Natalia’s Resurrection: Sonnet XXI
But when they had gone past him every one,
With new resolve begotten of his dream,
Adrian arose and followed where the stone
Yawned for his love, and there unseen by them
In the dark chauntry he beheld them lay
Her body in the grave with his own heart.
A bitter jest it seemed to him that they
Should all stand near and only he apart,
And through his soul a wind of anger swept
When any in the sad crowd chanced to be
Betwixt him and the woman he so wept,
And oftentimes he cursed them bitterly
That hands not his should touch her in the tomb,
Waiting till night and his revenge should come.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Related quotes
First Date
Whatever happened
To the teenage romance
Is it hidden in a tacky magazine
Everybodys talking
Saying trash is neat
You think its good fun
But its never that free
Who is the man of the moment
Does his image stand ten feet tall
Or is he just a cardboard hero
Staring down at you from your wall
You can dream but you cant touch
You can dream but not too much
You can dream but you cant touch
You can dream but not too much
Friday night
Out on the town
Its a special date
First time around
You read all about the story book romance
He stands there waiting
And you want to hold his hand
Saturday
Youre broken down
Your heart is lying somewhere
Is it lost or found
You can dream but you cant touch
You can dream but not too much
You can dream but you cant touch
If this is love its not enough
You can dream but you cant touch
You can dream but not too much
You can dream but you cant touch
You want a love that costs too much
You can dream but you cant touch
If this is love its not enough
You can dream of tender touch
Dont let your heart be lost to love
song performed by by Cliff Richard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Returned.... (Primitive)
my soul hath returned
to the beginnings of faith,
before written history,
before there were words.
when god walked naked in the darkness,
her long hair birthing leaves
on branches that wept.
the stones whispered praise,
the trees bowed in prayer!
the gutteral moan of the wind
haunts the walls of the cave.
i dream of fire,
both shaking and sweating with cold.
while god talks with the wolves,
the turtles, and the owls.
and sounds mimic night
making love with herself!
dawn calls from a faraway shore;
the waterfall hesitates,
as if in waiting!
unseen hands rub stick against stick,
till the spark of dreams ignites!
moan, groan, and the flap of wings...
and the only name be heartbeat!
i am stone, i am tree,
i am river, i am wind...
i am the sound of nothing,
and the face of the formless!
primitive, and naked,
i walk with god...
and nurse at the breasts of infinity!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The troops come on with bayonets fixed pushing the people to the mountain’s lip
In a dream I walk in the times gone by
On the western edge of a heartbreak shore
When sleep’s dark fears are howling ‘round
In the bitter bitter dark of a cold wet world
Near the edge of the cliff there’s an angry
crowd with hungry faces crowding around
’fear in their eyes when they hear the drum
In the bitter bitter dark of a cold wet world
The troops come on with bayonets fixed
Pushing the people to the mountain’s lip
A cry goes out as the first goes down
in the bitter bitter dark of a cold wet world
In my dream I walk in the times gone by
As close to the edge as my fears allow
in the air there's a prayer for pity and revenge
In the bitter bitter dark of a cold wet world
poem by Sean Joyce
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Gretna Green
Last night when I kissed you,
My soul caught alight;
And oh! how I missed you
The rest of the night -
Till Love in derision
Smote sleep with his wings,
And gave me in vision
Impossible things.
A night that was clouded,
Long windows asleep;
Dark avenues crowded
With secrets to keep.
A terrace, a lover,
A foot on the stair;
The waiting was over,
The lady was there.
What a flight, what a night!
The hoofs splashed and pounded.
Dark fainted in light
And the first bird-notes sounded.
You slept on my shoulder,
Shy night hid your face;
But dawn, bolder, colder,
Beheld our embrace.
Your lips of vermilion,
Your ravishing shape,
The flogging postillion,
The village agape,
The rattle and thunder
Of postchaise a-speed . . .
My woman, my wonder,
My ultimate need!
We two matched for mating
Came, handclasped, at last,
Where the blacksmith was waiting
To fetter us fast . . .
