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The Psalm Of Adonis - from Fifteenth Idyll

O Queen that loves Golgi, and Idalium,
And the steep of Eryx,
O Aphrodite, that playes with gold,
Lo, from the stream eternal of Acheron
They have brought back to you Adonis---
Even in the twelfth month they have brought him,
The dainty-footed Hours.
Tardiest of the Immortals are the beloved Hours,
But dear and desired they come,
For always, to all mortals,
They bring some gift with them.
O Cypris, daughter of Dione,
From mortal to immortal, so men tell,
You have changed Berenice, dropping softly in
The woman's breast the stuff of immortality.
Therefore, for your delight,
O you of many names and many temples,
Does the daughter of Berenice, even Arsinoë,
Lovely as Helen, cherish Adonis with all things beautiful.
Before him lie all ripe fruits that the tall trees' branches bear,
And the delicate gardens, arrayed in baskets of silver,
And the golden vessels are full of incense of Syria.
And all the dainty cakes that women fashion in the kneading tray,
Mingling blossoms manifold with the white wheaten flour,
All that is wrought of honey sweet, and in soft olive oil,
All cakes fashioned in the semblance of things that fly,
And of things that creep, lo, here they are set before him.
Here are built for him shadowy bowers of green,
All laden with tender anise, and children flit overhead---
The little loves---
As the young nightingales perched upon
The trees fly forth and try their wings
From bough to bough.
O! the ebony, O! the gold, O! the twin eagles of white
Ivory that carry to Zeus, the son of Cronos,
His darling, his cupbearer!
O! the purple coverlet strewn above,
More soft than sleep!
So Miletus will say,
And whoso feeds sheep in Samos.
Another bed is strewn for beautiful Adonis,
One bed Cypris keeps, and one the rosy-armed Adonis.
A bride-groom of eighteen or nineteen years is he,
His kisses are not rough, the golden down being yet upon his lips!
And now, good-night to Cypris, in the arms of her lover!
But lo, in the morning we will all of us gather with the dew,
And carry him forth among the waves that break upon the beach,
And with locks unloosed, and ungirt raiment falling to the ankles,
And bosom bare, will we begin our shrill, sweet song.
You only, dear Adonis, so men tell,
You only of the demi-gods,
Do visit both this world and the stream of Acheron.
For Agamemnon had no such lot, nor Aias,
That mighty lord of the terrible anger, nor Hector,
The eldest born of the twenty sons of Hecuba, nor Patroclus,
Nor Pyrrhus, that returned out of Troy land,
Nor the heroes of yet more ancient days,
The Lapithai and Deucalion's sons,
Nor the sons of Pelops, and the chiefs of Pelasgian Argos.
Be gracious now, dear Adonis, and propitious
Even in the coming year.
Dear to us has your advent been, Adonis,
And dear shall it be when you come again.

poem by Theocritus
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Related quotes

The Two Ladies of Syracuse

GORGO.
Is dame Praxinoa in?

PRAXINOA.
Yes, Gorgo dear.
How late you are-the only marvel is
You're here at all! Quick, Eunoa, find a chair
And fling a cushion on it.

GORGO.
Thanks.

PRAXINOA.
Sit down.

GORGO.
Oh what a thing is spirit! Here I am,
Praxinoa, safe at last from all that crowd
And all those chariots ... every street a mass
Of boots and soldiers' jackets! ... Oh! the road
Seemed endless ... and you live so far away!

PRAXINOA.
This land's-end den-for dwelling it is not-
My madcap hired to keep us twain apart
And stir up strife. 'Twas like him, odious pest!

GORGO.
Nay, call not, dear, your lord, your Deinon, names
To the babe's face. Look how it stares at you!

PRAXINOA.
There, baby sweet, I never meant Papa.

GORGO.
It understands, by'r lady! dear Papa!

PRAXINOA.
Well, yesterday (that means what day you like)
'Papa' had rouge and hair-powder to buy;
He brought back salt! this oaf of six-foot-one!

