The Splendid Spur
NOT on the neck of prince or hound
Nor on a woman’s finger twin’d,
May gold from the deriding ground
Keep sacred that we sacred bind:
Only the heel
Of splendid steel
Shall stand secure on sliding fate,
When golden navies weep their freight.
The scarlet hat, the laurell’d stave
Are measures, not the springs, of worth;
In a wife’s lap, as in a grave,
Man’s airy notions mix with earth.
Seek other spur
Bravely to stir
The dust in this loud world, and tread
Alp-high among the whisp’ring dead.
Trust in thyself,—then spur amain:
So shall Charybdis wear a grace,
Grim AEtna laugh, the Libyan plain
Take roses to her shrivell’d face.
This orb—this round
Of sight and sound—
Count it the lists that God hath built
For haughty hearts to ride a-tilt.
poem by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
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Related quotes
Plain Gold Ring
Earl s. burroughs
Plain gold ring on his finger he wore
It was where everyone could see
He belonged to someone, but not me
On his hand was a plain gold band
Plain gold ring has a story to tell
It was one that I knew too well
In my heart it will never be spring
Long as he wears a plain gold ring
Oh, oh
When nighttime comes a callin on me
I know why I will never be free
I cant stop these teardrops of mine
Im gonna love him till the end of time
Plain gold ring has but one thing to say
Ill remember till my dying day
In my heart it will never be spring
Long as he wears a plain gold ring
Plain gold ring on his finger he wore
Plain gold ring on his finger he wore
Plain gold ring on his finger he wore
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Year's End
THE voices of the wind and wave
They sigh the Old Year's requiem;
The dead are calling from the grave —
Good friends, a little space I crave
To turn aside and think of them.
They were as even you and I
When you and I were young as they;
And yet they knew the way to die —
Come, think with me, and tell me why
It should be thus with hearts so gay.
Ah, blessed be the gracious God
Who, moulding us from clay and dew,
From morning dew and clay untrod,
So breathed Himself into the sod
That we, at best, grow Godlike, too.
For, treading pleasure underneath,
These glory-souls, our country's flower,
Arose responsive to that breath
And looked into the face of Death,
And did not tremble at his power.
Should it not make us sure and tough
As tested steel, and unafraid,
To feel, though Fate ride robber-rough,
That we are fashioned of the stuff
Whereof these heroes, too, were made?
Though they are dead, and o'er them bends
A people's soul in mourning mood,
Proud Honour at their grave attends:
Henceforth we are a nation, friends,
By right of sacrificial blood.
The care-free days of youth are gone;
What once we were no more we are;
And dead are all the dreams that shone
Ere we were bruised and hammered on
The ringing anvils of red war.
The Spirit of Immortal Times,
With lights that dazzle and entice,
Is vitalizing all earth's climes;
Once more in golden tones it chimes
The anthem of High Sacrifice.
And yet, though Fame be very fair,
And great the yearning and desire
Of hero-hearts to do and dare,
Behold, there stands an empty chair
Beside a cold and ashen fire!
Because, as even you and I,
They loved and were beloved, my friends,
Not all the glory-stars on high,
The splendid things for which men die,
Can for their passing make amends.
There is a house that waits in vain
To give them entrance at its door,
When frost's afoot or chilly rain;
There is a track across the plain
That they, alas, shall ride no more.
A whip, a saddle, and a spur!
(Ah, love-lit rides! The moon above,
Sweet scents around, soft winds astir!)
God give him rest! And what of her?
Why ask? Is love not always love?
Dear eyes that pain has made divine,
Sad eyes that burn with tears unshed,
Within whose depths are griefs that pine
And pilgrim thoughts that seek the shrine,
The grave of their beloved dead;
Dear eyes, dear hearts, dear folk, tear-blind,
Who greet each morn with grief anew,
Pale cheeks grown cold, and foreheads lined, —
Since God is good and Heaven is kind,
There shall be recompense for you!
The Old Year dies; and o'er the waves,
Wind-borne, there comes a requiem
Deep-chanted by a sea that laves
The shores they loved. Oh, may their graves
Give goodly rest and peace to them!
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Wisper Me my golden wedding ring.
