Genius
Woe unto him! the child of this sad earth,
Who, in a troubled world, unjust and blind,
Bears Genius--treasure of celestial birth,
Within his solitary soul enshrined.
Woe unto him! for Envy's pangs impure,
Like the undying vultures', will be driven
Into his noble heart, that must endure
Pangs for each triumph; and, still unforgiven,
Suffer Prometheus' doom, who ravished fire from Heaven.
Still though his destiny on earth may be
Grief and injustice; who would not endure
With joyful calm, each proffered agony;
Could he the prize of Genius thus ensure?
What mortal feeling kindled in his soul
That clear celestial flame, so pure and high,
O'er which nor time nor death can have control,
Would in inglorious pleasures basely fly
From sufferings whose reward is Immortality?
No! though the clamors of the envious crowd
Pursue the son of Genius, he will rise
From the dull clod, borne by an effort proud
Beyond the reach of vulgar enmities.
'Tis thus the eagle, with his pinions spread,
Reposing o'er the tempest, from that height
Sees the clouds reel and roll above our head,
While he, rejoicing in his tranquil flight,
More upward soars sublime in heaven's eternal light.
poem by Victor Hugo
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The Sun In Clouds
The sun in clouds,
Dim, dull and subdued outside,
Has ever lost his fierce sunshine?
The layers of clouds
That hide the sun in distant heaven
Could ever reach the worlds of the sun?
The sun is a giant living ball
That lights a hundred lightless worlds
Like a sole bright eye of a pitch-black heaven;
How the world of minute clouds
Reach the flames of the imperious sun,
Who guts all shams and burns all sins?
The sun is not in clouds,
But the eyes in clouds see so,
Those eyes lose shine in front of the light;
How can little frogs
Stretch beyond the clouds
And reach the truth of the sun’s splendours?
For the eyes caught in hazy clouds,
The proud sun is dull and subdued
And humbled by valiant windstorms;
Crack the clouds and see outside;
The sun is as bright and fierce as ever,
Whom no clouds touch nor storms reach.
Clouds may come and clouds may go,
But the sun remains the same,
A bright glow, far removed from the earth,
In gay abandon of an unattached soul,
With floods of light, thrown all round
For those who see with unclouded eyes.
The sun, so hot, none endeavour to reach;
The sun, so bright, none open their eyes;
The sun, the tough, proud lonely splendour
Reigns over heaven in imperial grace;
None reach his height, none withstand his might,
But, win his heart or avoid his sight.
The scorching heat of his inmost core
Creeps like lava on uneasy skin
Thro’ the layers of thick and black clouds;
His unsubdued heat
Rouses wild whirlwinds
That scatter clouds in the nether world.
Beyond the mortal measures, beyond praise and trials,
The sun shines forever;
Beyond minute clouds in the womb of black sky,
The sun shines forever;
For, the celestial glow should light the world
And meet universal goal.
poem by Praveen Kumar
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An Accident
A sudden gray, transfigures some celestial woman
A moment, an effect, a beauty pure
Fine skin, golden curls and spiritually Roman
Mine beliefs in her she did subtly lure
A longing one feels for an accident again
Its beauty one cannot measure, undefinable glory
Man knows not, what where or when?
She will appear to finish this miracle story
A spiritual power, an incredible creation
Of a mind that progresses towards heaven's genius
An exquisite passion melts in elation
To the love of some strange Venus
To the sweet apparition, my love and genius
This earth's love is to small
In the other world's blue I flee
Listening to my energy's call
I travel through spirits alone and free
To heaven's center I live in calm
Bathed in mirth and heavenly dust
One hand I touch, thy lord's palm
To write with thee, with love I must
On what merit do I possess?
To calm thy desire, and thy love deserve
My heart burns in humility, mine soul thy caress.
Thou heavenly light in thine memory I preserve
This accident!
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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The Sun
The sun comes forth; each mountain height
Glows with a tinge of rosy light,
And flowers, that slumbered through the night,
Their dewy leaves unfold;
A flood of splendor bursts on high,
And ocean's breast reflects a sky
Of crimson and of gold.
