To Mistress Katharine Bradshaw, The Lovely, That Crowned Him With Laurel
My Muse in meads has spent her many hours
Sitting, and sorting several sorts of flowers,
To make for others garlands; and to set
On many a head here, many a coronet.
But amongst all encircled here, not one
Gave her a day of coronation;
Till you, sweet mistress, came and interwove
A laurel for her, ever young as Love.
You first of all crown'd her; she must, of due,
Render for that, a crown of life to you.
poem by Robert Herrick
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Related quotes
Sonnet XIX. To Mr. Haley,
On receiving some elegant lines from him.
FOR me the Muse a simple band design'd
Of 'idle' flowers that bloom the woods among,
Which, with the cypress and the willow join'd,
A garland form'd as artless as my song.
And little dared I hope its transient hours
So long would last; composed of buds so brief;
Till Hayley's hand among the vagrant flowers,
Threw from his verdant crown a deathless leaf.
For high in Fame's bright fane has Judgment placed
The laurel wreath Serena's poet won,
Which, woven with myrtles by the hands of Taste,
The Muse decreed for this her favourite son.
And those immortal leaves his temples shade,
Whose fair, eternal verdure--shall not fade!
poem by Charlotte Smith
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Twist Me A Crown Of Wind-Flowers
Twist me a crown of wind-flowers;
That I may fly away
To hear the singers at their song,
And players at their play.
Put on your crown of wind-flowers:
But whither would you go?
Beyond the surging of the sea
And the storms that blow.
Alas! your crown of wind-flowers
Can never make you fly:
I twist them in a crown to-day,
And to-night they die.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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To Lord Thurlow
'I lay my branch of laurel down.
Then thus to form Apollo's crown.
Let every other bring his own.'~Lord Thurlow's lines to Mr. Rogers
'I lay my branch of laurel down.'
Thou 'lay thy branch of laurel down!'
Why, what thou'st stole is not enow;
And, were it lawfully thine own,
Does Rogers want it most, or thou?
Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough,
Or send it back to Doctor Donne:
Were justice done to both, I trow,
He'd have but little, and thou--none.
'Then thus to form Apollo's crown.'
A crown! why, twist it how you will,
Thy chaplet must be foolscap still.
When next you visit Delphi's town,
Inquire amongst your fellow-lodgers,
They'll tell you Phoebus gave his crown,
Some years before your birth, to Rogers.
'Let every other bring his own.'
When coals to Newcastle are carried,
And owls sent to Athens, as wonders,
From his spouse when the R egent's unmarried,
Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders;
When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel,
When Castlereagh's wife has an heir,
Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel,
And thou shalt have plenty to spare.
The Magic Ring
Your touch on my hand is fire,
Your lips on my lips are flowers.
My darling, my one desire,
Dear crown of my days and hours.
Dear crown of each hour and day
Since ever my life began.
Ah! leave me--ah! go away -
We two are woman and man.
To lie in your arms and see
The stars melt into the sun;
Till there is no you and me,
Since you and I are one.
To loose my soul to your breath,
To bare my heart to your life -
It is death, it is death, it is death!
I am not your wife.
The hours will come and will go,
But never again such an hour
When the tides immortal flow
And life is a flood, a flower . . .
Wait for the ring; it is strong,
It has a magic of might
To make all that was splendid and wrong
Sordid and right.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Hymn 72
The coronation of Christ, and espousals of the church.
SS 3:11.
Daughters of Zion, come, behold
The crown of honor and of gold
Which the glad church, with joys unknown,
Placed on the head of Solomon.
Jesus, thou everlasting King,
Accept the tribute which we bring;
Accept the well-deserved renown,
And wear our praises as thy crown.
Let every act of worship be
Like our espousals, Lord, to thee;
Like the dear hour when from above
We first received thy pledge of love.
The gladness of that happy day,
Our hearts would wish it long to stay;
Nor let our faith forsake its hold,
Nor comfort sink, nor love grow cold.
