As I Laye A-Dreamynge
After T. I.
As I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge,
O softlye moaned the dove to her mate within the tree,
And meseemed unto my syghte
Came rydynge many a knyghte
All cased in armoure bryghte
Cap-a-pie,
As I laye a-dreamynge, a goodlye companye!
As I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge,
O sadlye mourned the dove, callynge long and callynge lowe,
And meseemed of alle that hoste
Notte a face but was the ghoste
Of a friend that I hadde loste
Long agoe.
As I laye a-dreamynge, oh, bysson teare to flowe!
As I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge,
O sadlye sobbed the dove as she seemed to despayre,
And laste upon the tracke
Came one I hayled as 'Jacke!'
But he turned mee his backe
With a stare:
As I laye a-dreamynge, he lefte mee callynge there.
Stille I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge,
And gentler sobbed the dove as it eased her of her payne,
And meseemed a voyce yt cry'd—
'They shall ryde, and they shall ryde
'Tyll the truce of tyme and tyde
Come agayne!
Alle for Eldorado, yette never maye attayne!'
Stille I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge,
And scarcelye moaned the dove, as her agonye was spente:
'Shalle to-morrowe see them nygher
To a golden walle or spyre?
You have better in yr fyre,
Bee contente.'
As I laye a-dreamynge, it seem'd smalle punyshment.
But I laye a-wakynge, and loe! the dawne was breakynge
And rarely pyped a larke for the promyse of the daye:
'Uppe and sette yr lance in reste!
Uppe and followe on the queste!
Leave the issue to be guessed
At the endynge of the waye'—
As I laye a-wakynge, 'twas soe she seemed to say—
'Whatte and if it alle be feynynge?
There be better thynges than gaynynge,
Rycher pryzes than attaynynge.'—
And 'twas truthe she seemed to saye.
Whyles the dawne was breakynge, I rode upon my waye.
poem by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mama Laye
(myles goodwyn)
Published by slalom publishing co. - bmi
In a foreign land beneath a foreign sky
They speak of mama laye
They dont believe she died
The people raise their eyes
They said theyd sing a song
They ask the spirit world
Cause they know where shes gone
Shes never far away, mama laye, no
Shes never far away, mama laye, no, no no
They say she never sleeps
She never close her eyes
She speaks the magic tongue
Shes slowly hypnotized
Shes never far away, mama laye, no
Shes never far away, mama laye, no, no no
Shes never far away, mama laye, no
Shes never far away, mama laye, mama laye
They are as grains of sand
And then they are as one
They pray to mama laye
The father, mother, son
They say shes never far away, mama laye, no
Shes never far away, mama laye, no
Shes never far away, mama laye, no, no no
Shes never far away, mama laye, mama laye
Shes never far away, mama laye, no
Shes never far away, mama laye, no
Shes never far away, mama laye, no, no no
Shes never far away, mama laye, mama laye
song performed by by April Wine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Barbara Allen's Cruelty
In Scarlet towne, where I was borne,
There was a faire maid dwellin,
Made every youth crye, wel-awaye!
Her name was Barbara Allen.
All in the merrye month of May,
When greene buds they were swellin,
Yong Jemmye Grove on his death-bed lay,
For love of Barbara Allen.
He sent his man unto her then,
To the town, where shee was dwellin;
You must come to my master deare,
Giff your name be Barbara Allen.
For death is printed on his face,
And ore his hart is stealin:
Then haste away to comfort him,
O lovelye Barbara Allen.
Though death be printed on his face,
And ore his harte is stealin,
Yet little better shall he bee,
For bonny Barbara Allen.
So slowly, slowly, she came up,
And slowly she came nye him;
And all she sayd, when there she came,
Yong man, I think y'are dying.
He turnd his face unto her strait,
With deadlye sorrow sighing;
O lovely maid, come pity mee,
Ime on my death-bed lying.
If on your death-bed you doe lye,
What needs the tale you are tellin:
I cannot keep you from your death;
Farewell, sayd Barbara Allen.
He turnd his face unto the wall,
As deadlye pangs he fell in:
Adieu! adieu! adieu to you all,
Adieu to Barbara Allen.