Oh! thou art glorious, orb of day!
Exulting nations hail thy ray,
Creation swells a choral lay,
To welcome thy return;
From thee all nature draws her hues,
Thy beams the insect's wings suffuse,
And in the diamond burn.
Yet must thou fade; when earth and heaven
By fire and tempest shall be riven,
Thou, from thy sphere of radiance driven,
Oh Sun! must fall at last;
Another heaven, another earth,
Far other glory shall have birth,
When all we see is past.
But He, who gave the word of might,
'Let there be light' and there was light,
Who bade thee chase the gloom of night,
And beam, the world to bless;
For ever bright, for ever pure,
Alone unchanging shall endure,
The Sun of Righteousness!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Treasure In Heaven
We spend and splurge all the day, while allowing our soul to stray,
Attracted to what pleases the eye, while we allow our soul to die.
Enticed by what the eye can see, with no thought towards eternity.
We spend effort and much time, securing what we claim as mine.
How much can you truly secure and keep with you forevermore?
Even those dear to your heart, will one day from this life depart.
Nothing of this world shall be, embraced in Heaven through Eternity.
The former things will be no more, after you enter Eternity’s Door.
Don’t store treasure here on earth, for in the end it’s of little worth.
Here moths destroy and rust corrode, not so in your heavenly abode.
Store treasure in Heaven friend, where an Eternity you will spend.
Where your treasure is, you’ll see, there your heart shall also be.
Christ came to this earth to fulfill, not His own, but His Father’s will.
As a servant, The Lord Jesus Christ laid His life down as a sacrifice.
Pick up your cross and follow Christ, as He’s already paid the price.
My friend if you will deny yourself, you shall have Eternal wealth.
Seek The Kingdom of God first and you will have an Eternal purse.
So seek the Righteousness of The Lord and He will open up a door,
For you to serve The Risen Christ, here on earth as a living sacrifice.
Then your treasure will endure, in Heaven with Christ forevermore.
(Copyright ©11/2004)
Prometheus
Prometheus stole from Heaven the sacred fire
And swept to earth with it o'er land and sea.
He lit the vestal flames of poesy,
Content, for this, to brave celestial ire.
Wroth were the gods, and with eternal hate
Pursued the fearless one who ravished Heaven
That earth might hold in fee the perfect leaven
To lift men's souls above their low estate.
But judge you now, when poets wield the pen,
Think you not well the wrong has been repaired?
'Twas all in vain that ill Prometheus fared:
The fire has been returned to Heaven again!
We have no singers like the ones whose note
Gave challenge to the noblest warbler's song.
We have no voice so mellow, sweet, and strong
As that which broke from Shelley's golden throat.
The measure of our songs is our desires:
We tinkle where old poets used to storm.
We lack their substance tho' we keep their form:
We strum our banjo-strings and call them lyres.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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To The Eye
THRONE of expression! whence the spirit's ray
Pours forth so oft the light of mental day,
Where fancy's fire, affection's melting beam,
Thought, genius, passion, reign in turn supreme,
And many a feeling, words can ne'er impart,
Finds its own language to pervade the heart;
Thy power, bright orb, what bosom hath not felt,
To thrill, to rouse, to fascinate, to melt!
And by some spell of undefined control,
With magnet-influence touch the secret soul!
Light of the features! in the morn of youth
Thy glance is nature, and thy language truth;
And ere the world, with all-corrupting sway,
Hath taught e'en thee to flatter and betray,
The ingenuous heart forbids thee to reveal,
Or speak one thought that interest would conceal;
While yet thou seem'st the cloudless mirror, given
But to reflect the purity of heaven;
O! then how lovely, there unveil'd, to trace
The unsullied brightness of each mental grace!
When Genius lends thee all his living light,
Where the full beams of intellect unite;
When love illumes thee with his varying ray,
Where trembling Hope and tearful Rapture play;
Or Pity's melting cloud thy beam subdues,
Tempering its lustre with a veil of dews;
Still does thy power, whose all-commanding spell
Can pierce the mazes of the soul so well,
Bid some new feeling to existence start,
From its deep slumbers in the inmost heart.