GORGO.
Just such another is that pickpocket
My Diocleides. He bought t'other day
Six fleeces at seven drachms, his last exploit.
What were they? Scraps of worn-out pedlar's-bags,
Sheer trash.-But put your gown and kirtle on;
And we'll to Ptolemy's, the sumptuous king,
To see the Adonis. As I hear, the queen
Provides us entertainment of the best.

PRAXINOA.
The grand can do things grandly. Tell me more,
You that have seen: be eyes unto the blind.

GORGO.
'Twere time we went-but all time's holiday
With idlers.

PRAXINOA.
Eunoa, pampered minx, the jug!
Set it down here-you cats would sleep all day
On cushions-Stir yourself, fetch water, quick!
Water's our first want. How she holds the jug!
Now, pour-not, cormorant, in that wasteful way-
You've drenched my dress, bad luck t'you! There, enough:
I have made such toilet as my fates allowed.
Now for the key o' the plate-chest. Bring it, quick!

GORGO.
My dear, that full pelisse becomes you well.
What did it stand you in, straight off the loom?

PRAXINOA.
Don't ask me, Gorgo: two good pounds and more.
Then I gave all my mind to trimming it.

GORGO.
Well, 'tis a great success. Where have you left
My mantle, Eunoa, and my parasol?
Arrange me nicely. Babe, you'll bide at home:
Horses might eat you, ghosts!-Yes, cry your fill,
But we won't have you maimed. Now let's be off.
You, Phrygia, take and nurse the tiny thing:
Call the dog in: make fast the outer door.

PRAXINOA.
Gods! what a crowd! How, when shall we get past
This nuisance, these unending ant-like swarms?
Yet, Ptolemy, we owe thee thanks for much
Since heaven received thy sire! No miscreant now
Creeps Thug-like up, to maul the passer-by.
What games men played erewhile-men shaped in crime,
Birds of a feather, rascals every one!
-We're done for, Gorgo darling-here they are,
The Royal horse! Sweet sir, don't trample me!
That bay-the savage!-reared up straight on end!
Fly, Eunoa, can't you? Doggedly she stands.
He'll be his rider's death!-How glad I am
My babe's at home.

GORGO.
Praxinoa, never mind!
See, we're before them now, and they're in line.

PRAXINOA.
There, I'm myself. But from a child I feared
Horses, and slimy snakes. But haste we on:
A surging multitude is close behind.

GORGO. [To Old Lady.]
From the palace, mother?

OLD LADY.
Ay, child.

GORGO.
Is it fair of access?

OLD LADY.
Trying brought the Greeks to Troy.
Yound ladies, they must try who would succeed.

GORGO.
The crone hath said her oracle and gone.
Women know all-how Adam married Eve.
-Praxinoa, look what crowds are round the door!

PRAXINOA.
Fearful. Your hand, please, Gorgo. Eunoa, you
Hold Eutychis-hold tight or you'll be lost.
We'll enter in a body-hold us fast!
Oh dear, my muslin dress is torn in two,
Gorgo, already! Pray, good gentleman,
(And happiness be yours) respect my robe!

STRANGER.
I could not if I would-nathless I will.

PRAXINOA.
They come in hundreds, and they push like swine.

STRANGER.
Lady, take courage: it is all well now.

PRAXINOA.
And now and ever be it well with thee,
Sweet man, for shielding us! An honest soul
And kindly. Oh! we're smothering Eunoa:
Fight your way, trembler! Good! 'We're all in now,'
As quoth the goodman, and shut out his wife.

GORGO.
Praxinoa, look! Note well this broidery first.
How exquisitely fine-too good for earth!
Empress Athene, what strange sempstress wrought
Such work? What painter painted, realized
Such pictures? Just like life they stand or move,
Facts and not fancies! What a thing is man!
How bright, how lifelike on his silvern couch
Lies, with youth's bloom scarce shadowing his cheek,
That dear Adonis, lovely e'en in death!

A STRANGER.
Bad luck t'you, cease your censeless pigeon's prate!
Their brogue is killing-every word a drawl!

