To A Lady
Offended by a Book of the Writer's
NOW that my page upcloses, doomed, maybe,
Never to press thy cosy cushions more,
Or wake thy ready Yeas as heretofore,
Or stir thy gentle vows of faith in me:
Knowing thy natural receptivity,
I figure that, as flambeaux banish eve,
My sombre image, warped by insidious heave
Of those less forthright, must lose place in thee.
So be it. I have borne such. Let thy dreams
Of me and mine diminish day by day,
And yield their space to shine of smugger things;
Till I shape to thee but in fitful gleams,
And then in far and feeble visitings,
And then surcease. Truth will be truth alway.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Sonnet 152: In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn
In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,
But thou art twice forsworn to me love swearing:
In act thy bed-vow broke and new faith torn
In vowing new hate after new love bearing.
But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee,
When I break twenty? I am perjured most,
For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee,
And all my honest faith in thee is lost.
For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness,
Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy,
And to enlighten thee gave eyes to blindness,
Or made them swear against the thing they see.
For I have sworn thee fair. More perjured eye,
To swear against the truth so foul a lie!
poem by William Shakespeare
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Sketch Book
If I may,
allow thee,
stand
lay
find
your
pose.
Will sketch thee in thy book.
Charcoal
grainy
dark
smudges blending,
image
take
form.
Disrobe
do not,
remove thy cloth
woven
cotton
cover
disguise
thy body shape
curves
contours
angles.
Distraction.
Already have sketch in hand,
conjured forth,
time
and
time
again.
Thy body shape,
lies beneath,
across they clothing drape?
Still life.
Artists interpretation.
Thy beauty.
Recline,
arm at side
other over head
finger poised
chin angled toward thee
eyes at slight glance,
legs
lounging
relaxed
ankles crossed.
Nude.
Exposed.
Yes,
of course.
Anywhere you would like,
when
your
ready.
Will sketch thee in thy book.
poem by Gary Kedron
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Good Counsel of Chaucer
Flee from the press, and dwell with soothfastness;
Suffice thee thy good, though it be small;
For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness,
Press hath envy, and weal is blent o'er all,
Savour no more than thee behove shall;
Read well thyself, that other folk canst read;
And truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread.
Paine thee not each crooked to redress,
In trust of her that turneth as a ball;
Great rest standeth in little business:
Beware also to spurn against a nail;
Strive not as doth a crocke with a wall;
Deeme thyself that deemest others' deed,
And truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread.
What thee is sent, receive in buxomness;
The wrestling of this world asketh a fall;
Here is no home, here is but wilderness.
Forth, pilgrim! Forthe beast, out of thy stall!
Look up on high, and thank thy God of all!
Weive thy lust, and let thy ghost thee lead,
And truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread.
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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At Morning
O Lord, my life was known to Thee
Ere Thou had’st caused me yet to be,
Thy spirit ever dwells in me.
Could I, cast down by Thee, have gained
A standing place, or, if restrained
By Thee, go forth with feet unchained?
Hear me, Almighty, while I pray;
My thoughts are in Thy hand alway.
Be to my helplessness a stay!
O may this hour Thy favour yield,
And may I tread life’s battle-field
Encompassed by Thy mercy’s shield.
Wake me at dawn Thy name to bless,
And in Thy sanctuary’s recess
To praise and laud Thy holiness.
Translated by Alice Lucas
poem by Yehudah HaLevi
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To Mary
I seem, in the midst of the crowd,
The lightest of all;
My laughter rings cheery and loud,
In banquet and ball.
My lip hath its smiles and its sneers,
For all men to see;
But my soul, and my truth, and my tears,
Are for thee, are for thee!
Around me they flatter and fawn—
The young and the old.
The fairest are ready to pawn
Their hearts for my gold.
They sue me—I laugh as I spurn
The slaves at my knee;
But in faith and in fondness I turn
Unto thee, unto thee!
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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The Children's Song
Land of our Birth, we pledge to thee
Our love and toil in the years to be;
When we are grown and take our place
As men and women with our race.
Father in Heaven who lovest all,
Oh, help Thy children when they call;
That they may build from age to age
An undefiled heritage.
Teach us to bear the yoke in youth,
With steadfastness and careful truth;
That, in our time, Thy Grace may give
The Truth whereby the Nations live.
Teach us to rule ourselves alway,
Controlled and cleanly night and day;
That we may bring, if need arise,
No maimed or worthless sacrifice.
Teach us to look in all our ends
On Thee for judge, and not our friends;
That we, with Thee, may walk uncowed
By fear or favour of the crowd.
Teach us the Strength that cannot seek,
By deed or thought, to hurt the weak;
That, under Thee, we may possess
Man's strength to comfort man's distress.
Teach us Delight in simple things,
And Mirth that has no bitter springs;
Forgiveness free of evil done,
And Love to all men 'neath the sun!