And O! when thought, in ecstacy sublime,
That soars triumphant o'er the bounds of time,
Fires thy keen glance with inspiration's blaze,
The light of heaven, the hope of nobler days,
(As glorious dreams, for utterance far too high,
Flash through the mist of dim mortality
Who does not own, that through thy lightning-beams
A flame unquenchable, unearthly, streams?
That pure, though captive effluence of the sky,
The vestal-ray, the spark that cannot die!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Essence of Love I
The youth isn’t timeless,
The beauty is certainly exhausted at the significant time,
The light of the passionate eyes
Will certainly fade away;
Than for which I do proud for love.
O the blind lover,
Learn the truth,
And learn the love.
The love doesn’t concern with moralistic qualities.
The love comes from heaven
And love is cherished, nourished, and fulfilled by heaven;
And this love meets its ends in heaven,
The ultimate happiness of human mortal souls.
When the eyes fell in the passionate glimpses of eyes,
Those eyes find the heaven on it,
Not the mortal beauty of glimpsing.
As the beauty attracts
Nor for the mortal one
But for the heaven which can be found in the soul.
This is love which confines in truth,
The truth of heaven
And the truth of immortality.
All will be decayed by time but love will exist,
All will be vanished by time but love will exist,
All will be exhausted by time but love will exist.
Love, love and only love
And the soul which deserves love
Gets the immortality
And never perishes by time.
This is the fact
The fact of life
And the fact of love.
It is the truth of love,
It is the secret of love,
And it is the worth of love.
As thy soul love,
Learn the haven will come
To make the mingle of heart,
The mingle which creates heaven
Is the sanctified love.
The Heaven is here in the love of heart
The surround in the earthen earth
Where love does prevail
Heaven is firmly perceived there.
poem by Md. Moniruzzaman
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At Castlewood
The day is done, the winter sun
Is setting in its sullen sky;
And drear the course that has been run,
And dim the hearts that slowly die.
No star will light my coming night;
No morn of hope for me will shine;
I mourn not heaven would blast my sight,
And I ne'er longed for joys divine.
Through life's hard task I did not ask
Celestial aid, celestial cheer;
I saw my fate without its mask,
And met it too without a tear.
The grief that pressed my aching breast
Was heavier far than earth can be;
And who would dread eternal rest
When labour's hour was agony?
Dark falls the fear of this despair
On spirits born of happiness;
But I was bred the mate of care,
The foster-child of sore distress.
No sighs for me, no sympathy,
No wish to keep my soul below;
The heart is dead in infancy,
Unwept-for let the body go.
poem by Emily Brontë
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Be Still, My Soul, Be Still
Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle,
Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong.
Think rather,-- call to thought, if now you grieve a little,
The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long.
Men loved unkindness then, but lightless in the quarry
I slept and saw not; tears fell down, I did not mourn;
Sweat ran and blood sprang out and I was never sorry:
Then it was well with me, in days ere I was born.
Now, and I muse for why and never find the reason,
I pace the earth, and drink the air, and feel the sun.
Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season:
Let us endure an hour and see injustice done.
Ay, look: high heaven and earth ail from the prime foundation;
All thoughts to rive the heart are here, and all are vain:
Horror and scorn and hate and fear and indignation--
Oh why did I awake? when shall I sleep again?
poem by Alfred Edward Housman
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Not Just A Mom
My mom isn't just a mom at all
She's also something else
My mom isn't so quiet or shy
But she's proud and doesn't care what others say about her
My mom is like a friend who I will never forget
My mom is always there
Whether I'm sad, happy, lonely, or angry
She's always there, ready to listen
My mom always give me advices to overcome any problems
She supports me in any way
My mom is like a genius to me
She may not be like genius of studies
But she's a genius of me
My mom knows what I think, what I will say, she knows everything about me
My mom knows what to do to make me calm down
My mom knows how to make me automatically happy
My mom knows what and how I feel
My mom knows what I need the most
My mom is like an angel God sent from Heaven
My mom is loud, weird, and crazy
But she understands me the most
My mom always help me to fix my mistakes
My mom always help me to reach my dreams
My mom always love me no matter what
My mom doesn't care if I am handicapped
My mom doesn't care if I'm missing a finger
She doesn't care
My mom loves me the way I am
My mom is like someone who I can't give up on
My mom is like... a daughter of God.
poem by XXXHolix Fire
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At Castle Wood
The day is done, the winter sun
Is setting in its sullen sky;
And drear the course that has been run,
And dim the hearts that slowly die.