As she was walking ore the fields,
She heard the bell a knellin;
And every stroke did seem to saye,
Unworthy Barbara Allen.
She turnd her bodye round about,
And spied the corps a coming:
Laye downe, laye downe the corps, she sayd,
That I may look upon him.
With scornful eye she looked downe,
Her cheeke with laughter swellin;
That all her friends cryd out amaine,
Unworthye Barbara Allen.
When he was dead, and laid in grave,
Her harte was struck with sorrowe,
O mother, mother, make my bed,
For I shall dye to morrowe.
Hard harted creature him to slight,
Who loved me so dearlye:
O that I had beene more kind to him,
When he was live and neare me!
She, on her death-bed as she laye,
Beg'd to be buried by him;
And sore repented of the daye,
That she did ere denye him.
Farewell, she sayd, ye virgins all,
And shun the fault I fell in:
Henceforth take warning by the fall
Of cruel Barbara Allen.
poem by Thomas Percy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Never Saw Youe, Madam, Laye Aparte
I never saw youe, madam, laye aparte
Your cornet black in colde nor yet in heate
Sythe first ye knew of my desire so greate
which other fances chased cleane from my harte.
Whiles to my self I did the thought reserve
That so unware did wounde my wofull brest
Pytie I saw within your hart dyd rest;
But since ye knew I did youe love and serve
Your golden treese was clad alway in blacke,
Your smilyng lokes were hid thus evermore,
All that withdrawne that I did crave so sore.
So doth this cornet goveme me alacke,
In sommere sonne, in winter breath of frost;
Of your faire eies whereby the light is lost.
------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------
Complaint that his ladie after she knew of his loue kept her face alway hidden from him
I neuer sawe my Ladye laye apart
Her cornet blacke, in colde nor yet in heate,
Sith first she knew my griefe was growen so great,
Which other fansies driueth from my hart
That to my selfe I do the thought reserue,
The which vnwares did wounde my wofull brest:
But on her face mine eyes mought neuer rest,
Yet, sins she knew I did her loue and serue
Her golden tresses cladde alway with blacke,
Her smilyng lokes that hid thus euermore,
And that restraines whiche I desire so sore.
So dothe this cornet gouerne me alacke:
In somer, sunne: in winters breath, a frost:
Wherby the light of her faire lokes I lost.
poem by Henry Howard
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My Stuff Animal
It's there when I need to cry
Always avalible for comforting
when im scared he lets me know im safe
My Stuff Animal never has an excuse
My Stuff Animal is just a thing
Can u be my stuff animal?
Can u be there when I need to cry
Always avalible for comforting
When im scared can you let me know im safe?
Will you ever have an excuse?
Please don't be just a fling!
poem by Nikkie Laye
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bhage Jaa Rahe Hai
Bhage ja rahe hai,
Na jane dur kis se.
Sochte hai,
janmoo ka ho
Tum me
Hum me
Phasla.
Na tum meri
Har saans mei
Dard banker basoo,
Na hum tumhari
Nazaroo mei khatke
Beaabroo dastan banker.
Yo meelo meel
Bhagte rahe
Aur
Har baar,
Har raah
Le jaati rahi
Tum tak.
Hum phaslee badhate rahe
Aur
Har phasla kareeb lata gaya
Tum tak.
Nahi jante hai,
Kyun har raah
Tum par youn
ruke?
Kyun har phasla
Tumhe aur kareeb laye?
Nahi jante hai,
Kya baandhe rakhta hai
Meri saanso ko
Tumhare dard ke saath.
Par hum phir bhi
Bhagee ja rahe hai
Na jaane duur kis se.-anjali
poem by Anjali Kakati
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In A College Garden
Senex. Saye, cushat, callynge from the brake,
What ayles thee soe to pyne?
Thy carefulle heart shall cease to ake
When dayes be fyne
And greene thynges twyne:
Saye, cushat, what thy griefe to myne?
Turtur. Naye, gossyp, loyterynge soe late,
What ayles thee thus to chyde?
My love is fled by garden-gate;
Since Lammas-tyde
I wayte my bryde.
Saye, gossyp, whom dost thou abyde?
