Related quotes: They never crowned him, never...

Henry Howard Brownell

They never crowned him, never dreamed his worth,
And let him go unlaurelled to the grave:
Hereafter there are guerdons for the brave,
Roses for martyrs who wear thorns on earth,
Balms for bruised hearts that languish in the dearth
Of human love. So let the grasses wave
Above him nameless. Little did he crave
Men's praises: modestly, with kindly mirth,
Not sad nor bitter, he accepted fate --
Drank deep of life, knew books, and hearts of men,
Cities and camps, and war's immortal woe,
Yet bore through all (such virtue in him sate
His spirit is not whiter now than then)
A simple, loyal nature, pure as snow.

poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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My Blue Rain

Let my blue rain to hold your green of life
And save it from the cruel summer heat
We need so much, my love, to be alive
More than the dying body needs its blood.

We keep so deep in our hearts the crave,
That crave of love awaiting for its gleaming
In our Elysian dream like a soul in a grave
That colored dream engrossed by its deep meaning.

The light of our eyes is shadowed by the gray
Those clouds of suffering, clouds of awakening
Our souls need to rejoice while we need to pray
And our blissfulness is only love uplifting.

Our springs and winters are crowned and entwined
White snow gives all the glow to the exploding green
While green inside the glow of white is hidden
And life is pronged up by spring breeze like a queen.

A curve of silence as deep as a cascade of screams,
Effervescent as globs of foams filling the unwanted void,
Surrounds the green of nature, the rainbow sparkly gleams
Can these divine riches of nature be destroyed?

poem by Marieta Maglas
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Hearts That Love Nature

Hearts that love nature
will be eternaly young,
eternal and immortal
like the nature itself,
which never dies to this
loving, beating heart,
nature that is alive
in the air that we breathe,
in the crowning glory of
the sun rising from
amidst the depths of the horizon;

Nature that is immortal,
the songs of the nightingale
and the cuckoo and the songbird,
will ring out in harmony
for infinite years,
the melody will keep playing
even when dust is created
and destroyed to dust,
hearts that feel nature
will become nature and live on,
amidst the vast sky
of splendour and elegance,
within the deepest corners
of the infinite oceans,
along on the breeze
that blows across this land;

Hearts that love nature
will be eternally young and immortal,
will strive in peace and silence,
the calmness and tranquility,
of merging with mother nature,
born again with
the leaves of new birth,
those fresh blossoms of spring,
whose scent is divine perfume
to this awakening earth,
and our hearts will be one,
playing gently on those meadows
surrounded by diasies that
once intrigued great poets of the past,
and we remain young and
immortal, forever...

poem by Amatulla Mohammadi
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Until death

Make me no vows of constancy, dear friend,
To love me, though I die, thy whole life long,
And love no other till thy days shall end;
Nay, it were rash and wrong.

If thou canst love another, be it so;
I would not reach out of my quiet grave
To bind thy heart, if it should choose to go:
Love should not be a slave.

My placid ghost, I trust, will walk serene
In clearer light than gilds these earthly morns,
Above the jealousies and envies keen
Which sow this life with thorns.

Thou wouldst not feel my shadowy caress,
If after death my soul should linger here;
Men's hearts crave tangible, close tenderness,
Love's presence, warm and near.

It would not make me sleep more peacefully
That thou wert wasting all thy life in woe
For my poor sake; what love thou hast for me
Bestow it ere I go.

Carve not upon a stone when I am dead
The praises which remorseful mourners give
To women's graces,---a tardy recompense,---
But speak thou while I live.

Heap not the heavy marble on my head
To shut away the sunshine and the dew;
Let small blooms grow there and let grasses wave,
And raindrops filter through.

Thou wilt meet many fairer and more gay
Than I; but, trust me, thou canst never find
One who will love and serve thee night and day
With a more single mind.

Forget me when I die!---the violets
Above my rest will blossom just as blue,
Nor miss thy tears: e'en Nature's self forgets;---
But while I live, be true!

poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Lost One

COME to the grave--the silent grave! and dream
Of a light, happy voice--so full of joy,
That those who heard her laugh, would laugh again,
Echoing the mirth of such an innocent spirit;
And pause in their own converse, to look round,
Won by the witchery of that gleesome tone.
Come to the grave--the lone dark grave! and dream
Of eyes whose brilliancy was of the soul,
Eyes which, with one bright flash from their dark lids,
Seemed at a glance to read the thoughts of others;
Or, with a full entire tenderness,
The pure expression of all-perfect love,
(Of woman's love, which is for you alone,
While your's is for yourself)--gave in that look
The promise of a life of meek affection.
Come to the grave--the mouldering grave! and dream
Of a fair form that glided over earth
One of its happiest creatures:--to her cheek