No star will light my coming night;
No morn of hope for me will shine;
I mourn not heaven would blast my sight,
And I ne'er longed for joys divine.
Through life's hard task I did not ask
Celestial aid, celestial cheer;
I saw my fate without its mask,
And met it too without a tear.
The grief that pressed my aching breast
Was heavier far than earth can be;
And who would dread eternal rest
When labour's hour was agony?
Dark falls the fear of this despair
On spirits born of happiness;
But I was bred the mate of care,
The foster-child of sore distress.
No sighs for me, no sympathy,
No wish to keep my soul below;
The heart is dead in infancy,
Unwept-for let the body go.
poem by Emily Jane Brontë
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The Clearer Self
Before me grew the human soul,
And after I am dead and gone,
Through grades of effort and control
The marvellous work shall still go on.
Each mortal in his little span
Hath only lived, if he have shown
What greatness there can be in man
Above the measured and the known;
How through the ancient layers of night,
In gradual victory secure,
Grows ever with increasing light
The Energy serene and pure:
The Soul, that from a monstrous past,
From age to age, from hour to hour,
Feels upward to some height at last
Of unimagined grace and power.
Though yet the sacred fire be dull,
In folds of thwarting matter furled,
Ere death be nigh, while life is full,
O Master Spirit of the world,
Grant me to know, to seek, to find,
In some small measure though it be,
Emerging from the waste and blind,
The clearer self, the grander me!
poem by Archibald Lampman
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The Death Of Richard Wagner
Mourning on earth, as when dark hours descend,
Wide-winged with plagues, from heaven; when hope and mirth
Wane, and no lips rebuke or reprehend
Mourning on earth.
The soul wherein her songs of death and birth,
Darkness and light, were wont to sound and blend,
Now silent, leaves the whole world less in worth.
Winds that make moan and triumph, skies that bend,
Thunders, and sound of tides in gulf and firth,
Spake through his spirit of speech, whose death should send
Mourning on earth.
The world's great heart, whence all things strange and rare
Take form and sound, that each inseparate part
May bear its burden in all tuned thoughts that share
The world's great heart -
The fountain forces, whence like steeds that start
Leap forth the powers of earth and fire and air,
Seas that revolve and rivers that depart -
Spake, and were turned to song: yea, all they were,
With all their works, found in his mastering art
Speech as of powers whose uttered word laid bare
The world's great heart.
From the depths of the sea, from the wellsprings of earth, from the wastes of the midmost night,
From the fountains of darkness and tempest and thunder, from heights where the soul would be,
The spell of the mage of music evoked their sense, as an unknown light
From the depths of the sea.
As a vision of heaven from the hollows of ocean, that none but a god might see,
Rose out of the silence of things unknown of a presence, a form, a might,
And we heard as a prophet that hears God's message against him, and may not flee.
Eye might not endure it, but ear and heart with a rapture of dark delight,
With a terror and wonder whose core was joy, and a passion of thought set free,
Felt inly the rising of doom divine as a sundawn risen to sight
From the depths of the sea.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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The Wanderer's Storm-Song
He whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,
Feels no dread within his heart
At the tempest or the rain.
He whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,
Will to the rain-clouds,
Will to the hailstorm,
Sing in reply
As the lark sings,
Oh thou on high!
Him whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,
Thou wilt raise above the mud-track
With thy fiery pinions.
He will wander,
As, with flowery feet,
Over Deucalion's dark flood,
Python-slaying, light, glorious,
Pythius Apollo.
Him whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,
Thou wilt place upon thy fleecy pinion
When he sleepeth on the rock,--
Thou wilt shelter with thy guardian wing
In the forest's midnight hour.
