A Tale
(_Epilogue to 'The Two Poets of Croisic.'_)
What a pretty tale you told me
Once upon a time
--Said you found it somewhere (scold me!)
Was it prose or was it rhyme,
Greek or Latin? Greek, you said,
While your shoulder propped my head.
Anyhow there's no forgetting
This much if no more,
That a poet (pray, no petting!)
Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore,
Went where suchlike used to go,
Singing for a prize, you know.
Well, he had to sing, nor merely
Sing but play the lyre;
Playing was important clearly
Quite as singing: I desire,
Sir, you keep the fact in mind
For a purpose that's behind.
There stood he, while deep attention
Held the judges round,
--Judges able, I should mention,
To detect the slightest sound
Sung or played amiss: such ears
Had old judges, it appears!
None the less he sang out boldly,
Played in time and tune,
Till the judges, weighing coldly
Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon,
Sure to smile 'In vain one tries
Picking faults out: take the prize!'
When, a mischief! Were they seven
Strings the lyre possessed?
Oh, and afterwards eleven,
Thank you! Well, sir,--who had guessed
Such ill luck in store?--it happed
One of those same seven strings snapped.
All was lost, then! No! a cricket
(What 'cicada'? Pooh!)
--Some mad thing that left its thicket
For mere love of music--flew
With its little heart on fire,
Lighted on the crippled lyre.
So that when (Ah joy!) our singer
For his truant string
Feels with disconcerted finger,
What does cricket else but fling
Fiery heart forth, sound the note
Wanted by the throbbing throat?
Ay and, ever to the ending,
Cricket chirps at need,
Executes the hand's intending,
Promptly, perfectly,--indeed
Saves the singer from defeat
With her chirrup low and sweet.
Till, at ending, all the judges
Cry with one assent
'Take the prize--a prize who grudges
Such a voice and instrument?
Why, we took your lyre for harp,
So it shrilled us forth F sharp!'
Did the conqueror spurn the creature
Once its service done?
That's no such uncommon feature
In the case when Music's son
Finds his Lotte's power too spent
For aiding soul development.
No! This other, on returning
Homeward, prize in hand,
Satisfied his bosom's yearning:
(Sir, I hope you understand!)
--Said 'Some record there must be
Of this cricket's help to me!'
So, he made himself a statue:
Marble stood, life size;
On the lyre, he pointed at you,
Perched his partner in the prize;
Never more apart you found
Her, he throned, from him, she crowned.
That's the tale: its application?
Somebody I know
Hopes one day for reputation
Thro' his poetry that's--Oh,
All so learned and so wise
And deserving of a prize!
If he gains one, will some ticket
When his statue's built,
Tell the gazer ''Twas a cricket
Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt
Sweet and low, when strength usurped
Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped?
'For as victory was nighest,
While I sang and played,--
With my lyre at lowest, highest,
Right alike,--one string that made
'Love' sound soft was snapt in twain
Never to be heard again,--
'Had not a kind cricket fluttered,
Perched upon the place
Vacant left, and duly uttered
'Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the bass
Asked the treble to atone
For its somewhat sombre drone.'
But you don't know music! Wherefore
Keep on casting pearls
To a--poet? All I care for
Is--to tell him that a girl's
'Love' comes aptly in when gruff
Grows his singing, (There, enough!)
poem by Robert Browning
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Related quotes
From Anacreon
I wish to tune my quivering lyre
To deed of fame and notes of fire;
To echo, from its rising swell,
How heroes fought and nations fell,
When Atreus' sons advanced to war,
Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar;
But still, to martial strains unknown,
My lyre recurs to love alone.
Fired with the hope of future fame,
I seek some nobler hero's name;
The dying chords are strung anew,
To war, to war, my harp is due.
With glowing strings, the epic strain
To Jove's great son I raise again;
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds.
All, all in vain; my wayward lyre
Wakes silver notes of soft desire.
Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms!
Adieu the clang of war's alarms!
To other deeds my soul is strung,
And sweeter notes shall now be sung;
My harp shall all its powers reveal,
To tell the tale my heart must feel;
Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim,
In songs of bliss and sighs of flame.
