To The Wood-Lark
O stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay,
Nor quit for me the trembling spray,
A hapless lover courts thy lay,
Thy soothing fond complaining.
Again, again that tender part,
That I may catch thy melting art,
For surely that wad touch her heart,
Wha kills me wi' disdaining.
Say, was thy little mate unkind,
And heard thee as the careless wind?
Oh, nocht but lobve and sorrow join'd,
Sic notes o' woe could wauken.
Thou tells o' never-ending care;
O' speechless grief, and dark despair;
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair!
Or my poor heart is broken!
poem by Robert Burns
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Address to the Woodlark
O Stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay,
Nor quit for me the trembling spray,
A hapless lover courts thy lay,
Thy soothing, fond complaining.
Again, again that tender part,
That I may catch thy melting art;
For surely that wad touch her heart
Wha kills me wi’ disdaining.
Say, was thy little mate unkind,
And heard thee as the careless wind?
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join’d,
Sic notes o’ woe could wauken!
Thou tells o’ never-ending care;
O’speechless grief, and dark despair:
For pity’s sake, sweet bird, nae mair!
Or my poor heart is broken.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Unkind, O, stay thy flying!
Unkind, O, stay thy flying!
And if I needs must die, pity me dying.
But in thee, my heart is lying
And no death can assail me,
Alas! till life doth fail thee,
Oh therefore, if the fates bid thee be fleeting,
Stay for me, whose poor heart thou hast in keeping.
poem by John Wilbye
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April
WHEN the fields catch flower
And the underwood is green,
And from bower unto bower
The songs of the birds begin,
I sing with sighing between.
When I laugh and sing,
I am heavy at heart for my sin;
I am sad in the spring
For my love that I shall not win,
For a foolish thing.
This profit I have of my woe,
That I know, as I sing,
I know he will needs have it so
Who is master and king,
Who is lord of the spirit of spring.
I will serve her and will not spare
Till her pity awake
Who is good, who is pure, who is fair,
Even her for whose sake
Love hath ta’en me and slain unaware.
O my lord, O Love,
I have laid my life at thy feet;
Have thy will thereof,
Do as it please thee with it,
For what shall please thee is sweet.
I am come unto thee
To do thee service, O Love;
Yet cannot I see
Thou wilt take any pity thereof,
Any mercy on me.
But the grace I have long time sought
Comes never in sight,
If in her it abideth not,
Through thy mercy and might,
Whose heart is the world’s delight.
Thou hast sworn without fail I shall die,
For my heart is set
On what hurts me, I wot not why,
But cannot forget
What I love, what I sing for and sigh.
She is worthy of praise,
For this grief of her giving is worth
All the joy of my days
That lie between death’s day and birth,
All the lordship of things upon earth.
Nay, what have I said?
I would not be glad if I could;
My dream and my dread
Are of her, and for her sake I would
That my life were fled.
Lo, sweet, if I durst not pray to you,
Then were I dead;
If I sang not a little to say to you,
(Could it be said)
O my love, how my heart would be fed;
Ah sweet who hast hold of my heart,
For thy love’s sake I live,
Do but tell me, ere either depart,
What a lover may give
For a woman so fair as thou art.
The lovers that disbelieve,
False rumours shall grieve
And evil-speaking shall part.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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The Blossom
LITTLE think'st thou, poor flower,
Whom I've watch'd six or seven days,
And seen thy birth, and seen what every hour
Gave to thy growth, thee to this height to raise,
And now dost laugh and triumph on this bough,
Little think'st thou,
That it will freeze anon, and that I shall
To-morrow find thee fallen, or not at all.
Little think'st thou, poor heart,
That labourest yet to nestle thee,
And think'st by hovering here to get a part
In a forbidden or forbidding tree,
And hopest her stiffness by long siege to bow,
Little think'st thou
That thou to-morrow, ere the sun doth wake,
Must with the sun and me a journey take.
But thou, which lovest to be
Subtle to plague thyself, wilt say,
Alas! if you must go, what's that to me?
Here lies my business, and here I will stay
You go to friends, whose love and means present
Various content
To your eyes, ears, and taste, and every part;
If then your body go, what need your heart?
Well then, stay here; but know,
When thou hast stay'd and done thy most,
A naked thinking heart, that makes no show,
Is to a woman but a kind of ghost.
How shall she know my heart; or having none,
Know thee for one?
Practice may make her know some other part;
But take my word, she doth not know a heart.
Meet me in London, then,
Twenty days hence, and thou shalt see
Me fresher and more fat, by being with men,
Than if I had stay'd still with her and thee.