Land of our Birth, our faith, our pride,
For whose dear sake our fathers died;
Oh, Motherland, we pledge to thee
Head, heart and hand through the years to be!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Saint Nicholas of Cusa on the Face of God
In thy dear image and thy likeness, Lord,
are we as human made, your servant tells;
how then to know ourselves, in this new sight,
and where to look, to see our godly selves?
For I believe all nature is thy face -
thy natural, thy Absolute, true light;
and art, too, is thy face - by thy art seen;
and knowing - of all that which may be known;
and thus the man who sees thee face to face
may see all things, and know all things; have - All:
but - how to see thee? How to pray, to ask?
And ask for what, since thou art All in All?
How to pray thou giv'st thyself to me?
'Be thine own self, and I will be in thee...'
poem by Michael Shepherd
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My God! O let me call Thee mine!
My God! O let me call Thee mine!
Weak wretched sinner though I be,
My trembling soul would fain be Thine,
My feeble faith still clings to Thee,
My feeble faith still clings to Thee.
Not only for the past I grieve,
The future fills me with dismay;
Unless Thou hasten to relieve,
I know my heart will fall away,
I know my heart will fall away.
I cannot say my faith is strong,
I dare not hope my love is great;
But strength and love to Thee belong,
O, do not leave me desolate!
O, do not leave me desolate!
I know I owe my all to Thee,
O, take this heart I cannot give.
Do Thou my Strength my Saviour be;
And make me to Thy glory live!
And make me to Thy glory live!
poem by Anne Brontë
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Aurobindo 164 Savitri Book 10
An appreciation on Savitri-
Book Ten: The Book of the Double Twilight
Canto Four: The Dream Twilight of the Earthly Real
Words within inverted commas are Aurobindo's
'Who then art thou hiding in human guise?
Thy voice carries the sound of infinity,
Knowledge is with thee, Truth speaks through thy words;
The light of things beyond shines in thy eyes.
'Hast thou God's force to build heaven's values here?
For truth and knowledge are an idle gleam
If Knowledge brings not power to change the world,
If Might comes not to give to Truth her right.'
'O human claimant to immortality,
Reveal thy power, lay bare thy spirit's force,
Then will I give back to thee Satyavan.
Or if the Mighty Mother is with thee,
Show me her face that I may worship her;
'Then can thy dead return to thee and live.'
The prostrate earth perhaps shall lift her gaze
And feel near her the secret body of God'
So Death had none but to surrender it seems..
'Almost it seemed as if in his symbol shape
The world's darkness had consented to Heaven-light'
'A mighty transformation came on her.
A halo of the indwelling Deity,
The Immortal's lustre that had lit her face
And tented its radiance in her body's house,
Overflowing made the air a luminous sea.'
'In a flaming moment of apocalypse
The Incarnation thrust aside its veil.
A little figure in infinity
Yet stood and seemed the Eternal's very house,
As if the world's centre was her very soul
And all wide space was but its outer robe.'.....
............My consciousness this moment,
O'Guru, I'm in awe....in invincible heights
Ineffable Thee embellishing poetic creation
My inquisitive apprehension, erring Thee may opine
May thereso, let Savitri in my self arise
Aroused thereso be knowledge and fortune
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Unspoken truth
The truth hidden in me
Is the thing nobody can see.
I am acting as a treasure keeper,
Hiding it to be discovered.
Truth has its own fate
Reality is known by it.
After knowing the truth,
You will know what it worth.
Things seen by eye and heard by ear
Will not be believed and not to be care.
This is the only truth unspoken.
It’s thee truth of life,
Hide it to survive.
If anybodies knows
Please don’t let it to flow.
If shared than gone,
All will run towards the throne.
Beauty of life end there
When unspoken truth of life is know here.
poem by Amar Ghimire
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Thine Alone
Rains and Sunshine are not mine alone
Rainbows and Flowers are not mine alone
My love for Thee is mine alone
Ask for Peace and Blessing alone
Rest all things are dust alone
Desire for unknown is better left alone
Suffering in my life are not mine alone
Tears in my heart are not mine alone
Lord with me, share these alone
I believe in Faith and Faith alone
Jesus is my saviour is the Truth alone
Lord always with me and I am His alone...
poem by Joanna Kantharia
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For as well as I have loved thee heretofore, mine heart will not serve now to see thee; for through thee and me is the flower of kings and knights destroyed.
quote by Thomas Malory
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Olney Hymn 3: Jehovah-Rophi: I Am the Lord That Healeth Thee
Heal us, Emmanuel! here we are,
Waiting to feel Thy touch:
Deep-wounded souls to Thee repair
And, Saviour, we are such.
Our faith is feeble, we confess,
We faintly trust Thy word;
But wilt Thou pity us the less?
Be that far from Thee, Lord!
