The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part I: To Manon: XIII
HE DARES NOT DIE
Four hours by the clock! How strange it is! Four hours
Since love and life, the future and the past,
Died with the shutting of these silent doors,
And thought became to me one purpose vast.
I have not moved from where she sat. The cast
Of her fingers on this cushion lightly scores
Its surface still; and still I hear the last
Tones of her laughter, and here lie her flowers.
Poor flowers! The ugliness of grief has wrought
Your change already. No besotted bloom
Of a false dawn has lured you to base life.
You at the pinch were brave and trifled not,
Going ungrudging to our common doom.
And I? Ah God! I have not faced the knife!
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Village
When a new life turns towards you
And the night becomes a bay
We shall remain forever
Everyone who meets his way
Oh, our love is like the flowers
The rain and the sea and the hours
Oh, our love is like the flowers
The rain and the sea and the hours
When the rain falls to the sea
Theyll be waiting for you and for me
And the sky reflects our image
Trying to sleep right through our lives
Oh, our love is like the earth
The sun and the trees and the birth
Oh, our love is like the earth
The sun and the trees and the birth
I am still here two days later
Same place, same time
And Im stuck here two years too long
Same place, the wrong time
Oh, our love is like the flowers
The rain and the sea and the hours
Oh, our love is like the flowers
The sun and the sea and the hours
Their love died three years ago
Spoken words I cannot show
song performed by by New Order
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cut Flowers
If you love me - please never bring me cut flowers
Because I know that they will die soon after a few hours
I would feel that whatever the flowers represent
Would be equal to the time we have left to spend
Straight stems, soft petals and a lush green leaf
The hours and minutes are numbered - you better believe
Picking a flower is like a sure sentence to death
Like taking a fish out of water watching his last breath
Cut down their life brutally shortened with a sharp knife
All hope diminished knowing that they will not survive
Sure the flowers may get nourishment from the water in the vase
But their life is over as they know it in just a few days
So do not buy any cut flowers for me pretty please
I rather watch them outside visited by many bees
It is so beautiful to see them sway softly outside
And so sad to see them slowly die and lose their pride
© 2011
poem by Kristina Louisa Carr
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Flowers
(orbison/dees)
When I was a boy I ran among the flowers
Looking left and right at the bright array
I played through the spring, whiled away the hours
Lingered with the flowers every day
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, lifes bouquet
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, along the way
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, lifes bouquet
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, along the way
When the summer ends and the storms of life are over
When the winter comes and the petals fall away
They may write it on my stone, he was just a roller
But he stopped to pick some flowers along the way
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, lifes bouquet
Flowers, picked some flowers, along the way
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Not With These Eyes
Let me not see your grief!
O, let not any see
That grief,
Nor how your heart still rocks
Like a temple with long earthquake shocks.
Let me not see
Your grief.
These eyes have seen such wrong,
Yet remained cold:
Ills grown strong,
Corruption's many-headed worm
Destroying feet that moved so firm--
Shall these eyes see
Your grief?
And that black worm has crawled
Into the brain
Where thought had walked
Nobly, and love and honour moved as one,
And brave things bravely were begun....
Now, can thought see
Unabashed your grief?
Into that brain your grief
Has run like cleansing fire:
Your grief
Through these unfaithful eyes has leapt
And touched honour where it lightly slept.
Now when I see
In memory your grief
There is no thought that's not
Yours, yours,
No love that sleeps,
No spiritual door that opens not
In the green quiet village of thought
Shining with light,
And silent to your silence.
poem by John Freeman
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To A *****
My own Annette! my own Annette!
How often turn my thoughts to thee,
And those sweet hours when erst we met,
And shared our thoughts in converse free!
Around me the soft moonshine pours
A quiet flood of silver light;
And thus o'er memory's hoarded stores,
The star of thought is gleaming bright.
Yet, though long years have glided past,
Since last thy hand was clasp'd in mine,
The chain that friendship o'er us cast,
Hath felt no link of love untwine.
And we may meet in other hours,
And love where we have loved, again;
And talk of all the early flowers
We gather'd on life's by-past plain.
