Imperial Revels
Cheer, courtiers! round the splendid spread,—
The board that groans with shame and plate;
Still fawning to the sham-crowned head
That hopes its brass will turn its fate!
Drink till the comer last is full,
And never hear in revels' lull,
Grim Vengeance forging arrows fleet,
Whilst I gnaw at the crust
Of Exile in the dust—
But honour makes it sweet!
Ye cheaters in the trickster's fame,
Who dupe yourself and trickster-chief,
In blazing cafes spend the gain,
But draw the blind lest at his thief
Some fresh-made beggar gives a glance
And interrupts with steel the dance!
But let him toilsomely tramp by,
As I myself afar
Follow no gilded car
In ways of honesty.
Ye troopers who shot mothers down,
And marshals whose brave cannonade
Broke infant arms and split the stone
Where slumbered age and guileless maid,—
Though blood is the cup you fill,
Pretend it 'rosy' wine, and still
Hail cannon 'king,' and steel the 'queen!'
But I prefer to sup
From Philip Sidney's cup,—
True soldier's draught serene.
O workmen, seen by me sublime,
When wrenched ye from the tyrant, peace!
Can you be dazed by tinselled crime,
And find no foe beneath the fleece?
Build places where fortunes feast,
And on your backs bear loads of beast,
Though once such masters you made flee!
But then, like me, you ate
Food of an endless fete,—
The bread of Liberty!
poem by Victor Hugo
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Related quotes
Big Brother
Dont talk of dust and roses
Or should we powder our noses?
Dont live for last years capers
Give me steel, give me steel, give me pulses unreal
Hell build a glass asylum
With just a hint of mayhem
Hell build a better whirlpool
Well be living from sin, then we can really begin
Please savior, saviour, show us
Hear me, Im graphically yours
Someone to claim us, someone to follow
Someone to shame us, some brave apollo
Someone to fool us, someone like you
We want you big brother, big brother
I know you think youre awful square
But you made everyone and youve been every where
Lord, Id take an overdose if you knew whats going down
Someone to claim us, someone to follow
Someone to shame us, some brave apollo
Someone to fool us, someone like you
Someone to claim us, someone to follow
Someone to shame us, some brave apollo
Someone to fool, someone like you
Someone to claim us, someone to follow
Someone to shame us, some brave apollo
Someone to fool, someone like you
We want you big brother
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Center Stage
Laughing in a crown of jewels
Numbness from a scepters wound
Toss and turn, I spin and learn
Catch yourself before you burn
A jokers dance before the king
Jangling beads, and silver rings
Close your eyes and bare the sound
Jumping up - falling down
Falling, falling, falling, falling down
Look yourself in the eye before you drown
Royal rebels discover you
Trust? you turn there is no truth
And circle, circle, why are you scared
Why a smile instead of tears
Im gulping smoke I fade away
Figures floating down to lay
I meet the joker and the thief
The king and queen but - no relief
The king is in the counting house,
(falling, falling, falling, falling down)
Counting all his money
(look yourself in the eye before you drown)
The queen is in her parlor
(falling, falling, falling, falling down)
Eating bread and honey
(look yourself in the eye before you drown)
I cross myself before I die
And the leaping man, he asks me, why?
Well your rhythm is off I reply
Now you must dance the dance
That you imply!
Your actions will follow you full circle round
Your actions will follow you full circle round
Your actions will follow you full circle round
Your actions will follow you full circle round
Your actions will follow you full circle round
Your actions will follow you full circle round
Your actions will follow you full circle round
Your actions will follow you full circle round
The higher the leap, I said
The harder the ground!
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hymn to Aristogeiton and Harmodius
Wreathed in myrtle, my sword I'll conceal
Like those champions devoted and brave,
When they plunged in the tyrant their steel,
And to Athens deliverance gave.
Beloved heroes! your deathless souls roam
In the joy breathing isles of the blest;
Where the mighty of old have their home -
Where Achilles and Diomed rest.
In fresh myrtle my blade I'll entwine,
Like Harmodious, the gallant and good,
When he made at the tutelar shrine
A libation of Tyranny's blood.
Ye deliverers of Athens from shame!
Ye avengers of Liberty's wrongs!
Endless ages shall cherish your fame
Embalmed in their echoing songs!
poem by Edgar Allan Poe
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Ch 01 Manner of Kings Story 21
It is narrated that an oppressor of the people, a soldier, hit the head of a pious man with a stone and that the dervish, having no means of taking vengeance, preserved the stone till the time arrived when the king became angry with that soldier, and imprisoned him in a well. Then the dervish made his appearance and dropped the stone upon his head. He asked: "Who art thou, and why hast thou hit my head with this stone?" The man replied: "I am the same person whom thou hast struck on the head with this stone on such and such a day." The soldier continued: "Where hast thou been all this time?" The dervish replied: "I was afraid of thy dignity but now when I beheld thee in the well I made use of the opportunity."’