Wisper to me. Tell me everything. Tell me why you placed a golden ring on my finger, is it love and lust? or is it hate and sadness u seek.'Why does your eyes weep my love? ' i said on a cold and clear winters night.'I cry because im happy to be in a place where its just you and me'.he replied, You touched my face with cold hands, i now remember nothing..... Of you or that night, as it took me away.
In a box i layed with a single wisper in my memory locked the last thing you gave me was not want i expected from someone as important as you.A gold wedding ring you placed in my hand. ' Marry me please' you said in a voice i'll never forget.
Even in my winters grave, i'll never forget, but never forgive.
So may i ask you this before you send me away on the stream which will carry me far far away, as my lips touch your ear i said this 'Wisper me my golden wedding ring'. And now i leave you staring at my golden wedding ring.
poem by Nicole Baker
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Sacred Ground
Iced over, close your eyes. whisper the flame, it takes us higher.
Seems our world is closing around. when Im inside you, you bring me to sacred ground.
When Im inside you, you bring me to sacred ground.
Now youre the one that I want, you know its true.
Let go of everything, open up to me.
Im right beside you, Ill be your watchful eye.
I send waves of devotion over you. you take it all in and give it back, give it back again.
You bring me to sacred ground, when Im inside you.
You bring me to sacred ground.
Yes well love till theres nothing left to give...
Matching every movement, swimming in an ocean of sweat, and scent of you. it drives me to ...
You bring me to sacred ground, when Im inside you.
You bring me to sacred ground.
I know I can change your mind. give it to me the same way.
Giving it all up for love, I know that you feel the same way.
Id give it all up for you, I swear I would.
Now Im falling, falling inside ...
You bring me to sacred ground, when Im inside you.
You bring me to sacred ground.
Im inside you.
You bring me to sacred ground, when Im inside you.
You bring me to sacred ground.
song performed by by Queensryche
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Cenotaph
Not yet will those measureless fields be green again
Where only yesterday the wild sweet blood of wonderful youth was shed;
There is a grave whose earth must hold too long, too deep a stain,
Though for ever over it we may speak as proudly as we may tread.
But here, where the watchers by lonely hearths from the thrust of an inward sword have more slowly bled,
We shall build the Cenotaph: Victory, winged, with Peace, winged too, at the column’s head.
And over the stairway, at the foot—oh! here, leave desolate, passionate hands to spread
Violets, roses, and laurel, with the small, sweet, tinkling country things
Speaking so wistfully of other Springs,
From the little gardens of little places where son or sweetheart was born and bred.
In splendid sleep, with a thousand brothers
To lovers—to mothers
Here, too, lies he:
Under the purple, the green, the red,
It is all young life: it must break some women's hearts to see
Such a brave, gay coverlet to such a bed!
Only, when all is done and said,
God is not mocked and neither are the dead
For this will stand in our Marketplace—
Who’ll sell, who’ll buy
(Will you or I
Lie each to each with the better grace)?
While looking into every busy whore's and huckster's face
As they drive their bargains, is the Face
Of God: and some young, piteous, murdered face.
poem by Charlotte Mary Mew
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King Volmer and Elsie
After the Danish of Christian Winter
Where, over heathen doom-rings and gray stones of the Horg,
In its little Christian city stands the church of Vordingborg,
In merry mood King Volmer sat, forgetful of his power,
As idle as the Goose of Gold that brooded on his tower.
Out spake the King to Henrik, his young and faithful squire
'Dar'st trust thy little Elsie, the maid of thy desire?'
'Of all the men in Denmark she loveth only me
As true to me is Elsie as thy Lily is to thee.'
Loud laughed the king: 'To-morrow shall bring another day,
When I myself will test her; she will not say me nay.'
Thereat the lords and gallants, that round about him stood,
Wagged all their heads in concert and smiled as courtiers should.
The gray lark sings o'er Vordingborg, and on the ancient town
From the tall tower of Valdemar the Golden Goose looks down;
The yellow grain is waving in the pleasant wind of morn,
The wood resounds with cry of hounds and blare of hunter's horn.
In the garden of her father little Elsie sits and spins,
And, singing with the early birds, her daily task, begins.
