Prologue: The Pleasant Comedy Of Old Fortunatus
OF Love's sweet war our timorous Muse doth sing,
And to the bosom of each gentle dear,
Offers her artless tunes, borne on the wing
Of sacred poesy. A benumbing fear,
That your nice souls, cloyed with delicious sounds,
Will loath her lowly notes, makes her pull in
Her fainting pinions, and her spirit confounds,
Before the weak voice of her song begin.
Yet since within the circle of each eye,
Being like so many suns in his round sphere,
No wrinkle yet is seen, she'll dare to fly,
Borne up with hopes, that as you oft do rear
With your fair hands, those who would else sink down,
So some will deign to smile, where all might frown:
And for this small circumference must stand,
For the imagined surface of much land,
Of many kingdoms, and since many a mile
Should here be measured out, our Muse entreats
Your thoughts to help poor art, and to allow
That I may serve as Chorus to her senses;
She begs your pardon, for she'll send one forth,
Not when the laws of poesy do call,
But as the story needs; your gracious eye
Gives life to Fortunatus' history.
poem by Thomas Dekker
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An Ode To The King, At His Returning From Scotland To The Queen, After His Coronation There
Rouse up thy self, my gentle Muse,
Though now our green conceits be gray,
And yet once more do not refuse
To take thy Phrygian Harp, and play
In honour of this chearful Day.
Make first a Song of Joy and Love,
Which chastely flame in Royal Eyes;
Then tune it to the Spheres above
When the benignest Stars do rise,
And sweet Conjunctions grace the Skies.
To this let all good Hearts resound,
While Diadems invest his Head:
Long may he live, whose Life doth bound
More then his Laws, and better Lead
By high Example, then by Dread.
Long may He round about Him see
His Roses and His Lillies bloom:
Long may His only Dear and He
Joy in Ideas of their own,
And Kingdoms Hopes so timely sown;
Long may they both contend to prove,
That best of Crowns is such a Love.
poem by Henry Wotton
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Srivastav
Electric,
Fornsic,
Genetic;
I know that you are very brilliant and,
I need your muse!
And like the sweet muse of your love.
The serpent,
Carried away!
But, the earth opened her mouth and swallowed the flood;
And the inhabitants didi watch.
Your love is so delicious to me!
Your act is so sweet to me,
Your muse is so lovely to me,
But, i am Srivastav with the muse of love;
And, i have some jobs for you to take care of.
So nice and so delicious! !
My works,
My words,
Your works,
Your words,
His works,
His words,
Her works,
Her words;
And like the sweet muse of love!
But the new ones are like a welcome message to you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Licia Sonnets 05
Love with her hair my love by force hath tied,
To serve her lips, her eyes, her voice, her hand;
I smiled for joy, when I the boy espied
To lie unchained and live at her command.
She if she look, or kiss, or sing, or smile,
Cupid withal doth smile, doth sing, doth kiss,
Lips, hands, voice, eyes, all hearts that may beguile,
Because she scorns all hearts but only this.
Venus for this in pride began to frown
That Cupid, born a god, enthralled should be.
She in disdain her pretty son threw down,
And in his place, with love she chainéd me.
So now, sweet love, though I myself be thrall,
Not her a goddess, but thyself I call.
poem by Giles Fletcher The Elder
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Sonnet 100: Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long
Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem
In gentle numbers time so idly spent;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem,
And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise, resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey
If time have any wrinkle graven there;
If any, be a satire to decay,
And make time's spoils despisèd everywhere.
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life;
So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife.
poem by William Shakespeare
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A Fear Through Words
It is through fear I write this
Through fear I dare not speak these words
Or name the muse of who I pen them to
I hold a gentle and honest love to my heart
Such a love as yet untried and unknown
What good are my words when I cannot speak them
To my muse so beautiful so sweet, so divine
I fear I may lose them so completely
That I stay silent, bide my words so well
And watch with abject despair
My muse, object of my whole desire
Grow more distant with each passing day
And I fear I may lose all together
By speaking these words, these cursed words
I asked myself once, what I search for
Is it what I want or what I need in life
And there I saw my muse, a world of beauty
More than I could imagine or ask for
A gentle heart and loving nature
Those warm soothing eyes I look to
Do not see me as I would wish
I fear if they were to, see my innermost soul
My passion and my love for them
They would turn away and be lost completely
Which is why I write with fear
These words I dare not speak
poem by Matthew Holloway
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A Lullaby
The stars are twinkling in the skies,
The earth is lost in slumbers deep;
So hush, my sweet, and close thine eyes,
And let me lull thy soul to sleep.