When thou seest an unworthy man in good luck
Intelligent men have chosen submission.
If thou hast not a tearing sharp nail
It will be better not to contend with the wicked.
Who grasps with his fist one who has an arm of steel
Injures only his own powerless wrist.
Wait till inconstant fortune ties his hand.
Then, to please thy friends, pick out his brains.
What Shall I Do For the Land that Bred Me
What shall I do for the land that bred me,
Her homes and fields that folded and fed me?—
Be under her banner and live for her honour:
Under her banner I’ll live for her honour.
CHORUS. Under her banner live for her honour.
Not the pleasure, the pay, the plunder,
But country and flag, the flag I am under—
There is the shilling that finds me willing
To follow a banner and fight for honour.
CH. We follow her banner, we fight for her honour.
Call me England’s fame’s fond lover,
Her fame to keep, her fame to recover.
Spend me or end me what God shall send me,
But under her banner I live for her honour.
CH. Under her banner we march for her honour.
Where is the field I must play the man on?
O welcome there their steel or cannon.
Immortal beauty is death with duty,
If under her banner I fall for her honour.
CH. Under her banner we fall for her honour.
poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins
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A Double Standard
Do you blame me that I loved him?
If when standing all alone
I cried for bread a careless world
Pressed to my lips a stone.
Do you blame me that I loved him,
That my heart beat glad and free,
When he told me in the sweetest tones
He loved but only me?
Can you blame me that I did not see
Beneath his burning kiss
The serpent's wiles, nor even hear
The deadly adder hiss?
Can you blame me that my heart grew cold
The tempted, tempter turned;
When he was feted and caressed
And I was coldly spurned?
Would you blame him, when you draw from me
Your dainty robes aside,
If he with gilded baits should claim
Your fairest as his bride?
Would you blame the world if it should press
On him a civic crown;
And see me struggling in the depth
Then harshly press me down?
Crime has no sex and yet to-day
I wear the brand of shame;
Whilst he amid the gay and proud
Still bears an honored name.
Can you blame me if I've learned to think
Your hate of vice a sham,
When you so coldly crushed me down
And then excused the man?
Would you blame me if to-morrow
The coroner should say,
A wretched girl, outcast, forlorn,
Has thrown her life away?
Yes, blame me for my downward course,
But oh! remember well,
Within your homes you press the hand
That led me down to hell.
I'm glad God's ways are not our ways
He does not see as man;
Within His love I know there's room
For those whom others ban.
I think before His great white throne,
His throne of spotless light,
That whited sepulchres shall wear
The hue of endless night.
That I who fell, and he who sinned,
Shall reap as we have sown;
That each the burden of his loss
Must bear and bear alone.
No golden weights can turn the scale
Of justice in His sight;
And what is wrong in woman's life
In man's cannot be right.
poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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A Good Old Man
"Children, you will soon lay me in the ground. Then you are to be cheerful, and drink some of this wine; for I have lived a joyful life before God all my days." (Life of Ernst Maurice Arndt. London. 1879. P. 38.)
The old man sate beside the fire,
His years fourscore and two,
His locks were thin and wintry-white,
But his eyes were bright and blue.
His children's children round him stood,
His face with joy did shine;
And he called for a glass, and placed on board
A pint of the ruby wine.
And he said, "Now list to me, brave boys:
I've lived a life, thank God!
Full of bright hours and happy days,
And soon beneath the sod
"Your hands must lay my head. This glass
I fill with thanks to Him
Who made my cup through fourscore years
With joy to overbrim.
"There might be clouds; but they have passed;
For this I surely knew,
Behind the clouds there dwelt a sun
And a dome of glorious blue.
"There might be frets; but not with me
Might fret and murmur dwell;
For God, I knew, was judge of all,
And still he judgeth well.
"Then fill the sparkling glass, brave boys,
And quaff the wine with me
His gift whence flows to men all light
And love and liberty!
"And keep a stout heart in your breast,
And trust in God, brave boys;
And march right forward without fear,
And evermore rejoice.
"And when you lay my head, brave boys,
Beneath the cool green sod,
Remember how I walked in strength
And joy before my God."
poem by John Stuart Blackie from Littell's Living Age, vol. 144
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Giant In Glee
Ho, warriors! I was reared in the land of the Gauls;
O'er the Rhine my ancestors came bounding like balls
Of the snow at the Pole, where, a babe, I was bathed
Ere in bear and in walrus-skin I was enswathed.
Then my father was strong, whom the years lowly bow,--
A bison could wallow in the grooves of his brow.
He is weak, very old--he can scarcely uptear
A young pine-tree for staff since his legs cease to bear;
But here's to replace him!--I can toy with his axe;
As I sit on the hill my feet swing in the flax,
And my knee caps the boulders and troubles the trees.