Butterfly Flutterby
The butterfly was young
Her vibrant wings of delicate lace
Such grace such poise
A hcarming butterfly
The cricket was slick thicket
Moving quick but swift
Yet smart somewhat wise
Proud of his chirp
Hopping through the grass
Butterfly fluttered by till upon a rose
Spreading her wings a dainty show
Slowly sipping sweet
Hopping skipping
Cricket saw
Butterfly glanced
The cricket saw butterfly
The butterfly looked yonder
Cricket hopped and chirped
A jumpety crickety song
Butterfly sighed
And rolled her eyes
Cricket hopped closer
Butterfly laughed
Silly cricket trying hard
Butterfly cared less
Poor cricket hopped and hopped
Butterfly sipping nectar sweet
Cricket sang sonfter sweeter
Butterfly stopped
A song so sweet
Too lovely than nectar
Cricket hopped upon a rose
Butterfly jumped
Almost to fly away
Cricket song too lovely to fly away
Butterfly in a trance
Fluttering her wings lovely
Too charming
Too tempting
Crickect sang
Butterfly in a spell
Too late to break
Lovers forever
Strange couple though
Yet lovely
Yet happy
Suave cricket, Princess Butterfly
Flutterby, flutterby.......
poem by Bella Ravenstar
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O Friend
O friend, tickle the strings of thy voluptuous lyre
And rend all air with musical sound-
Such sound, that I might drown
All my misery, my universe and my love
Yes, this love that cans't be mine
That gold will buy love matters not,
A fair foul fancy, if love were aught.
O friend play - dispel misery in the air,
Revive agonies, set my heart on fire
Play o play upon thy lyre,
that I may have extremity of despair. [1960]
No One Gets The Prize
(nickolas ashford/valerie simpson)
No one, no one gets the prize
No one, no one
No one gets the prize
We were best of friends
It all began
He came in to town and changed the plan
I knew she felt, the same as me
Which one of us would it be
Just in fun, fight begun
Before long a web of hate was spun
She pretended same as me
Oh, but friends again wed never be
No one, no one gets the prize
She told him lies, and I told him lies
No one, no one gets the prize
She schemed and dreamed and told him dirt
That I was wrong for him
I told him all the boys shed hurt and I would number them
He was the ray of light that made our hearts live
But either one of us knew really how to give
So we scandalized and criticized
And then we learned how to despise
No one, no one gets the prize
She told him lies and I lied, I lied yeah
No one, no one gets the prize
No, no, no
Yeah, yeah
Back off
Tried to steal him, tried to steal him
Tried to steal him
Runnin behind my back
Tried to steal him
Tried to show him where it was at
Watch it now
No, no I wont take second place
No, no tell him to his face
We were friends for so, so, so long
Messed around, now hes gone gone gone gone
No one, no one gets the prize
No, no
No one, no one gets the prize
I wasnt alive, a love thats satisfied
No one, no one gets the prize
It wasnt fair, the love I couldnt share
No one, no one gets the prize
No, no
No one, no one gets the prize
No one, no one gets the prize
She lied, I lied, we lied
No one, no one
song performed by by Diana Ross
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Who Art Thou?
Who art thou playing the eternal lyre,
Harmonize the discordant world;
Extinguish the burning fire?
Who art thou play the eternal lyre?
You create on one hand,
Destruct on the other!
Who art thou singing the song of Eternity,
Thou turn tempest into music,
And flow peace in the heart of Humanity?
Who art thou flash through
The thundercloud, and shower through rain,
Wipe out our mental pain,
Just to put us in belief,
That thou art here?
Who art thou play the eternal lyre?
(There are some eternal questions- who has kept this world in unity? Is He God? Does He expose Him through the objects of nature?)
poem by Nilakshi Das
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Cricket World-Cup’99 (Indian Style)
The Carnival of World Cricket
Is off to a start this May;
The seventh time, the world teams clash,
For glory, seeking their way!
All will be o’er in six weeks ’time;
Could India pull off a win?
Time will decide if Azhar’s boys,
Can stun the world once again.
No more Cricket’s an English game!
It’s love has caught all men;
The fever is on; game has begun;
The testing ground- England;
The Indian squad has gone ahead,
To get acclimatized;
Eleven kilos is the Cup’s weight!
Anyone gets enticed.
Few hundred pounds
Is the cost of the Cup;
Green light is on; the end will come;
Non one has yet given up!
A huge money-prize is at stake;
And Cricket-lovers are gay!
Glued to their T.V sets all stay;
The young and old, this May.
Not all can win laurels, acclaim;
O Indians, go proclaim;
Thy uniqueness and love of the game,
‘tis a worthy cause and name!
Weather and pressures could decide,
The pitch as well, the game;
With some effort and some Dame Luck,
It is anyone’s game;
Do your job as well as you can,
And pray good things happen;
The LORD decides the Game at Lords!
