Cupid Abroad Was Lated
CUPID abroad was lated in the night,
His wings were wet with ranging in the rain;
Harbor he sought, to me he took his flight
To dry his plumes. I heard the boy complain:
I oped the door and granted his desire,
I rose myself, and made the wag a fire.
Looking more narrow by the fire's flame,
I spied his quiver hanging by his back.
Doubting the boy might my misfortune frame,
I would have gone, for fear of further wrack;
But what I drad did me, poor wretch, betide,
For forth he drew an arrow from his side.
He pierced the quick, and I began to start,
A pleasing wound but that it was too high;
His shaft procured a sharp yet sugared smart.
Away he flew, for why is wings were dry;
But left the arrow sticking in my breast,
That sore I grieved I welcomed such a guest.
poem by Robert Greene
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Related quotes
Arrow For You To Shoot
Shall I give you an arrow to shoot? .
The arrow is ready to shoot forth
Its tip is sharp and shining
And it is sure to pierce through any flesh and bone.
The arrow is made of age old metals hard
Its frame is lean and long
A shaft that knows no bounds...
And it is sure to strike at the object hard.
The arrow is loved by sages and saints
Its value is unquoted in scriptures ever
And it is sure to remain desired by all.
But where is the bow to shoot it from?
You decide... you alone
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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Cupid
How could I have been so stupid?
I should have known you were Cupid
when your arrow pierced my heart.
How could I have been so unaware?
I should have felt that you were there.
But love is strange and plays its part
in most unusual ways you know.
I should have captured that special glow
and grabbed hold from the start.
It took me some time to understand.
I should have held out my hand
and never let us be apart.
The emptiness that hit me hard
made me know to be on guard,
to never be stupid, just be smart.
Send one more arrow my way.
Pierce my heart on some other day.
Please dear Cupid, play your part.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Cupid Turned Stroller. - From Anacreon
At dead of night, when stars appear,
And strong Bootes turns the Bear,
When mortals sleep their cares away,
Fatigued with labours of the day,
Cupid was knocking at my gate;
Who's there, says I? who knocks so late,
Disturbs my dreams, and breaks my rest?
O fear not me, a harmless guest,
He said; but open, open pray;
A foolish child, I've lost my way,
And wander here this moonlight night,
All wet and cold, and wanting light.
With due regard his voice I heard,
Then rose, a ready lamp prepared,
And saw a naked boy below,
With wings, a quiver, and a bow:
In haste I ran, unlock'd my gate,
Secure and thoughtless of my fate;
I set the child an easy chair
Against the fire, and dried his hair;
Brought friendly cups of cheerful wine,
And warm'd his little hands with mine.
All this did I with kind intent;
Said, dearest Friend, this bow ye see,
This pretty bow, belongs to me:
Observe, I pray, if all be right,
I fear the rain has spoil'd it quite:
He drew it then, and straight I found
Within my breast a secret wound.
'Tis done, the rogue no longer staid,
But leapt away, and laughing said,
Kind host adieu, we now must part,
Safe is my bow, but sick thy heart.
poem by Matthew Prior
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The Lover Describeth His Restless State
AS oft as I behold, and see
The sovereign beauty that me bound ;
The nigher my comfort is to me,
Alas ! the fresher is my wound.
As flame doth quench by rage of fire,
And running streams consume by rain ;
So doth the sight that I desire
Appease my grief, and deadly pain.
Like as the fly that see'th the flame,
And thinks to play her in the fire ;
That found her woe, and sought her game
Where grief did grow by her desire.
First when I saw those crystal streams,
Whose beauty made my mortal wound ;
I little thought within their beams
So sweet a venom to have found.
But wilful will did prick me forth,
Blind Cupid did me whip and guide ;
Force made me take my grief in worth ;1
My fruitless hope my harm did hide ;
Wherein is hid the cruel bit,
Whose sharp repulse none can resist ;
And eke the spur that strains each wit
To run the race against his list.
As cruel waves full oft be found
Against the rocks to roar and cry ;
So doth my heart full oft rebound
Against my breast full bitterly.