How they shiver, yea, quake if I happen to sneeze!
I was still but a springald when, cleaving the Alps,
I brushed snowy periwigs off granitic scalps,
And my head, o'er the pinnacles, stopped the fleet clouds,
Where I captured the eagles and caged them by crowds.
There were tempests! I blew them back into their source!
And put out their lightnings! More than once in a course,
Through the ocean I went wading after the whale,
And stirred up the bottom as did never a gale.
Fond of rambling, I hunted the shark 'long the beach,
And no osprey in ether soared out of my reach;
And the bear that I pinched 'twixt my finger and thumb,
Like the lynx and the wolf, perished harmless and dumb.
But these pleasures of childhood have lost all their zest;
It is warfare and carnage that now I love best:
The sounds that I wish to awaken and hear
Are the cheers raised by courage, the shrieks due to fear;
When the riot of flames, ruin, smoke, steel and blood,
Announces an army rolls along as a flood,
Which I follow, to harry the clamorous ranks,
Sharp-goading the laggards and pressing the flanks,
Till, a thresher 'mid ripest of corn, up I stand
With an oak for a flail in my unflagging hand.
Rise the groans! rise the screams! on my feet fall vain tears
As the roar of my laughter redoubles their fears.
I am naked. At armor of steel I should joke--
True, I'm helmed--a brass pot you could draw with ten yoke.
I look for no ladder to invade the king's hall--
I stride o'er the ramparts, and down the walls fall,
Till choked are the ditches with the stones, dead and quick,
Whilst the flagstaff I use 'midst my teeth as a pick.
Oh, when cometh my turn to succumb like my prey,
May brave men my body snatch away from th' array
Of the crows--may they heap on the rocks till they loom
Like a mountain, befitting a colossus' tomb!
poem by Victor Hugo
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The Sea-Swallows
THIS FELL when Christmas lights were done,
Red rose leaves will never make wine;
But before the Easter lights begun;
The ways are sair fra’ the Till to the Tyne.
Two lovers sat where the rowan blows
And all the grass is heavy and fine,
By the gathering-place of the sea-swallows
When the wind brings them over Tyne.
Blossom of broom will never make bread,
Red rose leaves will never make wine;
Between her brows she is grown red,
That was full white in the fields by Tyne.
“O what is this thing ye have on,
Show me now, sweet daughter of mine?”
“O father, this is my little son
That I found hid in the sides of Tyne.
“O what will ye give my son to eat,
Red rose leaves will never make wine?”
“Fen-water and adder’s meat,
The ways are sair fra’ the Till to the Tyne.”
“Or what will ye get my son to wear,
Red rose leaves will never make wine?”
“A weed and a web of nettle’s hair,
The ways are sair fra’ the Till to the Tyne.”
“Or what will ye take to line his bed,
Red rose leaves will never make wine?”
“Two black stones at the kirkwall’s head,
The ways are sair fra’ the Till to the Tyne.”
“Or what will ye give my son for land,
Red rose leaves will never make wine?”
“Three girl’s paces of red sand,
The ways are sair fra’ the Till to the Tyne.”
“Or what will ye give me for my son,
Red rose leaves will never make wine?”
“Six times to kiss his young mouth on,
The ways are sair fra’ the Till to the Tyne.”
“But what have ye done with the bearing-bread,
And what have ye made of the washing-wine?
Or where have ye made your bearing-bed,
To bear a son in the sides of Tyne?”
“The bearing-bread is soft and new,
There is no soil in the straining wine:
The bed was made between green and blue,
It stands full soft by the sides of Tyne.
“The fair grass was my bearing-bread,
The well-water my washing-wine;
The low leaves were my bearing-bed,
And that was best in the sides of Tyne.”
“O daughter, if ye have done this thing,
I wot the greater grief is mine;
This was a bitter child-bearing,
When ye were got by the sides of Tyne.
“About the time of sea-swallows
That fly full thick by six and nine,
Ye’ll have my body out of the house,
To bury me by the sides of Tyne.
“Set nine stones by the wall for twain,
Red rose leaves will never make wine;
For the bed I take will measure ten,
The ways are sair fra’ the Till to the Tyne.
“Tread twelve girl’s paces out for three,
Red rose leaves will never make wine;
For the pit I made has taken me,
The ways are sair fra’ the Till to the Tyne.”
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Gwin King of Norway
Come, kings, and listen to my song:
When Gwin, the son of Nore,
Over the nations of the North
His cruel sceptre bore;
The nobles of the land did feed
Upon the hungry poor;
They tear the poor man's lamb, and drive
The needy from their door.
`The land is desolate; our wives
And children cry for bread;
Arise, and pull the tyrant down!
