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Sonnet XX.

The piteous sobs that choke the Virgin's breath
For him, the fair betrothed Youth, who les
Cold in the narrow dwelling, or the cries
With which a Mother wails her Darling's death,
These from our Nature's common impulse spring
Unblamed, unpraised; but o'er the piled earth,
Which hides the sheeted corse of gray-haired Worth,
If droops the soaring Youth with slackened wing;
If he recall in saddest minstrelsy
Each tenderness bestowed, each truth impressed;
Such Grief is Reason, Virtue, Piety!
And from the Almighty Father shall descend
Comforts on his late Evening, whose young breast
Mourns with no transient love the aged friend.

poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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The Old Man's Comforts and how he gained them

You are old, Father William, the young man cried,
The few locks which are left you are grey;
You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man,
Now tell me the reason I pray.

In the days of my youth, Father William replied,
I remember'd that youth would fly fast,
And abused not my health and my vigour at first
That I never might need them at last.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried,
And pleasures with youth pass away,
And yet you lament not the days that are gone,
Now tell me the reason I pray.

In the days of my youth, Father William replied,
I remember'd that youth could not last;
I thought of the future whatever I did,
That I never might grieve for the past.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried,
And life must be hastening away;
You are chearful, and love to converse upon death!
Now tell me the reason I pray.

I am chearful, young man, Father William replied,
Let the cause thy attention engage;
In the days of my youth I remember'd my God!
And He hath not forgotten my age.

poem by Robert Southey
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Mother Sky Cries

Mother sky cries when the leaves turn from green to gold
Mother sky cries when the leaves die and the weather turns cold
Mother sky cries when the earth turns warm and the body sweats
Mother sky cries and leaves the heart scorned and the skin wet
Mother sky cries and father cloud mourns
Mother sky cries and baby flower is born

poem by Anthony Martello
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You Bring Me Everything...

Mother Nature breath on me,
All the magic I can see,
Multitudes of colour Green,
Greener than I've ever seen.

Mother Nature show me Earth,
Show me all, that you are worth,
Take your time - so I can see -
Each of the seasons, bestowed on me.

Mother Nature teach me Love,
Your lessons learn't from up above,
A time to Rain, then dried by Sun,
Staying awake, till your work be done.

Mother Nature hold me close,
For it's YOU, I admire the most,
Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring -
For you bring me everything.: -)

poem by Margo Posh
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To My Son

Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue
Bright as thy mother’s in their hue;
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play
And smile to steal the heart away,
Recall a scene of former joy,
And touch thy father’s heart, my Boy!

And thou canst lisp a father’s name—
Ah, William, were thine own the same,—
No self-reproach—but, let me cease—
My care for thee shall purchase peace;
Thy mother’s shade shall smile in joy,
And pardon all the past, my Boy!

Her lowly grave the turf has prest,
And thou hast known a stranger’s breast;
Derision sneers upon thy birth,
And yields thee scarce a name on earth;
Yet shall not these one hope destroy,—
A Father’s heart is thine, my Boy!

Why, let the world unfeeling frown,
Must I fond Nature’s claims disown?
Ah, no—though moralists reprove,
I hail thee, dearest child of Love,
Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy—
A Father guards thy birth, my Boy!

Oh,’twill be sweet in thee to trace,
Ere Age has wrinkled o’er my face,
Ere half my glass of life is run,
At once a brother and a son;
And all my wane of years employ
In justice done to thee, my Boy!

Although so young thy heedless sire,
Youth will not damp parental fire;
And, wert thou still less dear to me,
While Helen’s form revives in thee,
The breast, which beat to former joy,
Will ne’er desert its pledge, my Boy!

poem by Byron (1807)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To An Enthusiast

Young ardent soul, graced with fair Nature's truth,
Spring warmth of heart, and fervency of mind,
And still a large late love of all thy kind.
Spite of the world's cold practice and Time's tooth,—
For all these gifts, I know not, in fair sooth,
Whether to give thee joy, or bid thee blind
Thine eyes with tears,—that thou hast not resign'd
The passionate fire and freshness of thy youth:
For as the current of thy life shall flow,
Gilded by shine of sun or shadow-stain'd,
Through flow'ry valley or unwholesome fen,
Thrice blessed in thy joy, or in thy woe
Thrice cursed of thy race,—thou art ordain'd
To share beyond the lot of common men.

poem by Thomas Hood
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Reveille

