En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Sir Walter Raleigh to His Son

Three things there be that prosper up apace
And flourish, whilst they grow asunder far,
But on a day, they meet all in one place,
And when they meet, they one another mar;
And they be these: the wood, the weed, the wag.
The wood is that which makes the gallow tree;
The weed is that which strings the hangman's bag;
The wag, my pretty knave, betokeneth thee.
Mark well, dear boy, whilst these assemble not,
Green springs the tree, hemp grows, the wag is wild,
But when they meet, it makes the timber rot,
It frets the halter, and it chokes the child.
  Then bless thee, and beware, and let us pray
  We part not with thee at this meeting day.

poem by Sir Walter Raleigh
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Sonnet XXIX

I think of thee !--my thoughts do twine and bud
About thee, as wild vines, about a tree,
Put out broad leaves, and soon there 's nought to see
Except the straggling green which hides the wood.
Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood
I will not have my thoughts instead of thee
Who art dearer, better ! Rather, instantly
Renew thy presence; as a strong tree should,
Rustle thy boughs and set thy trunk all bare,
And let these bands of greenery which insphere thee
Drop heavily down,--burst, shattered, everywhere !
Because, in this deep joy to see and hear thee
And breathe within thy shadow a new air,
I do not think of thee--I am too near thee.

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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Xxix

I think of thee !--my thoughts do twine and bud
About thee, as wild vines, about a tree,
Put out broad leaves, and soon there 's nought to see
Except the straggling green which hides the wood.
Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood
I will not have my thoughts instead of thee
Who art dearer, better ! Rather, instantly
Renew thy presence; as a strong tree should,
Rustle thy boughs and set thy trunk all bare,
And let these bands of greenery which insphere thee
Drop heavily down,--burst, shattered, everywhere !
Because, in this deep joy to see and hear thee
And breathe within thy shadow a new air,
I do not think of thee--I am too near thee.

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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Sonnet XXIX: I Think of Thee

I think of thee!--my thoughts do twine and bud
About thee,as wild vines, about a tree,
Put out broad leaves, and soon there's nought to see
Except the straggling green which hides the wood.
Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood
I will not have my thoughts instead of thee
Who art dearer, better! Rather, instantly
Renew thy presence; as a strong tree should,
Rustle thy boughs and set thy trunk all bare,
And let these bands of greenery which insphere thee
Drop heavily down,--burst, shattered, everywhere!
Because, in this deep joy to see and hear thee
And breathe within thy shadow a new air,
I do not think of thee--I am too near thee.

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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Sonnet 29 - I think of thee!—my thoughts do twine and bud

XXIX

I think of thee!—my thoughts do twine and bud
About thee, as wild vines, about a tree,
Put out broad leaves, and soon there 's nought to see
Except the straggling green which hides the wood.
Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood
I will not have my thoughts instead of thee
Who art dearer, better! Rather, instantly
Renew thy presence; as a strong tree should,
Rustle thy boughs and set thy trunk all bare,
And let these bands of greenery which insphere thee
Drop heavily down,—burst, shattered, everywhere!
Because, in this deep joy to see and hear thee
And breathe within thy shadow a new air,
I do not think of thee—I am too near thee.

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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Meet Me in the Green Glen

Love, meet me in the green glen,
Beside the tall elm-tree,
Where the sweetbriar smells so sweet agen;
There come with me.
Meet me in the green glen.

Meet me at the sunset
Down in the green glen,
Where we've often met
By hawthorn-tree and foxes' den,
Meet me in the green glen.

Meet me in the green glen,
By sweetbriar bushes there;
Meet me by your own sen,
Where the wild thyme blossoms fair.
Meet me in the green glen.

Meet me by the sweetbriar,
By the mole-hill swelling there;
When the west glows like a fire
God's crimson bed is there.
Meet me in the green glen.

poem by John Clare
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A Wayward Rose

Mischievous rose from the rose-tree swaying,
Can I not bind thee nor hold thee?
Can I not weave thee nor fold thee
In with thy sisters to staying?
Vain is my passion or praying,
Rose from the rose-tree swaying.
Wayward sweet rose from the rose-tree swinging,
Can I not pass thee, forget thee?
Can I not see to regret thee?
In—'mid thy kindred's close ringing,
Out—to my heart she comes winging,
Rose from the rose-tree swinging.
Cruel red rose from the rose-tree swaying,
Ever to worship thee, throne thee,
Never to lose thee or own thee,
Thy beauty to keep me from straying,
Thy thorns for my passionate praying,
Rose from the rose-tree swaying.

poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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I Was Not False To Thee

I WAS not false to thee, and yet
My cheek alone looked pale;
My weary eye was dim and wet,
My strength began to fail.
Thou wert the same; thy looks were gay,
Thy step was light and free;
And yet, with truth, my heart can say,
I was not false to thee!