But there are stronger ties than ours,
Remorseless rent by cruel hands;
Torn hearts, o'er which no future hours
Shall fling again the sever'd bands.
Oh! let us weep with those who weep,
Beneath oppression's crushing hand;
And in our thoughts their anguish keep
Who till in tears our guilty land.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Baby's Birthday
G.T.A.
BEFORE your life that is to come,
Love stands with eager eyes, that vainly
Seek to discern what gift may fit
The slow unfolding years of it;
And still Time's lips are sealed and dumb,
And still Love sees no future plainly.
We cannot guess what flowers will spring
Best in your garden, bloom most brightly;
But some fair flowers in any plot
Will spring and grow, and wither not;
And such wish-flowers we gladly bring,
And in that small hand lay them lightly.
Baby, we wish that those dear eyes
May see fulfilment of our dreaming,
Those little feet may turn from wrong,
Those hands to hold the right be strong,
That heart be pure, that mind be wise
To know the true from the true-seeming.
We wish that all your life may be
A life of selfless brave endeavour--
That for reward the fates allow
Such love as lines your soft nest now
To warm the years for you, when we,
Who wish you this, are cold for ever.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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To a Nurse
As dropping moisture on December flowers,
As sunlight breaking o'er the August plain,
As shines the Virgin on the midnight hours,
So is thy presence at the bed of pain;
5And as the flowers revive to bloom more fair,
And o'er the plain the wattles burst in fire,
And midnight hours to morn at last repair,
So hope and life thy minist'rings inspire;
9And though for me there's but the life and hope
That lie abundant past the gates of Death,
Yet thither as with feeble steps I grope
Thy friendly arm assists my failing breath;
Nor will I deem of Providence the worse
Who sent me pain to send me thee for nurse.
poem by William Gay
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A Question (to Fausta)
Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows
Like the wave;
Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of men.
Love lends life a little grace,
A few sad smiles; and then,
Both are laid in one cold place,
In the grave.
Dreams dawn and fly, friends smile and die
Like spring flowers;
Our vaunted life in one long funeral.
Men dig graves with bitter tears
For their dead hopes; and all,
Mazed with doubts and sick with fears,
Count the hours.
We count the hours! These dreams of ours,
False and hollow,
Do we go hence and find they are not dead?
Joys we dimly apprehend,
Faces that smiled and fled,
Hopes born here, and born to end,
Shall we follow?
poem by Matthew Arnold (1849)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Garland
The pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet and lily fair,
The dappled pink and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Cloe's hair.
At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place
Upon her brow the various wreath;
The flowers less blooming than her face,
The scent less fragrant than her breath.
The flowers she wore along the day,
And every nymph and shepherd said,
That in her hair they look'd more gay
Than glowing in their native bed.
Undress'd at evening, when she found
Their odours lost, their colours past,
She changed her look, and on the ground
Her garland and her eyes she cast.
That eye dropp'd sense distinct and clear
As any Muse's tongue could speak,
When from its lid a pearly tear
Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.
Dissembling what I knew too well,
My love, my life, said I, explain
This change of humour; pr'ythee tell,
That falling tear - what does it mean?
She sigh'd, she smiled; and to the flowers
Pointing, the lovely moralist said,
See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,
See yonder what a change is made.
Ah me! the blooming pride of May
And that of Beauty are but one;
At morn both flourish bright and gay,
Both fade at evening, pale, and gone.
At dawn poor Stella danced and sung,
The amorous youth around her bow'd;
At night her fatal knell was rung;
I saw and kiss'd her in her shroud.
Such as she is who died to-day,
Such I, alas! may be to-morrow;
Go, Damon, bid thy Muse display
The justice of thy Cloe's sorrow.
poem by Matthew Prior
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At the gathering of the flowers
At the gathering of the flowers
Someone waits with the rising sun
There in the wee small hours
That is where love has begun
And there with the angels above
At the gathering of the flowers
To her I do profess my love
With her I will spend all my remaining hours
Where love empowers
Is where I will meet my love
At the gathering of the flowers
With desires undreamt of
Winter winds howl about my face
But the cold shall forever cower
From your warm embrace
At the gathering of the flowers
© JPM 7/18/08
Symbolic Spring
Spring is like birth.