What frolic zephyr through the young leaves plays,
Scattering fragrance delicate and sweet?
What impulse new moves Robin to repeat
To pale Anemone his roundelays?
What winning wonder fills the world with praise
In this mysterious time? Lo, all things greet
A loved one, new redeemed from death's defeat—
A youth whose languid head fair nymphs upraise!
For him the crocus dons his bravery,—
And violets, for him, their censers swing;
For him the shy arbutus, blushfully,
Peeps through the mosses that about her cling;
Adonis wakes! Awake, earth's minstrelsy!
In swelling diapason hymn the Spring!

poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Madrigal

Crabbed Age and Youth
Cannot live together:
Youth is full of pleasance,
Age is full of care;
Youth like summer morn,
Age like winter weather;
Youth like summer brave,
Age like winter bare:
Youth is full of sports,
Age's breath is short,
Youth is nimble, Age is lame:
Youth is hot and bold,
Age is weak and cold,
Youth is wild, and Age is tame:-
Age, I do abhor thee;
Youth, I do adore thee;
O! my Love, my Love is young!
Age, I do defy thee-
O sweet shepherd, hie thee,
For methinks thou stay'st too long.

poem by William Shakespeare
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Sonnet XXV

As in the midst of battle there is room
For thoughts of love, and in foul sin for mirth;
As gossips whisper of a trinket's worth
Spied by the death-bed's flickering candle-gloom;
As in the crevices of Caesar's tomb
The sweet herbs flourish on a little earth
So in this great disaster of our birth
We can be happy, and forget our doom.

For morning, with a ray of tenderest joy
Gilding the iron heaven, hides the truth,
And evening gently woos us to employ
Our grief in idle catches. Such is youth;
Till from that summer's trance we wake, to find
Despair before us, vanity behind.

poem by George Santayana
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The Sad Spring

The Spring weeps, she is forlorn;
Well that she may weep, alas!
Now that many babes are born
Whose dear fathers lie in grass.

Snowdrops in the frozen earth
Faint and are not comforted;
Never was so sad a birth,
Never was so sad a bed.

She must bear her pangs alone.
Where is sorrow like to hers?
In an anguish cold as stone
Her dead soldier's child she bears.

Now her trembling arms will hold
Close the piteous downy thing
To a milky breast as cold
As the frozen water-spring.

Now she hopes and dreads to find
Likeness in the little son
To his father, brave and kind.
Like or not, her heart's undone.

Tender nurslings born in pain,
Mother's comfort, mother's grief,
When her tears run down like rain,
Lord, bring Thou a handkerchief.

Wipe the widow's tears away,
Father orphan boys and girls.
Lead them out where they may play,
With Thy hand upon their curls.

poem by Katharine Tynan
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His Youth

Dying? I am not dying. Are you mad?
You think I need to ask for heavenly grace?
\I\ think \you\ are a fiend, who would be glad
To see me struggle in death's cold embrace.

'But, man you lie! for I am strong-in truth
Stronger than I have been in years; and soon
I shall feel young again as in my youth,
My glorious youth-life's one great priceless boon.

'O youth, youth, youth! O God, that golden time,
When proud and glad I laughed the hours away.
Why, there's no sacrifice (perhaps no crime)
I'd pause at, could it make me young to-day.

'But I'm not \old\! I grew-just ill, somehow;
Grew stiff of limb, and weak, and dim of sight.
It was but sickness. I am better now,
Oh, vastly better, ever since last night.

'And I could weep warm floods of happy tears
To think my strength is coming back at last,
For I have dreamed of such an hour for years,
As I lay thinking of my glorious past.

'You shake your head? Why, man, if you were sane
I'd strike you to my feet, I would, in truth.
How dare you tell me that my hopes are vain?
How dare you say I have outlived my youth?

''In heaven I may regain it?' Oh, be still!
I want no heaven but what my glad youth gave.
Its long, bright hours, its rapture and its thrill-
O youth, youth, youth! it is my \youth\ I crave.

'There is no heaven! There's nothing but a deep
And yawning grave from which I shrink in fear.
I am not sure of even rest or sleep;
Perhaps we lie and \think\, as I have here.

'Think, think, think, think, as we lie there and rot,
And hear the young above us laugh in glee.
How dare you say I'm dying! \I am not\.
I would curse God if such a thing could be.

'Why, see me stand! why, hear this strong, full breath-
Dare you repeat that silly, base untruth?'
A cry-a fall-the silence known as death
Hushed his wild words. Well, has he found his youth?

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Take Me Under Your Wing

Take me under your wing,
be my mother, my sister.
Take my head to your breast,
my banished prayers to your nest.