GORGO.
Whence did he spring from? What is it to thee
If we two prattle? Order, sir, your slaves:
You're ordering Syracusan ladies now!
Corinthians bred (to tell you one fact more)
As was Bellerophon: islanders in speech,
For Dorians may talk Doric, I presume?

PRAXINOA.
Persephone! Our master's yet unborn.
I've but one terror, lest he soil my gown.

GORGO.
Hush, dear. Argeia's daughter's going to sing
The Adonis: that accomplished vocalist
Who has no rival in 'The Sailor's Grave.'
Mark her coquetting with her music now.

SONG.
Queen, who lov'st Golgi and the Sicel hill
And Ida; Aphrodite radiant-eyed;
The dainty-footed Hours from Acheron's rill
Brought once again Adonis to thy side
How changed in twelve short months! They travel slow,
Those precious Hours: we hail their advent still,
For blessings do they bring to all below.
O Sea-born! thou didst erst, or legend lies,
Shed on a woman's soul thy grace benign,
And Berenice's dust immortalize.
O called by many names, at many a shrine!
For thy sweet sake doth Berenice's child
(Herself a second Helen) deck with all
That's fair, Adonis. On his right are piled
Ripe apples fallen from the oak-tree tall;
And silver caskets at his left support
Toy-gardens, Syrian scents enshrined in gold
And alabaster, cakes of every sort
That in their ovens the pastrywomen mould,
When with white meal they mix all flowers that bloom,
Oil-cakes and honey-cakes. There stand portrayed
Each bird, each butterfly; and in the gloom
Of foliage climbing high, and downward weighed
By graceful blossoms, do the young Loves play
Like nightingales, and perch on every tree,
And flit, to try their wings, from spray to spray.
Then see the gold, the ebony! O see
The ivory-carven eagles, bearing up
To Zeus the boy who fills his royal cup!
Soft as a dream, such tap'stry gleams o'erhead
As the Milesian's self would gaze on, charmed.
But sweet Adonis hath his own sweet bed:
Next Aphrodite sleeps the roseate-armed,
A bridegroom of eighteen or nineteen years.
Kiss the smooth boyish lip-there's no sting there!
The bride hath found her own: all bliss be hers!
And him at dewy dawn we'll troop to bear
To where the breakers hiss against the shore:
There, with dishevelled dress and unbound hair,
Bare-bosomed all, our descant wild we'll pour:

'Thou haunt'st, Adonis, earth and heaven in turn,
Alone of heroes. Agamemnon ne'er
Could compass this, nor Ajax stout and stern:
Nor Hector, eldest-born of her who bare
Ten sons, not Patrocles, nor safe-returned
From Ilium Pyrrhus, such distinction earned:
Nor, elder yet, the sons of Lapithæ,
Of Pelops and Deucalion, and the crown
Of Greece, Pelasgians. Gracious may'st thou be,
Adonis, now: pour new-year's blessings down!
Right welcome dost thou come, Adonis dear:
Come when thou wilt, thou'lt find a welcome here.'

GORGO.
'Tis fine, Praxinoa! How I envy her
Her learning, and still more her luscious voice!
We must go home: my husband's supperless:
And, in that state, he's simply vinegar.
Don't cross his path when hungry! So farewell,
Adonis, and be housed 'mid welfare aye!

poem by Theocritus
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A Lament For Adonis

Cytherea, thy dainty Adonis is dying!
Ah, what shall we do?
O Nymphs, let it echo, the voice of your crying,
The greenwood through!

O Forest-maidens, smite on the breast,
Rend ye the delicate-woven vest!
Let the wail ring wild and high:
'Ah for Adonis!' cry.
O Sappho, how canst thou chant the bliss
Of Kypris — after such day as this?
'Oh Adonis, thou leavest me — woe for my lot!
And Eros, my servant, availeth me not!'
So wails Cytherea, grief-distraught.
'Who shall console me for thee? There is none —
Not Ares my god-lover, passionate one
Who sware in his jealousy forth to hale
Hephaestus my spouse from his palace, if he
Dared but to lift his eyes unto me.
Not he can console me, Adonis, for thee!'

