Sonnet 102: Wher Be Those Roses Gone
Where be those roses gone, which sweeten'd so our eyes?
Where those red cheeks, which oft with fair increase did frame
The height of honor in the kindly badge of shame?
Who hath the crimson weeds stol'n from my morning skies?
How did the color fade of those vermilion dyes
Which Nature self did make, and self engrain'd the same?
I would know by what right this paleness overcame
That hue, whose force my heart still unto thraldom ties.
Galen's adoptive sons, who by a beaten way
Their judgments hackney on, the fault of sickness lay,
But feeling proof makes me say they mistake it furre:
It is but Love, which makes his paper perfect white
To write therein more fresh the story of delight,
While Beauty's reddest ink Venus for him doth stir.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Venus in the Garden
'Twas at early morning,
The dawn was blushing in her purple bed,
When in a sweet, embowered garden
She, the fairest of the goddesses,
The lovely Venus,
Roamed amongst the roses white and red.
She sought for flowers
To make a garland
For her golden head.
Snow-white roses, blood-red roses,
In that sweet garden close,
Offered incense to the goddess:
Both the white and the crimson rose.
White roses, red roses, blossoming:
But the fair Venus knew
The crimson roses had gained their hue
From the hearts that for love had bled;
And the goddess made a garland
Gathered from the roses red.
poem by James Weldon Johnson
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Rosalind: Like to the Clear in Highest Sphere
1 Like to the clear in highest sphere
2 Where all imperial glory shines,
3 Of selfsame colour is her hair,
4 Whether unfolded or in twines:
5 Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
6 Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
7 Refining heaven by every wink;
8 The gods do fear whenas they glow,
9 And I do tremble when I think:
10 Heigh ho, would she were mine.
11 Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
12 That beautifies Aurora's face,
13 Or like the silver crimson shroud
14 That Ph{oe}bus' smiling looks doth grace:
15 Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
16 Her lips are like two budded roses,
17 Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
18 Within which bounds she balm encloses,
19 Apt to entice a deity:
20 Heigh ho, would she were mine.
21 Her neck, like to a stately tower
22 Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
23 To watch for glances every hour
24 From her divine and sacred eyes:
25 Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
26 Her paps are centres of delight,
27 Her paps are orbs of heavenly frame,
28 Where Nature moulds the dew of light,
29 To feed perfection with the same:
30 Heigh ho, would she were mine.
31 With orient pearl, with ruby red,
32 With marble white, with sapphire blue,
33 Her body every way is fed,
34 Yet soft in touch, and sweet in view:
35 Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
36 Nature herself her shape admires,
37 The gods are wounded in her sight,
38 And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
39 And at her eyes his brand doth light:
40 Heigh ho, would she were mine.
41 Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
42 The absence of fair Rosalind,
43 Since for her fair there is fairer none,
44 Nor for her virtues so divine:
45 Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
46 Heigh ho, my heart, would God that she were mine!
poem by Thomas Lodge
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Like to the Clear in Highest Sphere
Like to the clear in highest sphere
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of selfsame colour is her hair,
Whether unfolded or in twines:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Refining heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear whenas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think:
Heigh ho, would she were mine.
Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face,
Or like the silver crimson shroud
That Ph{oe}bus' smiling looks doth grace:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
Her lips are like two budded roses,
Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
Within which bounds she balm encloses,
Apt to entice a deity:
Heigh ho, would she were mine.
Her neck, like to a stately tower
Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
Her paps are centres of delight,
Her paps are orbs of heavenly frame,
Where Nature moulds the dew of light,
To feed perfection with the same:
Heigh ho, would she were mine.
With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,
Yet soft in touch, and sweet in view:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
Nature herself her shape admires,
The gods are wounded in her sight,
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
And at her eyes his brand doth light:
Heigh ho, would she were mine.
Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence of fair Rosalind,
Since for her fair there is fairer none,
Nor for her virtues so divine:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
Heigh ho, my heart, would God that she were mine!
poem by Thomas Lodge
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Solatium
Comes the broken flower -
Comes the cheated maid -
Though the tempest lower,
Rain and cloud will fade!
Take, O maid, these posies:
Though thy beauty rare
Shame the blushing roses,
They are passing fair!