Each following minute, as it flies,
Increase thy praise, improve our joys,
Till we are raised to sing thy name
At the great supper of the Lamb.
O that the months would roll away,
And bring that coronation day!
The King of Grace shall fill the throne,
With all his Father's glories on.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Armah
You are like a soldier shorter than his own riffle,
But i am here to love you with the sweet muse of my mind;
So wake up and live now and let me know you better!
For this muse of love is all about the rule of the law.
A round applause! ! And of the crown on your head;
But, i've go the picture of you inside me all day long.
I am Armah walking along the mountain side,
So, get this message straight to your heart!
And at this crucial moment to understand my status;
For, i am here to love you with the sweet muse of my mind.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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A crown of flowers
A crown of flowers
~
I don a crown of flowers
To mask the sorrow inside
Eyes which fall upon its beauty
Do not see the tears I cry
While the flowers bud to blossom
I wilt to almost nothing
In a garden colour filled with life
There is also a shadow found
In the sun the flower buds open
In the dark a heart is closed
The flowers shall be woven together
To hide something left unseen
The rose, the tulip and the bluebell rise
I am envious of their beautiful life
So I don I crown of flowers
To mask my sorrow inside
poem by Matthew Holloway
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What You Want Wid Bess?
Bess
Oh... what you want wid bess?
Shes gettin ole now;
Take a fine young gal
For to satisfy crown.
Look at this chest
An look at these arms you got.
You know how it always been with me,
These five years I been yo woman,
You could kick me in the street,
Then when you wanted me back,
You could whistle, an there I was
Back again, lickin yo hand.
Theres plenty better lookin gal than bess.
Can you see, Im with porgy,
Now and forever
I am his woman, he would die without me.
Oh, crown, wont you let me go to my man, to my man.
He is a cripple an needs my love, all my love.
What you want wid bess? oh, let me go to my man. . .
Crown
What I wants wid other woman,
I gots a woman, yes,
An dat is you, yes, dat is you, yes,
I need you now an youre mine jus as long as I want you.
No cripple goin take my woman from me.
You got a man tonight an that is crown, yes, crown, yes
Crown.
Youre my woman, bess, Im tellin you, now Im your man.
(pressing her very close)
Bess
What you want with bess?
(boat whistles)
Lemme go, crown dat boat, its goin wiout me!
Crown
You aint goin nowhere!
Bess
(weakening)
Take yo hands off me, I say, yo hands, yo hands, yo hands.
(crown kisses her passionately)
Crown
I knows you ain change - wid you and me it always be the
Same. git in dat thicket.
(bess backs into woods; crown follows.)
song performed by by Ella Fitzgerald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Musical Chamber
I TRUST that my friends will remember,
Whilst I these my pleasures display,
Resort to my musical chamber,
The laurel crown'd desert in May.
Resort to this chamber at leisure,
Attend it by night and by day;
To feast on the dainties of pleasure,
Which cannot be stinted in May.
This place is both pleasing and moral,
A chamber both lovely and gay,
In the shade of a ne'er fading laurel,
Whose grace in December is May.
Abounding with every fine story,
While time passes hurrying away,
This place is a banquet of glory,
Which rings with the ditties of May.
The chamber of Chatham and Dolly,
A place of a comical play,
Gave place unto Love's fine folly,
The birds and sweet flowers of May.
Here Venus attends with her lover,
Here Floras their suitors betray,
And uncommon secrets discover,
Which break from the bosom of May.
Here ever young Hebe sits smiling,
The wonders of youth to portray,
Excluding old age from defiling
The lads and the lassies of May.
Call by, little stranger, one minute,
Your joy will reward your delay;
Come, feast with the lark and the linnet,
And drink of the waters of May.
Walk in, little mistress, be steady,
You 'r welcome a visit to pay;
All things in the chamber are ready,
Resolve to be married in May.
poem by George Moses Horton
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To His lady,
IMPLORING HER TO BE TRUE
MISTRESS of me, mistress of all the arts
And charms that sway men's hot ungoverned hearts,
Receive their tribute--smile at their defeat;
I do not ask that you should spare them, sweet.