And as the spider draws her line,
With labour lost I frame my suit ;
The fault is her's, the loss is mine :
Of ill sown seed, such is the fruit.
I fall, and see mine own decay ;
As he that bears flame in his breast,
Forgets for pain to cast away
The thing that breedeth his unrest
poem by Henry Howard
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A Side By Side
There was no epiphany,
no thunder from the skies
that day;
nothing so drama-filled;
it was more a soft release
a settling in;
a peek into your soul
by me,
which said
this person
is the one
I'm with.
It was not Love' Bells ringing
from steeple tops
or rose petal garden paths,
but it is Devotion's Arrow which penetrates deeper still
than the ones Cupid carries.
Devotions shaft
did not pierce,
it did not seek
the penetrations Cupid does
there is no magic potion on the arrow tip;
rather my feathered missile
flew all round you
lifting up the two of us,
forever bound.
Young Lovers face inward
looking into each other eyes,
but Love's Maturity
is these Lovers
side by side
facing toward Eternity.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Cupid Smiles
Swift is the arrow
from Cupid’s bow,
where it will fly,
nobody knows.
Will it land in you,
or will it land in me?
No one will see it,
until it is there.
The world will then notice,
the love in their eyes,
and Cupid will smile
as he watches from high
at our antics below.
Then he will take another
arrow from his quiver
and again it will fly
as he sits there
smiling from on high.
poem by David Harris
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Troy Town
HEAVENBORN Helen, Sparta's queen,
(O Troy Town!)
Had two breasts of heavenly sheen,
The sun and moon of the heart's desire:
All Love's lordship lay between.
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
Helen knelt at Venus' shrine,
(O Troy Town!)
Saying, “A little gift is mine,
A little gift for a heart's desire.
Hear me speak and make me a sign!
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“Look, I bring thee a carven cup;
(O Troy Town!)
See it here as I hold it up,—
Shaped it is to the heart's desire,
Fit to fill when the gods would sup.
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“It was moulded like my breast;
(O Troy Town!)
He that sees it may not rest,
Rest at all for his heart's desire.
O give ear to my heart's behest!
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“See my breast, how like it is;
(O Troy Town!)
See it bare for the air to kiss!
Is the cup to thy heart's desire?
O for the breast, O make it his!
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“Yea, for my bosom here I sue;
(O Troy Town!)
Thou must give it where 'tis due,
Give it there to the heart's desire.
Whom do I give my bosom to?
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“Each twin breast is an apple sweet.
(O Troy Town!)
Once an apple stirred the beat
Of thy heart with the heart's desire:—
Say, who brought it then to thy feet?
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“They that claimed it then were three:
(O Troy Town!)
For thy sake two hearts did he
Make forlorn of the heart's desire.
Do for him as he did for thee!
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“Mine are apples grown to the south,
(O Troy Town!)
Grown to taste in the days of drouth,
Taste and waste to the heart's desire:
Mine are apples meet for his mouth.”
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
Venus looked on Helen's gift,
(O Troy Town!)
Looked and smiled with subtle drift,
Saw the work of her heart's desire:—
“There thou kneel'st for Love to lift!”
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
Venus looked in Helen's face,
(O Troy Town!)
Knew far off an hour and place,
And fire lit from the heart's desire;
Laughed and said, “Thy gift hath grace!”
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
Cupid looked on Helen's breast,
(O Troy Town!)
Saw the heart within its nest,
Saw the flame of the heart's desire,—
Marked his arrow's burning crest.
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
Cupid took another dart,
(O Troy Town!)
Fledged it for another heart,
Winged the shaft with the heart's desire,
Drew the string and said, “Depart!”
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
Paris turned upon his bed,
(O Troy Town!)
Turned upon his bed and said,
Dead at heart with the heart's desire—
“Oh to clasp her golden head!”
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Poison Arrow
If I were to say to you
Can you keep a secret?
Would you know just what to do
Or where to keep it?
Then I sayi love you
And foul the situation
Hey girl I thought we were
The right combination.
Who broke my heart?
You did, you did
Bow to the target,
Blame cupid, cupid
You think youre smart
Stupid, stupid.