Let Gwin be humblèd!'
Gordred the giant rous'd himself
From sleeping in his cave;
He shook the hills, and in the clouds
The troubl'd banners wave.
Beneath them roll'd, like tempests black,
The num'rous sons of blood;
Like lions' whelps, roaring abroad,
Seeking their nightly food.
Down Bleron's hills they dreadful rush,
Their cry ascends the clouds;
The trampling horse and clanging arms
Like rushing mighty floods!
Their wives and children, weeping loud,
Follow in wild array,
Howling like ghosts, furious as wolves
In the bleak wintry day.
`Pull down the tyrant to the dust,
Let Gwin be humblèd,'
They cry, `and let ten thousand lives
Pay for the tyrant's head.'
From tow'r to tow'r the watchmen cry,
`O Gwin, the son of Nore,
Arouse thyself! the nations, black
Like clouds, come rolling o'er!'
Gwin rear'd his shield, his palace shakes,
His chiefs come rushing round;
Each, like an awful thunder cloud,
With voice of solemn sound:
Like rearèd stones around a grave
They stand around the King;
Then suddenly each seiz'd his spear,
And clashing steel does ring.
The husbandman does leave his plough
To wade thro' fields of gore;
The merchant binds his brows in steel,
And leaves the trading shore;
The shepherd leaves his mellow pipe,
And sounds the trumpet shrill;
The workman throws his hammer down
To heave the bloody bill.
Like the tall ghost of Barraton
Who sports in stormy sky,
Gwin leads his host, as black as night
When pestilence does fly,
With horses and with chariots--
And all his spearmen b 1000 old
March to the sound of mournful song,
Like clouds around him roll'd.
Gwin lifts his hand--the nations halt;
`Prepare for war!' he cries--
Gordred appears!--his frowning brow
Troubles our northern skies.
The armies stand, like balances
Held in th' Almighty's hand;--
`Gwin, thou hast fill'd thy measure up:
Thou'rt swept from out the land.'
And now the raging armies rush'd
Like warring mighty seas;
The heav'ns are shook with roaring war,
The dust ascends the skies!
Earth smokes with blood, and groans and shakes
To drink her children's gore,
A sea of blood; nor can the eye
See to the trembling shore!
And on the verge of this wild sea
Famine and death doth cry;
The cries of women and of babes
Over the field doth fly.
The King is seen raging afar,
With all his men of might;
Like blazing comets scattering death
Thro' the red fev'rous night.
Beneath his arm like sheep they die,
And groan upon the plain;
The battle faints, and bloody men
Fight upon hills of slain.
Now death is sick, and riven men
Labour and toil for life;
Steed rolls on steed, and shield on shield,
Sunk in this sea of strife!
The god of war is drunk with blood;
The earth doth faint and fail;
The stench of blood makes sick the heav'ns;
Ghosts glut the throat of hell!
O what have kings to answer for
Before that awful throne;
When thousand deaths for vengeance cry,
And ghosts accusing groan!
Like blazing comets in the sky
That shake the stars of light,
Which drop like fruit unto the earth
Thro' the fierce burning night;
Like these did Gwin and Gordred meet,
And the first blow decides;
Down from the brow unto the breast
Gordred his head divides!
Gwin fell: the sons of Norway fled,
All that remain'd alive;
The rest did fill the vale of death,
For them the eagles strive.
The river Dorman roll'd their blood
Into the northern sea;
Who mourn'd his sons, and overwhelm'd
The pleasant south country.
poem by William Blake
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After Death
THE FOUR boards of the coffin lid
Heard all the dead man did.
The first curse was in his mouth,
Made of grave’s mould and deadly drouth.
The next curse was in his head,
Made of God’s work discomfited.
The next curse was in his hands,
Made out of two grave-bands.
The next curse was in his feet,
Made out of a grave-sheet.
“I had fair coins red and white,
And my name was as great light;
I had fair clothes green and red,
And strong gold bound round my head.
But no meat comes in my mouth,
Now I fare as the worm doth;
And no gold binds in my hair,
Now I fare as the blind fare.
My live thews were of great strength,
Now am I waxen a span’s length;
My live sides were full of lust,
Now are they dried with dust.”
The first board spake and said:
“Is it best eating flesh or bread?”
The second answered it:
“Is wine or honey the more sweet?”
The third board spake and said:
“Is red gold worth a girl’s gold head?”
The fourth made answer thus:
“All these things are as one with us.”
The dead man asked of them:
“Is the green land stained brown with flame?
Have they hewn my son for beasts to eat,
And my wife’s body for beasts’ meat?
Have they boiled my maid in a brass pan,
And built a gallows to hang my man?”
The boards said to him:
“This is a lewd thing that ye deem.
Your wife has gotten a golden bed,
All the sheets are sewn with red.