One merciful twilight hour,
hear my pain, bend your head.
They say there is youth in the world.
Where has my youth fled?

Listen! another secret:
I have been seared by a flame.
They say there is love in the world.
How do we know love’s name?

I was deceived by the stars.
There was a dream; it passed.
I have nothing at all in the world,
nothing but a vast waste.

Take me under your wing,
be my mother, my sister.
Take my head to your breast,
my banished prayers to your nest.

poem by Hayyim Nahman Bialik
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As in the Midst of Battle there is Room

As in the midst of battle there is room
   For thoughts of love, and in foul sin for mirth;
   As gossips whisper of a trinket's worth
Spied by the death-bed's flickering candle-gloom;
As in the crevices of Caesar's tomb
   The sweet herbs flourish on a little earth:
   So in this great disaster of our birth
We can be happy, and forget our doom.

For morning, with a ray of tenderest joy
   Gilding the iron heaven, hides the truth,
And evening gently woos us to employ
   Our grief in idle catches. Such is youth;
Till from that summer's trance we wake, to find
Despair before us, vanity behind.

poem by George Santayana
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Minstrelsy

For ever, since my childish looks
Could rest on Nature's pictured books;
For ever, since my childish tongue
Could name the themes our bards have sung;
So long, the sweetness of their singing
Hath been to me a rapture bringing!
Yet ask me not the reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.

I know that much whereof I sing,
Is shapen but for vanishing;
I know that summer's flower and leaf
And shine and shade are very brief,
And that the heart they brighten, may,
Before them all, be sheathed in clay! --
I do not know the reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.

A few there are, whose smile and praise
My minstrel hope, would kindly raise:
But, of those few -- Death may impress
The lips of some with silentness;
While some may friendship's faith resign,
And heed no more a song of mine. --
Ask not, ask not the reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.

The sweetest song that minstrels sing,
Will charm not Joy to tarrying;
The greenest bay that earth can grow,
Will shelter not in burning woe;
A thousand voices will not cheer,
When one is mute that aye is dear! --
Is there, alas! no reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.

I do not know! The turf is green
Beneath the rain's fast-dropping sheen,
Yet asks not why that deeper hue
Doth all its tender leaves renew; --
And I, like-minded, am content,
While music to my soul is sent,
To question not the reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.

Years pass -- my life with them shall pass:
And soon, the cricket in the grass
And summer bird, shall louder sing
Than she who owns a minstrel's string.
Oh then may some, the dear and few,
Recall her love, whose truth they knew;
When all forget to question why
She had delight in minstrelsy!

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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A Song Of Success

Ho! we were strong, we were swift, we were brave.
Youth was a challenge, and Life was a fight.
All that was best in us gladly we gave,
Sprang from the rally, and leapt for the height.
Smiling is Love in a foam of Spring flowers:
Harden our hearts to him -- on let us press!
Oh, what a triumph and pride shall be ours!
See where it beacons, the star of success!

Cares seem to crowd on us -- so much to do;
New fields to conquer, and time's on the wing.
Grey hairs are showing, a wrinkle or two;
Somehow our footstep is losing its spring.
Pleasure's forsaken us, Love ceased to smile;
Youth has been funeralled; Age travels fast.
Sometimes we wonder: is it worth while?
There! we have gained to the summit at last.

Aye, we have triumphed! Now must we haste,
Revel in victory . . . why! what is wrong?
Life's choicest vintage is flat to the taste --
Are we too late? Have we laboured too long?
Wealth, power, fame we hold . . . ah! but the truth:
Would we not give this vain glory of ours
For one mad, glad year of glorious youth,
Life in the Springtide, and Love in the flowers.

poem by Robert William Service
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Villanelle

We said farewell, my youth and I,
When all fair dreams were gone or going,
And Love’s red lips were cold and dry.
When white blooms fell from tree-tops high—
Our Austral winter’s way of snowing—
We said farewell, my youth and I.

We did not sigh—what use to sigh
When Death passed as a mower mowing,
And Love’s red lips were cold and dry?

But hearing Life’s stream thunder by,
That sang of old through flowers flowing,
We said farewell, my youth and I.

There was no hope in the blue sky,
No music in the low winds blowing,
And Love’s red lips were cold and dry.

My hair is black as yet, then why
So sad! I know not, only knowing
We said farewell, my youth and I.

All are not buried when they die;
Dead souls there are through live eyes showing
When Love’s red lips are cold and dry.