Senex. Loe! I am he, the 'Lonelie Manne,'
Of Time forgotten quite,
That no remembered face may scanne—
Sadde eremyte,
I wayte tonyghte
Pale Death, nor any other wyghte.
O cushat, cushat, callynge lowe,
Goe waken Time from sleepe:
Goe whysper in his ear, that soe
His besom sweepe
Me to that heape
Where all my recollections keepe.
Hath he forgott? Or did I viewe
A ghostlye companye
This even, by the dismalle yewe,
Of faces three
That beckoned mee
To land where no repynynges bee?
O Harrye, Harrye, Tom and Dicke,
Each lost companion!
Why loyter I among the quicke,
When ye are gonne?
Shalle I alone
Delayinge crye 'Anon, Anon'?
Naye, let the spyder have my gowne,
To brayde therein her veste.
My cappe shal serve, now I 'goe downe,'
For mouse's neste.
Loe! this is best.
I care not, soe I gayne my reste.
poem by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Faire Amarillis
Amarillis was full fayre:
The goodlyest mayde was she
From the east unto the west
That heaven's eye could se.
To Diana at her birthe
Her parents did her geve,
All untouchte a mayden's lyfe
Durynge her dayes to lyue:
Whose beheste she constant kepte
And whollye was enclynde
To be free to get great prayse
And win eche worthye mynde.
As there was good cause enoughe
So was she honored most.
They that had her seene abroade
At home would make their boaste.
Twoe ther were that her behelde
Who woulde have done so ever,
Happye theye (ye happye thryse)
If they had done so never
Coridon and Caramell:
Who longe with deere accorde
Ledd their lyues, and neyther wisht
Of other to be lorde:
Good and sure their freendshipp was
Tyll Amarillis fyne
Had the powre, perhapps the will
The bande for to untwyne:
All the goods that eche possest
Of bodye, goodes, or mynde
Were employde to other's use
As eche by profe did fynde:
They had no cause to enuye ought
The auncyent worlde's prayse
Of Damo and of Pytheas
And others in those dayes:
But the boye, that blynded god
In great despights complaynde:
That one earthe alone they were
That his darte quyte disdaynde:
Whereupon his strongest bowe
And sharpest arrowes hente
And in Amarillis eyes
He lyghtely pighte his tente:
Where he lay, to watche both tyme
And place for his avayll:
For the wightes that wiste not yet
What foe should them assayll:
One of his two shafts was dipte
In bitter sauce as gaulle,
The other in a pleasant wyne
And poyson myxte withall
As the smacke of dyuers sauce,
So dyuerslye they wroughte:
By despayre the one to deathe
By vague hope the other broughte.
With the first was Coridon
Throughe piercèd to the herte;
Caramell wh' in his brest
Felte of the other's smarte.
Butt with gould both headed were
And both wth lyke desyre,
Faygne they would wth'in therre brest
Hyde cloase their kyndled fyre:
But wthout it must appeere
That burnte so hot wthin:
Harde it is the flame to hyde
That it no issue win.
And in tyme strange lookes began
That spronge of Jelosye;
Full of care, eche laye in wayghte
For his felowe to descrye:
In the end all freendly lookes
Betweene these freendes decayde;
Bothe were bente to please theselues
Theire freende's case nothynge wayde.
Amarillis' love was soughte
With all they could deuyse,
Yea wth all the power of man
And prayer to the skyes:
All she sawe, and herde theire moane
As Aspis dothe the charme;
By and by she bayed them both
As guyltye of theyre harme.
Now to the one she would give eare
Now put the other of,
Allurynge him by courteseye,
And tauntynge him by scoff.
But that trust by tryalls paste
Made them theire doome suspende;
And indeed she usèd there
Where passione did offend.
He had neede of store of tyme
That would his pen prepare,
To sett forth theire agonyes
Theire dredd hope and feare.
Butt in vayne they spente theire tyme,
Theire labor all was lost:
She was farthest from theire need
Where they foreweenèd most.
Coridon waxte pall and leane
His younger heares torned hore;
Feates of armes, the horse and hauke
He left and used no more.
He had founde that Amarill
Soughte glorye more than love;
That she forcèd not his harmes
Her bewtye's power to prove.