At the touch of the fetter
The dream snapped and fell -
And I woke to your letter
That bade me farewell.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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An Irish Mile
In my dream I walk in the times gone by
On the western edge of a heartbreak shore
Where sleep’s dark fears are howling ‘round
In the bitter bitter dark of a cold wet world
Near the edge of a cliff there’s an angry
crowd with hungry faces crowding around
’fear in their eyes when they hear the drum
In the bitter bitter dark of a cold wet world
The troops come on with bayonets fixed
Pushing the people to the mountain’s lip
A cry goes out as the first goes down
in the bitter bitter dark of a cold wet world
The troops move off in single file.
The Empire grows by an Irish mile.
A voice cries out from the rocks below in
the bitter bitter dark of a cold wet world
In my dream I walk in the times gone by
As close to the edge as my fears allow
in the air there's a prayer for pity and revenge
In the bitter bitter dark of a cold wet world
poem by Sean Joyce
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Look Back In Anger
You know who I am, he said
The speaker was an angel
He coughed and shook his crumpled wings
Closed his eyes and moved his lips
Its time we should be going
(waiting so long, Ive been waiting so, waiting so)
Look back in anger, driven by the night
Till you come
(waiting so long, Ive been waiting so, waiting so)
Look back in anger, see it in my eyes
Till you come
No one seemed to hear him
So he leafed through a magazine
And, yawning, rubbed the sleep away
Very sane he seemed to me
(waiting so long, Ive been waiting so, waiting so)
Look back in anger, driven by the night
Till you come
(waiting so long, Ive been waiting so, waiting so)
Look back in anger, feel it in my voice
Till you come
(waiting so long, ahhh...)
(waiting so long, Ive been waiting so, waiting so) (waiting so long, Ive been waiting so, waiting so)
(waiting so long, ahhh...)
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Future Of Hands
All winter
The trees held up their silent hives
As if they mattered.
But on one main street of bars and lights,
I watched a woman who had begged for days
Throw all the coins back, insulted,
Into the crowd,
And then each cheap stone on her necklace,
As if they were confetti
At a bitter wedding,
And then her stained blouse.
I smiled, then, at her dignity.
But when the night came
With only its usual stars to show,
She was applauded and spat on,
Or those passing stepped around her,
Avoiding her body
As if it had become private, or pure.
When the police arrived,
Sniveling about the cold day she had chosen
To strip,
Her face was a brown jewel,
And I knew the hands
Of the police would have to close now,
On this body abandoned to wind,
Just as her hands closed, finally,
On wind that would have nothing
To do with her,
And never had.
*
I know that wind
Had nothing to do with longing.
I have seen that, even in the eyes
Of girls across a lunch counter--
A desire to be anywhere that wasn't
Texas, and waiting on tables--
Their eyes making a pact
With the standing, staring wheat
About to be turned back into the black soil
That spreads everywhere when no one is watching.
And writing this,
I stare at my hands,
Which are the chroniclers of my death,
Which pull me into this paper
Each night, as onto a bed of silk sheets,
And the woman gone.
After two hours of work,
I do not know if there ever was a woman.
I watch the flies buzz at the sill.
*
Or, if I sleep,
I must choose between two dreams.
In one of them, my hands move calmly
Over a woman's waist, or lift
In speech the way birds rise or settle
Over a marsh, over nesting places.
In the other dream,
There are no nesting places,
The birds are white, and scavenging.
They lift negligently over the town in wind,
Like paper, like the death of paper.
They dip and rise
As if there had never been a heaven.
Beneath them, it is summer.
It is the same town I was born in.
And in its one bar
The man selling illegal human hair from Mexico,
The hair of brides mixed
With the hair of the dead,
Argues all day over the price.
poem by Larry Levis
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A Question
AND so in the death-darkened chamber they met,
The woman that once he had loved and the one he loved yet—
The wife who had warped his desire and the woman he could not forget.