For God's sake, if you can, be you so too;
I will give you
There to another friend, whom we shall find
As glad to have my body as my mind.
poem by John Donne (1633)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin
I.
Mine eyes were dim with tears unshed;
Yes, I was firm -- thus wert not thou;--
My baffled looks did fear yet dread
To meet thy looks -- I could not know
How anxiously they sought to shine
With soothing pity upon mine.
II.
To sit and curb the soul's mute rage
Which preys upon itself alone;
To curse the life which is the cage
Of fettered grief that dares not groan,
Hiding from many a careless eye
The scornèd load of agony.
III.
Whilst thou alone, then not regarded,
The thou alone should be,
To spend years thus, and be rewarded,
As thou, sweet love, requited me
When none were near -- Oh! I did wake
From torture for that moment's sake.
IV.
Upon my heart thy accents sweet
Of peace and pity fell like dew
On flowers half dead;-- thy lips did meet
Mine tremblingly; thy dark eyes threw
Their soft persuasion on my brain,
Charming away its dream of pain.
V.
We are not happy, sweet! our state
Is strange and full of doubt and fear;
More need of words that ills abate;--
Reserve or censure come not near
Our sacred friendship, lest there be
No solace left for thee and me.
VI.
Gentle and good and mild thou art,
Nor can I live if thou appear
Aught but thyself, or turn thine heart
Away from me, or stoop to wear
The mask of scorn, although it be
To hide the love thou feel'st for me.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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To Anthea, Who May Command Him Any Thing
Bid me to live, and I will live
Thy Protestant to be;
Or bid me love, and I will give
A loving heart to thee.
A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
A heart as sound and free
As in the whole world thou canst find,
That heart I'll give to thee.
Bid that heart stay, and it will stay
To honour thy decree;
Or bid it languish quite away,
And't shall do so for thee.
Bid me to weep, and I will weep,
While I have eyes to see;
And having none, yet I will keep
A heart to weep for thee.
Bid me despair, and I'll despair,
Under that cypress tree;
Or bid me die, and I will dare
E'en death, to die for thee.
--Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
The very eyes of me;
And hast command of every part,
To live and die for thee.
poem by Robert Herrick
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Juliet: Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree:
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.
Romeo: It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.
Night‘s candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Juliet: Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I:
It is some meteor that the sun exhal‘d,
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua.
Therefore stay yet; thou need‘st not to be gone.
Romeo: Let me be ta‘en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I‘ll say yon grey is not the morning‘s eye,
‘Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia‘s brow;
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads.
I have more care to stay than will to go:
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.
How is‘t, my soul? let‘s talk; it is not day.
Juliet: It is, it is: hie hence, be gone, away!
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.
Some say the lark makes sweet division;
This doth not so, for she divideth us.
Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes,
O, now I would they had changed voices too!
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunt‘s-up to the day.
O, now be gone; more light and light it grows.
Romeo: More light and light; more dark and dark our woes!
line from Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Address To Music
OH thou! whose soft, bewitching lyre,
Can lull the sting of pain to rest;
Oh thou! whose warbling notes inspire,
The pensive muse with visions blest;
Sweet music! let thy melting airs
Enhance my joys, and sooth my cares!
Is there enchantment in thy voice,
Thy dulcet harp, thy moving measure;
To bid the mournful mind rejoice,
To raise the fairy form of pleasure?
Yes, heav'nly maid! a charm is thine,
A magic art, a spell divine!
Sweet music! when thy notes we hear,
Some dear remembrance oft they bring,
Of friends belov'd, no longer near,
And days that flew on rapture's wing;
Hours of delight that long are past,
And dreams of joy, too bright to last!
And oft 'tis thine the soul to fire,
With glory's animating flame,
Bid valor's noble sons aspire
To win th' immortal wreath of fame
Thine too, the soft, expressive tones,
That pity, tender pity owns!
Oh harmony! celestial pow'r!
Thou syren of the melting soul!
In sorrow's reign, in pleasure's hour,
My heart shall own thy blest control;
And ever let thy moving airs,
Enhance my joys and sooth my cares!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Despairing Mary
Mary why thus waste thy youth-time in sorrow?
See, a' around you the flowers sweetly blaw;
Blithe sets the sun o'er the wild cliffs of Jura,
Blithe sings the mavis in ilka green shaw.
How can this heart ever mair think of pleasure,
Summer may smile, but delight I ha'e nane;
Cauld in the grave lies my heart's only treasure,
Nature seems dead since my Jamie is gane.