The lightest word might bring the blushing blood
In pure carnation;--down her graceful neck,
The long rich curls of jet hung carelessly,
Untortured by the cunning hand of art:
And on her brow, bright purity and joy,
Twin sisters, sate,--as on a holy throne.
Come yet unto the grave--the still, damp grave!
And dream of a young heart that beat with life,
And all life's best affections; of a heart
Where sorrow never came, nor fear, nor sin--
Nor aught save innocence, and perfect love:
And, having dreamed of such a lovely being--
So gay, so bright, so pure, so fond, so meek--
Having thus conjured up a form of love
In thine own pausing and regretful mind;--
A vision will be present to thy soul,
A faint, but faithful portraiture, of one
Most dearly loved, and now for ever lost!

poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Power Displayed

As the snow fall blankets the earth, we get a glimpse of nature’s worth,
Seeing the things done only by God, when He touches the earthly sod,
With a deep cold and its chill, surrounding an area at the Creator’s Will,
With many waters in winter’s hold, God turns them to ice in all that cold.

With the snow painting a scenic view, in full vision of both me and you,
Scenes which by many are viewed, yet by some the initiator is skewed,
For The Lord is the weather changer, not one, some call Mother Nature,
As God paints with His sovereign brush, in the midst of our winter rush.

But, that pace the Lord stops fast, with both ice and snow that will last,
And for ever long as God wills it to, in altering the pace of me and you,
Friend the Lord God does the same, when using floods and heavy rain,
With just water to change the pace, of the much misguided human race.

And it’s not just a season or two, for we see His power all year through,
Within the rain, snow, wind and hail, God’s Power on earth does not fail,
But, what truly fails are men’s hearts, when from the Lord a soul departs,
Rejecting The God of all Creation, they turn to simple man’s explanation.

Yet, having no sense of Godly fear, they fail to explain why we are here,
Dismissing all thought of a Creator, they have no need to seek a Savior,
Even as He displays power on earth, they lean on man’s temporal worth,
And soon the power of The Son, will be displayed on earth for everyone.

poem by Bob Gotti
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Dirge Without Music

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the
love,—
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not
approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the
world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Army Of The Immortals

Battle hymns did sound the call.
You came to our side.
You heard true metal - into glory
Ride.

You stood beside us the false ones
Cried. - Your love is judgement.
You gave us life.

You wait in the rain - you walk
Through the snow. We give you
Our blood. We want you to know.
In our eyes your're immortal
In our hearts you'll live forever
In our eyes your're immortal
In our hearts you'll live forever.

We have read your letters
We have heard your call.
We were brought together
Cause we've got the balls
To play the loudest metal.
So hard and so wild and mean.
You'll live forever we were
Born from your belief.

Metal makes us strong
Together we belong - forever
Here's your song. We want you
To know.
In our eyes your're immortal
In our hearts you'll live forever
In our eyes your're immortal
In our hearts you'll live forevermore.

song performed by by Manowar from Hail To England
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hearts Render

From birth tiny hearts all grow
As they mature they will know
What hearts are created for

Not by their sizes alone
Do mature hearts become known
Hearts need be judged by much more

Hearts can be carelessly torn
Readily become careworn
Life will lend each heart some pain

Yet such forlorn hearts will heal
Careworn hearts learn how to deal
Mended hearts strength thereby gain

Hearts become bruised and broken
By cruel words that are spoken
Rejections tear them apart

Once healed such hearts find power
Much greater love then will flower
Love rendered by a mended heart

poem by Mary Havran
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Love Divine And Divined Love.

Love has seeped out of the vessels of my heart and lathered my soul with pleasure. I cannot stop thinking of you and I cannot stop contemplating the beauty you possess and the life you animate. I pledge my devotion to your life and love for your soul. Each tear lost is a new love born. I keep crying and my love remains afresh and new. I love you so much lady. There is no prospect of my love for you dying; this is to my relief and this is my soul's resolution. In solitude, I have been thinking, why have I been so insolent, cold and misanthropic with those around me? It's because inside I have felt and still feel all my love concentrating on you. Nobody deserves what virtue I may possess but you my sweet love. No one will ever feel a tinge of what I gave, give and will give to you and solely you. Right now time and space is the mortal enemy of our love. I can feel the vexations assail both our souls as we worry astray. My love, let's not lose ourselves in this never ending maze but find each other in ourselves. Let us rest on the cloud of confidence which lies in our souls and remember that first and foremost we love each other. If love creates our vexations and jealousies love can extinguish them as well. We must concentrate our beliefs, our thoughts, our souls on the virtue of love, or its vices and uncertainties shall savage our hearts, our minds and ruin us both. The deepest meanings of life are not found in mysteries, but found in the virtue of the human soul. What we know can set us free from what we don't know. I know you love me unconditionally, and I love you; this will set us free from the pangs of separation. Love is the fortune that will bring us back together and love is the fortune which gives us wealth and beauty.