Yet he could not leave to love
Butt yeeldynge to despayre,
Rente his hearte, his corpes fell downe
His goaste fledd to the ayre:
Caramell, thoughte women kynde,
Was apte to change and bowe;
And beleeued, to please him selfe
What fancye did allowe.
Butt beleefe ne makes the cause
Nor weauynge, workes the webb;
In the tyde his trauayll came
He tornèd in the ebb:
Att the last his vayne hope, him
No longer coulde sustayne;
In his longynge he consumde,
Lyfe coulde not him attayne.
Amaryllis herde of this
And pyttye moude wth all,
Muche to rue so harde a happ
One such faythe should befall.
To Diana strayghte she hyghes
Whome wayted one she founde,
With a trayne of all the dames
Whose chaste names Fame did sounde:
Unto her in humble wyse
She sayde she came to sue
For that these to lyuyng thynges
Myghte be transformde a newe;
In her armes the goddess mylde
Her darlynge softe did strayne:
What is that that thou (qth she)
Of me mayste not obtayne?
There withall Sr Caramel
A yellow flowre became:
Sweete of sente and muche esteemde
And Harte's ease caulde by name.
Amarillis pluckte the flowre
And ware it in her heade:
Sometymes she layde it in her lapp,
Sometymes upone her bedd.
Caramell, O happye flowre!
O most unhappy man!
In thy lyfe thou hadst thy deathe,
In thy deathe thy lyfe began.
Coridon turnde to an owlle
Fledd to the wildernes:
Never flockes, butt leades his lyfe
In solytarynes:
Nor his eyes can yet behould
The deare lyghte of the sun:
Butt aloofe he stealles his flyghte
And in the darke dothe run.
Amaryllis to the woode
Att sometyme will repayre,
And delyghte to here the laye
And tune of his despayre.
Well I wot what here is ment
And thoughe a talle yt seeme,
Shadowes haue their substance bye
And so of this, esteeme.
Ye that chaunce this for to heer
And do not prayse their speede
Give them thankes, for you by them
Are warnde to take heede.
Finis.
poem by Sir Edward Dyer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Childe Waters
Childe Waters in his stable stoode
And stroakt his milke-white steede;
To him a fayre yonge ladye came
As ever ware womans weede.
Sayes, 'Christ you save, good Childe Waters,'
Sayes, 'Christ you save and see;
My girdle of gold that was too longe,
Is now too short for mee.
'And all is with one childe of yours
I feele sturre at my side;
My gowne of greene it is too straighte;
Before, it was too wide.'
'If the childe be mine, faire Ellen,' he sayd,
'Be mine, as you tell mee,
Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both,
Take them your owne to bee.
'If the childe be mine, faire Ellen,' he sayd,
'Be mine, as you doe sweare,
Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both,
And make that childe your heyre.'
Shee sayes, 'I had rather have one kisse,
Childe Waters, of thy mouth,
Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both,
That lye by north and southe.
'And I had rather have one twinkling,
Childe Waters, of thine ee,
Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both,
To take them mine owne to bee.'
'To-morrowe, Ellen, I must forth ryde
Farr into the north countree;
The fayrest ladye that I can finde,
Ellen, must goe with mee.'
''Thoughe I am not that ladye fayre,
Yet let me goe with thee:'
And ever I pray you, Childe Waters,
Your foot-page let me bee.'
'If you will my foot-page bee, Ellen,
As you doe tell to mee,
Then you must cut your gowne of greene
An inch above your knee:
'Soe must you doe your yellowe lockes,
An inch above your ee;
You must tell no man what is my name;
My foot-page then you shall bee.'
Shee, all the longe daye Childe Waters rode,
Ran barefoote by his syde,
Yet was he never soe courteous a knighte,
To say, 'Ellen, will you ryde?'
Shee, all the long daye Childe Waters rode,
Ran barefoote thorow the broome,
Yet was hee never soe courteous a knighte,
To say, 'put on your shoone.'
'Ride softlye,' shee sayd, 'O Childe Waters,
Why doe you ryde so fast?
The childe, which is no mans but thine,
My bodye itt will brast.'
Hee sayth, 'Seest thou yonder water, Ellen,
That flows from banke to brimme?' -
'I trust in God, O Childe Waters,
You never will see me swimme.'