Only I ask that in the secret shrine
No prayers be heard, no offering laid, but mine.
Each man who sees your eyes must needs lay down
Low at your feet the votive myrtle crown:
Let them bring crowns to die beneath your feet;
I, only I, must bring the crown you wear
Shadowing the sombre glory of your hair.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Eternal Crowns
Christ, King of Kings was born a babe to grow and die in our stead,
He was honored with a scarlet robe a crown of thorns upon his head.
Although Christ was mocked and forced to wear an ugly crown of pain,
The faithful who should have died, they're promised a crown of gain.
Paul says that runners in a race receive a crown that will not last,
But we will receive Eternal Crowns that at Jesus' feet will be cast.
Paul even refers to those he led to Christ as his joy and his crown,
And these are people just like you and me from any city or any town.
But one won't receive a victor's crown unless he obeys all the rules,
This makes some adjust their pace to win, but not the simple fools.
But the man who perseveres under trials by fools who create strife,
And to those who love Him, God above has promised the Crown of life.
Many like Paul, on that day shall receive a Crown of righteousness,
This to all who longed for Jesus' return with a special Seriousness.
And for all the pastors who faithfully pointed all to the coming day,
Friend, they will receive a crown of glory that will never fade away.
And the Tribulation Saints tested with unheard of hate and strife,
Being faithful to the point of death, will receive the crown of life.
Then all will see The Son of Man with a crown of gold upon his head,
With a sickle harvesting souls, leaving behind the spiritually dead.
(Copyright © 06/2003)
To The Willow-tree
Thou art to all lost love the best,
The only true plant found,
Wherewith young men and maids distrest
And left of love, are crown'd.
When once the lover's rose is dead
Or laid aside forlorn,
Then willow-garlands, 'bout the head,
Bedew'd with tears, are worn.
When with neglect, the lover's bane,
Poor maids rewarded be,
For their love lost their only gain
Is but a wreath from thee.
And underneath thy cooling shade,
When weary of the light,
The love-spent youth, and love-sick maid,
Come to weep out the night.
poem by Robert Herrick
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La Corona
Deign at my hands this crown of prayer and praise,
Weaved in my lone devout melancholy,
Thou which of good hast, yea, art treasury,
All changing unchanged Ancient of days.
But do not with a vile crown of frail bays
Reward my Muse's white sincerity ;
But what Thy thorny crown gain'd, that give me,
A crown of glory, which doth flower always.
The ends crown our works, but Thou crown'st our ends,
For at our ends begins our endless rest.
The first last end, now zealously possess'd,
With a strong sober thirst my soul attends.
'Tis time that heart and voice be lifted high ;
Salvation to all that will is nigh.
poem by John Donne
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To my dear Sister, Mrs. C. P. on her Nuptial
We will not like those men our offerings pay
Who crown the cup, then think they crown the day.
We make no garlands, nor an altar build,
Which help not Joy, but Ostentation yield.
Where mirth is justly grounded these wild toyes
Are but a troublesome, and empty noise.
2.
But these shall be my great Solemnities,
Orinda's wishes for Cassandra's bliss.
May her Content be as unmix'd and pure
As my Affection, and like that endure;
And that strong Happiness may she still find
Not owing to her Fortune, but her Mind.
3.
May her Content and Duty be the same,
And may she know no Grief but in the name.
May his and her Pleasure and Love be so
Involv'd and growing, that we may not know
Who most Affection or most Peace engrost;
Whose Love is strongest, or whose Bliss is most.
4.
May nothing accidental e're appear
But what shall with new bonds their Souls endear;
And may they count the hours as they pass,
By their own Joys, and not by Sun or Glass:
While every day like this may Sacred prove
To Friendship, Gratitude, and Strictest Love.
poem by Katherine Philips
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Sonnet I
o
THE partial Muse, has from my earliest hours,
Smil'd on the rugged path I'm doom'd to tread,
And still with sportive hand has snatch'd wild flowers,
To weave fantastic garlands for my head:
But far, far happier is the lot of those
Who never learn'd her dear delusive art;
Which, while it decks the head with many a rose,
Reserves the thorn, to fester in the heart.