Your son has gotten a coat of silk,
The sleeves are soft as curded milk.
Your maid has gotten a kirtle new,
All the skirt has braids of blue.
Your man has gotten both ring and glove,
Wrought well for eyes to love.”
The dead man answered thus:
“What good gift shall God give us?”
The boards answered him anon:
“Flesh to feed hell’s worm upon.”
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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What A Feeling
Intro-Chorus:
What a feeling, beings believing
I can have it all now Im dancing for my life
Verse 1 BoBo:
All alone I have cried
Silent tears full of pride
In a world made of steel
Made of stone
Verse 2 Irene:
First when theres nothing
But a slow glowing dream
That your fear seems to hide
Deep inside your mind
Chorus:
What a feeling, beings believing
I can have it all now Im dancing for my life
Take your passion and make it happen
Pictures come alive you could dance right through your life
Verse 3 BoBo:
Now I know, I got the chance
To reach the top, is so intense
In a world made of steel
Made of stone
Verse 4 Irene:
Now I hear the music
Close my eyes I am rhythm
In a flash it takes hold
Of my heart
Chorus:...
Verse 5 BoBo:
I feel the passion, deep inside
I got strength, I got pride
In a world made of steel
Made of stone
Rap 2 BoBo:
Dancing- till the end of this night
Like now or never, got strength and pride
When I feel the music Im losing control
Of my mind, my body, my heart and my soul
Lets go - make this dream come true
For me and for you, we can dance right through
You can have it all, theres no price to pay
Your feelings will show you the way
Chorus
song performed by by DJ Bobo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In My Coffee Cup
Drink your coffee, drink your tea, Either one is fine with me
I can read the future, spend some time with me
I can read the future, for a fee
Come see the future with me
The gypsy smiles, she knows the future, yet she lives in poverty
She came to me for advice to treasure, Help to gain prosperity
I've made fortunes, doing cartwheels, bent over backwards, to keep animoty
I'm a contrarian, do not follow, an enigma of my family tree
Drink your coffee, drink your tea, Either one is fine with me
I can read the future, spend some time with me
I can read the future, for a fee
Come see the future with me
Leaders of the free world, need new answers, I've met them all behind closed doors
I judge them not, nor awaken their slumber
Yours is the choice of true democratic law
I've made fortunes, doing cartwheels, bent over backwards, to keep animoty
I'm a contrarian, do not follow, an enigma of my family tree
Drink your coffee, drink your tea, Either one is fine with me
I can read the future, spend some time with me
I can read the future, for a fee
Come see the future with me
Three wise men, they came a calling, to seek the savior of the modern world
Follow your star, the one not falling
Heed the advice of the challice girl
I've made fortunes, doing cartwheels, bent over backwards, to keep animoty
I'm a contrarian, do not follow, an enigma of my family tree
poem by Colin Coplin
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Sacrament Hymn
ON a fair Sabbath day, when His banquet is spread,
It is pleasant to feast with my Lord:
His stewards stand robed at the foot and the head
Of the soul-filling, life-giving board.
All the guests here had burthens; but by the King's grant
We left them behind when we came;
The burthen of wealth and the burthen of want,
And even the burthen of shame.
And oh, when we take them again at the gate,
Though still we must bear them awhile,
Much smaller they'll seem in the lane that grows strait,
And much lighter to lift at the stile.
For that which is in us is life to the heart,
Is dew to the soles of the feet,
Fresh strength to the loins, giving ease from their smart,
Warmth in frost, and a breeze in the heat.
No feast where the belly alone hath its fill,—
He gives me His body and blood;
The blood and the body (I'll think of it still)
Of my Lord, which is Christ, which is God.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Christmas Antiphones
I -- In Church
Thou whose birth on earth
Angels sang to men,
While thy stars made mirth,
Saviour, at thy birth,
This day born again;
As this night was bright
With thy cradle-ray,
Very light of light,
Turn the wild world's night
To thy perfect day.
God whose feet made sweet
Those wild ways they trod,
From thy fragrant feet
Staining field and street
With the blood of God;
God whose breast is rest
In the time of strife,
In thy secret breast
Sheltering souls opprest
From the heat of life;
God whose eyes are skies
Love-lit as with spheres
By the lights that rise
To thy watching eyes,
Orbed lights of tears;
God whose heart hath part
In all grief that is,
Was not man's the dart
That went through thine heart,
And the wound not his?
Where the pale souls wail,
Held in bonds of death,
Where all spirits quail,
Came thy Godhead pale
Still from human breath -
Pale from life and strife,
Wan with manhood, came
Forth of mortal life,
Pierced as with a knife,
Scarred as with a flame.
Thou the Word and Lord
In all time and space
Heard, beheld, adored,
With all ages poured
Forth before thy face,
Lord, what worth in earth
Drew thee down to die?