But when shee came to the water side,
She sayled to the chinne:
'Nowe the Lord of heaven be my speede,
For I must learne to swimme.'
The salt waters bare up her clothes;
Our Ladye bare up her chinne;
Childe Waters was a woeman, good Lord,
To see faire Ellen swimme!
And when shee over the water was,
Shee then came to his knee:
Hee sayd, 'Come hither, thou fayre Ellen,
Loe yonder what I see.
'Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen?
Of redd gold shines the yate:
Of twenty-foure faire ladyes there,
The fairest is my mate.
'Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen?
Of redd golde shines the towre:
There are twenty-four fayre ladyes there,
The fayrest is my paramoure.'
'I see the hall now, Childe Waters,
Of redd golde shines the yate:
God give you good now of yourselfe,
And of your worthye mate.
'I see the hall now, Childe Waters,
Of redd golde shines the towre:
God give you good now of yourselfe,
And of your paramoure.'
There twenty-four fayre ladyes were
A playing at the ball,
And Ellen, the fayrest ladye there,
Must bring his steed to the stall.
There twenty-four fayre ladyes were
A playinge at the chesse,
And Ellen, the fayrest ladye there,
Must bring his horse to gresse.
And then bespake Childe Waters sister,
These were the wordes sayd shee:
'You have the prettyest page, brother,
That ever I did see;
'But that his bellye it is so bigge,
His girdle stands soe hye;
And ever I pray you, Childe Waters,
Let him in my chamber lye.'
'It is not fit for a little foot-page,
That has run throughe mosse and myre,
To lye in the chamber of any ladye,
That weares soe riche attyre.
'It is more meete for a little foot-page,
That has run throughe moss and myre,
To take his supper upon his knee,
And lye by the kitchen fyre.'
Now when they had supped every one,
To bedd they tooke theyr waye:
He sayd, 'Come hither, my little foot-page,
And hearken what I saye.
'Goe thee downe into yonder towne,
And lowe into the streete;
The fayrest ladye that thou canst finde,
Hyre in mine armes to sleepe;
And take her up in thine armes twaine,
For filing of her feete.'
Ellen is gone into the towne,
And lowe into the streete;
The fayrest ladye that shee colde finde
She hyred in his armes to sleepe;
And tooke her up in her armes twaine,
For filing of her feete.
'I praye you nowe, good Childe Waters,
Let mee lye at your feete;
For there is noe place about this house,
Where I may 'saye a sleepe.'
'He gave her leave, and fair Ellen
'Down at his beds feet laye;
This done the nighte drove on apace,
And when it was neare the daye,
Hee sayd, 'Rise up, my little foot-page,
Give my steede corne and haye;
And give him nowe the good black oates,
To carry mee better awaye.'
Up then rose the faire Ellen,
And gave his steed corne and haye;
And soe shee did the good black oates,
To carry him the better awaye.
She leaned her back to the manger side,
And grievouslye did groane;
She leaned her back to the manger side,
And there shee made her moane.
And that beheard his mother deare,
Shee heard 'her woefull woe:'
She sayd, 'Rise up, thou Childe Waters,
And into thy stable goe.
'For in thy stable is a ghost,
That grievouslye doth grone;
Or else some woman laboures with childe,
Shee is soe woe-begone.'
Up then rose Childe Waters soone,
And did on his shirte of silke;
And then he put on his other clothes,
On his bodye as white as milke.
And when he came to the stable dore,
Full still there hee did stand,
That hee mighte heare his fayre Ellen,
Howe shee made her monand.
She sayd, 'Lullabye, mine own dear childe,
Lullabye, deare childe, deare;
I wolde thy father were a kinge,
Thy mothere ladye on a biere.'
'Peace nowe,' hee sayd, 'good, faire Ellen,
Bee of good cheere, I praye;
And the bridale and the churchinge bothe
Shall bee upon one daye.'
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Dove of Dacca
The freed dove flew to the Rajah's tower—
Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings—
And the thorns have covered the city of Gaur.
Dove—dove—oh, homing dove!
Little white traitor, with woe on thy wings!