Wail for Adonis, wail!

poem by Sappho
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The Death Of Adonis

Fragments 108, 110, 115, 117, 116, 111, 114, and 113 combined.

This is the lamentation-song
For Adonis — woe for Adonis, woe!
Thus wailed Aphrodite in anguish-throe,
As she strove to hold him back from death:
'Let thine heart not faint, O love! Be strong!
O me, it burns me, thy failing breath!
It kindles through all my being a fire!
My heart is aflame with despairing desire!'
She calls to her Eros of golden wing,
She bids him steep in the ice-cold spring
Fine linen, and lay on Adonis' brow: —
'O love, let its coolness revive thee now! . . .
Vain, vain! — his eyes see me no more;
They are fixed in a gaze upon Hades' door!
They close — he sleeps — not the sleep of the dead!
Hush, stir not a pebble with heedless tread!
No, no! this is death! Now remaineth to me
No sweetness on earth — nor honey nor bee!'

poem by Sappho
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Moorish Mind.... Adult Nature

I want to rise upon the beast of no shame where lady love whimpers,
Breathless be thy name of mine Adonis,
My Lord whos generosity i besiege
Adonis be the air im unable to leave.
I want to snap as a twig beneath his mighty form and swaddle within the thighs of generosity warm,
Wish my tongue could know his scent as a dear old friend and mine ears could harness his words which he is generous to lend,
Towards the world i cannot.... but adore
Let me writhe in a moments mind passion, then ask for more, more, more

poem by Karen Sinclair
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Idyll XXX

When Cypris saw Adonis,
In death already lying
With all his locks dishevelled,
And cheeks turned wan and ghastly,
She bade the Loves attendant
To bring the boar before her.

And lo, the winged ones, fleetly
They scoured through all the wild wood;
The wretched boar they tracked him,
And bound and doubly bound him.
One fixed on him a halter,
And dragged him on, a captive,
Another drave him onward,
And smote him with his arrows.
But terror-struck the beast came,
For much he feared Cythere.
To him spake Aphrodite, -
'Of wild beasts all the vilest,
This thigh, by thee was 't wounded?
Was 't thou that smote my lover?'
To her the beast made answer -
'I swear to thee, Cythere,
By thee, and by thy lover,
Yea, and by these my fetters,
And them that do pursue me, -
Thy lord, thy lovely lover
I never willed to wound him;
I saw him, like a statue,
And could not bide the burning,
Nay, for his thigh was naked,
And mad was I to kiss it,
And thus my tusk it harmed him.
Take these my tusks, O Cypris,
And break them, and chastise them,
For wherefore should I wear them,
These passionate defences?
If this doth not suffice thee,
Then cut my lips out also,
Why dared they try to kiss him?'

Then Cypris had compassion;
She bade the Loves attendant
To loose the bonds that bound him.
From that day her he follows,
And flees not to the wild wood
But joins the Loves, and always
He bears Love's flame unflinching.

poem by Theocritus
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"Venus by Adonis' Side"

Venus by Adonis' side
Crying kiss'd, and kissing cried,
Wrung her hands and tore her hair
For Adonis dying there.

Stay (quoth she) O stay and live!
Nature surely doth not give
To the earth her sweetest flowers
To be seen but some few hours.

On his face, still as he bled
For each drop a tear she shed,
Which she kiss'd or wip'd away,
Else had drown'd him where he lay.

Fair Proserpina (quoth she)
Shall not have thee yet from me;
Nor my soul to fly begin
While my lips can keep it in.

Here she clos'd again. And some
Say Apollo would have come
To have cur'd his wounded limb,
But that she had smothered him.

poem by William Browne
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Dainty Davie

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers,
To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers;
And now comes in the happy hours,
To wander wi' my Davie.

Meet me on the warlock knowe,
Dainty Davie, Dainty Davie;
There I'll spend the day wi' you,
My ain dear Dainty Davie.

The crystal waters round us fa',
The merry birds are lovers a',
The scented breezes round us blaw,
A wandering wi' my Davie.

