fall, and gave me new eyes to see.
I can be content now every day, while I live out this earthly life,
Walking down life’s narrow way, lead by my Lord Jesus Christ,
Hindered not by what men say, as they fill the world with strife,
I will listen to The Lord and obey, while living a life of sacrifice.
I can live my life assured, that I am always in my Savior’s sight,
As all the rivers of life I can ford, guided by The Savior’s Light,
Contented to live for my Lord, even when it gets dark as night,
As His Peace on me is poured, with my future Eternally Bright.
(Copyright ©08/2008)
A Deathless Music!
Music never dies!
There's music
For all occasions!
Music lives
By the noise of
Musical instruments!
Music flourishes
By the poetic lines
Of best poets!
Music for joy
Just as for grief
Lives with man!
Music consoles
Crying child
From birth on!
Music makes all
Slave of sweet sound
Called melody!
All love music
Intellectuals or cowboys
As in movies!
Music occupies
Till the end of life
Of all ever!
poem by Ramesh T A
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