This 'kerchief he gave me, a true lover's token,
Dear, dear to me was the gift for his sake!
I wear't near my heart, but this poor heart is broken,
Hope died with Jamie, and left it to break
Sighing for him, I lie down in the e'ening,
Sighing for him, I awake in the morn;
Spent are my days a' in secret repining,
Peace to this bosom can never return.
Oft have we wander'd in sweetest retirement,
Telling our loves 'neath the moon's silent beam,
Sweet were our meetings of tender endearment,
But fled are these joys like a fleet-passing dream.
Cruel Remembrance, ah! why wilt thou wreck me,
Brooding o er joys that for ever are flown!
Cruel Remembrance, in pity forsake me,
Flee to some bosom where grief is unknown!
poem by Robert Tannahill
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Ever in thought
The song is sweet
Catch not it in the cassette.
The picture is sexy.
Hang not it on the wall.
She is your sweet heart.
Own not her as your mate
Let them ever stay away
So that they stay in you.
30.06.2002PKD
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Sheperd Boy
LIKE some vision olden
Of far other time,
When the age was golden,
In the young world's prime
Is thy soft pipe ringing,
O lonely shepherd boy,
What song art thou singing,
In thy youth and joy?
Or art thou complaining
Of thy lowly lot,
And thine own disdaining
Dost ask what thou hast not?
Of the future dreaming,
Weary of the past,
For the present scheming,
All but what thou hast.
No, thou art delighting
In thy summer home;
Where the flowers inviting
Tempt the bee to roam;
Where the cowslip bending,
With its golden bells,
Of each glad hour's ending
With a sweet chime tells.
All wild creatures love him
When he is alone,
Every bird above him
Sings its softest tone.
Thankful to high Heaven,
Humble in thy joy,
Much to thee is given,
Lowly shepherd boy.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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Hymn
I HEARD a voice at midnight, and it cried,
"O weary heart, O soul for which I died,
Why wilt thou spurn My wounded hands and side?
"Is there a heart more tender, more divine,
Than that sad heart which gave itself for thine?
5
Could there be love more warm, more full than Mine?
"What other touch can still thy trembling breath?
What other hand can hold thee after death?
What bread so sweet to him that hungereth?
"Warm is thy chamber, soft and warm thy bed;
10
Bleak, howling winds are round the path I tread;—
The Son of man can nowhere lay His head.
"Wilt thou not open to Me? To and fro
I wander, weary, thro' the driving snow;
But colder still that thou wouldst spurn Me so.
15
"I have a crown more bright than all that be,
I have a kingdom wider than the sea;
But both have I abandoned, seeking thee.
"Poor, weary heart, so worn and sad within!
Oh, open to thy Friend, thy Stay from sin,
20
That I, with all My love, may enter in."
I heard a voice at midnight, and I cried,
"O Lord, I need Thy wounded hands and side—
I need Thy love,—Lord, enter and abide."
poem by Frederick George Scott
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Stay
If thou can wait then thou shall stay Baby I want for nothing Just your tender sweet loving I know you got your things to do But tell me what means more to you hanging out with me or with your boys Sometimes I do get lonely But no you and no one to hold me You want so much to lay me down Is that what keeps you hanging 'round? Is that the only way to win your heart? But if I loved you a little bit longer If our love was a little bit stronger Would you stay stay Baby please stay If I granted all of your wishes Gave you more than touches and kisses Would you stay stay I need you to stay I'll be be yours forever But can we keep us together? I know the time is drawing near I promised you
song performed by by Destiny's Child from The Writing's On The Wall
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Anthea, who may command him Anything
BID me to live, and I will live
Thy Protestant to be;
Or bid me love, and I will give
A loving heart to thee.
A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
A heart as sound and free
As in the whole world thou canst find,
That heart I'll give to thee.
Bid that heart stay, and it will stay
To honour thy decree:
Or bid it languish quite away,
And 't shall do so for thee.
Bid me to weep, and I will weep
While I have eyes to see:
And, having none, yet will I keep
A heart to weep for thee.
Bid me despair, and I'll despair
Under that cypress-tree:
Or bid me die, and I will dare
E'en death to die for thee.
Thou art my life, my love my heart,
The very eyes of me:
And hast command of every part
To live and die for thee.
poem by Robert Herrick
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A Poets's Welcome to His Love-Begotten Daughter
Thou's welcome, wean; mishanter fa' me,
If thoughts o' thee, or yet thy mammie,
Shall ever daunton me or awe me,
My sweet wee lady,
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me
Tyta or daddie.