The Rajah of Dacca rode under the wall;
He set in his bosom a dove of flight—
`If she return, be sure that I fall."
Dove—dove—oh, homing dove!
Pressed to his heart in the thick of the fight.
"Fire the palace, the fort, and the keep—
Leave to the foeman no spoil at all.
In the flame of the palace lie down and sleep
If the dove—if the dove—if the homing dove
Come, and alone, to the palace wall."
The Kings of the North they were scattered abroad—
The Rajah of Dacca he slew them all.
Hot from slaughter he stooped at the ford,
And the dove—the dove—oh, the homing dove!
She thought of her cote on the palace-wall.
She opened her wings and she flew away—
Fluttered away beyond recall;
She came to the palace at break of day.
Dove—dove—oh, homing dove,
Flying so fast for a kingdom's fall!
The Queens of Dacca they slept in flame—
Slept in the flame of the palace old—
To save their honour from Moslem shame.
And the dove—the dove—oh, the homing dove,
She cooed to her young where the smoke-cloud rolled!
The Rajah of Dacca rode far and fleet,
Followed as fast as a horse could fly,
He came and the palace was black at his feet;
And the dove—the dove—the homing dove,
Circled alone in the stainless sky.
So the dove flew to the Rajah's tower—
Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings;
So the thorns covered the city of Gaur,
And Dacca was lost for a white dove's wings.
Dove—dove—oh, homing dove,
Dacca is lost from the Roll of the Kings!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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You And I Could Fly High Into The Blue Sky
If you were my morning dove
What is love dove
Could we fly through the air dove
Would it be enough
If you and I could fly
Could you and I try
Not to shed tears and cry
I will not lie
To thee my dove
You and I could fly high into the blue sky
poem by Edwin Tanguma
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Cicely Bathing
The brook told the dove
And the dove told me
That Cicely's bathing at the pool
With other virgins three.
The brook told the dove
And the dove told me
That Cicely floating on the wave
Woke music in the tree.
The brook told the dove
And the dove told me
That Cicely's drying in the sun,
A snowy sight to see.
poem by Norman Rowland Gale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wings Of A Dove
Let me fly in the wings of a dove
Above the Manhattan sky
So that all the yankies can see me
At least I will be safe in the wings of a dove
And I can sleep while I am fling in the wings of a dove
I love to fly in the wings of a dove
But the feeling of being high in the sky is great
But God gave me a chance to fly in the wings of a dove
When the opportunity came I didn't even think for a minute
I just jumped right in this opportunity
And I am glad I did it
Because I am having the greatest time when I am flying in the wings of a Dove
But I woke up at midnight and the sky was already dark
Eventhough the dove was still flying
The dove took me all the way to Chigago the windy city
Men I must tell you that it was very windy inthe sky in chicago
But we landed safe in Chicago by the shore
And I sleept in the shore of Chicago for the night
To me it was almost like being inside a movie scream when I woke up the next morning at the Shore of Chicago
poem by Aldo Kraas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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From Spring Days to Winter (For Music)
In the glad springtime when leaves were green,
O merrily the throstle sings!
I sought, amid the tangled sheen,
Love whom mine eyes had never seen,
O the glad dove has golden wings!
Between the blossoms red and white,
O merrily the throstle sings!
My love first came into my sight,
O perfect vision of delight,
O the glad dove has golden wings!
The yellow apples glowed like fire,
O merrily the throstle sings!
O Love too great for lip or lyre,
Blown rose of love and of desire,
O the glad dove has golden wings!
But now with snow the tree is grey,
Ah, sadly now the throstle sings!
My love is dead: ah! well-a-day,
See at her silent feet I lay
A dove with broken wings!
Ah, Love! ah, Love! that thou wert slain -
Fond Dove, fond Dove return again!
poem by Oscar Wilde
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hertes Academie (a metaphysical exercise)
My mistress’ bedde, my wylling scholeroom is,
where I do lerne my eager pupille’s taske;
her scorns, her prayse, to me as equalle are;
her swete chastisement, alle thatte I may aske;
In her anatomie, I lerne newe worldes;
I am Columbus, sayling to strange shores,
fynde alle thynges newe; I am as one fresshe-taughte;
nought of our schyppe to speke of myne or yours;
Whanne infants, we are all shored safelie uppe
by parentes luve, upon us richlie pored;
but thenne, in’th torment of our growing yeares,
where mighte we lerne where alle thysse luve is stored?