Meet me on the warlock knowe,
Dainty Davie, Dainty Davie;
There I'll spend the day wi' you,
My ain dear Dainty Davie.

As purple morning starts the hare,
To steal upon her early fare,
Then thro' the dews I will repair,
To meet my faithfu' Davie.

Meet me on the warlock knowe,
Dainty Davie, Dainty Davie;
There I'll spend the day wi' you,
My ain dear Dainty Davie.

When day, expiring in the west,
The curtain draws o' Nature's rest,
I flee to his arms I loe' the best,
And that's my ain dear Davie.

Meet me on the warlock knowe,
Dainty Davie, Dainty Davie;
There I'll spend the day wi' you,
My ain dear Dainty Davie.

poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Suppose

Suppose ... and suppose that a wild little Horse of Magic
Came cantering out of the sky,
With bridle of silver, and into the saddle I mounted,
To fly — and to fly;

And we stretched up into the air, fleeting on in the sunshine,
A speck in the gleam,
On galloping hoofs, his mane in the wind out-flowing,
In a shadowy stream;

And oh, when, all lone, the gentle star of evening
Came crinkling into the blue,
A magical castle we saw in the air, like a cloud of moonlight,
As onward we flew;

And across the green moat on the drawbridge we foamed and we snorted,
And there was a beautiful Queen
Who smiled at me strangely; and spoke to my wild little Horse, too —
A lovely and beautiful Queen;

And she cried with delight — and delight — to her delicate maidens,
'Behold my daughter — my dear!'
And they crowned me with flowers, and then to their harps sate playing,
Solemn and clear;

And magical cakes and goblets were spread on the table;
And at window the birds came in;
Hopping along with bright eyes, pecking crumbs from the platters,
And sipped of the wine;

And splashing up — up to the roof tossed fountains of crystal;
And Princes in scarlet and green
Shot with their bows and arrows, and kneeled with their dishes
Of fruits for the Queen;

And we walked in a magical garden with rivers and bowers,
And my bed was of ivory and gold;
And the Queen breathed soft in my ear a song of enchantment —
And I never grew old....

And I never, never came back to the earth, oh, never and never;
How mother would cry and cry!
There'd be snow on the fields then, and all these sweet flowers in the winter
Would wither, and die....

Suppose ... and suppose .

poem by Walter de la Mare
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Kathleen

O Norah, lay your basket down,
And rest your weary hand,
And come and hear me sing a song
Of our old Ireland.

There was a lord of Galaway,
A mighty lord was he;
And he did wed a second wife,
A maid of low degree.

But he was old, and she was young,
And so, in evil spite,
She baked the black bread for his kin,
And fed her own with white.

She whipped the maids and starved the kern,
And drove away the poor;
'Ah, woe is me!' the old lord said,
'I rue my bargain sore!'

This lord he had a daughter fair,
Beloved of old and young,
And nightly round the shealing-fires
Of her the gleeman sung.

'As sweet and good is young Kathleen
As Eve before her fall;'
So sang the harper at the fair,
So harped he in the hall.

'Oh, come to me, my daughter dear!
Come sit upon my knee,
For looking in your face, Kathleen,
Your mother's own I see!'

He smoothed and smoothed her hair away,
He kissed her forehead fair;
'It is my darling Mary's brow,
It is my darling's hair!'

Oh, then spake up the angry dame,
'Get up, get up,' quoth she,
'I'll sell ye over Ireland,
I'll sell ye o'er the sea!'

She clipped her glossy hair away,
That none her rank might know;
She took away her gown of silk,
And gave her one of tow,

And sent her down to Limerick town
And to a seaman sold
This daughter of an Irish lord
For ten good pounds in gold.

The lord he smote upon his breast,
And tore his beard so gray;
But he was old, and she was young,
And so she had her way.

Sure that same night the Banshee howled
To fright the evil dame,
And fairy folks, who loved Kathleen,
With funeral torches came.

She watched them glancing through the trees,
And glimmering down the hill;
They crept before the dead-vault door,
And there they all stood still!