So, seeing where the dead men lie,
Out of their hearts the grave-flowers growing,
We said farewell, my youth and I,
When Love’s red lips were cold and dry.

poem by Victor James Daley
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Now I lay Me

When I pass from earth away,
Palsied though I be and gray,
May my spirit keep so young
That my failing, faltering tongue
Frames that prayer so dear to me
Taught me at my mother's knee:

'Now I lay me down to sleep,'

(Passing to Eternal rest
On the loving parent breast)

'I pray the Lord my soul to keep;'

(From all danger safe and calm
In the hollow of His palm

'If I should die before I wake,'

(Drifting with a bated breath
Out of slumber into death,)

'I pray the Lord my soul to take.'

(From the body's claim set free
Sheltered in the Great to be.)
Simple prayer of trust and truth
Taught me in my early youth-
Let my soul its beauty keep
When I lay me down to sleep.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Memories Of Lost Youth

When I was a young boy many decades ago
I thought babies like flowers in the gardens did grow
That's what I was told and what I did believe
Children have their innocence and are not hard to deceive.

I yearn for the innocence that I had then
Something that I lost in the World of men
Lost innocence we cannot hope to regain
Though fond memories of childhood we always retain.

When I was a young boy with joy I recall
The great tits young in the dark cavity in the stone wall
I did hear them chirp though them I could not see
The mysteries of Nature a wonder to me.

The winter was cold with frost wind rain and snow
And the river bank high in the old fields did flow
But Spring brought her birdsong her wildflowers and green
And Nature's great beauty for all to be seen.

My innocence died like the flowers of the Spring
But memories of lost youth a beautiful thing
The passing of time has left me looking gray
And a different World I live in today.

poem by Francis Duggan
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On The Death Of Dr. Samuel Marshall

THROUGH thickest glooms look back, immortal
shade,
On that confusion which thy death has made:
Or from Olympus' height look down, and see
A Town involv'd in grief bereft of thee.
Thy Lucy sees thee mingle with the dead,
And rends the graceful tresses from her head,
Wild in her woe, with grief unknown opprest
Sigh follows sigh deep heaving from her breast.
Too quickly fled, ah! whither art thou gone?
Ah! lost for ever to thy wife and son!
The hapless child, thine only hope and heir,
Clings round his mother's neck, and weeps his sorrows
there.
The loss of thee on Tyler's soul returns,
And Boston for her dear physician mourns.
When sickness call'd for Marshall's healing hand,
With what compassion did his soul expand?
In him we found the father and the friend:
In life how lov'd! how honour'd in his end!
And must not then our AEsculapius stay
To bring his ling'ring infant into day?
The babe unborn in the dark womb is tost,
And seems in anguish for its father lost.
Gone is Apollo from his house of earth,
But leaves the sweet memorials of his worth:
The common parent, whom we all deplore,
From yonder world unseen must come no more,
Yet 'midst our woes immortal hopes attend
The spouse, the sire, the universal friend.

poem by Phillis Wheatley
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Some Mother's Young Daughter

In the quiet alleyway in the dim moonlight
Some mother's young daughter she died over-night
From a drug overdose friendless and alone
Found in a disused factory doorway cold and lifeless as a stone.

She was only nineteen so young for one to die
When the cold winds of Winter blew across the darkened sky
With hardly any shelter to shield her from the cold
Some are born to die young some die gray and old.

Some broken hearted mother is in tears today
For her beautiful daughter who died in such a tragic way
The baby she gave birth to who suckled from her breast
'Tis not her fault she died in this way for her she did her best.

Some mother's young daughter in a morgue today
In a disused factory doorway she died where she lay
Life for her may have been different had she not kept bad company
But easily said on hindsight how things might have been for such as she.

Some mother's young daughter is beyond all care
With the gleam of youth still in her golden hair
In a dimly lit alleyway in the cold night air
She did not return from the brink of despair.

poem by Francis Duggan
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God Cries Down Over Head-Only After A Renewed Begin.

God cries when droplets of rain water plummet to Earth.
God exhales and blows his breath downward towards Earth, when
windy breezes are given birth.
God only cries with shame for man.
God painted rainbows from palets of colored pacts with man.
God turns up the heat of the Sun when man gets cold.
God opens his arms to man when he wants to welcome his son back
up to his fold and home.
God welcomes his lost sheep back only when man finds his way back
to beliefe in his father.
God does send down to Earth snow and ice from his dissappointed cold heart, only after man erringly errs from God's ways and laws-to sin.
God is the almighty creator and man's own father...
To be forgiven by Him we must all love our fellow man and commit no sin.
So that on judgement day we will be able to anew begin.

poem by Michael Gale
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