_ chorus:
Shoot that poison arrow to my heart
Shoot that poison arrow
Shoot that poison arrow to my heart
Shoot that poison arrow
No rhythm in cymbals
No tempo in drums
Love on arrival
She comes when she comes
Right on the target
But wide of the mark
What I thought was fire
Was only the spark
The sweetest melody
Is an unheard refrain
So lower your sights,
Yeah but raise your aim
Raise your aim
Who broke my heart?
You did, you did
Bow to the target
Blame cupid, cupid
You think youre smart
Stupid, stupid
_ chorus
I thought you loved me but it seems you dont care
I care enough to know I can never love you
Who broke my heart
You did, you did
Bow to the target
Blame cupid
You think youre smart
Thats stupid
Right from the start
When you knew we would part
_ chorus to end
song performed by by Abc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Cupid's Arrow
The scab where Cupid's arrow had entered
had barely healed, leaving just a wisp of a scar
evident there; but the inner pain remained.
The sounds of its shaft, its purple burning shaft
is still present
to my muffled memory
which flinches from its approaching sound
its whoosh, its dull thud
piercing a heart valve,
denying blood to my feverished brain
which sounded the alarm that love
seen by many as Cupids blessing
but for me it was an arrow emptying out
my life's blood
outside and down, plunging
drawn by gravity
falling onto the maroon carpeting
invisible almost
while all around me urged that I celebrate
but I knew too
that heart valves burst too in love's first
volley
and that Cupid
is too, a mixed blessing.
But how to remove an embedded shaft
without causing the wound to shed one's very life blood,
or is it best to leave it in place, count the bliss
and ignore the tremendous event
many saw as unvarnished and good?
Why must Cupid's arrow steal from me my identify
in favor of a new merging one?
Why must Cupid's arrow involve blood?
And who is to explain the scab and pain
the wound brings
when love leaves
that hollow,
now bleeding vacuum,
which grows a scab
sometimes leaves a scar
plastered over with
urgings of 'you must move on.'
It is not that love is bad. It is not.
It is that it is transforming and the transforming
sometimes leaves me without a me I had known all my life
and the new me is merged with another
if they leave
I wonder what then what will I be left with?
Who has not pondered this?
Life then is the road traveled
strewn with Cupid's discarded arrows
and pained souls marching.
Yet, If I hear yet again
the shaft's approach
that whooshing sound
that Cupid's arrow makes
I know, I once again
will bare my chest
and take its plunge full on
because that is how Love is Made.
I remind myself of all of this as I prepare for the date.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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The Arrow
An arrow flew right through the air.
It flew from your eyes to my heart.
I felt the pierce but did not care
for I let the pain depart.
Only the pleasure from the eyes that sent it
was what I looked upon.
I knew I could withstand many arrows
until your eyes were gone.
Cupid, Cupid where have you been?
I didn't know you exist.
I thought you were just a fable
with a fictitious list.
But that list included me at last
and the arrow was so real.
I accepted it and praised it
for how it made me feel.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Cupid Mistaken
As after noon, one summer's day,
Venus stood bathing in a river;
Cupid a-shooting went that way,
New strung his bow, new fill'd his quiver.
With skill he chose his sharpest dart:
With all his might his bow he drew:
Swift to his beauteous parent's heart
The too well-guided arrow flew.
I faint! I die! the Goddess cry'd:
O cruel, could'st thou find none other,
To wreck thy spleen on? Parricide!
Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother.
Poor Cupid sobbing scarce could speak;
Indeed, Mamma, I did not know ye:
Alas! how easy my mistake?
I took you for your likeness, Cloe.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Another Imitation Of Anacreon
PRONE, on my couch I calmly slept
Against my wont. A little child
Awoke me as he gently crept
And beat my door. A tempest wild
Was raging-dark and cold the night.
"Have pity on my naked plight,"
He begged, "and ope thy door".--"Thy name?"
I asked admitting him.--"The same
"Anon I'll tell, but first must dry
"My weary limbs, then let me try
"My mois'ened bow."--Despite my fear
The hearth I lit, then drew me near
My guest, and chafed his fingers cold.
"Why fear?" I thought. "Let me be bold
"No Polyphemus he; what harm
"In such a child?--Then I'll be calm!"