Gay tulips bloom and sweet mint curls around her garden-bower,
But she is sweeter than the mint and fairer than the flower.
About her form her kirtle blue clings lovingly, and, white
As snow, her loose sleeves only leave her small, round wrists in sight;
Below, the modest petticoat can only half conceal
The motion of the lightest foot that ever turned a wheel.
The cat sits purring at her side, bees hum in sunshine warm;
But, look! she starts, she lifts her face, she shades it with her arm.
And, hark! a train of horsemen, with sound of dog and horn,
Come leaping o'er the ditches, come trampling down the corn!
Merrily rang the bridle-reins, and scarf and plume streamed gay,
As fast beside her father's gate the riders held their way;
And one was brave in scarlet cloak, with golden spur on heel,
And, as he checked his foaming steed, the maiden checked her wheel.
'All hail among thy roses, the fairest rose to me!
For weary months in secret my heart has longed for thee!'
What noble knight was this? What words for modest maiden's ear?
She dropped a lowly courtesy of bashfulness and fear.
She lifted up her spinning-wheel; she fain would seek the door,
Trembling in every limb, her cheek with blushes crimsoned o'er.
'Nay, fear me not,' the rider said, 'I offer heart and hand,
Bear witness these good Danish knights who round about me stand.
'I grant you time to think of this, to answer as you may,
For to-morrow, little Elsie, shall bring another day.'
He spake the old phrase slyly as, glancing round his train,
He saw his merry followers seek to hide their smiles in vain.
'The snow of pearls I'll scatter in your curls of golden hair,
I'll line with furs the velvet of the kirtle that you wear;
All precious gems shall twine your neck; and in a chariot gay
You shall ride, my little Elsie, behind four steeds of gray.
'And harps shall sound, and flutes shall play, and brazen lamps shall glow;
On marble floors your feet shall weave the dances to and fro.
At frosty eventide for us the blazing hearth shall shine,
While, at our ease, we play at draughts, and drink the blood-red wine.'
Then Elsie raised her head and met her wooer face to face;
A roguish smile shone in her eye and on her lip found place.
Back from her low white forehead the curls of gold she threw,
And lifted up her eyes to his, steady and clear and blue.
'I am a lowly peasant, and you a gallant knight;
I will not trust a love that soon may cool and turn to slight.
If you would wed me henceforth be a peasant, not a lord;
I bid you hang upon the wall your tried and trusty sword.'
'To please you, Elsie, I will lay keen Dynadel away,
And in its place will swing the scythe and mow your father's hay.'
'Nay, but your gallant scarlet cloak my eyes can never bear;
A Vadmal coat, so plain and gray, is all that you must wear.'
'Well, Vadmal will I wear for you,' the rider gayly spoke,
'And on the Lord's high altar I'll lay my scarlet cloak.'
'But mark,' she said, 'no stately horse my peasant love must ride,
A yoke of steers before the plough is all that he must guide.'
The knight looked down upon his steed: 'Well, let him wander free
No other man must ride the horse that has been backed by me.
Henceforth I'll tread the furrow and to my oxen talk,
If only little Elsie beside my plough will walk.'
'You must take from out your cellar cask of wine and flask and can;
The homely mead I brew you may serve a peasant man.'
'Most willingly, fair Elsie, I'll drink that mead of thine,
And leave my minstrel's thirsty throat to drain my generous wine.'
'Now break your shield asunder, and shatter sign and boss,
Unmeet for peasant-wedded arms, your knightly knee across.
And pull me down your castle from top to basement wall,
And let your plough trace furrows in the ruins of your hall!'
Then smiled he with a lofty pride; right well at last he knew
The maiden of the spinning-wheel was to her troth. plight true.
'Ah, roguish little Elsie! you act your part full well
You know that I must bear my shield and in my castle dwell!
'The lions ramping on that shield between the hearts aflame
Keep watch o'er Denmark's honor, and guard her ancient name.
'For know that I am Volmer; I dwell in yonder towers,
Who ploughs them ploughs up Denmark, this goodly home of ours'.
'I tempt no more, fair Elsie! your heart I know is true;
Would God that all our maidens were good and pure as you!