What therein was worth,
Lord, thy death and birth?
What beneath thy sky?
Light above all love
By thy love was lit,
And brought down the Dove
Feathered from above
With the wings of it.
From the height of night,
Was not thine the star
That led forth with might
By no worldly light
Wise men from afar?
Yet the wise men's eyes
Saw thee not more clear
Than they saw thee rise
Who in shepherd's guise
Drew as poor men near.
Yet thy poor endure,
And are with us yet;
Be thy name a sure
Refuge for thy poor
Whom men's eyes forget.
Thou whose ways we praised,
Clear alike and dark,
Keep our works and ways
This and all thy days
Safe inside thine ark.
Who shall keep thy sheep,
Lord, and lose not one?
Who save one shall keep,
Lest the shepherds sleep?
Who beside the Son?
From the grave-deep wave,
From the sword and flame,
Thou, even thou, shalt save
Souls of king and slave
Only by thy Name.
Light not born with morn
Or her fires above,
Jesus virgin-born,
Held of men in scorn,
Turn their scorn to love.
Thou whose face gives grace
As the sun's doth heat,
Let thy sunbright face
Lighten time and space
Here beneath thy feet.
Bid our peace increase,
Thou that madest morn;
Bid oppressions cease;
Bid the night be peace;
Bid the day be born.
II--OUTSIDE CHURCH
We whose days and ways
All the night makes dark,
What day shall we praise
Of these weary days
That our life-drops mark?
We whose mind is blind,
Fed with hope of nought;
Wastes of worn mankind,
Without heart or mind,
Without meat or thought;
We with strife of life
Worn till all life cease,
Want, a whetted knife,
Sharpening strife on strife,
How should we love peace?
Ye whose meat is sweet
And your wine-cup red,
Us beneath your feet
Hunger grinds as wheat,
Grinds to make you bread.
Ye whose night is bright
With soft rest and heat,
Clothed like day with light,
Us the naked night
Slays from street to street.
Hath your God no rod,
That ye tread so light?
Man on us as God,
God as man hath trod,
Trod us down with might.
We that one by one
Bleed from either's rod.
What for us hath done
Man beneath the sun,
What for us hath God?
We whose blood is food
Given your wealth to feed,
From the Christless rood
Red with no God's blood,
But with man's indeed;
How shall we that see
Nightlong overhead
Life, the flowerless tree,
Nailed whereon as we
Were our fathers dead -
We whose ear can hear,
Not whose tongue can name,
Famine, ignorance, fear,
Bleeding tear by tear
Year by year of shame,
Till the dry life die
Out of bloodless breast,
Out of beamless eye,
Out of mouths that cry
Till death feed with rest -
How shall we as ye,
Though ye bid us, pray?
Though ye call, can we
Hear you call, or see,
Though ye show us day?
We whose name is shame,
We whose souls walk bare,
Shall we call the same
God as ye by name,
Teach our lips your prayer?
God, forgive and give,
For His sake who died?
Nay, for ours who live,
How shall we forgive
Thee, then, on our side?
We whose right to light
Heaven's high noon denies,
Whom the blind beams smite
That for you shine bright,
And but burn our eyes,
With what dreams of beams
Shall we build up day,
At what sourceless streams
Seek to drink in dreams
Ere they pass away?
In what street shall meet,
At what market-place,
Your feet and our feet,
With one goal to greet,
Having run one race?
What one hope shall ope
For us all as one
One same horoscope,
Where the soul sees hope
That outburns the sun?
At what shrine what wine,
At what board what bread,
Salt as blood or brine,
Shall we share in sign
How we poor were fed?
In what hour what power
Shall we pray for morn,
If your perfect hour,
When all day bears flower,
Not for us is born?
III--BEYOND CHURCH
Ye that weep in sleep,
Souls and bodies bound,
Ye that all night keep
Watch for change, and weep
That no change is found;
Ye that cry and die,
And the world goes on
Without ear or eye,
And the days go by
Till all days are gone;
Man shall do for you,
Men the sons of man,
What no God would do
That they sought unto
While the blind years ran.
Brotherhood of good,
Equal laws and rights,
Freedom, whose sweet food
Feeds the multitude
All their days and nights
With the bread full-fed
Of her body blest
And the soul's wine shed
From her table spread
Where the world is guest,
Mingling me and thee,
When like light of eyes
Flashed through thee and me
Truth shall make us free,
Liberty make wise;
These are they whom day
Follows and gives light
Whence they see to slay
Night, and burn away
All the seed of night.
What of thine and mine,
What of want and wealth,
When one faith is wine
For my heart and thine
And one draught is health?
For no sect elect
Is the soul's wine poured
And her table decked;
Whom should man reject
From man's common board?
Gods refuse and choose,
Grudge and sell and spare;
None shall man refuse,
None of all men lose,
None leave out of care.