I was not false to thee, yet now
Thou hast a cheerful eye,
With flushing cheek and drooping brow
I wander mournfully.
I hate to meet the gaze of men,
I weep where none can see;
Why do I only suffer, when
I was not false to thee?

I was not false to thee; yet oh!
How scornfully they smile,
Who see me droop, who guess my woe,
Yet court thee all the while.
'Tis strange! but when long years are past,
Thou wilt remember me;
Whilst I can feel until the last,
I was not false to thee!

poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Before Ever We Did Meet

Before ever we did meet, I missed thee-
In my dreams too, many times, I have kissed thee-
Before there was you, there was only my heart's retreat,
To opine differently, would be to impart deceit!

I have now but just one all-consuming goal:
To meet again my heart, which you stole!
Until such time as we do again meet,
Surely I am less than whole, not nearly complete!

Forever and always shall I hold you to be most dear,
Foremost are thoughts of thee, though we are not near!
One day, perhaps whence not expectant of such,
You shall find me near to your tender touch!

Naught does there exist else of more import-
To assure us a life where naught else may consort!

Maurice Harris,22 November 2008

poem by Maurice Harris
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The Moon's Minion

Thine eyes are like the sea, my dear,
The wand'ring waters, green and grey;
Thine eyes are wonderful and clear,
And deep, and deadly, even as they;
The spirit of the changeful sea
Informs thine eyes at night and noon,
She sways the tides, and the heart of thee,
The mystic, sad, capricious Moon!

The Moon came down the shining stair
Of clouds that fleck the summer sky,
She kissed thee, saying, 'Child, be fair,
And madden men's hearts, even as I;
Thou shalt love all things strange and sweet,
That know me and are known of me;
The lover thou shalt never meet,
The land where thou shalt never be!'

She held thee in her chill embrace,
She kissed thee with cold lips divine,
She left her pallor on thy face,
That mystic ivory face of thine;
And now I sit beside thy feet,
And all my heart is far from thee,
Dreaming of her I shall not meet,
And of the land I shall not see!

poem by Andrew Lang
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Desert Inn

I never meet her in the city
But believe me she is pretty
Six-hundred-fifty miles away
I meet my angel in the desert
In the desert I can meet her
Oh in the desert heat she makes me play
Im not trying to be clever
Im not getting there forever
Only flying with the wind and thee
Im not trying to be late
Just becoming a slave
Come on angel, play the game
Im not trying to be clever
Im not getting there forever
Wont fight with the window on me
Im not trying to be late
Just becoming a slave
Come on angel, play the game
Shes never in the city
But the woman shes pretty
Six-hundred-fifty miles away
I meet my angel in the desert
In the desert I can meet her
In the desert heat she makes me pray
There is a race in your face

song performed by by Yello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Desert Inn

I never meet her in the city
But believe me she is pretty
Six-hundred-fifty miles away
I meet my angel in the desert
In the desert I can meet her
Oh in the desert heat she makes me play
Im not trying to be clever
Im not getting there forever
Only flying with the wind and thee
Im not trying to be late
Just becoming a slave
Come on angel, play the game
Im not trying to be clever
Im not getting there forever
Wont fight with the window on me
Im not trying to be late
Just becoming a slave
Come on angel, play the game
Shes never in the city
But the woman shes pretty
Six-hundred-fifty miles away
I meet my angel in the desert
In the desert I can meet her
In the desert heat she makes me pray
There is a race in your face

song performed by by Yello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rosalind's Scroll

I LEFT thee last, a child at heart,
   A woman scarce in years:
I come to thee, a solemn corpse
   Which neither feels nor fears.
I have no breath to use in sighs;
They laid the dead-weights on mine eyes
   To seal them safe from tears.

Look on me with thine own calm look:
   I meet it calm as thou.
No look of thine can change this smile,
   Or break thy sinful vow:
I tell thee that my poor scorn'd heart
Is of thine earth--thine earth--a part:
   It cannot vex thee now.

I have pray'd for thee with bursting sob
   When passion's course was free;
I have pray'd for thee with silent lips
   In the anguish none could see;
They whisper'd oft, 'She sleepeth soft'--
   But I only pray'd for thee.

Go to! I pray for thee no more:
   The corpse's tongue is still;
Its folded fingers point to heaven,
   But point there stiff and chill:
No farther wrong, no farther woe
Hath licence from the sin below
   Its tranquil heart to thrill.

I charge thee, by the living's prayer,
   And the dead's silentness,
To wring from out thy soul a cry
   Which God shall hear and bless!
Lest Heaven's own palm droop in my hand,
And pale among the saints I stand,
   A saint companionless.