Compose thy dimpled hands to rest,
And like a little birdling lie
Secure within thy cozy nest
Upon my loving mother breast,
And slumber to my lullaby,
So hushaby--O hushaby.
The moon is singing to a star
The little song I sing to you;
The father sun has strayed afar,
As baby's sire is straying too.
And so the loving mother moon
Sings to the little star on high;
And as she sings, her gentle tune
Is borne to me, and thus I croon
For thee, my sweet, that lullaby
Of hushaby--O hushaby.
There is a little one asleep
That does not hear his mother's song;
But angel watchers--as I weep--
Surround his grave the night-tide long.
And as I sing, my sweet, to you,
Oh, would the lullaby I sing--
The same sweet lullaby he knew
While slumb'ring on this bosom too--
Were borne to him on angel's wing!
So hushaby--O hushaby.
poem by Eugene Field
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Garfield
Garfield, dial, rail, grail, field, fed, lie, gale, fear, fail, failed, die!
Bare, dare;
Ware, are;
But, learning to become perfect in the land of your muse.
Garfield, Gad, if, far, era, deal, lead, rig, air, grade, raid, are, lied, dire!
Mare, fare;
Care, hare;
But, try to be with the laws and learn to become perfect in life.
Garfield, laid, fare, gal, fade, liar, rag, girl, Graf, ear, fair, dear, life!
Pare, rare;
Stare, tare;
And like the muse of peace in the land of your muse after the war.
Garfield, read, dare, drag, ride, aid, aide, gear, ale, file, filed, derail, fire!
But birds of the same feathers flock together;
However, you need to learn from your past mistakes to become perfect,
Because, everybody comes out with new things and new ideads on this earth.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Sing A Song For You My Love
SING A SONG FOR YOU MY LOVE
A lovely song a love song
Sing a song for you my love
Sung in a wonderful soothing voice
Sending a melody message by the dove
Invites you to take your choice
Catch this ultimate chance to share
Truly wherever you will be I’ll dare
Musical notes show how much I care
To loose you I wouldn’t bare
Never ever let me down again
Open up the shutters of your heart
Don’t ask for another bargain
Pull out with strength the poisoned dart
Can this time be meaning for ever
Love has got such strangely ways
No understanding even though being clever
Deep different emotions filling our days
Want to sing a song for you my love
Higher notes song in my voice
Your love places spirit high above
Counting heartbeats final choice
Sing a song for you my love
A lovely song a love song
poem by Morhardt Carmen Mencita Monoi Angel
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On The Poetic Muse
Far, far above this world I soar,
And almost nature lose,
Aerial regions to explore,
With this ambitious Muse.
My towering thoughts with pinions rise,
Upon the gales of song,
Which waft me through the mental skies,
With music on my tongue.
My Muse is all on mystic fire,
Which kindles in my breast;
To scenes remote she doth aspire,
As never yet exprest.
Wrapt in the dust she scorns to lie,
Call'd by new charms away;
Nor will she e'er refuse to try
Such wonders to survey.
Such is the quiet bliss of soul,
When in some calm retreat,
Where pensive thoughts like streamlets roll,
And render silence sweet;
And when the vain tumultuous crowd
Shakes comfort from my mind,
My muse ascends above the cloud
And leaves the noise behind.
With vivid flight she mounts on high
Above the dusky maze,
And with a perspicacious eye
Doth far 'bove nature gaze.
poem by George Moses Horton
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Daughter Poesy
An adopted child mine daughter Poesy
At this age of sixtyplus
My skin wrinkly and body rickety
Senses dying and soul almost ready
To up on a count down
Like the fading light of evening sky
Longing for a full moon in new moon night...
Asking everybody why
Opted I for a foreign lexicon
Whilst not an adept in home diction itself
Just a desire before expire
Though in brain much I require..
Ponder my Poesy enforcing the quintescence
So far of my cognition, Poesy to soar high
Progressively speaking, my Poesy
Years few old, amazingly
Like my country Lotus growing divine
God sent blessings! Pamper Poesy with gratitude
All concepts, knowledge mine exclusively for Poesy
My elder daughters the tamils aren't jealousy
But ponder their sister, my English Poesy
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Borne On The Wind
Borne on the wind,
Borne on the wind
Between the sunset and the dawn.
So tenderly your memory
Lingers with me on and on
Borne on the wind,
Borne on the wind
You are still with me it seems
A life to live, a love to give,
And you will live in my dreams.
You don't love me,
But you love for me to be in love with you.