No man's might of sight
Knows that hour before;
No man's hand hath might
To put back that light
For one hour the more.
Not though all men call,
Kneeling with void hands,
Shall they see light fall
Till it come for all
Tribes of men and lands.
No desire brings fire
Down from heaven by prayer,
Though man's vain desire
Hang faith's wind-struck lyre
Out in tuneless air.
One hath breath and saith
What the tune shall be -
Time, who puts his breath
Into life and death,
Into earth and sea.
To and fro years flow,
Fill their tides and ebb,
As his fingers go
Weaving to and fro
One unfinished web.
All the range of change
Hath its bounds therein,
All the lives that range
All the byways strange
Named of death or sin.
Star from far to star
Speaks, and white moons wake,
Watchful from afar
What the night's ways are
For the morning's sake.
Many names and flames
Pass and flash and fall,
Night-begotten names,
And the night reclaims,
As she bare them, all.
But the sun is one,
And the sun's name Right;
And when light is none
Saving of the sun,
All men shall have light.
All shall see and be
Parcel of the morn;
Ay, though blind were we,
None shall choose but see
When that day is born.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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The Death of Ben Hall
Ben Hall was out on Lachlans side
With a thousand pounds on his head;
A score of troopers were scattered wide
And a hundred more were ready to ride
Wherever a rumour led.
They had followed his track from the
Weddin Heights And north by the Weelong yards;
Through dazzling days and moonlit nights
They had sought him over their rifle-sights,
With their hands on their trigger guards.
The outlaw stole like a hunted fox
Through the scrub and stunted heath,
And peered like a hawk from his eyrie rocks
Through the waving boughs of the sapling box
On the troopers riding beneath.
His clothes were rent by the clutching thorn
And his blistered feet were bare;
Ragged and torn, with his beard unshorn,
He hid like a beast forlorn,
With a padded path to his lair.
But every night when the white stars rose
He crossed by the Gunning Plain
To a stockman's hut where the Gunning flows,
And struck on the door three swift light blows,
And a hand unhooked the chain -
And the outlaw followed the lone path back
With food for another day;
And the kindly darkness covered his track
And the shadows swallowed him deep and black
Where the starlight melted away.
But his friend had read of the big reward,
And his soul was stirred with greed;
He fastened his door and window board,
He saddled his horse and crossed the ford,
And spurred to the town at speed.
You may ride at a man's or maid's behest
When honour or true love call
And steel your heart to the worst or the best,
But the ride that is ta'en on a traitor's quest
Is the bitterest ride of all.
A hot wind blew from the Lachlan bank
And a curse on its shoulder came;
The pine-trees frowned at him, rank on rank,
The sun on a gathering storm-cloud sank
And flushed his cheek with shame.
He reigned at the Court; and the tale began
That the rifles alone should end;
Sergeant and trooper laid their plan
To draw the net on a hunted man
At the treacherous word of a friend.
False was the hand that raised the chain
And false was the whispered word:
'The troopers have turned to the south again,
You may dare to camp on the Gunning Plain.'
And the weary outlaw heard.
He walked from the hut but a quarter mile
Where a clump of saplings stood
In a sea of grass like a lonely isle;
And the moon came up in a little while
Like silver steeped in blood.
Ben Hall lay down on the dew-wet ground
By the side of his tiny fire;
And a night breeze woke, and he heard no sound
As the troopers drew their cordon round -
And the traitor earned his hire.
And nothing they saw in the dim grey light,
But the little glow in the trees;
And they crouched in the tall cold grass all night,
Each one ready to shoot at sight,
With his rifle cocked on his knees.
When the shadows broke and the dawn's white sword
Swung over the mountain wall,
And a little wind blew over the ford,
A sargeant sprang to his feet and roared:
'In the name of the Queen, Ben Hall!'
Haggard, the outlaw leapt from his bed
With his lean arms held on high,
'Fire!' And the word was scarcely said
When the mountains rang to rain of lead -
And the dawn went drifting by.
They kept their word and they paid his pay
Where a clean man's hand would shrink;
And that was the traitor's master day
As he stood by the bar on his homeward way
And called on the crowd to drink.
He banned no creed and he barred no class,
And he called to his friends by name;
But the worst would shake his head and pass
And none would drink from the bloodstained glass
And the goblet red with shame.
And I know when I hear the last grim call
And my mortal hour is spent,
When the light is hid and the curtains fall
I would rather sleep with the dead Ben Hall
Than go where that traitor went.
poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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Food In Heaven
Food In Heaven
Food In Heaven
He made the cows to want the rain to fall he made the grass that they use to eat to fill the want inside a cow he makes grass as bread for cows they just continue there to graze in some places in the desert spaces there is grass for cows to eat this is called heaven sweet to cows they drink water when they have it in a drink flavored pouch oh no see eh ewe caught me making lies no listen while eye smile and tell ewe this poem is so nice there is grass for all the cows there is grass on every hill and every cow can eat in heaven they still have grass for every cow there is food in heaven there is food there in a drink flavored pouch.
poem by Charles Hice
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Love Letter to a Soldier
Blind men go to battle
Like blind mice running towards water,
Fighting for a cause.