You finally come onto the Earth.
You bloom and grow like flowers.
As birth can go on for hours.
The color of you is red.
Like the roses in a rose bed.
Your first breath is a scream of doom.
Not everything has hit full bloom.
poem by Sammi Schneider
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Love Not
LOVE not, love not! ye hapless sons of clay!
Hope’s gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers—
Things that are made to fade and fall away
Ere they have blossom’d for a few short hours.
Love not!
Love not! the thing ye love may change:
The rosy lip may cease to smile on you,
The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange,
The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true.
Love not!
Love not! the thing you love may die,
May perish from the gay and gladsome earth;
The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky,
Beam o’er its grave, as once upon its birth.
Love not!
Love not! oh warning vainly said
In present hours as in the years gone by;
Love flings a halo round the dear ones’ head,
Faultless, immortal, till they change or die,
Love not!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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All That You Are To Me...
You are my laughter, my joy,
my reason for being. You are my hope,
my warmth, on a cold winters night, and
the flowers that bloom in my heart.
You are my friend, my love...my life.
You are the liquid of life under a deserts
sun; my port in a storm and without you
there is but a barren wasteland of
nothingness, where laughter has died
and darkness and bitter howling winds are forever.
Time to Lose.
She was there
in the church
arranging the flowers
at the altar end
where her mother said
she'd be when you knock
at the parsonage door
some moments back
and you entered
through the old oak door
into the silence
and smell of age and flowers
seeing her
in her summer dress
unaware you stood there
her hands touching
flowers in vases
moving them into place
an intenseness
on her face
you moved slowly
down the aisle
not wanting to disturb
or cause alarm
then Jane turned
and smiled and said
I've nearly done
and tapped the flowers
in the final place
Where shall we go?
You moved closer
to where she stood
and said
To Heaven
if we're good
they say
she shook her head
and said
I meant where
about outside?
Wherever you like
you replied
studying her hands
as she wiped them
on her summer dress
how the fingers lay
how some god
brought them
to such beauty
and her eyes
and hair
and her
just standing there
enough
you mused inside
not out
to bring one to a faith
of some creative god
and she said
Why do you stare?
What holds you
rooted there?
Let's go climb
the Downs and look across
the vast expanse
of fields and trees
and birds in air
just you and me
and this love
just being there
Oh how romantic a mood
holds you today
she said and put her arm
through yours
and moved you on
and down the aisle
between the pews
unaware as youth
too often does
of hours passing
and having time to lose.
poem by Terry Collett
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Change
Changed? Yes, I will confess it – I have changed.
I do not love you in the old fond way.
I am your friend still – time has not estranged
One kindly feeling of that vanished day.
But the bright glamour which made life a dream,
The rapture of that time, its sweet content,
Like visions of a sleeper’s brain they seem –
And yet I cannot tell you how they went.
Why do you gaze with such accusing eyes
Upon me, dear? It is so very strange
That hearts, like all things underneath God’s skies,
Should sometimes feel the influence of change?
The birds, the flowers, the foliage of the trees,
The stars which seem so fixed, and so sublime,
Vast continents, and the eternal seas, -
All these do change, with ever-changing time.
The face our mirror shows us year on year
Is not the same; our dearest aim, or need,
Our lightest thought, or feeling hope, or fear,
All, all the law of alternation heed.
How can we ask the human heart to stay,
Content with fancies of Youth’s earliest hours?
The year outgrows the violets of May,
Although, maybe, there are no fairer flowers.
And life may hold no sweeter love than this,
Which lies so cold, so voiceless, and so dumb,
And will I miss it, dear? Why, yes, we miss
The violets always – till the roses come!