The ether air of love intoxicates our heart
No death, no time, no space
Can separate our heart apart
Through the mouth of virtue doth love flow
To the heart apart
So the heart shall know

Our love is loftier than the reality of our separation. How could it not be? What is a brief life on this earth compared to the paramount life of eternity in heaven? What is heaven but living in an inexpressible essence of love with you. Our love and what we know has told us this a thousand times and will continue to tell us a thousand times more the truth. I can see the truth and hear it. I can see us sauntering above time and space, elevated above the human consciousness, married in unity, in heart soul and body, in the imperial air of heaven, majestic with wonder, and in perfect love.

Ascending from depths of earth
Our hearts unite in the ethereal realm
Wert love give birth to immortal mirth
In her life we shall whelm

Love has made ignorance more ignorant of itself and knowledge known to knowledge's self. Our love imbues the highest ideals of man and woman with marvel and real merit and made the impossible the only possibility in life and death.

The yearning of love surpasses fate
To the soul of truth, to the soul of great
Where we shall live and never dissipate
Divine, serene, immaculate

My love carry this with you, digest its beauty, so we may tattoo it on our immortal heart and use its truth and virtue to open the gates of heaven and pass on to the only consciousness, the consciousness where are souls live in peace; the consciousness of pure love. These are my meek words of my most marvelous love.

Love divine; divined love.

poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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A Round Dell 1339 after Arthur Compton Rickett A Roundel 1915

A week ago saw dark grave swallow
Beauty's soul, scarce twenty years.
Who could imagine heartbreak hollow
a week ago?

Love now is buried and, in tears,
especially for ourselves, we wallow.
What worth hold hopes compared with fears
with Fate's goad told?

Beneath the sods bier mourners follow,
find closed book, look closed, seal deaf ears
leaving a void in hearts that knew no dearth
A week ago!

(10 April 2005)

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Hush'd Be The Camps To-day

HUSH'D be the camps to-day;
And, soldiers, let us drape our war-worn weapons;
And each with musing soul retire, to celebrate,
Our dear commander's death.

No more for him life's stormy conflicts;
Nor victory, nor defeat--no more time's dark events,
Charging like ceaseless clouds across the sky.

But sing, poet, in our name;
Sing of the love we bore him--because you, dweller in camps, know it
truly.

As they invault the coffin there; 10
Sing--as they close the doors of earth upon him--one verse,
For the heavy hearts of soldiers.

poem by Walt Whitman
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Worth While

It is easy enough to be pleasant,
When life flows by like a song,
But the man worth while is one who will smile,
When everything goes dead wrong.
For the test of the heart is trouble,
And it always comes with the years,
And the smile that is worth the praises of earth
Is the smile that shines through tears.

It is easy enough to be prudent,
When nothing tempts you to stray,
When without or within no voice of sin
Is luring your soul away;
But it's only a negative virtue
Until it is tried by fire,
And the life that is worth the honor of earth
Is the one that resists desire.

By the cynic, the sad, the fallen,
Who had no strength for the strife,
The world's highway is cumbered to-day;
They make up the sum of life.
But the virtue that conquers passion,
And the sorrow that hides in a smile,
It is these that are worth the homage on earth
For we find them but once in a while.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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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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Hush'd Be the Camps Today

Hush'd be the camps today,
And soldiers let us drape our war-worn weapons,
And each with musing soul retire to celebrate,
Our dear commander's death.

No more for him life's stormy conflicts,
Nor victory, nor defeat--no more time's dark events,
Charging like ceaseless clouds across the sky.

But sing poet in our name,
Sing of the love we bore him--because you, dweller in camps, know it truly.

As they invault the coffin there,
Sing--as they close the doors of earth upon him--one verse,
For the heavy hearts of soldiers.

poem by Walt Whitman
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Chorus of the Dead

And all returns to Thee, alone eternal,
And all Thee returning.
Oh Death, in Thy vast shadow,
Simple and bare we languish,
Not happy, but from the anguish
Of life at last set free. The night profoundly
Falls on the shaken spirit,
And dark in dark confuses;
The withered soul sourage and hope refuses;
Spent and uncaring,
Free now from sorrow and from fear for ever,
We lie here undespairing
Through void eternity.
We lived... And as a phantom from a dream of terror
Wanders into the day,
And draws across the speechless souls of children
A memory and a fear,
We, as we linger here,
Are haunted still by life: but fears of children
Haunt us not now. What were we?
What was that bitter point in time
That bore the name of life?
Mysterious, stupendous,
Lost in our thought that hidden country lies:
As in our day of life there lay
The secret land of death. And as from dying
Our living souls drew back, so now they draw
Back from the flame of life,
Simple and bare to languish,
Not happy, but not in anguish;
For happiness we know
Fate upon life or death will not bestow.

poem by Count Giacomo Leopardi
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Aching Hearts

Half a lifetime has now passed
since romance touched our hearts...