You led me on,lured me on
But when i fell you were gone.
Borne on the wind,
Borne on the wind,
Now a song in my heart.
A soft refrain you will remain
To live again and again
Borne on the wind,
Borne on the wind,
Borne on the wind.
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Parpa
He is called Parpa ad
My love to him is like beauty and the beast;
But i do know his story and feelings too.
Our hearts will grow on this love,
And i will surrender all that i have to him;
For life is all about the muse of love.
I will not worry much about what i have,
Since i am in love with him;
But when life is empty, where will i go without him?
There are more things we do behind close doors,
And Parpa is my man on this muse so sweet;
For he has all that it takes to love me.
Making love with him is all that makes me go round deeper than ever!
For the first time that i ever saw his face,
I knew that he was the one to carry me on like the blues of songs.
I thought the sun reflected on the rose of love beside me,
So i will never leave him alone on this love;
For Parpa is my man so sweet on this muse that satisfies my heart.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Born On The Wind
(orbison/dees)
Borne on the wind,
Borne on the wind
Between the sunset and the dawn.
So tenderly your memory
Lingers with me on and on
Borne on the wind,
Borne on the wind
You are still with me it seems
A life to live, a love to give,
And you will live in my dreams.
You dont love me,
But you love for me to be in love with you.
You lured me on,led me on
But when I fell you were gone.
Borne on the wind,
Borne on the wind,
Now a song in my heart.
A soft refrain you will remain
To live in my heart again
Borne on the wind,
Borne on the wind,
Borne on the wind.
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet XVI
If I have graced no single song of mine
With thy sweet name, they all are full of thee;
Thou art my Muse, my 'May', my 'Madeline':
But 'Julia'! -- ah! that gentle name to me
Is something far too sacred for the throng
Of worldly listeners 'round me. Yet ev'n now
I weave a chaplet for thy sinless brow; --
Wilt thou not wear it? 'T is a fashionable song, --
I will not say of what, -- but on it I
Have wreaked heart, mind, my love, my hopes of fame,
Yet after all it hath no nobler aim
Than thy dear praise. Ere many moons pass by,
When the lost gem is set, the crown complete,
I'll lay a poet's tribute at thy feet.
poem by Henry Timrod
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Psalm CXLVIII
Come, oh! come, with sacred lays,
Let us sound th' Almighty's praise;
Hither bring in true concent,
Heart, and voice, and instrument.
Let the orpharion sweet,
With the harp and viol meet:
To your voices tune the lute:
Let not tongue nor string be mute;
Nor a creature dumb be found,
That hath cither voice or sound.
Let such things as do not live,
In still music praises give:
Lowly pipe, ye worms that creep
On the earth or in the deep;
Loud aloft your voices strain,
Beasts and monsters of the main,
Birds, your warbling treble sing;
Clouds, your peals of thunder ring;
Sun and moon exalted higher,
And you, stars, augment the choir.
Come, ye sons of human race,
In this chorus take your place,
And amid this mortal throng,
Be you masters of the song.
Angels and celestial powers,
Be the noblest tenor yours.
Let, in praise of God, the sound
Run a never-ending round;
That our holy hymn may be
Everlasting, as is He.
From the earth's vast hollow womb,
Music's deepest bass shall come.
Sea and floods, from shore to shore,
Shall the counter-tenor roar.
To this concert, when we sing,
Whistling winds, your descant bring:
Which may bear the sound above,
Where the orb of fire doth move;
And so climb from sphere to sphere,
Till our song th' Almighty hear.
So shall He from heaven's high tower
On the earth His blessing shower;
All this huge wide orb we see,
Shall one choir, one temple be;
There our voices we will rear,
Till we fill it everywhere:
And enforce the fiends that dwell
In the air to sink to hell.
Then, oh! come, with sacred lays,
Let us sound th' Almighty's praise.
poem by George Wither
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The Missing Gold
As smart as a snkae and as nimble as a rat,
As slow as a tortoise and as fast as a deer,
I am a hero from zero;
As lovely as a child and as romantic as a kiss,
As lonely as the forest and as soft as the wool,
My door is always open to you all;
And like the brooks of April rain in the forest of my home.
She is gone out of my hands but,
One day i will find her again to sing the love song together;
Because she cares more about you and i do care about her too.
Of her love so perfect and so sweet but,
One day i will find her again to know more about her muse.
Time took her away from me and i can't easily forget about her,
And like the first found bride of yester-eve;
But profane the soil now more.
I will surely find this missing gold one day,
And i will be a here in the strife;
So let the dead past bury its dead.