The playful boy drew out a dart,
Shook his fair locks, and to my heart
His shaft he launch'd.--"Love is my name,"
He thankless cried, "I hither came
"To tame thee. In thine ardent pain
"Of Cupid think and young Climene."--
"Ah! now I know thee, little scamp,
"Ungrateful, cruel boy! Decamp!"
Cupid a saucy caper cut,
Skipped through the door, and as it shut,
"My bow," he taunting cried, "is sound,
"Thy heart, poor comrade, feels the wound."
poem by La Fontaine
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Sir Thomas Wortley's Sonnet Answered
[THE SONNET.
I.
No more
Thou little winged archer, now no more
As heretofore,
Thou maist pretend within my breast to bide,
No more,
Since cruell Death of dearest LYNDAMORE
Hath me depriv'd,
I bid adieu to love, and all the world beside.
II.
Go, go;
Lay by thy quiver and unbend thy bow
Poore sillie foe,
Thou spend'st thy shafts but at my breast in vain,
Since Death
My heart hath with a fatall icie deart
Already slain,
Thou canst not ever hope to warme her wound,
Or wound it o're againe.]
THE ANSWER.
I.
Againe,
Thou witty cruell wanton, now againe,
Through ev'ry veine,
Hurle all your lightning, and strike ev'ry dart,
Againe,
Before I feele this pleasing, pleasing paine.
I have no heart,
Nor can I live but sweetly murder'd with
So deare, so deare a smart.
II.
Then flye,
And kindle all your torches at her eye,
To make me dye
Her martyr, and put on my roabe of flame:
So I,
Advanced on my blazing wings on high,
In death became
Inthroan'd a starre, and ornament unto
Her glorious, glorious name.
poem by Richard Lovelace
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The Sun Bird
The sun bird flew high and high
for its destination was sun
but as it drew near its wings did burn
from the heat of the sun but it did not die
it fell down on the earth
and waited till its wings took rebirth
it again flew only to burn its wings and fall
towards the earth but its hope stood atall
for mythology says its divine love for sun
has given it power not to die from burn
so with patience infinite again it flew
with hopes full and wings anew
towards the sun only to burn
but it got up again and flew
towards the sun
towards its destination
poem by Anjesh shekhar
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The Sermon Of St. Francis. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Fourth)
Up soared the lark into the air,
A shaft of song, a wingéd prayer,
As if a soul released from pain
Were flying back to heaven again.
St. Francis heard: it was to him
An emblem of the Seraphim;
The upward motion of the fire,
The light, the heat, the heart's desire.
Around Assisi's convent gate
The birds, God's poor who cannot wait,
From moor and mere and darksome wood
Come flocking for their dole of food.
'O brother birds,' St. Francis said,
'Ye come to me and ask for bread,
But not with bread alone to-day
Shall ye be fed and sent away.
'Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds,
With manna of celestial words;
Not mine, though mine they seem to be,
Not mine, though they be spoken through me.
'Oh, doubly are ye bound to praise
The great Creator in your lays;
He giveth you your plumes of down,
Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown.
'He giveth you your wings to fly
And breathe a purer air on high,
And careth for you everywhere,
Who for yourselves so little care!'
With flutter of swift wings and songs
Together rose the feathered throngs,
And singing scattered far apart;
Deep peace was in St. Francis' heart.
He knew not if the brotherhood
His homily had understood;
He only knew that to one ear
The meaning of his words was clear.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga of King Olaf XX. -- Einar Tamberskelver
It was Einar Tamberskelver
Stood beside the mast;
From his yew-bow, tipped with silver,
Flew the arrows fast;
Aimed at Eric unavailing,
As he sat concealed,
Half behind the quarter-railing,
Half behind his shield.
First an arrow struck the tiller,
Just above his head;
'Sing, O Eyvind Skaldaspiller,'
Then Earl Eric said.
'Sing the song of Hakon dying,
Sing his funeral wail!'
And another arrow flying
Grazed his coat of mail.
Turning to a Lapland yeoman,
As the arrow passed,
Said Earl Eric, 'Shoot that bowman
Standing by the mast.'