Well have you pleased your monarch, and he shall well repay;
God's peace! Farewell! To-morrow will bring another day!'
He lifted up his bridle hand, he spurred his good steed then,
And like a whirl-blast swept away with all his gallant men.
The steel hoofs beat the rocky path; again on winds of morn
The wood resounds with cry of hounds and blare of hunter's horn.
'Thou true and ever faithful!' the listening Henrik cried;
And, leaping o'er the green hedge, he stood by Elsie's side.
None saw the fond embracing, save, shining from afar,
The Golden Goose that watched them from the tower of Valdemar.
O darling girls of Denmark! of all the flowers that throng
Her vales of spring the fairest, I sing for you my song.
No praise as yours so bravely rewards the singer's skill;
Thank God! of maids like Elsie the land has plenty still!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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A spur in the head is worth two in the heel.
An Ode, Written October, 1819, Before The Spaniards Had Recovered Their Liberty
Arise, arise, arise!
There is blood on the earth that denies ye bread;
Be your wounds like eyes
To weep for the dead, the dead, the dead.
What other grief were it just to pay?
Your sons, your wives, your brethren, were they;
Who said they were slain on the battle day?
Awaken, awaken, awaken!
The slave and the tyrant are twin-born foes;
Be the cold chains shaken
To the dust where your kindred repose, repose:
Their bones in the grave will start and move,
When they hear the voices of those they love,
Most loud in the holy combat above.
Wave, wave high the banner!
When Freedom is riding to conquest by:
Though the slaves that fan her
Be Famine and Toil, giving sigh for sigh.
And ye who attend her imperial car,
Lift not your hands in the banded war,
But in her defence whose children ye are.
Glory, glory, glory,
To those who have greatly suffered and done!
Never name in story
Was greater than that which ye shall have won.
Conquerors have conquered their foes alone,
Whose revenge, pride, and power they have overthrown
Ride ye, more victorious, over your own.
Bind, bind every brow
With crownals of violet, ivy, and pine:
Hide the blood-stains now
With hues which sweet Nature has made divine:
Green strength, azure hope, and eternity:
But let not the pansy among them be;
Ye were injured, and that means memory.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Wear My Ring Around Your Neck
(words & music by bert caroll - russell moody)
Wont you wear my ring around your neck
To tell the world Im yours, by heck
Let them see your love for me
And let them see by the ring around your neck
Wont you wear my ring around your neck
To tell the world Im yours, by heck
Let them know I love you so
And let them no by the ring around your neck
They say that goin steady is not the proper thing
They say that were too young to know the meaning of a ring
I only know that I love you and that you love me too
So, darling, please do what I ask of you
Wont you wear my ring around your neck
To tell the world Im yours, by heck
Let them see your love for me
And let them see by the ring around your neck
Let them know I love you so
And let them know by the ring around your neck
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The End Of Laughter
O never laugh again!
Laughter is dead,
Deep hiding in her grave,
A sacred thing.
O never laugh again,
Never take hands and run
Through the wild streets,
Or sing,
Glad in the sun:
For she, the immortal sweetness of all sweets,
Took laughter with her
When she went away
With sleep.
O never laugh again!
Ours but to weep,
Ours but to pray.
poem by Richard Le Gallienne
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The Castle In Austria
From 'The Boy's Wonderhorn'
There lies a castle in Austria,
Right goodly to behold,
Walled tip with marble stones so fair,
With silver and with red gold.
Therein lies captive a young boy,
For life and death he lies bound,
Full forty fathoms under the earth,
'Midst vipers and snakes around.
His father came from Rosenberg,
Before the tower he went:--
'My son, my dearest son, how hard
Is thy imprisonment!'
'O father, dearest father mine,
So hardly I am bound,
Full forty fathoms under the earth,
'Midst vipers and snakes around!'
His father went before the lord:--
'Let loose thy captive to me!
I have at home three casks of gold,
And these for the boy I'll gi'e.'
'Three casks of gold, they help you not:
That boy, and he must die!
He wears round his neck a golden chain;
Therein doth his ruin lie.'
'And if he thus wear a golden chain,
He hath not stolen it; nay!