The Game is much open!
poem by John Celes
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Phoebus And Hermes
DELOS' stately ruler, and Maia's son, the adroit one,
Warmly were striving, for both sought the great prize to obtain.
Hermes the lyre demanded, the lyre was claim'd by Apollo,
Yet were the hearts of the foes fruitlessly nourish'd by hope.
For on a sudden Ares burst in, with fury decisive,
Dashing in twain the gold toy, brandishing wildly his sword.
Hermes, malicious one, laughed beyond measure; yet deep-seated sorrow
Seized upon Phoebus's heart, seized on the heart of each Muse.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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A Supplication
Awake, awake, my Lyre!
And tell thy silent master's humble tale
In sounds that may prevail;
Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:
Though so exalted she
And I so lowly be
Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.
Hark, how the strings awake!
And, though the moving hand approach not near,
Themselves with awful fear
A kind of numerous trembling make.
Now all thy forces try;
Now all thy charms apply;
Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.
Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure
Is useless here, since thou art only found
To cure, but not to wound,
And she to wound, but not to cure,
Too weak too wilt thou prove
My passion to remove;
Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love.
Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre!
For thou canst never tell my humble tale
In sounds that will prevail,
Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire;
All thy vain mirth lay by,
Bid thy strings silent lie,
Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die.
poem by Abraham Cowley
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Shakespeare?
And what think ye of Shakespeare? 'Twas not he
Of Stratford is the lord of England's lyre;
Ay, not the rustic lad, whoe'er it be,
Momentous in his doing and desire.
But little Latin and less Greek? Ah, no!
It was a teeming scholar who enwrought
The wondrous pages where the wisest go
For th' culmination of the life of thought.
No jovial actor, no mere Shakescene who
Found it so hard his dear name to indite,
The marvellous pictures of our nature drew
And limned the universe in his delight.
We do not know the man; but 'twas not Will
Whose hand is on the lyre of England still.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Poetry is Everywhere
To all my friends who say –
Poetry is not my cup of tea,
I’d strongly recommend that
they watch “Dead Poet’s Society”.
Poetry is in your cup of tea,
poetry is in every wave of the sea,
poetry is in the song of a bird
poetry springs forth from each of your word.
Poetry is in the smile of a baby,
poetry is in the redness of a ruby,
poetry is the union of your heart and mind
poetry teaches you to be soft and kind.
Poetry is the song of your soul,
poetry reminds you of your life’s goal,
poetry is in a game of cricket,
poetry is in the sound of a cricket.
Imagine life without poetry -
What an empty life it would be!
Imagine a world without poetry -
What a dull place it would be!
09 June 2010
! 2: 50 pm
poem by Gita Ashok
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Gimme The Prize (Instrumental Remix)
Words and music by Brian May
'..garage and water from the sprinklers
It also left a man's decapitated body lying on the floor
next to his own severed head,a head which at this time has
no name'
'I know his name'
Here I am I'm the master of your destiny
I am the one the only one I am the god of kingdom come
Gimme the prize just gimme the prize
Give me your kings let me squeeze then in my hands
Your puny princes
Your so called leaders of your land
I'll eat them whole before I'm done
The battle's fought and the game is won
I am the one the only one
I am the god of kingdom come
Gimme the prize just gimme the prize
'Now you die'
'I have something to say,it's better to burn out than to fade
away...
There can be only one'
Move over I said move over
Hey hey hey clear the way
There's no escape from my authority - Didn't I tell you
I am the one the only one I am the god of kingdom come
Gimme the prize just gimme the prize
I am the one the only one
I am the god of kingdom come
Gimme the prize
'THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE'
song performed by by Queen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gimme The Prize
Words and music by brian may
'..garage and water from the sprinklers
It also left a man's decapitated body lying on the floor
Next to his own severed head,a head which at this time has
No name'
'i know his name'
Here i am i'm the master of your destiny
I am the one the only one i am the god of kingdom come
Gimme the prize just gimme the prize
Give me your kings let me squeeze then in my hands
Your puny princes
Your so called leaders of your land
I'll eat them whole before i'm done
The battle's fought and the game is won
I am the one the only one
I am the god of kingdom come
Gimme the prize just gimme the prize
'now you die'
'i have something to say,it's better to burn out than to fade
Away...