For still she bids soft Pity's melting eye
Stream o'er the ills she knows not to remove,
Points every pang, and deepens every sigh
Of mourning friendship or unhappy love.
Ah! then, how dear the Muse's favours cost,
If those paint sorrow best--who feel it most!
o
poem by Charlotte Smith
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Chagrin D'Amour
IF Love and I were all alone
I might forget to grieve,
And for his pleasure and my own
Might happier garlands weave;
But you sit there, and watch us wear
The mourning wreaths you wove:
And while such mocking eyes you bear
I am not friends with Love.
Withdraw those cruel eyes, and let
Me search the garden through
That I may weave, ere Love be set,
The wreath of Love for you;
Till you, whom Love so well adorns,
Its hidden thorns discover,
And know at last what crown of thorns
It was you gave your lover.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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One Love
One love in my young life
Took me somewhere I had never been
And I want to live again, breathe again
In the shelter of his brightly woven love song
So long I have wanted love to be
Sitting just this near to me
Now my waiting heart is free
(*) few are the choices we are given
The sands of time pass quickly by
One dream of my young life
Now stands holding out his hand to me
Now I cant help but believe that my whole life will be
Spent in one love
Repeat (*)
Spent in one love
Spent in one love
song performed by by Carpenters
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Thoughts in a Garden
HOW vainly men themselves amaze
To win the palm, the oak, or bays,
And their uncessant labours see
Crown'd from some single herb or tree,
Whose short and narrow-verged shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid;
While all the flowers and trees do close
To weave the garlands of repose!
Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence thy sister dear?
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men:
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow:
Society is all but rude
To this delicious solitude.
No white nor red was ever seen
So amorous as this lovely green.
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress' name:
Little, alas! they know or heed
How far these beauties hers exceed!
Fair trees! wheres'e'er your barks I wound,
No name shall but your own be found.
When we have run our passions' heat,
Love hither makes his best retreat:
The gods, that mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race;
Apollo hunted Daphne so
Only that she might laurel grow;
And Pan did after Syrinx speed
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.
What wondrous life in this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine and curious peach
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less
Withdraws into its happiness;
The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find;
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds, and other seas;
Annihilating all that 's made
To a green thought in a green shade.
Here at the fountain's sliding foot,
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,
Casting the body's vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide;
There, like a bird, it sits and sings,
Then whets and combs its silver wings,
And, till prepared for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.
Such was that happy Garden-state
While man there walk'd without a mate:
After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet!
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
To wander solitary there:
Two paradises 'twere in one,
To live in Paradise alone.
How well the skilful gard'ner drew
Of flowers and herbs this dial new!
Where, from above, the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run:
And, as it works, th' industrious bee
Computes its time as well as we.
How could such sweet and wholesome hours
Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers!
poem by Andrew Marvell
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A Virtuous Woman
I belong to my lover and my lover belongs to me,
With self-assured words to bind this love forever!
For she's my treasure.
My fair Lady,
You need a royal pampering on this love from my heart;
And pure love is everything on this muse,
With self-assured words from your heart to bind this love!
A virtuous woman is a crown of the husband,
And like an architectural digest to view at times;
For true love is all about this unity that we share,
So flourish yourself like the flowers of love to satisfy me always.
Sincerity with the muse of your love,
A virtuous woman is a crown of the husband;
And you are my fair lady on this love,
But let your words of peace bath my mind always.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Koku
To be despondent,
To be active,
To love the muse when many are asleep;
But with sincere love we can solve out some difficulties among us.
Of the closeness of your love to my heart,
And of the sweet muse of your joy that it brings;
For you and i can make it work together,
And to be desperate like the joy of my heart!
I am Koku and you are my lover,
And of all the activities that we share together;
But with sincere love to crown the day!
For we can solve out the differences between us together.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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