A maiden good gave it to him
For true love, did she say.'
They led the boy forth from the tower,
And the sacrament took he:--
'Help thou, rich Christ, from heaven high,
It's come to an end with me!'
They led him to the scaffold place,
Up the ladder he must go:--
'O headsman, dearest headsman, do
But a short respite allow!'
'A short respite I must not grant;
Thou wouldst escape and fly:
Reach me a silken handkerchief
Around his eyes to tie.'
'Oh, do not, do not bind mine eyes!
I must look on the world so fine;
I see it to-day, then never more,
With these weeping eyes of mine.'
His father near the scaffold stood,
And his heart, it almost rends:--
'O son, O thou my dearest son,
Thy death I will avenge!'
'O father, dearest father mine!
My death thou shalt not avenge:
'Twould bring to my soul but heavy pains;
Let me die in innocence.
'It is not for this life of mine,
Nor for my body proud;
'Tis but for my dear mother's sake:
At home she weeps aloud.'
Not yet three days had passed away,
When an angel from heaven came down:
'Take ye the boy from the scaffold away;
Else the city shall sink under ground!'
And not six months had passed away,
Ere his death was avenged amain;
And upwards of three hundred men
For the boy's life were slain.
Who is it that hath made this lay,
Hath sung it, and so on?
That, in Vienna in Austria,
Three maidens fair have done.
poem by Clemens Maria Brentano
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Is Nothing Sacred
If a love as strong as ours
Couldnt make it all the way,
Can anything make sense at all?
If a love so deep and true
Couldnt stand the test of time,
Then mount everest could slide,
And jeruselem could fall.
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Is forever just another word?
Is a promise something people used to keep
When love was worth fighting for?
If we can say good-bye,
If we can say good-bye,
Is nothing sacred anymore?
If we can say good-bye
Is nothing sacred anymore?
I can hear the final words
Every sentence that was said
Dont know what turned our lives around.
It doesnt matter who was right,
Theres no justice in a dream.
Never thought a heart could break
Without making any sound.
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Is forever just another word?
Is a promise something people used to keep
When love was worth fighting for?
If we can say good-bye,
If we can say good-bye,
Is nothing sacred anymore?
If we can say good-bye
If we can say good-bye
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Our love was as certain as the dawn,
As solid and save as any love could be.
Our love was the star you wished upon,
And you thought that I saved you,
Couldve sworn that you saved me.
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Is forever just another word?
Is a promise something people used to keep
When love was worth fighting for?
If we can say good-bye,
If we can say good-bye,
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Is forever just another word?
Is a promise something people used to keep
When love was worth fighting for?
If we can say good-bye,
If we can say good-bye,
Is nothing sacred anymore?
If we can say good-bye,
If we can say good-bye...
Is nothing sacred anymore...
Is nothing sacred anymore...
Is nothing sacred anymore...
song performed by by Meat Loaf
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Weep On, Weep On
Weep on, weep on, your hour is past,
Your dreams of pride are o'er;
The fatal chain is round you cast,
And you are men no more.
In vain the hero's heart hath bled;
The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain;
Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled,
It never lights again!
Weep on -- perhaps in after days,
They'll learn to love your name,
When many a deed may wake in praise
That long hath slept in blame.
And when they tread the ruin'd isle,
Where rest, at length, the lord and slave,
They'll wondering ask, how hands so vile
Could conquer hearts so brave?
"'Twas fate," they'll say, "a wayward fate
Your web of discord wove;
And while your tyrants join'd in hate,
You never join'd in love.
But hearts fell off that ought to twine,
And man profaned what God had given;
Till some were heard to curse the shrine
Where others knelt in heaven!"
poem by Thomas Moore
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Fugue For The Fox
Call happy calling children are falling
In line to ride on the merry-go-round
People are passing children are laughing
They want to ride on the merry-go-round
Doesn't matter when you came
Every ride is just the same
Do not worry how it's done
There is room for everyone
Carousel turning children are yearning
To ride it forever and never come down
Little one's singing older one's clinging
Everyone riding the merry-go-round
Go round and round and up and down
Round and round they go always reaching for the ring of gold
Never knowing when the music's over they will be old
Call happy calling children are falling
In line to ride on the merry-go-round
People are passing children are laughing
They want to ride on the merry-go-round
Sometimes up and sometimes down
Don't let your feet ever touch the ground
Sometimes right and sometimes wrong
You'll end up where you belong
Sound of their laughter makes the ride faster
Soon the circus stand must come down
Music grows nowhere the ride is over
Say goodbye to the merry-go-round
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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O D E, To a Lady on the Death of Colonel R O S S in the action of Fontenoy
1.