Tho' now they ca' me fornicator,
An' tease my name in countra clatter,
The mair they talk, I'm kend the better,
E'en let them clash;
An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter
To gie ane fash.
Welcome! my bonie, sweet, wee dochter,
Tho' ye come here a wee unsought for,
And tho' your comin' I hae fought for,
Baith kirk and queir;
Yet, by my faith, ye're no unwrought for,
That I shall swear!
Sweet fruit o' monie a merry dint,
My funny toil is no a' tint,
Tho' thou cam to the warl' asklent,
Which fools may scoff at;
In my last plack thy part's be in't
The better ha'f o't.
Tho' I should be the waur bestead,
Thou's be as braw and bienly clad,
And thy young years as nicely bred
Wi' education,
As onie brat o' wedlock's bed,
In a' thy station.
Wee image o' my bonie Betty,
As fatherly I kiss and daut thee,
As dear and near my heart I set thee
Wi' as gude will
As a' the priests had seen me get thee
That's out o' hell.
Lord grant that thou may aye inherit
Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit,
An' thy poor, worthless daddy's spirit,
Without his failins,
'Twill please me mair to see thee heir it,
Than stockit mailens.
For if thou be what I wad hae thee,
And tak the counsel I shall gie thee,
I'll never rue my trouble wi' thee -
The cost nor shame o't,
But be a loving father to thee,
And brag the name o't.
poem by Robert Burns
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Sonnet XXV. By The Same.
Just before his Death.
WHY should I wish to hold in this low sphere
'A frail and feverish being?' wherefore try
Poorly from day to day to linger here,
Against the powerful hand of Destiny?
By those who know the force of hopeless care
On the worn heart--I sure shall be forgiven,
If to elude dark guilt, and dire despair,
I go uncall'd--to mercy and to heaven!
O thou! to save whose peace I now depart,
Will thy soft mind thy poor lost friend deplore,
When worms shall feed on this devoted heart,
Where even thy image shall be found no more?
Yet may thy pity mingle not with pain,
For then thy hapless lover--dies in vain!
poem by Charlotte Smith
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Ode to the Nightingale
SWEET BIRD OF SORROW! why complain
In such soft melody of Song,
That ECHO, am'rous of thy Strain,
The ling'ring cadence doth prolong?
Ah! tell me, tell me, why,
Thy dulcet Notes ascend the sky.
Or on the filmy vapours glide
Along the misty moutain's side?
And wherefore dost Thou love to dwell,
In the dark wood and moss-grown cell,
Beside the willow-margin'd stream
Why dost Thou court wan Cynthia's beam?
Sweet Songstressif thy wayward fate
Hath robb'd Thee of thy bosom's mate,
Oh, think not thy heart-piercing moan
Evap'rates on the breezy air,
Or that the plaintive Song of Care
Steals from THY Widow'd Breast alone.
Oft have I heard thy mournful Tale,
On the high Cliff, that o'er the Vale
Hangs its dark brow, whose awful shade
Spreads a deep gloom along the glade:
Led by its sound, I've wander'd far,
Till crimson evening's flaming Star
On Heav'n's vast dome refulgent hung,
And round ethereal vapours flung;
And oft I've sought th'HYGEIAN MAID,
In rosy dimply smiles array'd,
Till forc'd with every HOPE to part,
Resistless Pain subdued my Heart.
Oh then, far o'er the restless deep
Forlorn my poignant pangs I bore,
Alone in foreign realms to weep,
Where ENVY's voice could taunt no more.
I hop'd, by mingling with the gay,
To snatch the veil of Grief away;
To break Affliction's pond'rous chain;
VAIN was the Hopein vain I sought
The placid hour of careless thought,
Where Fashion wing'd her light career,
And sportive Pleasure danc'd along,
Oft have I shunn'd the blithsome throng,
To hide th'involuntary tear,
For e'en where rapt'rous transports glow,
From the full Heart the conscious tear will flow,
When to my downy couch remov'd,
FANCY recall'd my wearied mind
To scenes of FRIENDSHIP left behind,
Scenes still regretted, still belov'd!
Ah, then I felt the pangs of Grief,
Grasp my warm Heart, and mock relief;
My burning lids Sleep's balm defied,
And on my fev'rish lip imperfect murmurs died.
Restless and sadI sought once more
A calm retreat on BRITAIN's shore;
Deceitful HOPE, e'en there I found
That soothing FRIENDSHIP's specious name
Was but a short-liv'd empty sound,
And LOVE a false delusive flame.
