The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part II: To Juliet: XLVIII
THE SAME CONTINUED
I think there never was a dearer woman,
A better, kinder, truer than you were,
A gentler spirit more divinely human
Than yours with your sweet melancholy air
Of tender gaiety, which seemed like care,
And in your voice a sob as of distress
At the world's ways, its sin and its despair,
Being yourself all strange to wickedness.
Now you are neither gentle, kind, nor good,
And you have sorrows of your own to grieve,
And in your mirth compassion has no mood;
You wear no more your heart upon your sleeve,
And if your voice still sobs 'tis with a sense
Of sorrow's power, grief's wealth, experience.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Shall I Wasting in Despair
Shall I wasting in despair
Die because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flow'ry meads in May,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?
Shall my heart be griev'd or pin'd
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle dove or pelican,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deserving known
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of best
If she be not such to me,
What care I, how good she be?
'Cause her fortune seems too high
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would
That without them dare to woo;
And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?
Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;
For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?
poem by George Wither
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Song II
Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die, because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flow'ry meads in May;
If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be.
Should my heart be grieved or pined
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposèd nature
Joinèd with a lovely creature?
Be she meeker, kinder than
Turtle-dove or pelican:
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be.
Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or, her well-deserving known,
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of best
If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be.
'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want or riches find,
Think what with them they would do
That without them dare to woo.
And unless that mind I see,
What care I though great she be.
Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve.
If she slight me, when I woo,
I can scorn, and let her go.
For, if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be.
poem by George Wither
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The Manly Heart
Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Or my cheeks make pale with care
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day
Or the flowery meads in May --
If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?
Shall my foolish heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind;
Or a well dispos-ed nature
Join-ed with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove or pelican,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her merit's value known
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of Best;
If she seem not such to me,
What care I how good she be?
'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do
Who without them dare to woo;
And unless that mind I see,
What care I though great she be?
Great or good, or kind or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;
For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?
poem by George Wither
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The Lover's Resolution
SHALL I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman 's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flow'ry meads in May,
If she think not well of me,
What care I how fair she be?
Shall my silly heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove or pelican,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deservings known
Make me quite forget my own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may merit name of Best,
If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be?
'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
She that bears a noble mind,
If not outward helps she find,
Thinks what with them he would do
That without them dares her woo;
And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?
Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;
For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?
poem by George Wither
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The Essence of a Woman
The world says
It is difficult
To understand a woman
Because she is so full of contradiction
The world says a woman is full of
Vanity, jealousy, greed and ego,
Her mind full of insatiable desires
for wealth, luxury and lavish lifestyles
The woman charms and makes you swoon;
she has the skills and tricks
to lure, seduce, attack and conquer
to make or break homes and nations.
But I believe that a woman
Is a reservoir of love,
Overflowing with compassion, caring and giving;
For my mother, sister, friend and wife
Are the women who have enriched my life!
With a heart full of sweetness,
A voice soothing and delicate
A woman makes our troubles melt
With just her full, genuine smile.
Giving till it hurts is what women do,
Only to [be] hurt and accused
Of ulterior motives and wrong intentions.
The Kindness and tender feelings
That only a woman can give
usually go unrecognized.
I wish the world were kinder
To the kindest souls of creation!
poem by Srinidhi Lakhanigam
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Melancholy Mood
A little collie weed to ease I grief
too much agony living in the limits of big city
a little collie weed to meditate
too much insanity in this society
melancholy mood I eat for my food melancholy mood
rise this morning smile with the sun
oh I'm blessed another day has begun
everything in life has its purpose
find its reason it has its season
melancholy mood I eat for my food melancholy mood
tears leave my eyes I just want to fly
deep down I feel pain
but I know I must rise again
from this melancholy mood melancholy mood
melancholy mood I eat for my food melancholy mood
song performed by by Ziggy Marley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Real And The Ideal
I feel I have - and who has not?
An inner and outer life:
The one may be a dreary lot,
With sorrow and with suff'ring rife;
While in the other may be found
A magic world of fancies fair,
Where brightest dreams of joy abound,
And never enters dark despair.
The life I live may seem to those
Who gaze upon it outwardly
A drear existence, full of woes
And never-ceasing misery;
But in the mystic life of mind,
Abstracted from earth's things of sense,
Oblivious to my grief, I find
A joy exalted and intense.
My outward life is prison-gloomed,
My life of dreams is fancy free;
The one is ever care-consumed,
The other tranquil as can be.
Existence that is sternly real
As mine would crush the heart with grief,
Were it not that the bright ideal
With visioned joy imparts relief.
There's not a joy the world can give,
There's not a bliss the heart has known,
But in the spirit life I live
I have the power to make my own.
I care not what my actual lot
While thus sustained my soul can be;
My sorrows shall be all forgot
In fairest dreams of poesy.
poem by Owen Suffolk
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A New Year's Morning Song
Thanksgiving and the voice of melody,
This new year's morning, call me from my sleep;
A new, sweet song is in my heart for Thee,
Thou faithful, tender Shepherd of the sheep;
Thou knowest where to find, and how to keep
The feeble feet that tremble where they stray, —
O'er the dark mountains — through the whelming deep —
Thy everlasting mercy makes its way.
The past is not so dark as once it seemed,
For there Thy footprints, now distinct, I see;
And seed in weakness sown, from death redeemed,
Is springing up, and bearing fruit in Thee.
Not all that hath been, Lord, henceforth shall be;
A low, sweet, cheering strain is in mine ear,
Thanksgiving, and the voice of melody,
Are leading in, from Heaven, a blest new year.