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The impatient hours
The impatient hours
~
The drumming of fingers
The ticking of the clock
Loudly fill the impatient hours
Wasteful in their emptiness
Surely there must be something better
But the wait continues anyway
Waiting on a promise to come good
Hoping its not like past promises
Which all became just lies
Paranoia stalks the mind
Reminding of the past disappointments
Why should this one be any different
Why wait in stale confines
When you could leave, walk away
Forget the promise in an instant
The drumming of fingers
The ticking of the clock
Grow ever louder
Counting each possible outcome
The promise bares fruit
Or becomes another lie
Still waiting on the realisation
In the impatient hours
Wasting the day into nothing
poem by Matthew Holloway
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I Will Buy You A New Life
Here is the money that I owe you
Yes so you can pay the bills
I will give you more
When I get paid again
I hate those people who love to tell you
Money is the root of all that kills
They have never been poor
They have never had the joy of
a welfare Christmas
(yeah) I know we will never look back (yeah)
You say you wake up crying
Yes and you don't know why
You get up and you go lay down inside
My baby's room
Yeah I guess I'm doing okay
I moved in with the strangest guy
Do you believe he actually
Thinks that I am really alive?
I will buy you a garden
Where your flowers can bloom
I will buy you a new car
Perfect shiny and new
I will buy you that big house
Way up in the west hills
I will buy you a new life
(yes I will)
I know all about that other guy
The handsome with athletic thighs
I know about all the times before
with that obsessive little rich boy
They might make you think you're happy
Yeah maybe for a minute or two
They can't make you laugh
No they can't make you feel
The way that I do
I will buy you a garden
Where your flowers can bloom
I will buy you a new car
Perfect shiny and new
I will buy you that big house
Way up in the west hills
I will buy you a new life
I know we can never look back
Will you please let me stay the night
No one will ever know
I will buy you a garden
Where your flowers can bloom
I will buy you a new car
Perfect shiny and new
I will buy you that big house
Way up in the west hills
I will buy you a new life
I will buy you a new life
song performed by by Everclear
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mommio
When I was a child, you showed me a meadow of flowers.
You told me their names and we stayed there for hours.
Buttercups glistened as they drank the sun’s rays
Amongst bluebells that glowed in their majestic ways.
I played in the meadow, but loved holding your hand.
You taught me about life and helped me understand
That love, like these flowers, though silent, can voice
A splendiferous message when it’s my choice,
To express love with actions like forgive and forget;
To greet all with a smile and be glad that we’ve met;
To lead a colorful, bountiful life and have fun,
Praising the heavens as do flowers the sun.
This selfless love that you’ve forever shown me
Has opened my eyes so that I’ll always see
The softness that buttercups and bluebells display
With their colors and scents that can lighten life’s way.
Thank you, dearest mother, for your hand from the start.
Though flowers will fade, your love lives deep in my heart.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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To Mommio
When I was a child, you showed me a meadow of flowers.
You told me their names and we stayed there for hours.
Buttercups glistened as they drank the sun’s rays
Amongst bluebells that glowed in their majestic ways.
I played in the meadow, but loved holding your hand.
You taught me about life and helped me understand
That love, like these flowers, though silent, can voice
A splendiferous message when it’s my choice,
To express love with actions like forgive and forget;
To greet all with a smile and be glad that we’ve met;
To lead a colorful, bountiful life and have fun,
Praising the heavens as do flowers the sun.
This selfless love that you’ve forever shown me
Has opened my eyes so that I’ll always see
The softness that buttercups and bluebells display
With their colors and scents that can lighten life’s way.
Thank you, dearest mother, for your hand from the start.
Though flowers will fade, your love lives deep in my heart.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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Dearest Mother
When I was a child, you showed me a meadow of flowers.
You told me their names and we stayed there for hours.
Buttercups glistened as they drank the sun's rays
Amongst bluebells that glowed in their majestic ways.
I played in the meadow, but loved holding your hand.
You taught me about life and helped me understand
That love, like these flowers, though silent, can voice
A splendiferous message when it's my choice,
To express love with actions like forgive and forget;
To greet all with a smile and be glad that we've met;
To lead a colorful, bountiful life and have fun,
Praising the heavens as do flowers the sun.
This selfless love that you've forever shown me
Has opened my eyes so that I'll always see
The softness that buttercups and bluebells display
With their colors and scents that can lighten life's way.
Thank you, dearest mother, for your hand from the start.
Though flowers will fade, your love lives deep in my heart.
poem by Gregory Huyette
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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