What cause?
You're only told parts of the whole story.
The rest is shrouded in mystery.
It will cover you,
Like a gauzy funeral cloth,
You will be bound in
By your beliefs,
Based on your limited experience.
After all,
You never knew what was the reality of your enemy.
While waiting for bullets to tear into you,
A bomb to blow you to bits,
Did you ever wonder,
Soldier,
If war is worth your cause?
And,
What of the blood now staining your hands
It will never wash out in your nightmares.
And,
What of the faces of the children, the babies
Those that never get mentioned?
Those that become faceless under the umbrella of
'Casualties'?
Friendly fire,
Does not burn me with love and kisses.
It does not leave me composed with inner satisfaction.
Soldier,
Don't you long for peace?
Do you escape in your sleep,
To pleasant memories?
Your childhood?
Your family?
Coffins line the bases waiting to go home.
A flag
A Purple Heart.
It would become purple after the blood had
Stopped flowing to it.
So would lips that speak no more..
Why does the blood of the young
Quench Lusty Thirsts?
Man is an animal.
Made more so by greed,
A fierce creature whose talion have a far reaching grasp
Made more powerful by metal, gunpowder, and steel.
Soldier,
As night approaches what do you think of?
As blood flows like wine to goblets
Have you made some sense?
Are you able to find peace?
poem by Rabia Minhas
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High in the air exposed
High in the air exposed the slave is hung,
To all the birds of heaven, their living food!
He groans not, though awaked by that fierce sun
New torturers live to drink their parent blood;
He groans not, though the gorging vulture tear
The quivering fiber. Hither look, O ye
Who tore this man from peace and liberty!
Look hither, ye who weigh with politic care
The gain against the guilt! Beyond the grave
There is another world: bear ye in mind,
Ere your decree proclaims to all mankind
The gain is worth the guilt, that there the Slave,
Before the Eternal, "thunder-tongued shall plead
Against the deep damnation of your deed.
poem by Robert Southey
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The Friends of Fallen Fortunes
The battlefield behind us,
And night loomed on the track;
The Friends of Fallen Fortunes
Were riding at my back.
Save those who lay face upward
Upon the sodden plain,
Not one of all I’d trusted
Was missing from my train.
A draggled train and blood-stained,
With helmets dented in,
With battered, loosened armour,
But with a cheerful grin.
No dark look bent upon me;
I noted to my shame
That Friends of Fallen Fortunes
Are aye the last to blame.
Not one of all I’d trusted,
Who’d followed to their cost,
Save those who lay face upward
On that red field I’d lost;
And here and there a soldier
I’d trusted not at all,
Like an unexpected mourner
At a poor man’s funeral.
And as the horses stumbled,
And the footmen limped along,
They all joined in the chorus
Of a good old Next Time song.
Behind us in the distance,
By hill and lane and wood,
My ever-dwindling rear-guard
Fell back again and stood.
They recked not wounds nor losses,
They all seemed very kind,
From knight who rode beside me
To boor who limped behind;
And some borne in their litters
Through that long agony—
Their death-white, pain-drawn faces
Had no reproach for me.
And so from noon till darkness,
Till morning grim and grey,
The Earl’s son and the Peasant’s
Were brothers that dark day.
I straightened in my saddle,
And proudly glanced me round—
I still was King of Comrades,
Whoever might be crowned!
I straightened in my saddle,
And glanced round proudly then—
Whoe’er might reign a season,
I held the hearts of men!
No power of gold can buy them
While battles shall be fought—
The Friends of Fallen Fortunes
Are never to be bought.
Through rain and marsh and hunger,
To what their fate might bring,
The remnants of my legions
Toiled on to join their King.
From north and south the captains
Of scattered bands won through—
Beneath its beaten colours
My beaten army grew.
And in the West before us—
The West was ever thus—
More Friends of Fallen Fortunes
Were gathering food for us;
For refuge and for succour—
For safety, food and rest—
The best of beaten armies
For ever seek the West.
With these men for my captains,
When we marched east again,
Our enemies were scattered
Like dust across the plain.
Our city lay before us,
And as we marched along,
We joined the grand old chorus
Of the glorious Next Time song.
And though they wear no armour,
And bear no blade nor bill,
The Friends of Fallen Fortunes
Are riding with me still;
And, many times defeated
By city, field, and sea,
The Friends of Fallen Fortunes
March on to Victory.
poem by Henry Lawson
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