W H I L E, lost to all his former Mirth,
Britannia's Genius bends to Earth,
And mourns the fatal Day:
While stain's with Blood he strives to tear
Unseemly from his Sea-green Hair
The Wreaths of chearful May:
2.
The Thoughts which musing Pity pays,
And fond Remembrance loves to raise,
Your faithful Hours attend:
Still Fancy to Herself unkind,
Awakes to Grief the soften'd Mind,
And points the bleeding Friend.
3.
By rapid Scheld's descending Wave
His Country's Vows shall bless the Grave,
Where'er the Youth is laid:
That sacred Spot the Village Hind
With ev'ry sweetest Turf shall bind,
And Peace protect the Shade.
4.
Blest Youth, regardful of thy Doom,
Aërial Hands shall build thy Tomb,
With shadowy Trophies crown'd:
Whilst Honor bath'd in Tears shall rove
To sigh thy Name thro' ev'ry Grove,
And call his Heros round.
5.
The warlike Dead of ev'ry Age,
Who fill the fair recording Page,
Shall leave their sainted Rest:
And, half-reclining on his Spear,
Each wond'ring Chief by turns appear,
To hail the blooming Guest.
6.
Old Edward's Sons, unknown to yield,
Shall croud from Cressy's laurell'd Field,
And gaze with fix'd Delight:
Again for Britain's Wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy Steel,
And wish th'avenging Fight.
7.
But lo where, sunk in deep Despair,
Her Garments torn, her Bosom bare,
Impatient Freedom lies!
Her matted Tresses madly spread,
To ev'ry Sod, which warps the Dead,
She turns her joyless Eyes.
8.
Ne'er shall she leave that lowly Ground
Till Notes of Triumph bursting round
Proclaim her Reign restor'd:
Till William seek the sad Retreat,
And bleeding at her sacred Feet,
Present the sated Sword.
9.
If, weak to sooth so soft an Heart,
These pictur'd Glories nought impart,
To dry thy constant Tear:
If yet, in Sorrow's distant Eye,
Expos'd and pale thou see'st him lie,
Wild War insulting near:
10.
Where'er from Time Thou court'st Relief.
The Muse shall still, with social Grief,
Her gentlest Promise keep:
Ev'n humble Harting's cottag'd Vale
Shall learn the sad repeated Tale,
And bid her Shepherds weep.
poem by William Taylor Collins
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The Heroes
By such strange and wonderful ways
God would save His world again.
All our days are holy days,
Starry heroes all our men.
There's naught common or unclean
In this splendid new-made earth:
Hearts uplifted, eyes serene,
Grief goes gayer now than mirth.
Quietly in the sacred night
Tears must fall, O noble tears!
That are shed in the Lords' sight
And are only for His ears.
Who would mourn aloud for sons
Gorgeous in our firmament,
Starry constellations
In the way their fathers went?
From the innumerable grave
There will spring a world new-born,
With the austerest eyes and brave
And its clear gaze towards the morn.
He who gave His Son to die
For man's purchase, gives once more
These, His beloved sons, to buy
Him a world worth dying for.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Psalm 62
v.5-12
L. M.
No trust in the creatures; or, Faith in Divine grace and power.
My spirit looks to God alone;
My rock and refuge is his throne;
In all my fears, in all my straits,
My soul on his salvation waits.
Trust him, ye saints, in all your ways,
Pour out your hearts before his face:
When helpers fail, and foes invade,
God is our all-sufficient aid.
False are the men of high degree,
The baser sort are vanity;
Laid in the balance, both appear
Light as a puff of empty air.