Remember him who once applied,
With trembling, for relief;
'Lord, I believe,' with tears he cried,
'Oh, help my unbelief!'
She too, who touch'd Thee in the press,
And healing virtue stole,
Was answer'd, 'Daughter, go in peace,
Thy faith hath made thee whole.'
Conceal'd amid the gathering throng,
She would have shunn'd Thy view;
And if her faith was firm and strong,
Had strong misgivings too.
Like her, with hopes and fears we come,
To touch Thee, if we may;
Oh! send us not despairing home,
Send none unheal'd away!
poem by William Cowper
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To Life's Pilgrim
FLY from the press, and dwell with soothfastness;
Suffice unto thy good, though it be small,
For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness ;
Preise hath envie, and weal is blent o'er all.
Savor no more than thee behoven shall,
Rede well thy self that other folk can'st rede,
And Truth thee shalt deliver 'tis no drede.
That thee is sent receive in buxomness :
The wrestling of this world, asketh a fall.
Here is no home, here is but wilderness.
Forth, pilgrim, forth on, best out of thy stall;
Look up on high, and thank the God of all!
Weivith thy lust, and let thy ghost thee lead,
And Truth thee shalt deliver 'tis no drede.
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Hymn XXIV: Saviour, If Thy Precious Love
Saviour, if thy precious love
Could be merited by mine,
Faith these mountains would remove;
Faith would make me ever thine:
But when all my care and pains
Worth can ne'er create in me,
Nought by me thy fullness gains;
Vain the hope to purchase thee.
Cease, O man, thy worth to weigh,
Give the needless contest o'er;
Mine thou art! while thus I say,
Yield thee up, and ask no more:
What thy estimate may be,
Only can by him be told
Who, to ransom wretched thee,
Thee to gain, himself was sold.
But when all in me is sin,
How can I thy grace obtain?
How presume thyself to win?
God of love, the doubt explain:
Or if thou the means supply,
Lo to thee I all resign!
Make me Lord - I ask not why,
How I ask not, - ever thine.
poem by Charles Wesley
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Hymn XXIV: Saviour, If Thy Precious Love
Saviour, if thy precious love
Could be merited by mine,
Faith these mountains would remove;
Faith would make me ever thine:
But when all my care and pains
Worth can ne'er create in me,
Nought by me thy fulness gains;
Vain the hope to purchase thee.
Cease, O man, thy worth to weigh,
Give the needless contest o'er;
Mine thou art! while thus I say,
Yield thee up, and ask no more:
What thy estimate may be,
Only can by him be told
Who, to ransom wretched thee,
Thee to gain, himself was sold.
But when all in me is sin,
How can I thy grace obtain?
How presume thyself to win?
God of love, the doubt explain:
Or if thou the means supply,
Lo to thee I all resign!
Make me Lord - I ask not why,
How I ask not, - ever thine.
poem by John Wesley
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Sonnet 46: I Curs'd Thee Oft
I curs'd thee oft, I pity now thy case,
Blind-hitting boy, since she that thee and me
Rules with a beck, so tyrannizeth thee,
That thou must want or food, or dwelling place,
For she protest to banish thee her face.
Her face? Oh Love, a rogue thou then shouldst be!
If Love learn not alone to love and see,
Without desire to feed of further grace.
Alas poor wag, that now a scholar art
To such a schoolmistress, whose lessons new
Thou needs must miss, and so thou needs must smart.
Yet dear, let me his pardon get of you,
So long (though he from book miche to desire)
Till without fuel you can make hot fire.
poem by Philip Sidney
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It is a press, certainly, but a press from which shall flow in inexhaustible streams...Through it, God will spread His Word. A spring of truth shall flow from it: like a new star it shall scatter the darkness of ignorance, and cause a light heretofore unknown to shine amongst men.
quote by Johannes Gutenberg
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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To Mary
I sleep with thee, and wake with thee,
And yet thou art not there;
I fill my arms with thoughts of thee,
And press the common air.
Thy eyes are gazing upon mine,
When thou art out of sight;
My lips are always touching thine,
At morning, noon, and night.
I think and speak of other things
To keep my mind at rest:
But still to thee my memory clings
Like love in woman's breast.
I hide it from the world's wide eye,
And think and speak contrary;
But soft the wind comes from the sky,
And whispers tales of Mary.
The night wind whispers in my ear,
The moons shines in my face;
A burden still of chilling fear
I find in every place.
The breeze is whispering in the bush,
And the dews fall from the tree,
All sighing on, and will not hush,
Some pleasant tales of thee.
poem by John Clare
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Thoughts in a Tranquil Night
Athwart the bed
I watch the moonbeams cast a trail
So bright, so cold, so frail,
That for a space it gleams
Like hoar-frost on the margin of my dreams.
I raise my head, --
The splendid moon I see:
Then droop my head,
And sink to dreams of thee --
My Fatherland, of thee!