Where is the hertes academie, to teche
thysse bloody, beating, untaughte, human place,
where hevenes Creator meetes thysse mortal coil,
whatte is its role and rule, whatte it muste face?
Too layte, too layte, to tayke a lyfe to lerne
thysse herte to growe, and swell, and gratelie strive;
where is the hertes academie, whanne younge,
to sooner teche oure hertes with luve to thrive?
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Magpie and the Young Dove
On the ground they struck each other
with their wings out stretched.
But the dove was so much smaller
and couldn’t evade the magpie’s pecks.
As feathers flew, it held down the dove
with its powerful grasping claws.
Once, twice, three times, it pecked,
and again several times more.
The tired dove’s resistance vanished
as the magpie took one hop back.
It stood admiring the results of its conflict
before making its final attack.
This brief encounter was nearly over,
the dove turned to face the magpie,
but then a dog approached the scene
and the magpie flew into the sky.
Keeping a close watch over its prey,
it waited in a nearby tree.
The dog lost interest and sauntered away,
giving the magpie opportunity.
One hop then two, it approached for the kill,
but the dog returned to save the day.
This time the magpie didn’t come back,
and the dove recovered to fly away.
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dove! Dove! Enchanted Dove
Dove! Dove! Enchanted Dove
That sways around me,
Why are you afraid, white dove?
Hear my voice, dove, my sister.
From the resonant branches
Descend in my dance,
Descend upon my heart, dove of love!
And I dance and I sing and I dance once more,
I dance nude, dazzled and splendid,
Like a serpent in the high grass.
I dance and I rage in the air,
Like a flame from hell.
I dance bewinged, quivering and wild,
In the depth of the living whirlwind,
Whirling in the current that devours me,
The whirlwind in which I descend.
I dance until sated,
With soul drunked, staggering,
With the wine of dance,
And with the wine of my blood.
poem by Charles van Lerberghe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wings Of A Dove
Take time for your pleasure
And laugh with love
Take the hand of another
And sing for the wings of a dove
Woah woah, for the wings of a dove
Woah woah, for the wings of a dove
Look up at the rooftops
When youre walking round
Dont think for a moment
Of looking down
Woah woah, (yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah) for the wings of a dove
Woah woah, for the wings of a dove
Woah woah, for the wings of a dove
Woah woah, for the wings of a dove
Ha-lellujah (lellujah)
Ha-lellujah (lellujah)
Look up at the rooftops (the roof)
When youre walking round
Dont think for a moment
Of looking down
At a room at the top
Where were not allowed
Cheer to the echo
Can you hear the sound
Woah woah, (yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah) for the wings of a dove
Woah woah, (yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah) for the wings of a dove
Woah woah, for the wings of a dove
Woah woah, for the wings of a dove
Yeah yeah yeah (etc.)
Woah woah, for the wings of a dove
Woah woah, for the wings of a dove
Et cetera
Blue train!
Blue train taking me from you....
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ti Prendo E Ti Porto Via
Sai ti conosco oramai
Ho capito chi sei
Non ti importa di niente
Tu dimentichi tutto
Senza alcun rispetto
Neanche per noi
Chiedi amore cos
Come a chiedere di
Di buttarsi nel cesso
Tanto tu non lo sai
quello che vuoi
Ma dove vai
Ma dove vai
Tanto oramai sei mia
Faccio cos
Passo di l
Ti prendo e ti porto via
Sei gelosa di te
Ti guardi intorno se c'
una vestita uguale
che sedurre per te
pi importante che
che respirare
starti vicino si
a volte capita di
di sentirsi un po' in forse
ma tu li baci tutti
e lasci tutto com'
Ma dove vai
Ma dove vai
Tanto oramai sei mia
Faccio cos
Passo di l
Ti prendo e ti porto via
Ma dove vai
Ma dove vai
Tanto oramai sei mia
(anzi) Faccio cos
Passo di l
Ti prendo e ti porto via
Sai ti conosco oramai
Ho capito chi sei
Non ti importa di niente
Tu te li baci tutti
E lasci tutto com'
Ma dove vai
Ma dove vai
Tanto oramai sei mia
Ma dove vai
Ma dove vai
Ti prendo e ti porto via
Ma dove vai
Ma dove vai
Tanto oramai sei mia
(anzi) Faccio cos
(quando) Passo di l
Ti prendo e ti porto via
Ma dove vai
Grazie a Niccol Ammaniti per aver scritto
il romanzo "Ti prendo e ti porto via
song performed by by Vasco Rossi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dove Sta Amore
Dove sta amore
Where lies love
Dove sta amore
Here lies love
The ring dove love
In lyrical delight
Hear love's hillsong
Love's true willsong
Love's low plainsong
Too sweet painsong
In passages of night
Dove sta amore
Here lies love
The ring dove love
Dove sta amore
Here lies love
poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Molly Webster
Heard ye e'er of Molly Webster, Molly Webster ye Hadley witch?