I am the one she will always remember in her life,
Ans of her heart of roses full of love;
But the art of loving her is like the time fleeting around my mind!
And the sound i hear now is like the dead that slumbers,
But i will act in living present with the care of her muse.
She will always be in my dreams and like,
The voices of the night when lovers meet;
But tomorrow we will meet again on this love gone too soon.
I am the true lover of her heart and she really knows that,
And like the fingerprints on the walls of love as exposed to all;
But love will always find a way on this issue at hand.
I have the golden key for her heart because,
The boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom!
For she is all that the muse of love gave to me and,
I will always remember the days with her together.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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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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Provisions
Oil, wine and some fruits;
And to reassure your sweet love with my muse!
But i met you in am open field last night,
And i will look after you with my love.
Provisions and gifts,
In the open fields of love and care;
But i will surely deliver you with my love,
And like the muse of joy in the land of plenty.
Provisions, soon, son, sons, vision, visions, in, pin, poor!
And all around with the muse of your love;
But write down the words that i have spoken to you in a book,
For my joy is like the muse of the rainbow seen around.
Provisions, on, no, pros, sin, sins, ion, ions, is, in, pins!
But the life of a hunter is like the life of your muse;
And like the joy of your love as seen around,
Because i am ever ready to share my mind with you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Dulce Domum
AN OLD LATIN ODE.
SUNG ANNUALLY BY THE WlNCHESTER BOYS UPON
LEAVING COLLEGE AT THE VACATION. [Translated at the Request of DR. JOSEPH WARTON.]
LOV'D Companions, let us sing!
Wake the dear according string-
Come, with gladness fill the dome,
Pour the happy song of Home.
CHORUS.
Now, sweet Home! our steps are free;
Now, sweet Home! we fly to thee!
Let the vaulted roofs resound
Sacred Home, with blessings crown'd!
Learning, thorny are thy ways,
Thought is weary of the maze;
Let us seek awhile the goal
Where affection rests her soul!
CHORUS.-Now, sweet Home, &c.
Now, O toiling Muse, repose;
Muse! the classic volume close:-
Bid the cares of study cease,
Give the vacant hours to peace!
CHORUS.-Now, sweet Home, &c.
Joyful with the smiling year,
We will smile, for Home is near!-
Strangers will our song repeat-
Strangers feel that Home is sweet!
CHORUS.-Now, sweet Home, &c.
Bring, O bring th' impatient steed,
Let us to the threshold speed,
Where we shed the tear of bliss,
Where we meet a mother's kiss!
CHORUS.-Now, sweet Home, &c.
Home of childhood! swell the strain,
While we hail thy gates again!
Why, Aurora, thus delay?
Slothful goddess, give the day!
CHORUS.-Now, sweet Home, &c.
poem by Helen Maria Williams
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Inscription
When the last stir of bubbling melodies
Broke as my chants sank underneath the wave
Of dulcitude, but sank again to rise
Where man's embaying mind those waters lave,
(For music hath its Oceanides
Flexuously floating through their parent seas,
And such are these),
I saw a vision--or may it be
The effluence of a dear desired reality?
I saw two spirits high, -
Two spirits, dim within the silver smoke
Which is for ever woke
By snowing lights of fountained Poesy.
Two shapes they were familiar as love;
They were those souls, whereof
One twines from finest gracious daily things,
Strong, constant, noticeless, as are heart-strings
The golden cage wherein this song-bird sings;
And the other's sun gives hue to all my flowers,
Which else pale flowers of Tartarus would grow,
Where ghosts watch ghosts of blooms in ghostly bowers; -
For we do know
The hidden player by his harmonies,
And by my thoughts I know what still hands thrill the keys.
And to these twain--as from the mind's abysses
All thoughts draw toward the awakening heart's sweet kisses,
With proffer of their wreathen fantasies, -
Even so to these
I saw how many brought their garlands fair,
Whether of song, or simple love, they were, -
Of simple love, that makes best garlands fair.
But one I marked who lingered still behind,
As for such souls no seemly gift had he:
He was not of their strain,
Nor worthy of so bright beings to entertain,
Nor fit compeer for such high company.
Yet was he, surely, born to them in mind,
Their youngest nursling of the spirit's kind.
Last stole this one,
With timid glance, of watching eyes adread,
And dropped his frightened flower when all were gone;
And where the frail flower fell, it withered.
But yet methought those high souls smiled thereon;
As when a child, upstraining at your knees
Some fond and fancied nothings, says, 'I give you these!'
poem by Francis Thompson
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