Wear the flowers till they fade;
Happy be thy life, O maid!
O'er the season vernal,
Time may cast a shade;
Sunshine, if eternal,
Makes the roses fade:
Time may do his duty;
Let the thief alone -
Winter hath a beauty
That is all his own.
Fairest days are sun and shade:
Happy be thy life, O maid!
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Astrophel And Stella-First Song
Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth,
Which now my breast o'ercharged to music lendeth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only in you my song begins and endeth.
Who hath the eyes which marry state with pleasure?
Who keeps the key of Nature's chiefest treasure?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only for you the heaven forgat all measure.
Who hath the lips where wit in fairness reigneth?
Who womankind at once both decks and staineth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only by you Cupid his crown maintaineth.
Who hath the feet whose step all sweetness planteth?
Who else, for whom Fame worthy trumpets wanteth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only to you her sceptre Venus granteth.
Who hath the breast whose milk doth passions nourish?
Whose grace is such that when it chides doth cherish?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only through you the tree of life doth flourish.
Who hath the hand which without stroke subdueth?
Who long-dead beauty with increase reneweth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only at you all envy hopeless rueth.
Who hath the hair which, loosest, fastest tieth?
Who makes a man live then glad when he dieth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only of you the flatterer never lieth.
Who hath the voice which soul from senses sunders?
Whose force but yours the bolts of beauty thunders?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only with you not miracles are wonders.
Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth,
Which now my breast o'ercharged to music lendeth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only in you my song begins and endeth.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Sonnet 77: Those Looks, Whose Beams Be Joy
Those looks, whose beams be joy, whose motion is delight,
That face, whose lecture shows what perfect beauty is:
That presence, which doth give dark hearts a living light:
That grace, which Venus weeps that she herself doth miss:
That hand, which without touch holds more than Atlas might:
Those lips, which make death's pay a mean price for a kiss:
That skin, skin, whose passe-praise hue scorns this poor term of white:
Those words, which do sublime the quintessence of bliss:
That voice, which makes the soul plant himself in the ears:
That conversation sweet, where such high comforts be,
As constru'd in true speech, the name of heav'n it bears,
Makes me in my best thought and quiet'st judgment see,
That in no more but these I might be fully blest:
Yet ah, my maiden Muse doth blush to tell the rest.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Sonnet 90: Stella, Think Not That I
Stella, think not that I by verse seek fame,
Who seek, who hope, who love, who live but thee;
Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my history:
If thou praise not, all other praise is shame.
Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame
A nest for praise in my young laurel tree:
In truth I swear, I wish not there should be
Grav'd in mine epitaph a poet's name:
Ne if I would, could I just title make,
That any laud to me thereof should grow,
Without my plumes from others' wings I take.
For nothing from my wit or will doth flow,
Since all my words thy beauty doth indite,
And Love doth hold my hand, and makes me write.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Rosaline
LIKE to the clear in highest sphere
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of selfsame colour is her hair
Whether unfolded or in twines:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Resembling heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear whenas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think
Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face,
Or like the silver crimson shroud
That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace.
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her lips are like two budded roses
Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
Within whose bounds she balm encloses
Apt to entice a deity:
Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Her neck like to a stately tower
Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her paps are centres of delight,
Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,
Where Nature moulds the dew of light
To feed perfection with the same:
Heigh ho, would she were mine!
With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,
Yet soft to touch and sweet in view:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Nature herself her shape admires;
The gods are wounded in her sight;
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
And at her eyes his brand doth light:
Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence of fair Rosaline,
Since for a fair there 's fairer none,
Nor for her virtues so divine:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!
poem by Thomas Lodge
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Sonnet 101: Stella Is Sick
Stella is sick, and in that sickbed lies
Sweetness, which breathes and pants as oft as she:
And Grace, sick too, such fine conclusions tries
That Sickness brags itself best grac'd to be.
Beauty is sick, but sick in so fair guise
That is that paleness Beauty's white we see,
And Joy, which is inseparate from those eyes,
Stella now learns (strange case) to weep in thee.
Love moves thy pain, and like a faithful page,
As thy looks stir, runs up and down to make
All folks press'd at thy will thy pain t'assuage.