They stood by the bier where between them he slept,
And the love he had lost in his wife to her swimming eyes leapt;
But the woman his life had belonged to—his paramour—spoke not nor wept.
It was only a story of sated desire—
Of a love merely sensual burnt to an ash by its fire,
And a husband who turned to a more luscious love that was his for the hire.
All had sinned. For the husband had killed by his clutch,
Rough-handed, the fruit of a love that had dropped at his touch.
One woman's great sin was not loving, his wife's was in loving too much.
And so he had died; it was over at last;
And across him the two women looked at each other aghast—
Across his cold corse, and across the cold corse of the loathsome dead Past!
Then the smouldering love of the wife leapt to flame,
And she poured forth her kisses upon him, and called on his name.
But the other said “No, he is nothing to you; soul and body I claim!”
They looked at each other awhile. Said the wife wearily,
“He is mine; for I loved him, and ever shall love him; let be!”
But the other sneered, “No, he is mine, and mine only, because he loved me!”
Then the two laid their hands on the body between;
And fought for it, wife against paramour, fiercely, unseen—
For the body diseased and polluted, as ever his spirit had been.
And this is a question for answer in Hell:
To which of the two did his spirit belong, can you tell?
Think, was it the woman he loved, or the one who had loved him too well?
poem by Arthur Henry Adams
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Praying Hands
I had a dream with my lord CHRIST
He touched my head, not once but twice.
I felt my body jump up in bed
I saw the nail holes in his hands that bled.
I felt the power of his healing hands
He showed it to me so I could understand.
With faith in our hearts he will heal
And his hands you will feel.
I awoke that morning with the spirit inside
Those praying hands I had to find.
I found a figurine of his hands
And put it upon my night stand.
In my prayers that I say day and night
I squeeze those hands with all my might.
Now when I feel life s pressures are getting me down
I touch those hands that I had found.
And when I feel an ailment or two
Then I know what I must do.
I touch those hands and say a prayer
This is the bond that we share.
There is no other feeling like the love of GOD
When you have him in your heart.
poem by Louis Rams
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The lost Key
the air tells the wind when to fly, the stone
hold the mountain to stop and the night call
the darkness to shine the star above beyond
the universe, as envy entangle the galaxy
hangs on the heaven best of creation
watered me the distance of your heart and
push the every cloud near to my wondering
soul; the beginning of where the roots of
fading courage as it lose every glorious
moment of the past joy and happiness you
give
ever change the time that you'll with me in a
dream of reality, back then and try again
waiting not the magic of a real friend, may be
this is the time that love wouldn't end and
maybe it is you who'll take my heart
as you fill my life tonight, glows of darkness
flows in a dawning dream of every dreams,
an awakening stream of lonely years from
whom you want to hold ever more in every
moment of time, till love never ends
key my day and hold my heart......waiting the
season of moment to come and carried me
in your arm of forgiveness
poem by Antonio Liao
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A heart chanced
A heart chanced
~
A heart chanced once more
After years of silent solitude
Met only silence in its asking
And wept into a quiet nothing
A pride and strength deflated
The hope which fed each word
Broken like the dream left behind
The memories of past heartbreak
Revoked in this new silence
A question asked, regretted
A belief chanced, lost
The simple words spoken
Honest and gently thought
Fall into a quiet silence
A solitude of reply
To the heart which fought
To believe and chance again
Sits sadly quietly weeping
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Hate
I had a bitter enemy,
His heart to hate he gave,
And when I died he swore that he
Would dance upon my grave;
That he would leap and laugh because
A livid corpse was I,
And that's the reason why I was
In no great haste to die.
And then - such is the quirk of fate,
One day with joy I read,
Despite his vitalizing hate
My enemy was dead.
Maybe the poison in his heart
Had helped to haste his doom:
He was not spared till I depart
To spit upon my tomb.
The other day I chanced to go
To where he lies alone.
'Tis easy to forgive a foe
When he is dead and gone. . . .