'Get up, old man! the wake-lights shine!'
'Ye murthering witch,' quoth he,
'So I'm rid of your tongue, I little care
If they shine for you or me.'

'Oh, whoso brings my daughter back,
My gold and land shall have!'
Oh, then spake up his handsome page,
'No gold nor land I crave!

'But give to me your daughter dear,
Give sweet Kathleen to me,
Be she on sea or be she on land,
I'll bring her back to thee.'

'My daughter is a lady born,
And you of low degree,
But she shall be your bride the day
You bring her back to me.'

He sailed east, he sailed west,
And far and long sailed he,
Until he came to Boston town,
Across the great salt sea.

'Oh, have ye seen the young Kathleen,
The flower of Ireland?
Ye'll know her by her eyes so blue,
And by her snow-white hand!'

Out spake an ancient man, 'I know
The maiden whom ye mean;
I bought her of a Limerick man,
And she is called Kathleen.

'No skill hath she in household work,
Her hands are soft and white,
Yet well by loving looks and ways
She doth her cost requite.'

So up they walked through Boston town,
And met a maiden fair,
A little basket on her arm
So snowy-white and bare.

'Come hither, child, and say hast thou
This young man ever seen?'
They wept within each other's arms,
The page and young Kathleen.

'Oh give to me this darling child,
And take my purse of gold.'
'Nay, not by me,' her master said,
'Shall sweet Kathleen be sold.

'We loved her in the place of one
The Lord hath early ta'en;
But, since her heart's in Ireland,
We give her back again!'

Oh, for that same the saints in heaven
For his poor soul shall pray,
And Mary Mother wash with tears
His heresies away.

Sure now they dwell in Ireland;
As you go up Claremore
Ye'll see their castle looking down
The pleasant Galway shore.

And the old lord's wife is dead and gone,
And a happy man is he,
For he sits beside his own Kathleen,
With her darling on his knee.

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Kiss Me Dear

Kiss me dear kiss with softly soft*
Kiss me dear kiss with your desire*
Kiss me dear kiss with a little bite*

Kiss me dear kiss with your heart*
Kiss me dear kiss with your warm hug*
Kiss me dear kiss with your smooth lips*

Kiss me dear kiss with your hopes*
Kiss me dear kiss with your pray*
Kiss me dear kiss with your honestly*

Kiss me dear kiss with your loves*
Kiss me dear kiss with your happiness*
Kiss me dear kiss with happily*

Kiss me dear kiss with heartbeat*
Kiss me dear kiss with really*
Kiss me dear kiss with admirable*
Kiss me dear kiss with quietly*

Kiss me dear kiss with realy on*
Kiss me dear kiss with require*
Kiss me dear kiss me now and forevermore*
I'need you for strong standing with me**

poem by Dwi utami
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My Stories Of You (chapter four)

Recycled feelings are not enough for me
to be brave and bold
as the hero that lit your fire and left.
In my bed there's no one I dare to put,
no one but you,
but I can't tell you this
for it would make me weak
and you still want a hero
a white horse, a golden armour
a beautiful and empty shell, Adonis of hypocrisy
so tippical for the modern man.
I'm not that,
I'm old, but not the way you want me to be.
I'm old because I still belive in true love,
the reason I'm still here.

poem by Serban Raducu Bogdan
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The Epitaph Of Bion.

Dolefully sound, ye groves and Dorian waters,
Lament, ye rivers, our beloved Bion;
Mourn, all ye plants, and whisper low, ye forests;
Ye flowers, breathe sadly from your drooping petals;
Put on deep red, anemones and roses;
Wail thine own letters, hyacinth, and ai ai
Write double on thy leaves for our sweet poet.

Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses.
Ye nightingales, in the thick leafage sobbing,
Tell the Sicilian streams of Arethusa
Bion is dead, the shepherd--boy, and with him
Song too is dead, and all the Dorian music.

Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses.
Strymonian swans, sing sadly by your waters;
Warble a funeral elegy, in ditties
Such as he sung, the rival of your voices.
Tell the Œagrian Nymphs, and tell the damsels
That play in Thrace, Dead is the Dorian Orpheus.

Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses.
Our friend shall pipe beside his flocks no longer,
Nor sit and sing alone beneath the ilex;
But tunes oblivious strains to sullen Pluto.
Mute are the mountains, and the herd is straying
And will not feed, but wanders sadly lowing.

Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses.
Thine early death lamented great Apollo,
Pan wept to miss thy singing, all the Naiads
Wept in their woods, and turned to tears their fountains;
Echo is weeping that she must be silent
Thy lips no longer mocking. At thy parting
Trees shed their fruit, and all the flowers were blighted;
Milk failed the flocks, and in our hives the honey
Sunk mouldering in the wax; for no more sweetness
Shall there be, now thy honey--song hath perished.

Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses.
Not so beside the sea--beach wailed the dolphin,
Nor nightingale in shrubby rocks embowered,
Nor on the long green hills the piping swallow;
Not so for his Alcyone wept Ceÿx;
Nor Cerylus along the dark--blue waters;
Not so in Eastern dells the birds of Memnon
Wailed, flying round his tomb, the son of Ao,
As all lamented for the death of Bion.

Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses.
Shepherd, with thee the Muses' gifts have perished--
All beauty, and the joy of youthful lovers--
Sadly the Loves around thy tomb are weeping:
Cypris hath loved thee better than the memory
Of the last kiss she prest on pale Adonis.

Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses.
Thou tunefullest of streams, a second sorrow,
A second sorrow, Meles, hath befallen;
Thy Homer died, sweet prophet of the Muses;
And then, they say, thy glorious son thou wailest
Along thy shallows, and far into ocean
Carriedst the sound of grief: and now another
Must thou lament, and dry away for anguish.
Both were beloved by fountains: one was favoured
Of Hippocrene, and one of Arethusa;
One sung the lay of Tyndarus' fair daughter,
The son of Thetis, and the twin Atreidae;
But ours no wars, nor tears--the god of shepherds
And herdsmen sung he, as his flock he tended,
And bound the syrinx, and milked the sweet--breathed heifers,
And spake of Love, and was dear to Aphrodita.

Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses.
All countries mourn for thee, all ancient cities:
Not so mourned Ascra for her Shepherd--prophet;
Not so the castled Lesbos for Alcaeus;
Nor Ceos her old songster; not so Paros
Archilochus desires; and leaving Sappho
Thy legend sings the widowed Mitylene.

Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses.
Alas! when mallows perish in the gardens,
The crisp--green parsley, and the hardy anise,
They live again, and grow another summer;
But we, the great and strong, the sons of wisdom,
When first we die, unknown in earthy hollow
Sleep a long boundless sleep, that hath no waking.
Thou shalt be gathered to the dust in silence,
But sorry songsters live and sing for ever:
Well have the Muses ordered it, for better
Sing sweet and die, than be like them immortal.

Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses.
Poison hath touched thy mouth, a draught of poison;--
How came it to thy lips and was not sweetened?
What man so cruel that for thee could mingle,
Or offering it escaped uncharmed thy singing?

Begin the grief, begin Sicilian Muses.
Who now shall sound thy reed, beloved poet?
Who is so bold that to his lips will bear it?
To Pan I offer it; but Pan refuses
To wake its melody, lest he in playing
Should miss thy skill, and be adjudged thy second.

poem by Henry Alford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sea Song of the Exiles

Dear land, farewell!
Waves surge and swell.
Dear land, farewell, --
Blue sky!

Farewell, white cot whence the ripe grapes fall,
Gold blooms that bask on the mossy wall!

Dear land, farewell!
Hill, plain, and dell!
Dear land, farewell, --
Blue sky!

Dear land, farewell!
Waves surge and swell.
Dear land, farewell, --
Blue sky!

Farewell, betrothed, with the pure, pale brow;
'Neath sombre heaven dark billows we plough.

Dear land, farewell!
In thee our loves dwell;
Dear land, farewell, --
Blue sky!