Him whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,
Thou wilt wrap up warmly
In the snow-drift;
Tow'rd the warmth approach the Muses,
Tow'rd the warmth approach the Graces.
Ye Muses, hover round me!
Ye Graces also!
That is water, that is earth,
And the son of water and of earth
Over which I wander,
Like the gods.
Ye are pure, like the heart of the water,
Ye are pure like the marrow of earth,
Hov'ring round me, while I hover
Over water, o'er the earth
Like the gods.
Shall he, then, return,
The small, the dark, the fiery peasant?
Shall he, then, return, waiting
Only thy gifts, oh Father Bromius,
And brightly gleaming, warmth-spreading fire?
Return with joy?
And I, whom ye attended,
Ye Muses and ye Graces,
Whom all awaits that ye,
Ye Muses and ye Graces,
Of circling bliss in life
Have glorified--shall I
Return dejected?
Father Bromius!
Thourt the Genius,
Genius of ages,
Thou'rt what inward glow
To Pindar was,
What to the world
Phoebus Apollo.
Woe! Woe Inward warmth,
Spirit-warmth,
Central-point!
Gl ow, and vie with
Phoebus Apollo!
Coldly soon
His regal look
Over thee will swiftly glide,--
Envy-struck
Linger o'er the cedar's strength,
Which, to flourish,
Waits him not.
Why doth my lay name thee the last?
Thee, from whom it began,
Thee, in whom it endeth,
Thee, from whom it flows,
Jupiter Pluvius!
Tow'rd thee streams my song.
And a Castalian spring
Runs as a fellow-brook,
Runs to the idle ones,
Mortal, happy ones,
Apart from thee,
Who cov'rest me around,
Jupiter Pluvius!
Not by the elm-tree
Him didst thou visit,
With the pair of doves
Held in his gentle arm,--
With the beauteous garland of roses,--
Caressing him, so blest in his flowers,
Anacreon,
Storm-breathing godhead!
Not in the poplar grove,
Near the Sybaris' strand,
Not on the mountain's
Sun-illumined brow
Didst thou seize him,
The flower-singing,
Honey-breathing,
Sweetly nodding
Theocritus.
When the wheels were rattling,
Wheel on wheel tow'rd the goal,
High arose
The sound of the lash
Of youths with victory glowing,
In the dust rolling,
As from the mountain fall
Showers of stones in the vale--
Then thy soul was brightly glowing, Pindar--
Glowing? Poor heart!
There, on the hill,--
Heavenly might!
But enough glow
Thither to wend,
Where is my cot!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Song Of The Furies
Up and lead the dance of Fate!
Lift the song that mortals hate!
Tell what rights are ours on earth,
Over all of human birth.
Swift of foot to avenge are we!
He whose hands are clean and pure,
Naught our wrath to dread hath he;
Calm his cloudless days endure.
But the man that seeks to hide
Like him (1), his gore-bedewèd hands,
Witnesses to them that died,
The blood avengers at his side,
The Furies' troop forever stands.
O'er our victim come begin!
Come, the incantation sing,
Frantic all and maddening,
To the heart a brand of fire,
The Furies' hymn,
That which claims the senses dim,
Tuneless to the gentle lyre,
Withering the soul within.
The pride of all of human birth,
All glorious in the eye of day,
Dishonored slowly melts away,
Trod down and trampled to the earth,
Whene'er our dark-stoled troop advances,
Whene'er our feet lead on the dismal dances.
For light our footsteps are,
And perfect is our might,
Awful remembrances of guilt and crime,
Implacable to mortal prayer,
Far from the gods, unhonored, and heaven's light,
We hold our voiceless dwellings dread,
All unapproached by living or by dead.
What mortal feels not awe,
Nor trembles at our name,
Hearing our fate-appointed power sublime,
Fixed by the eternal law.
For old our office, and our fame,
Might never yet of its due honors fail,
Though 'neath the earth our realm in unsunned regions pale.
Wednesday Before Easter
O Lord my God, do thou Thy holy will -
I will lie still -
I will not stir, lest I forsake Thine arm,
And break the charm
Which lulls me, clinging to my Father's breast,
In perfect rest.