Poor devil! Now his day is done,
(Though bright it was and brave,)
Yet I am happy there is none
To dance upon my grave.
poem by Robert William Service
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At First. To Charlotte Cushman.
My crippled sense fares bow'd along
His uncompanioned way,
And wronged by death pays life with wrong
And I wake by night and dream by day.
And the Morning seems but fatigued Night
That hath wept his visage pale,
And the healthy mark 'twixt dark and light
In sickly sameness out doth fail.
And the woods stare strange, and the wind is dumb,
-- O Wind, pray talk again --
And the Hand of the Frost spreads stark and numb
As Death's on the deadened window-pane.
Still dumb, thou Wind, old voluble friend?
And the middle of the day is cold,
And the heart of eve beats lax i' the end
As a legend's climax poorly told.
Oh vain the up-straining of the hands
In the chamber late at night,
Oh vain the complainings, the hot demands,
The prayers for a sound, the tears for a sight.
No word from over the starry line,
No motion felt in the dark,
And never a day gives ever a sign
Or a dream sets seal with palpable mark.
And O my God, how slight it were,
How nothing, thou All! to thee,
That a kiss or a whisper might fall from her
Down by the way of Time to me:
Or some least grace of the body of love,
-- Mere wafture of floating-by,
Mere sense of unseen smiling above,
Mere hint sincere of a large blue eye,
Mere dim receipt of sad delight
From Nearness warm in the air,
What time with the passing of the night
She also passed, somehow, somewhere.
poem by Sidney Lanier
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Low in the Grave He Lay
Low in the grave He lay, Jesus my Savior,
Waiting the coming day, Jesus my Lord!
Up from the grave He arose,
With a mighty triumph over His foes,
He arose a Victor from the dark domain,
And He lives forever, with His saints to reign.
He arose! He arose!
Hallelujah! Christ arose!
Vainly they watch His bed, Jesus my Savior;
Vainly they seal the dead, Jesus my Lord!
Up from the grave He arose,
With a mighty triumph over His foes,
He arose a Victor from the dark domain,
And He lives forever, with His saints to reign.
He arose! He arose! Hallelujah! Christ arose!
Death cannot keep its Prey, Jesus my Savior;
He tore the bars away, Jesus my Lord!
Up from the grave He arose,
With a mighty triumph over His foes,
He arose a Victor from the dark domain,
And He lives forever, with His saints to reign.
He arose! He arose!
Hallelujah! Christ arose!
poem by Robert Wadsworth Lowry
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The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part III: Gods And False Gods: LXXII
FROM THE FRENCH OF ANVERS
My heart has its secret, my soul its mystery,
A love which is eternal begotten in a day.
The ill is long past healing. Why should I speak to--day?
For none have ears to hear, and, least of all, she.
Alas I shall have lived unseen tho' ever near,
For ever at her side, for ever too alone.
I shall have lived my life unknowing and unknown,
Asking naught, daring naught, receiving naught from her.
And she, whom Heaven made kind and chaste and fair,
Shall go undoubting on, the while upon her way
The murmur of my love shall fill the land,
Till, reading here perchance severe and unaware
These lines so full of her, she shall look up and say
``Who was this woman then?'' and shall not understand.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Woman at the Washtub
The Woman at the Washtub,
She works till fall of night;
With soap and suds and soda
Her hands are wrinkled white.
Her diamonds are the sparkles
The copper-fire supplies;
Her opals are the bubbles
That from the suds arise.
The Woman at the Washtub
Has lost the charm of youth;
Her hair is rough and homely,
Her figure is uncouth;
Her temper is like thunder,
With no one she agrees -
The children of the alley
They cling around her knees.
The Woman at the Washtub,
She too had her romance;
There was a time when lightly
Her feet flew in the dance.
Her feet were silver swallows,
Her lips were flowers of fire;
Then she was Bright and Early,
The Blossom of Desire.
0 Woman at the Washtub,
And do you ever dream
Of all your days gone by in
Your aureole of steam?