Dear land, farewell!
Waves surge and swell.
Dear land, farewell, --
Blue sky!

Our eyes, whose tears all brightness blot,
Leave the dark wave for a darker lot!

Dear land, farewell!
In our heart's a knell.
Dear land, farewell, --
Blue sky!

poem by Victor Hugo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cherry-lipped Adonis...

Cherry-lipped Adonis in his snowy shape,
Might not compare with his pure ivory white,
On whose fair front a poet's pen might write,
Whose rosiate red excels the crimson grape.
His love-enticing delicate soft limbs,
Are rarely framed t' intrap poor gazing eyes;
His cheeks, the lily and carnation dyes,
With lovely tincture which Apollo's dims.
His lips ripe strawberries in nectar wet,
His mouth a hive, his tongue a honeycomb,
Where muses (like bees) make their mansion.
His teeth pure pearl in blushing coral set.
Oh how can such a body sin-procuring,
Be slow to love, and quick to hate, enduring?

poem by Richard Barnfield
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This Adonis in loveliness was a corpulent man of fifty.

quote by H.L. Hunt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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These Things Will Keep Me Loving You

(harvey fuqua/johnny bristol/sylvia moy)
Oh and I know these things will keep me loving you dear
Say it again
These things will keep me loving you dear
A gentle touch upon my face baby
A tender kiss and a warm embrace honey
Oh a few kind words
Spoken so sincere
And I know and I know
These things will keep me loving you dear
These things will keep me loving you dear
Give me your shoulder so I can cry on it baby
Oh give me advice that I can rely on honey
Oh say you love me every day of the year
And I know and I know
These things will keep me loving you dear
Say it again
These things will keep me loving you dear
Oh and I know these things will keep me loving you dear
Oh baby baby
Call me each night on the telephone baby
Oh send me a card when youre far from home honey
Oh hold me close to you baby every time youre near
And I know and I know
These things will keep me loving you dear
Oh, loving you dear
[ad lib to fade]

song performed by by Diana Ross
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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the smile
blooming in the pot now -
Amur adonis

haiku by Hidenori Hiruta
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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The Lost Embassy

THE lilies lean to the white, white rose,
The sweet limes send to the blossomed trees,
Soft kisses borne by the golden bees--
And all the world is alive, awake,
And glad to the heart for the summer's sake.

From her tower window the Princess leant,
Where the white light butterflies came and went;
She dropped soft kisses by twos and threes:
'White butterflies mine, will you carry these
To my Prince in prison? for they, who knows,
May break the spell that has held him close
And wake him and win him to stand up free
And laugh--in the sun--with me!'

White lilies, gold in the golden sun,
White Princess, gold in your golden gown--
Far off lies the sad, enchanted town!
Bright wings, light wings, white wings that tire,
Though they carry the flower of the heart's desire--
Will you trust to these, too white, too slight
To bring back the fruit of heart's delight?

All round and about the spell-bound town
The ways are dusty, the woods are brown;
There are no green coverts, no welcoming flowers
For little weary butterfly wings,
No dew, no lilies, no glad live things.
'Neath the sky of steel and the brazen sun
White wings, kiss-laden, dropped one by one:
By twos and threes they dropped by the way,
And only one reached the grim, gray tower
Where, witched from his kingdom, the poor Prince lay--
One poor tired butterfly, smirched and gray
With the dust of the town and the weary way,
And it lit on the Prince's hand and died.
'Bright wings, light wings, white wings,' he cried
'You, only you, might have lived and borne
My prayer to my love in her tower forlorn,
And brought back the kiss that could set me free--
She might have broken the spell that lies
On my foolish heart and my foolish eyes--
But no live butterflies come my way!'

The winds are cold and the skies are gray,
And all the lilies died yesterday;
The Princess leans from her steel-wrought tower
To watch for her butterflies hour by hour.
Poor little Princess, you watch in vain!
Butterflies die where the green wood browns,
And kisses sent to enchanted towns
Never come home again.

poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mother India

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
You are the paradise on earth
Where things are not in any dearth.