There can be only one'
Move over i said move over
Hey hey hey clear the way
There's no escape from my authority - didn't i tell you
I am the one the only one i am the god of kingdom come
Gimme the prize just gimme the prize
I am the one the only one
I am the god of kingdom come
Gimme the prize
'there can be only one'
song performed by by Queen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Win Of Cricket 2011
So I remember this cricket we win
with fresh flower for you Indians
and the wonderful sights you made here
winning the match 2011
Then we 'll go to there
deep under the emotions
and go over a great moments
to skate through our great dreams
and be under the thrill
I love to play with them,
And to watch them with you
I cannot live without cricket
I will never forget playing cricket in those days
poem by Thampi KEE
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The Australian Muse
Uplift thy lyre, and touch the tender strings;
But leave unsung the epics of thy land
Til thou and time have made a song both grand
And mellow with thy long imaginings.
Breathe forth the secret whisperings of thy birth,
And play the soft tunes of thine infancy;
Nor sing the dull oft-told reality
Of worldly ways; but rather let the earth
Grow old; then sing the great songs of its youth.
Then thou, whilst ageing in the pass of time,
Add fame to fame, and rhyme to gloried rhyme
Till fit thy lyre is for song of Truth.
But now, a child-song sweet with laughs and
Tears,
And let the unripe ripen with the years.
poem by Leon Gellert
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The Silent Melody
"BRING me my broken harp," he said;
"We both are wrecks,-- but as ye will,--
Though all its ringing tones have fled,
Their echoes linger round it still;
It had some golden strings, I know,
But that was long-- how long!-- ago.
"I cannot see its tarnished gold,
I cannot hear its vanished tone,
Scarce can my trembling fingers hold
The pillared frame so long their own;
We both are wrecks,-- awhile ago
It had some silver strings, I know,
"But on them Time too long has played
The solemn strain that knows no change,
And where of old my fingers strayed
The chords they find are new and strange,--
Yes! iron strings,-- I know,-- I know,--
We both are wrecks of long ago.
"We both are wrecks,-- a shattered pair,
Strange to ourselves in time's disguise
What say ye to the lovesick air
That brought the tears from Marian's eyes?
Ay! trust me,-- under breasts of snow
Hearts could be melted long ago!
"Or will ye hear the storm-song's crash
That from his dreams the soldier woke,
And bade him face the lightning flash
When battle's cloud in thunder broke?
Wrecks,-- nought but wrecks!-- the time was when
We two were worth a thousand men!"
And so the broken harp they bring
With pitying smiles that none could blame;
Alas there's not a single string
Of all that filled the tarnished frame!
But see! like children overjoyed,
His fingers rambling through the void!
"I clasp thee! Ay . . . mine ancient lyre. . .
Nay, guide my wandering fingers. . . There!
They love to dally with the wire
As Isaac played with Esan's hair. . . .
Hush! ye shall hear the famous tune
That Marina called the Breath of June!"
And so they softly gather round:
Rapt in his tuneful trance he seems:
His fingers move: but not a sound!
A silence like the song of dreams. . . .
"There! ye have heard the air," he cries,
"That brought the tears from Marina's eyes!"
Ah, smile not at his fond conceit,
Nor deem his fancy wrought in vain;
To him the unreal sounds are sweet,--
No discord mars the silent strain
Scored on life's latest, starlit page--
The voiceless melody of age.
Sweet are the lips of all that sing,
When Nature's music breathes unsought,
But never yet could voice or string
So truly shape our tenderest thought
As when by life's decaying fire
Our fingers sweep the stringless lyre!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Swansong
“Look! The aging poet sleepwalks again.”
“Sir, should we wake him from his nightly tour? ”
“No! God no! His heart could not stand the strain.”
“He’s heading for the open study door.
His ambulant steps on the floorboards creak
With every step along the corridor.”
“Listen! The bard is beginning to speak.
Let’s heed his words, step softly on the floor.”
“Where do you lead me
Erato? Oh! The study
What for may I ask? ”
He sits at his desk with his pen in hand
Writing vigorously on a tablet
Almost as if it were by some command.
His outline cast a dreamy silhouette
On the study wall caused by the moonbeam
Shinning through a curtained opened window.
“He writes with eyes closed in his dream”
“Be still! He calls out the name, Erato”
“Erato, you say
This love poem is my last?
How so, may I ask? ”
The poets hand stops writing a moment
Than briefly begins again then desists
Completely; lays the pen down and laments
While rising from his chair clenching both fists
Then begins to walk toward his bedroom
“Should we read what the old bard has written? ”
“Not now! Let’s follow him back to his room
“But...” “Please keep quiet! He speaks once again.”
“Erato I have
Finished what you asked of me
This is my swansong.”