Nature with care sweats for her darling's sake,
Knowing worlds pass, ere she enough can find
Of such heav'n stuff, to clothe so heav'nly mind.
poem by Philip Sidney
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No Fault In Women
No fault in women, to refuse
The offer which they most would chuse.
--No fault: in women, to confess
How tedious they are in their dress;
--No fault in women, to lay on
The tincture of vermilion;
And there to give the cheek a dye
Of white, where Nature doth deny.
--No fault in women, to make show
Of largeness, when they're nothing so;
When, true it is, the outside swells
With inward buckram, little else.
--No fault in women, though they be
But seldom from suspicion free;
--No fault in womankind at all,
If they but slip, and never fall.
poem by Robert Herrick
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Amoretti LXXIX: Men Call you Fair
Men call you fair, and you do credit it,
For that your self ye daily such do see:
But the true fair, that is the gentle wit,
And vertuous mind, is much more prais'd of me.
For all the rest, how ever fair it be,
Shall turn to naught and lose that glorious hue:
But only that is permanent and free
From frail corruption, that doth flesh ensue.
That is true beauty: that doth argue you
To be divine, and born of heavenly seed:
Deriv'd from that fair Spirit, from whom all true
And perfect beauty did at first proceed.
He only fair, and what he fair hath made,
All other fair, like flowers untimely fade.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Sonnet VII: When Nature
When Nature made her chief work, Stella's eyes,
In color black why wrapp'd she beams so bright?
Would she in beamy black, like painter wise,
Frame daintiest lustre, mix'd of shades and light?
Or did she else that sober hue devise,
In object best to knit and strength our sight,
Lest if no veil those brave gleams did disguise,
They sun-like should more dazzle than delight?
Or would she her miraculous power show,
That whereas black seems Beauty's contrary,
She even if black doth make all beauties flow?
Both so and thus, she minding Love shoud be
Placed ever there, gave him this mourning weed,
To honor all their deaths, who for her bleed.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Sonnet 7: When Nature
When Nature made her chief work, Stella's eyes,
In color black why wrapp'd she beams so bright?
Would she in beamy black, like painter wise,
Frame daintiest lustre, mix'd of shades and light?
Or did she else that sober hue devise,
In object best to knit and strength our sight,
Lest if no veil those brave gleams did disguise,
They sun-like should more dazzle than delight?
Or would she her miraculous power show,
That whereas black seems Beauty's contrary,
She even if black doth make all beauties flow?
Both so and thus, she minding Love shoud be
Placed ever there, gave him this mourning weed,
To honor all their deaths, who for her bleed.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Fie, Pleasure, Fie!
1 Fie pleasure, fie! thou cloyest me with delight,
2 Thou fill'st my mouth with sweetmeats overmuch;
3 I wallow still in joy both day and night:
4 I deem, I dream, I do, I taste, I touch,
5 No thing but all that smells of perfect bliss;
6 Fie pleasure, fie! I cannot like of this.
7 To taste (sometimes) a bait of bitter gall,
8 To drink a draught of so{'u}r ale (some season)
9 To eat brown bread with homely hands in hall,
10 Doth much increase men's appetites, by reason,
11 And makes the sweet more sugar'd that ensues,
12 Since minds of men do still seek after news.
13 The pamper'd horse is seldom seen in breath,
14 Whose manger makes his grace (oftimes) to melt;
15 The crammed fowl comes quickly to his death;
16 Such colds they catch in hottest haps that swelt;
17 And I (much like) in pleasure scawled still,
18 Do fear to starve although I feed my fill.
19 It might suffice that Love hath built his bower
20 Between my lady's lively shining eyes;
21 It were enough that beauty's fading flower
22 Grows ever fresh with her in heavenly wise;
23 It had been well that she were fair of face,
24 And yet not rob all other dames of grace.
25 To muse in mind, how wise, how fair, how good,
26 How brave, how frank, how courteous, and how true
27 My lady is, doth but inflame my blood
28 With humours such as bid my health adieu;
29 Since hap always when it is clomb on high,
30 Doth fall full low, though erst it reach'd the sky.
31 Lo, pleasure, lo! lo thus I lead a life
32 That laughs for joy, and trembleth oft for dread;
33 Thy pangs are such as call for change's knife
34 To cut the twist, or else to stretch the thread,
35 Which holds yfeer the bundle of my bliss:
36 Fie, pleasure, fie! I dare not trust to this.
poem by George Gascoigne
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The Color of My Heart...(a song)
The color of my heart...