Wild fancy, peace! thou must not me beguile
With thy false smile:
I know thy flatteries and thy cheating ways;
Be silent, Praise,
Blind guide with siren voice, and blinding all
That hear thy call.
Come, Self-devotion, high and pure,
Thoughts that in thankfulness endure,
Though dearest hopes are faithless found,
And dearest hearts are bursting round.
Come, Resignation, spirit meek,
And let me kiss thy placid cheek,
And read in thy pale eye serene
Their blessing, who by faith can wean
Their hearts from sense, and learn to love
God only, and the joys above.
They say, who know the life divine,
And upward gaze with eagle eyne,
That by each golden crown on high,
Rich with celestial jewelry,
Which for our Lord's redeemed is set,
There hangs a radiant coronet,
All gemmed with pure and living light,
Too dazzling for a sinner's sight,
Prepared for virgin souls, and them
Who seek the martyr's diadem.
Nor deem, who to that bliss aspire,
Must win their way through blood and fire.
The writhings of a wounded heart
Are fiercer than a foeman's dart.
Oft in Life's stillest shade reclining,
In Desolation unrepining,
Without a hope on earth to find
A mirror in an answering mind,
Meek souls there are, who little dream
Their daily strife an Angel's theme,
Or that the rod they take so calm
Shall prove in Heaven a martyr's palm.
And there are souls that seem to dwell
Above this earth--so rich a spell
Floats round their steps, where'er they move,
From hopes fulfilled and mutual love.
Such, if on high their thoughts are set,
Nor in the stream the source forget,
If prompt to quit the bliss they know,
Following the Lamb where'er He go,
By purest pleasures unbeguiled
To idolise or wife or child;
Such wedded souls our God shall own
For faultless virgins round His throne.
Thus everywhere we find our suffering God,
And where He trod
May set our steps: the Cross on Calvary
Uplifted high
Beams on the martyr host, a beacon light
In open fight.
To the still wrestlings of the lonely heart
He doth impart
The virtue of his midnight agony,
When none was nigh,
Save God and one good angel, to assuage
The tempest's rage.
Mortal! if life smile on thee, and thou find
All to thy mind,
Think, who did once from Heaven to Hell descend,
Thee to befriend:
So shalt thou dare forego, at His dear call,
Thy best, thine all.
"O Father! not My will, but Thine be done" -
So spake the Son.
Be this our charm, mellowing Earth's ruder noise
Of griefs and joys:
That we may cling for ever to Thy breast
In perfect rest!
poem by John Keble
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Wreath the Bowl
Wreath the bowl
With flowers of soul,
The brightest Wit can find us,
We'll take a flight
Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.
Should Love amid
The wreaths be hid
That Joy, the enchanter, brings us,
No danger fear,
While wine is near --
We'll drown him if he stings us.
Then, wreath the bowl
With flowers of soul,
The brightest Wit can find us.
We'll take a flight
Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.
'Twas nectar fed
Of old, 'tis said,
Their Junos, Joves, Apollos,
And man may brew
His nectar too,
The rich receipt's as follows:
Take wine like this,
Let looks of bliss
Around it well be blended,
Then bring Wit's beam
To warm the stream,
And there's your nectar, splendid!
So, wreath the bowl,
With flowers of soul,
The brightest Wit can find us,
We'll take a flight
Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.
Say, why did Time
His glass sublime
Fill up with sands unsightly,
When wine, he knew,
Runs brisker through,
And sparkles far more brightly?
Oh, lend it us,
And, smiling thus,
The glass in two we'll sever,
Make pleasure glide
In double tide,
And fill both ends for ever!
Then, wreath the bowl
With flowers of soul
The brightest Wit can find us;
We'll take a flight
Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.
poem by Thomas Moore
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Soliloquy
Here's a beautiful earth and a wonderful sky,
And to see them, God gives us a heart and an eye;
Nor leaves us untouch'd by the pleasure they yield,
Like the fowls of the heaven, or the beasts of the field.