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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Sonnet 143: Lo, as a careful huswife runs to catch

Lo, as a careful huswife runs to catch
One of her feathered creatures broke away,
Sets down her babe and makes all swift dispatch
In pursuit of the thing she would have stay,
Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,
Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent
To follow that which flies before her face,
Not prizing her poor infant's discontent:
So runn'st thou after that which flies from thee,
Whilst I, thy babe, chase thee afar behind;
But if thou catch thy hope turn back to me,
And play the mother's part: kiss me, be kind.
So will I pray that thou mayst have thy Will,
If thou turn back and my loud crying still.

poem by William Shakespeare
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Love And The Wind

All were in league to capture Love
The rock, the stream, the tree;
The very Month was leader of
The whole conspiracy.

It led Love where wild waters met,
And tree hugged close to tree;
And where the dew and sunbeam let
Their lips meet rapturously.

And then it shouted, 'Here he is,
O wild Wind in the tree!.
Come, clasp him now, and kiss and kiss!
And call the flowers to see!'

And there, on every side, the wood
Rushed out in flower and tree.
And that is how, I've understood,
The Springtime came to be.

poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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You Know What Theyre Writing About

You know what theyre writing about
Baby you know what theyre writing about
Its a thing called love down through the ages
Makes you wanna cry sometimes
Makes you feel like you wanna lay down and die sometimes
Makes you high sometimes
But when you really get in it lifts you right up
Aint it a wonderful game
Aint it a marvellous game
And when theres no more words to say about love I go
Meet me down, meet me down,
Meet me down by the river
Meet me down by the water
Meet me down by the water
Meet me down by the pylons
Meet me down by the pylons
Meet me down by the pylons
Meet me down by the pylons
Meet me, meet me, I want you to meet me - are you there
And know, know, know, know
I want you to meet me - are you there
I want you to meet me - are you there
And know, know, know, know, know
I want you to meet me

song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Woman’s Sonnets: IX

The day draws nigh, methinks, when I could stay
Calm in thy presence with no dream of ill,
When, having put all earthliness away,
I could be near thee, touching thee, and still
Feel no mad throbbing at my foolish heart,
No sudden rising of unbidden tears,
Could mark thee come and go, to meet our part,
Without the gladness and without the fears.
Have patience with me then for this short space.
I shall be wise, but may not yet unmoved
See a strange woman put into my place
And happy in thy love, as I was loved:
This were too much. Ah, let me not yet see
The love--light in thine eyes, and not for me.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Beware! (From The German)

I know a maiden fair to see,
Take care!
She can both false and friendly be,
Beware! Beware!
Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!

She has two eyes, so soft and brown,
Take care!
She gives a side-glance and looks down,
Beware! Beware!
Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!

And she has hair of a golden hue,
Take care!
And what she says, it is not true,
Beware! Beware!
Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!

She has a bosom as white as snow,
Take care!
She knows how much it is best to show,
Beware! Beware!
Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!

She gives thee a garland woven fair,
Take care!
It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear,
Beware! Beware!
Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Lord, Teach Us How to Pray Aright

Lord, teach us how to pray aright,
With reverence and with fear;
Though dust and ashes in Thy sight,
We may, we must draw near.

We perish if we cease from prayer;
O grant us power to pray;
And when to meet Thee we prepare,
Lord, meet us by the way.

God of all grace, we come to Thee
With broken, contrite hearts;
Give what Thine eye delights to see,
Truth in the inward parts.

Faith is the only sacrifice
That can for sin atone;
To cast our hopes, to fix our eyes,
On Christ, on Christ alone.

Patience to watch, and wait, and weep,
Though mercy long delay;
Courage our fainting souls to keep,
And trust Thee though Thou slay.

Give these, and then Thy will be done,
Thus, strengthened with all might,
We, through Thy Spirit and Thy Son,
Shall pray, and pray aright.

poem by James Montgomery
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The Promise of the Morning Star

Thou father of the children of my brain
By thee engendered in my willing heart,
How can I thank thee for this gift of art
Poured out so lavishly, and not in vain.

What thou created never more can die,
Thy fructifying power lives in me
And I conceive, knowing it is by thee,
Dear other parent of my poetry!

For I was but a shadow with a name,
Perhaps by now the very name's forgot;
So strange is Fate that it has been my lot
To learn through thee the presence of that aim

Which evermore must guide me. All unknown,
By me unguessed, by thee not even dreamed,
A tree has blossomed in a night that seemed
Of stubborn, barren wood. For thou hast sown

This seed of beauty in a ground of truth.
Humbly I dedicate myself, and yet
I tremble with a sudden fear to set
New music ringing through my fading youth.

poem by Amy Lowell
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Love and Hate

Ope not thy lips, thou foolish one,
Nor turn to me thy face;
The blasts of heaven shall strike thee down
Ere I will give thee grace.

Take thou thy shadow from my path,
Nor turn to me and pray;
The wild wild winds thy dirge may sing
Ere I will bid thee stay.

Turn thou away thy false dark eyes,
Nor gaze upon my face;
Great love I bore thee: now great hate
Sits grimly in its place.

All changes pass me like a dream,
I neither sing nor pray;
And thou art like the poisonous tree
That stole my life away.

poem by Elizabeth Eleanor Siddal
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