Without you it's black
The color of my heart...
With you it's red
Is it love?
The color of my heart...
When it's broken
It's purple
With you it's red
Is it love?
(chorus)
The color
Color
The color of my heart...
The feeling of you
Makes it warm
The color of my heart...
Oh oh oh
The color of my heart...
When it's warm, it's pink
The color of my heart...
When it's sad, it's blue
(chorus)
The color of my heart...
Is the emotions with you
The color of my heart...
Makes me feel like new, oh oh oh
Is it love?
(chorus) x2
(The color of my heart...oh oh oh)
6/21/08
poem by Alexandria Rios
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Air-Hostess Song
She had perfect eyes
That's all she had
And in the these perfect skies
Makes you glad
She has alibis
And they're not bad
And in these perfect skies
Makes you sad
Makes you sad
Makes you sad
Makes you sad
Makes you sad
She had perfect eyes
That's all she had
And in the these perfect skies
Makes you glad
We're all here on faith
The air tastes bad
Far from perfect skies Is all you had
Is all you had
Makes you sad
Makes you sad
Makes you sad
I don't want no grace
Just a smile
Just a smile
Put me in my place
With a smile
Just a smile
I don't want no grace
Just a smile
Just a smile
I don't want no grace
Just a smile
Make you glad
Make you glad
Make you glad
Make you..
song performed by by Gomez
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet # 19
Romantic thoughts of you fill my head
I see them clearly when I close my eyes
A thousand letters that join together to create
The words I love you which play daily upon my mind
Your face I see many times a day
A treasure I shan't never let it go
For you have cast a spell upon me my love
Thy timeless beauty hath bewitched my heart and soul
Your eyes be an enchantment of magical delight
That has gotten hold of me
Priceless is thy smile thou doth possess
A shinning jewel in my mind you will always be
I cannot but help write the words your memory brings
For visions of thee doth force my pen to sing
poem by John A. Hancock
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On His Ladies Waking
My lady woke upon a morning fair,
What time Apollo’s chariot takes the skies,
And, fain to fill with arrows from her eyes
His empty quiver, Love was standing there:
I saw two apples that her breast doth bear
None such the close of the Hesperides
Yields; nor hath Venus any such as these,
Nor she that had of nursling Mars the care.
Even such a bosom, and so fair it was,
Pure as the perfect work of Phidias,
That sad Andromeda’s discomfiture
Left bare, when Perseus passed her on a day,
And pale as Death for fear of Death she lay,
With breast as marble cold, as marble pure.
poem by Pierre Ronsard
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I Will Not Write About A Poem Where You Can Relate
i will not write a poem
where you can relate
because it will
be painful
and i do not like
you to take
the pain
the pain
you have now
will be too much to bear
and if i add another dose of pain
from these lines i am afraid that you may not be able to take it
instead i will write a poem
where everything will be strange to you something that
will not make you remember something that will make you wonder
about a world which you have not ever known something that strikes a
note in your heart
that awakens you and brings you a new day
that presents to you some pages of the sea and tell you a story
not about us, that which takes you at the top of the mountain and lets
you see some clear skies, a full orange moon, a dark blue horizon something
that makes you wish upon another star that makes your heart
stronger than ever that which makes you live and never again think of death
because i love you
poem by Antonio Liao
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The Two Sons!
Without the two sons,
Life is not fun;
So we run,
Behind the two sons.
SON makes you crazy,
With his treats;
SUN makes you crazy,
With his heat.
SON makes you crazy,
As he is rough;
SUN makes you crazy,
As he is tough.
SON makes you crazy,
As he is in sight;
SUN makes you crazy,
As he is in height.
SON makes you crazy,
As he weeps;
SUN makes you crazy,
As he creeps.
SON makes you crazy,
As we have gain;
SUN makes you crazy,
As we have pain.
SON makes you crazy,
As he crys;
SUN makes you crazy,
As he frys.
So without these:
Son and Sun
Life is not fun.
poem by Anju Addanki
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