We were young lovers filled
with wonder and endless possibilities

The sun had never set on our love
until one fateful summer day

How could we know fate would fling our souls
so cruelly to opposite ends of the universe?

How could we understand
that destiny knew full well what
our minds did not want to know?

How deeply we plunged into
the depths of our souls, knowing
that young love would be sacrificed,
As fate commanded, we cleanse
polluted family bloodlines

Why did we live in diverse
and often unfriendly places?
Creating relationships
not chosen by loving hearts
rather from a place
of knowing, deep within
purposeful souls

We now look back at
the wisdom of our choices
yet are powerless to soothe
“Aching Hearts”

Although we’ve accepted
a path chosen by destiny
it's not without sorrow and pain

Alas, Hearts still yearn
for love from yesteryear,

In this lifetime we must trust
that God Knows that
we have chosen service to Him
and our blossoming souls,
above carnal love

When we unite again it shall be
in a place of truth and beauty
Indeed...
A new Eden where we shall love eternal

ROTMS

poem by Ray Lucero
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True Love!

Love is a charm
Makes the hearts warm!
Love is ever forever
Best Boon showered ever!

What dreams may come true, you never know
When someone walks into your heart, fondness grow
Always caring, loving and being together
Makes a life worth it all together!

As time moves on, true love blossoms
Bearing fruits of elegant forms
Shining glow bestowed upon, by the tenderness
Immortal is the feeling of eternal happiness!

Just be loving and be loved for sure
Love makes hearts and minds pure!

poem by Manjeshwari P MYSORE
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A Rose Amidst the thorns

Roses in profusion
bloomed along our garden wall.
They were both red and yellow-
tea hybrids, I recall.
There were thorns too,
as I well knew,
standing guard among the blooms.

A careless creature soon would learn
to give the rose wide berth
An agony of thorns awaits
the careless of the earth.
Yet thorns permit the bees to come
and pollen to transpose.
and, if careful, they'll admit
my own scent seeking nose

I think thorns serve their purpose well
else roses would be trampled
The thorns are roses' guardians
and not inconsequential.
Without a thorn, the rose, forlorn,
is destined for the ashes.

poem by John F. McCullagh
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Before a Statue of Achilles

Behoild Pelides with his yellow hair,
Proud child of Thetis, hero loved of Jove;
Above the frowning of his brows of wove
A crown of gold, well combed, with Spartan care.
Who might have seen him, sullen, great, and fair,
As with the wrongful world he proudly strove,
And by high deeds his wilder passion shrove,
Mastering love, resentment, and despair.
He knew his end, and Phoebus' arrow sure
He braved for fame immortal and a friend,
Despising life; and we, who know our end,
Know that in our decay he shall endure
And all our children's hearts to grief inure,
With whose first bitter battles his shall blend.

Who brought thee forth, immortal vision, who
In Phthia or in Tempe brought thee forth?
Out of the sunlight and the sapful earth
What god the simples of thy spirit drew?
A goddess rose from the green waves, and threw
Her arms about a king, to give thee birth;
A centaur, patron of thy boyish mirth,
Over the meadows in thy footsteps flew.
Now Thessaly forgets thee, and the deep
Thy keeled bark furrowed answers not thy prayer;
But far away new generations keep
Thy laurels fresh; where branching Isis hems
The lawns of Oxford round about, or where
Enchanted Eton sits by pleasant Thames.

III

I gaze on thee as Phidias of old
Or Polyclitus gazed, when first he saw
These hard and shining limbs, without a flaw,
And cast his wonder in heroic mould.
Unhappy me who only may behold,
Nor make immutable and fix in awe
A fair immortal form no worm shall gnaw,
A tempered mind whose faith was never told!
The godlike mien, the lion's lock and eye,
The well-knit sinew, utter a brave heart
Better than many words that part by part
Spell in strange symbols what serene and whole
In nature lives, nor can in marble die.
The perfect body itself the soul.

poem by George Santayana
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Roses on the Earth

Roses on the Earth
Shameful work you are doing
Laughing and smiling still then.
You are floating in the sea of poverty and sorrows
still you have
no hesitation,
No tension,
And no worries.
Can you say me to secret of your smile?
We are in surprise.
People see you and have a pity on your fate.
But you are always away from
the luxury of the fate.
Your profession is garbage collection.
No body can enter easily in your profession except you.
I have seen Roses in the garden.
They are blooming with the thorns.
You are also smiling with unlimited sorrows and poverty
Even on the heap of the garbage
which is more painful than the thorns.
We can say them
“The Roses on the Earth”

poem by Vijay Gupta
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