Then come, Sweet BIRD, and with thy strain,
Steal from my breast the thorn of pain;
Blest solace of my lonely hours,
In craggy caves and silent bow'rs,
When HAPPY Mortals seek repose,
By Night's pale lamp we'll chaunt our woes,
And, as her chilling tears diffuse
O'er the white thorn their silv'ry dews,
I'll with the lucid boughts entwine
A weeping Wreath, which round my Head
Shall by the waning Cresent shine,
And light us to our leafy bed,
But ah! nor leafy beds nor bow'rs
Fring'd with soft MAY's enamell'd flow'rs,
Nor pearly leaves, nor Cynthia's beams,
Nor smiling Pleasure's shad'wy dreams,
Sweet BIRD, not e'en THY melting Strains
Can calm the Heart, where TYRANT SORROW REIGNS.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Suggested by the Cover of a Volume of Keats's Poems
Wild little bird, who chose thee for a sign
To put upon the cover of this book?
Who heard thee singing in the distance dim,
The vague, far greenness of the enshrouding wood,
When the damp freshness of the morning earth
Was full of pungent sweetness and thy song?
Who followed over moss and twisted roots,
And pushed through the wet leaves of trailing vines
Where slanting sunbeams gleamed uncertainly,
While ever clearer came the dropping notes,
Until, at last, two widening trunks disclosed
Thee singing on a spray of branching beech,
Hidden, then seen; and always that same song
Of joyful sweetness, rapture incarnate,
Filled the hushed, rustling stillness of the wood?
We do not know what bird thou art. Perhaps
That fairy bird, fabled in island tale,
Who never sings but once, and then his song
Is of such fearful beauty that he dies
From sheer exuberance of melody.
For this they took thee, little bird, for this
They captured thee, tilting among the leaves,
And stamped thee for a symbol on this book.
For it contains a song surpassing thine,
Richer, more sweet, more poignant. And the poet
Who felt this burning beauty, and whose heart
Was full of loveliest things, sang all he knew
A little while, and then he died; too frail
To bear this untamed, passionate burst of song.
poem by Amy Lowell
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Overlooked
Sleep, with her tender balm, her touch so kind,
Has passed me by;
Afar I see her vesture, velvet-lined,
Float silently;
O! Sleep, my tired eyes had need of thee!
Is thy sweet kiss not meant to-night for me?
Peace, with the blessings that I longed for so,
Has passed me by;
Where'er she folds her holy wings I know
All tempests die;
O! Peace, my tired soul had need of thee!
Is thy sweet kiss denied alone to me?
Love, with her heated touches, passion-stirred,
Has passed me by.
I called, "O stay thy flight," but all unheard
My lonely cry:
O! Love, my tired heart had need of thee!
Is thy sweet kiss withheld alone from me?
Sleep, sister-twin of Peace, my waking eyes
So weary grow!
O! Love, thou wanderer from Paradise,
Dost thou not know
How oft my lonely heart has cried to thee?
But Thou, and Sleep, and Peace, come not to me.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Lover Of My Soul
When I see the winter turning into spring
Oh, it speaks to this heart of mine
More than anything
Underneath a blanket of snow, cold and white
Something is stirring in the still of the night
And then the sun comes up, slowly with the dawn
Oh, this is the kind of feeling
That I hang my hope upon
There is love and beauty in all that I see
And no one, nobody, is explaining You to me
And maybe my eyes can't see
But You are surrounding me
Here in the wind and rain
The things that I know
Tender and sweet, and strong as my need
I know the voice, I know the touch
Lover of my soul
And when the evening comes, and sunlight fades to red
And time and time and time again
I whisper in my head
'Give me strength, give me faith', to fully believe
That the Maker of this whole, wide world
Is a Father to me
And maybe my eyes can't see
But You are surrounding me
Here in the wind and rain
The things that I know
Tender and sweet, and strong as my need
I know the voice, I know the touch
Lover of my soul
I need the voice, I need the touch
And maybe my eyes can't see
But You are surrounding me
Here in the wind and rain
The things that I know so well
Tender and sweet, and strong as my need
I know the voice, I know the touch
Lover of my soul
I know the voice, I know the touch
Lover of my soul
Talkin' to me and the things I know
Oh, You're the lover of my soul
Talkin' to me and the things I know
You are the lover of my soul
Talkin' to me and the things I know
You are the lover of my soul
In the wind, and the rain, and the snow...
You are the lover of my soul
song performed by by Amy Grant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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