The soul, though encumber'd with sense and with sin,
Can range through her own mystic chambers within;
Then soar like the eagle to regions of light,
And dart wondrous thoughts on the stars of the night.
Yea, more, it is gifted with vision so keen,
As to know the unknown and to see the unseen;
To glance at eternity's numberless days,
Till dazzled, confounded, and lost in the maze.
Nor will this suffice it, oh wonderful germ,
Of infinite blessings vouchsafed to a worm!
It quickens, it rises, with boundless desires,
And heaven is the lowest to which it aspires.
Such, such is the soul, though bewilder'd and dark -
A vital, ethereal, unquenchable spark;
Thus onward and upward by nature it tends.
Then wherefore descends it? ah! whither descends?
Soon droops its light pinion, borne down by a gust,
It flutters, it flutters,-it cleaves to the dust;
Then feeds upon ashes - deceived and astray;
And fastens and clings to this perishing clay.
For robes that too proud were the lilies to wear -
For food we divide with the fowls of the air -
For joy that just sparkles, and then disappears,
We drop from heaven's gate to this valley of tears.
How tranquil and blameless the pleasures it sought,
While it rested within the calm region of thought!
How fraught with disgust, and how sullied with woe,
Is all that detains and beguiles it below!
Oh Thou, who when silent and senseless it lay,
Didst breathe into life the inanimate clay,
Now nourish and quicken the languishing fire;
And fan to a flame that shall never expire!
poem by Jane Taylor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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St. Stephens Day
As rays around the source of light
Stream upward ere he glow in sight,
And watching by his future flight
Set the clear heavens on fire;
So on the King of Martyrs wait
Three chosen bands, in royal state,
And all earth owns, of good and great,
Is gather'd in that choir.
One presses on, and welcomes death:
One calmly yields his willing breath,
Nor slow, nor hurrying, but in faith
Content to die or live:
And some, the darlings of their Lord,
Play smiling with the flame and sword,
And, ere they speak, to His sure word
Unconscious witness give.
Foremost and nearest to His throne,
By perfect robes of triumph known,
And likest Him in look and tone,
The holy Stephen kneels,
With stedfast gaze, as when the sky
Flew open to his fainting eye,
Which, like a fading lamp, flash'd high,
Seeing what death conceals.
Well might you guess what vision bright
Was present to his raptured sight,
E'en as reflected streams of light
Their solar source betray -
The glory which our God surrounds,
The Son of Man, the atoning wounds -
He sees them all; and earth's dull bounds
Are melting fast away.
He sees them all--no other view
Could stamp the Saviour's likeness true,
Or with His love so deep embrue
Man's sullen heart and gross -
"Jesus, do Thou my soul receive:
Jesu, do Thou my foes forgive;"
He who would learn that prayer must live
Under the holy Cross.
He, though he seem on earth to move,
Must glide in air like gentle dove,
From yon unclouded depths above
Must draw his purer breath;
Till men behold his angel face
All radiant with celestial grace,
Martyr all o'er, and meet to trace
The lines of Jesus' death.
poem by John Keble
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Farewell, My Beloved Mum
Loving Mum
You're my best mum
In the whole universe.
I always love you.
You always take care of me
When I'm sick,
When I'm sad,
When I'm naughty,
When I'm stubborn.
Oh Mum,
Why you left us so soon?
Please don't cry, don't grief,
Don't held up, hang on.
Stop worrying us all,
Be willing to let go all,
Relieve your painful agony.
I may not understand
All the pains and agony
You endure.
You undergo many
Sacrifices, sufferings and challenges
In your life to give the best to me.
I never forget
All things you had done for me,
And taught me.
Loving mum,
Thank you so much,
For giving me life,
For upbringing me into this world.
You make me proud,
I'll make you proud too,
As your good child.
I felt very sad and sorrowful
To see you go
Saying final farewell
To you.
Loving mum,
I'll always miss you,
You'll forever live in my memory.
Farewell, goodbye Mum,
May your soul rest in peace,
I hope you're always happy
in presence of Jesus Christ, our Lord.
May God bless your soul
And live in heaven forever.
poem by Lawrence Hiung
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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