Heavie her Curse hath layn vpon Hadley, feered on by Poore & Riche.
Sold is shee, bodie & Spirit to Sathan, & worketh hys Will;
For our God's hid Purpose, doubtless, is shee suffered to doe vs Il.
Shee hath caled ye Thunder from Heaven & fyre yt was lytt in Helle;
Burn'd ye homs & Barne of her neighbor, shee Laughed for it pleas'd her wel.
She hath cast a Spel on ye Cattel yt they sould not passe her Doore,
A great Load of Haye from ye Meddowe she turn'd wh a Finger o'er!
Ye bould Carter threat'd her with hys Whippe, "For surelie God is fayn
To holp mee before a witch," sayd he, & shee turn'd it vp agen.
By'r Word ye sleeping Infant hath binn Raysed from its Cradel Bedd,
Vntouch'd of mortall hands wee have seen it wafted in Ayer o'er head!
Shee hath noe feer of ye Salvage for they sarve ye same euil Lord;
Oft, in ye guyse of a Walleneag hee hath feasted att her Board.
A black Henn flewe down our chimnie, & scalded itself in ye Pott;
Come Morn, goodwife Webster is scalded; wheyr got shee ye Burne? God wot!
Ye Lawe of our God, yea of our Land allows not a Witch to live;
We send her to Boston, to Generall Court, yt they might a Judgment giue;
But they Deem'd ye Charge not Prooven, tho ye Truth was wh payns layd bare; -
(Pray God it was not for her bright black eyes & her long curling hayr!)
Shee hath cost ye Town full threescore Pounds & now shee is heer agayne,
To laye a Blite on ye Rie, shee sayth, & to staye ye needful Rayn;
Yet moyer, our neighbor Philip Smith, she hath layd on a paynful bedd,
Vext by an hideous Witchcraft, hee wishes, nay longs to bee Dead!
By tymes he hath rapturous Uision, & Cryeth inn feruant Prayr,
"Lord, staie Thy hand, for ys is moyer than Thy frayl Seruant mae bear!"
More oft with dyre Groanings and Tears, he wallows in myre of ye Ditch
Digged for hys soul by yt own daughter of Sathan, ye Hadley witch!
Ye healthful Potions ye Chirurgeon sends from ye gallipots Power out,
Ye bedd vpheaues, ye homs is shaken, & ye stooles are hvrl'd aboute.
Hee dy'd in ye Night, they say, prayse God, she may neuer vex him mower!
(Ye bodie bled, & ye black catt mewed, yt Morn when shee passt his Doore!)
Pray Christian peple who heere ys Tayl, whoever ye may bee,
Pray for ye Peece of Hadley, for sorely try'd are wee!
Pray yt our godly Ministers, wh Fast proclaymed & Prayer,
May from Sathan's the old Land lords' clutch thys fayre New England tear!
Yea thus hee kicks agaynst the pricks & hys Imps groe ouer Bold,
As he sees yt land passe from his Power wh hee hath ouned of ould!
God keep vs alle from Salvages, God keep vs alle from Worse;—
Ye Idyl Sport of wicked FRIENDS & Molly Webster's curse!
poem by Julia Taft Bayne (1893)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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