Sooner than the word was spoken
Flew the yeoman's shaft;
Einar's bow in twain was broken,
Einar only laughed.
'What was that?' said Olaf, standing
On the quarter-deck.
'Something heard I like the stranding
Of a shattered wreck.'
Einar then, the arrow taking
From the loosened string,
Answered, 'That was Norway breaking
From thy hand, O King!'
'Thou art but a poor diviner,'
Straightway Olaf said;
'Take my bow, and swifter, Einar,
Let thy shafts be sped.'
Of his bows the fairest choosing,
Reached he from above;
Einar saw the blood-drops oozing
Through his iron glove.
But the bow was thin and narrow;
At the first assay,
O'er its head he drew the arrow,
Flung the bow away;
Said, with hot and angry temper
Flushing in his cheek,
'Olaf! for so great a Kämper
Are thy bows too weak!'
Then, with smile of joy defiant
On his beardless lip,
Scaled he, light and self-reliant,
Eric's dragon-ship.
Loose his golden locks were flowing,
Bright his armor gleamed;
Like Saint Michael overthrowing
Lucifer he seemed.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Annunciation
'The lord appeared in a flame of fire out of the midst of a bush and behold, the bush burned with fire and the bush was not consumed.'-EXODOUS iii.2.
When to your virgin heart, unstirred, ungiven,
Upon the quiet mountainside untrod,
The sudden naked fire came down from heaven,
Burning you with the very breath of God,
Was the sun lost? Were all the sweet stars dim
While God raised round your head those walls of light?
Were you locked dumbly, terribly with Him,
Within that burning temple day and night?
What was it to have God there like a bird-
God like a great, gold flower upon your breast-
While He spake things that only one man heard,
Face down before that glory manifest?
When that strange flame went up the mountain side,
Were your forsaken lips so burned with gold
That the creatures of the wild stood off and cried,
And in your breast no blossom dared unfold?
Did you call back the startled birds to build,
And put forth all your simple buds again,
Forgetting how your branches once were filled,
In sweet embrace of passing sun and rain?
Or were all other birds forbidden sing
After those great, gold plumes had made their nest?
Was, in its strange and awful blossoming,
That great, gold flower the last upon your breast?
poem by Muriel Stuart
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A Little Left Of Center
(steve dale jones/billy henderson)
I walk in the rain and whistle a tune
I talk to the man up there in the moon
I know I may sound like somebody gone insane
Im a fool about you baby but my heart cant explain
Its a little left of center
By heavenly design
Love gets carried away
And goes wild at times
When cupid aims his arrow
Its right on the mark
A little left of center
Just like my crazy heart
It leaps like a frog when you touch my hand
It means like a drum in a marching band
Cant help what it does I just follow where it leads
How my heart feels about you baby makes perfect sense to me
Its a little left of center
By heavenly design
Love gets carried away
And goes wild at times
When cupid aims his arrow
Its right on the mark
A little left of center
Just like my crazy heart
When cupid aims his arrow
Its right on the mark
A little left of center
Just like my crazy heart
song performed by by Randy Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Invocation
NIGHT after night within the grove
The night wind spares the sacred fire -
The breath made visible of love,
Of worship and desire.
I set the tripod at thy shrine;
The silver bowl, the amber flame,
And in the dark where no stars shine
I speak thy name.
By the high name I call on thee
Which only I, thy priestess, know.
I tread thy dance in ecstasy,
Sweet steps and slow.
O God, the hour has come. Appear!
I have performed the appointed rite -
The dance, the fire; I long to hear
Wings in the night.
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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Valentine Cupid
the story of the cupid is strange you see
its always been a mystery to me
was this child with wings of beauty, and bow & arrow in hand
created by my fellow man.
to shoot his arrows in the hearts of all
laughing and having a ball..
or did he really come from the heavens above
to fill our hearts with all this love
has he really reached his goal
to touch our lives young and old.
for if this is true
then you have put my heart on fire
and filled me with desire
to satisfy your inner most needs.
for deep in me he planted the seed.
for with this, i tell you true
my heart belongs to only you.
HAPPY VALENTINE
poem by Louis Rams
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