Make not increasing gold your trust,
Nor set your hearts on glitt'ring dust
Why will you grasp the fleeting smoke,
And not believe what God has spoke?
Once has his awful voice declared,
Once and again my ears have heard,
"All power is his eternal due;
He must be feared and trusted too."
For sovereign power reigns not alone,
Grace is a partner of the throne:
Thy grace and justice, mighty Lord,
Shall well divide our last reward.
poem by Isaac Watts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Life Has Its Little Ups And Downs
I don't know how to tell her,
That I didn't get that raise in pay today,
And I know how much she wanted the dress in Baker's window,
And it breaks my heart to see her have to wait,
And cancel all the plans she made to celebrate.
But I can count on her to take it with a smile and not a frown,
She knows that life has its little ups and downs,
Like ponies on a merry-go-round,
And no one grabs the brass ring every time,
But she don't mind,
She wears a gold ring on her finger,
And it's mine.
The new house plans we've had so long,
I guess will gather dust another year,
And the daffodils are blooming that she planted way last fall,
Upon the hill, and over by the gate,
And Lord knows I hate to say again we'll have to wait.
But you can bet that she'll just take it with a smile and not a frown,
She knows that life has its little ups and downs,
Like ponies on a merry-go-round,
And no one grabs the brass ring every time,
But she don't mind,
She wears a gold ring on her finger,
And I'm so glad that it's mine,
She wears a gold ring on her finger,
And I'm so glad that it's mine.
song performed by by Charlie Rich, lyrics by Margaret Ann Rich from The Fabulous Charlie Rich (September 1969)
Submitted by Varmint Tracks
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Weep Not For Him That Dieth
I.
WEEP not for him that dieth--
For he sleeps, and is at rest;
And the couch whereon he lieth
Is the green earth's quiet breast:
But weep for him who pineth
On a far land's hateful shore,
Who wearily declineth
Where ye see his face no more!
II.
Weep not for him that dieth,
For friends are round his bed,
And many a young lip sigheth
When they name the early dead;
But weep for him that liveth
Where none will know or care,
When the groan his faint heart giveth
Is the last sigh of despair.
III.
Weep not for him that dieth,
For his struggling soul is free,
And the world from which it flieth
Is a world of misery;
But weep for him that weareth
The captive's galling chain:
To the agony he beareth,
Death were but little pain.
IV.
Weep not for him that dieth,
For he hath ceased from tears,
And a voice to his replieth
Which he hath not heard for years;
But weep for him who weepeth
On that cold land's cruel shore--
Blest, blest is he that sleepeth,--
Weep for the dead no more!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Elected Knight. From The Danish.
Sir Oluf he rideth over the plain,
Full seven miles broad and seven miles wide,
But never, ah never, can meet with the man,
A tilt with him dare ride.
He saw under the hill-side
A Knight full well equipped;
His steed was black, his helm was barred;
He was riding at full speed.
He wore upon his spurs
Twelve little golden birds;
Anon he spurred his steed with a clang,
And there sat all the birds and sang.
He wore upon his mail
Twelve little golden wheels;
Anon in eddies the wild wind blew,
And round and round the wheels they flew.
He wore before his breast
A lance that was poised in rest;
And it was sharper than diamond-stone.
It made Sir Oluf's heart to groan.
He wore upon his helm
A wreath of ruddy gold;
And that gave him the Maidens Three,
The youngest was fair to behold.
Sir Oluf questioned the Knight eftsoon
If he were come from heaven down;
'Art thou Christ of Heaven,' quoth he,
'So will I yield me unto thee.'
'I am not Christ the Great,
Thou shalt not yield thee yet;
I am an Unknown Knight,
Three modest maidens have me bedight.'
'Art thou a Knight elected,
And have three Maidens thee bedight;
So shalt thou ride a tilt this day,
For all the Maidens' honour!'
The first tilt they together rode
They put their steeds to the test;
The second tilt they together rode,
They proved their manhood best;
The third tilt they together rode,
Neither of them would yield;
The fourth tilt they together rode,
They both fell on the field.
Now lie the Lords upon the plain,
And their blood runs unto death:
Now sit the Maidens in the high tower,
The youngest sorrows till death.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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