The old poet reached the side of his bed
And gently slid under the bed covers
A smile appears than wanes. “Is the bard dead? ”
“Yes! He’s gone where all the poet lovers’
Always go: with the lovely Erato”
“I hear a lyre! Do your ears hear the same? ”
“Yes! It plays for another poet’s soul
That enters Erato’s love poems domain”
*******************************
Standing at the old poets study desk
The two men look down upon the tablet
And begin to read the verses expressed
This saddest of nights both will not forget
My Swansong
In life all things must always reach its end
My life is no exception to this rule
True love was writing verses with this pen
And know for sure I had not been a fool
Love was all I had to offer in life
Expressed in many forms of poetry
Each I shared with my friends and loving wife
Intent was never a commodity
My time has come; the flame of life grows dim
And everything I have seen in this light
Was through the eyes of love I owe to Him
My hand grows weak, my effort ebbs tonight
I see your face, your myrtle crown and lyre
You strum the strings, sweet music to my ears.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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The Meeting
I see her still--by her fair train surrounded,
The fairest of them all, she took her place;
Afar I stood, by her bright charms confounded,
For, oh! they dazzled with their heavenly grace.
With awe my soul was filled--with bliss unbounded,
While gazing on her softly radiant face;
But soon, as if up-borne on wings of fire,
My fingers 'gan to sweep the sounding lyre.
The thoughts that rushed across me in that hour,
The words I sang, I'd fain once more invoke;
Within, I felt a new-awakened power,
That each emotion of my bosom spoke.
My soul, long time enchained in sloth's dull bower,
Through all its fetters now triumphant broke,
And brought to light unknown, harmonious numbers,
Which in its deepest depths, had lived in slumbers.
And when the chords had ceased their gentle sighing,
And when my soul rejoined its mortal frame,
I looked upon her face and saw love vieing,
In every feature, with her maiden shame.
And soon my ravished heart seemed heavenward flying,
When her soft whisper o'er my senses came.
The blissful seraphs' choral strains alone
Can glad mine ear again with that sweet tone,
Of that fond heart, which, pining silently,
Ne'er ventures to express its feelings lowly,
The real and modest worth is known to me--
'Gainst cruel fate I'll guard its cause so holy.
Most blest of all, the meek one's lot shall be--
Love's flowers by love's own hand are gathered solely--
The fairest prize to that fond heart is due,
That feels it, and that beats responsive, too!
poem by Friedrich Schiller
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Cricket Is Just Another Game
Cricket just like baseball and football and golf is just another game
And though some great cricket players have won Worldwide fame
Cricket for most cricket fans like followers of all other sports
From their life cares is just an escape of sorts
The praises of sports celebrities millions every day do sing
And nowadays sports Worldwide is a huge thing
And those not in some way involved in sport a minority
At least that is how it does seem to me
I've got nothing against cricket I'd like to make that clear
Though on t v and radio so much of it to see and hear
Like every sport for millions of poor people I am aware
A temporary escape from their lives every care
And cricket after all is just another game
Like every other sport it is much the same.
poem by Francis Duggan
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An Ode
The merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrowed name:
Euphelia serves to grace my measure;
But Cloe is my real flame.
My softest verse, my darling lyre
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay;
When Cloe noted her desire,
That I should sing, that I should play.
My lyre I tune, my voice I raise;
But with my numbers mix my sighs:
And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.
Fair Cloe blushed: Euphelia frowned:
I sung and gazed: I played and trembled:
And Venus to the Loves around
Remarked, how ill we all dissembled.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Dunce
At school I never gained a prize,
Proving myself the model ass;
Yet how I watched the wistful eyes,
And cheered my mates who topped the class.
No envy in my heart I found,
Yet bone was worthier to own
Those precious books in vellum bound,
Than I, a dreamer and a drone.
No prize at school I ever gained
(Shirking my studies, I suppose):
Yes, I remember being caned
For lack of love of Latin prose.
For algebra I won no praise,
In grammar I was far from bright:
Yet, oh, how Poetry would raise
In me a rapture of delight!
I never gained a prize at school;
The dullard's cap adorned my head;
My masters wrote me down a fool,
And yet - I'm sorry they are dead.
I'd like to go to them and say:
"Yours is indeed a tricky trade.
My honoured classmates, where are they?
Yet I, the dunce, brave books have made."
Oh, I am old and worn and grey,
And maybe have not long to live;
Yet 'tis my hope at some Prize Day
At my old school the Head will give
A tome or two of mine to crown
Some pupil's well-deserved success -
Proving a scapegrace and a clown
May win at last to worthiness.
poem by Robert William Service
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