From birth till we are dying
You wash our sordid duds,
0 Woman of the Washtub!
0 Sister of the Suds!
One night I saw a vision
That filled my soul with dread,
I saw a Woman washing
The grave-clothes of the dead;
The dead were all the living,
And dry were lakes and meres,
The Woman at the Washtub
She washed them with her tears.
I saw a line with banners
Hung forth in proud array -
The banners of all battles
From Cam to judgment Day.
And they were stiff with slaughter
And blood, from hem to hem,
And they were red with glory,
And she was washing them.
'Who comes forth to the judgment,
And who will doubt my plan?'
'I come forth to the judgment
And for the Race of Man.
I rocked him in his cradle,
I washed him for his tomb,
I claim his soul and body,
And I will share his doom.'
poem by Victor James Daley
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She Chanced To Dream
on years,
on the dance of whispers.
where have we gone
when the merry pranksters
painted the soul
of a child to woman born
where dares she grow
from wood stock
she chanced to dream
but what did those
years, mean.
she thought they
would stay... forever.
but a child to woman grows
it’s all a body knows
and
it’s the stains
that paint
on one’s remains
as they ride the wind
sweet wind
and so,
still she rides
on tomorrow’s dreams
sweeter wind stitching
a wood stock witching
never...
and always free...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Look into her heart
Don’t look past her, look into her heart
Don’t deny this feeling, let it flow
Let this warmth soak into your heart
Let love be what it’s meant to be
Don’t look past her, look into her heart
You’ve been touched by a woman
And you know you cant resist her
She makes your senses spin
As you breathe her into you
This woman of heart and soul
Has this place you’ve searched for
Hungry and restless until she came
Her rhythmic responses to your touch
Her sighs and smiles make you a man
Don’t look past her, look into her heart
Don’t deny this feeling, let it flow
Let this warmth soak into your heart
Let love be what it’s meant to be
Don’t look past her, look into her heart
You’ve been loved by a woman
She gives herself to you
Her softness fills your heart
Gentle breathing next to you
As you caress her face, she is yours
You’ve not lived until you’ve met her
Uneasy heart now beating strong
Knowing a woman’s touch
Knowing her love, she is yours.
Don’t look past her, look into her heart
Don’t deny this feeling, let it flow
Let this warmth soak into your heart
Let love be what it’s meant to be
Don’t look past her, look into her heart
poem by Lisa Finney
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For Him
I love him that never loved me
till love turned to drifting wind in my dream.
I weep for him that never wept for me
till tears became cold snows in my dream.
I write a million words for him that lie -
till words were just a wasted dream...
written only to die.
I loved and failed... wept and fainted;
wrote and wasted; but I'll never die
for him that never lived for me.
poem by Jessel Jane Tevar
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Let Me Stand In The Rain
Let me walk down that cold blurry road;
feel the cold rain down my hair
the wind blowing twisting and turning
to avoid the cold rain
let me feel the cold rush through my body
let me avoid the hate; make them all drown
let the rain wash them away
let me stand in the rain
I'll stand up on top of the black pavement and hear the pounding of the rain
I'll cry and let the tears fall down with the rush of the rain
theres no need to hide in the dark
no need for an umbrella
theres no need for someone to say 'I hate you'
I'll just stay hidden in the rain like a dumb girl
I'll stand there till Romeo comes and save me
but I, the foolish one can only imagine the rubbish things a fantasy book would want
let me stand in the rain and protest my love to Romeo
it's not an obsession its a misunderstandment
like me foolishly standing in the rain, waiting for nothing
but drops of lies
not one or one night I will forget Romeo
He should be thoughtful I put some care and thought for him
but there I go imagining
Let me stand in the rain and pour my emotions
where no one can see, where no one can give sympathy but the truth
let me stand in the rain till I fall ill
wake me up when the sunshine has come and drops of light showing me honesty
and Romeo standing there waiting for me
let me stand in the rain so my imagination can go over the top of head
let me stand there till the numbness of my heart breaks away
Let me stand in the rain.............
poem by Alecia Nak
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