With voice subdued, my listening spirit sings,
As backward on the trodden path I gaze,
While ministering angels fold their wings,
To fill with lowly thoughts my song of praise.
The shadow of the past on future days,
Will make them clear to my instructed sight;
For the heart's knowledge of Thy sacred ways,
Even in its deepest, darkest shades, is light.
I am not stronger — yet I do not fear
The present pain, the conflict yet to be;
Experience is a kind voice in mine ear,
And all my failures bid me lean on Thee.
No future suffering can seem strange to me,
While in the hidden part I feel and know
The wisdom of a child at rest and free
In the tried love, whose judgment keeps him low.
Thanksgiving and the voice of melody!
O, to my tranquil heart how sweet the strain!
Father of mercies, it arose in Thee,
And to Thy bosom it returns again.
There let my grateful song, my soul, remain,
Calm in the risen Savior's tender care;
And welcome any trial, any pain,
That serves to keep thy faithful children there.
Thoughts of Thy love — and O, how great the sum!
Enduring grief, obtaining bliss for me;
The world, life, death, things present, things to come,
All swell a new year's opening melody.
Past, present, future, all things worship Thee;
And I, through all, with trembling joy behold,
While mountains fall, and treacherous visions flee,
Thy wandering sheep returning to the fold.
poem by Anna Laetitia Waring
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Women’s Era Vavroovahana Patra
Woman and man’s is love is natural on Earth;
With all creatures it is endowed with mirth.
Wife’s love is perennial, certified by the society;
With Wife’s true love husband derives gaiety.
Wonderers’ is woman’s beauty;
Wonderful is her gait with gaiety.
Woman allures man in various way;
With profound love entices, embraces with gay.
Woman and man are endowed with Divine Bliss;
Wise woman serves the society with good wish.
Woman and man’s love begins from Adam Era on Earth;
Wife enjoys with a polite husband with mirth.
Weary husband is tranquilised by lovely wife day and night;
Warmth of encouragement shows us the light path with delight.
Wealthy woman is optimistic on Earth;
Way to peace is the prosperity of woman, provides mirth.
World smiles with woman’s chastity;
Worshipping God the couple live with gaiety.
Woman’s life dazzles being singer, film star;
Woman smiles being a popular writer.
poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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Age Old Celebration!
Let it be certain:
these excesses and inequities
the avarice and immorality
perceived atop the surface
none have tarnished a single living soul.
Virtue charity
the unshakeable core of compassion and good will – these
reflections of the soul stand apart from the ills of the age.
I see no woman man or child
in any caste corner ranking or employment
who does not have access to this living fortune.
The wealth of human inheritance is widely
available to all!
Never in any instance is there a single being
ill equipped to recognize truth!
Every last pairing of ears and eyes,
whether deaf or blind,
remains receptive to the Divine Ideal.
And dare I say:
never has there been a more exciting time to live!
Never has the future been so open!
Never have the possibilities of man been so limitless!
Every man his own Authority!
Every woman her own master!
Every child the purveyor of their own dream!
The rights of the people endowed to all corporations!
And to every person the immutable voice,
omnipotent power of God!
For we are not as far gone
as even we ourselves
would like to believe
we've entrenched our sense of self
our joys
our life's worth
our sense of progress
into industry material goods and wealth
Through trial and error we've reached realization!
To learn the errant ways
we ourselves had to become the errors
Yet through it all
the errors have always remained
apart from our true selves.
poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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Sonnet: God Knows
God knows my silent tears I shed so oft,
In solitude and secrecy of heart;
God knows my sorrows, grief and feelings soft,
And time to redress them, ’fore I depart.
God knows my trials, tribulations great,
Those pose a threat to harmony and peace;
God knows the seasons when such things abate,
And fosters will-power to keep my ease.
God knows what’s good and best for me always,
And watches me with tender love and care;
God knows what heights I climb in mundane ways,
And sufferings and strife, my heart can bear.
God knows my iniquities, sins I do,
And fills my soul with grace and spirit too!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 3-1-2006
poem by John Celes
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To a Maniac
There was a time, poor phrensied maid,
When I could o'er thy grief have mourned,
And still with tears the tale repaid
Of sense by sorrow's sway o'erturned.
But now thy state my envy moves:
For thou art woe's unconscious prize;
Thy heart no sense of suffering proves,
No fruitless tears bedew thine eyes.
Excess of sorrow, kind to thee,
At once destroyed thy reason's power;
But reason still remains to me,
And only bids me grieve the more.
poem by Amelia Opie
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Song written At Mr. Thomson’s Request
AS A KIND OF INTRODUCTION
TO HIS IRISH MELODIES.
SWEET power of song! that canst impart
To lowland swain or mountaineer
A gladness thrilling through the heart,
A joy so tender and so dear!
Sweet power! that on a foreign strand
Canst the rough soldier's bosom move
With feelings of his native land,
As gentle as an infant's love!
Sweet power! that makest youthful heads,
With thistle, leek or shamrock crowned,
Nod proudly as the carol sheds
Its spirit through the social round!
Sweet power! that cheerest the daily toil
Of cottage maid or beldame poor,
The ploughman on the furrowed soil,
Or herd-boy on the lonely moor:
Or he by bards the Shepherd hight,
Who mourns his maiden's broken tie,
Till the sweet plaint, in woe's despite,
Hath made a bliss of agony:
Sweet power of song! thanks flow to thee
From every kind and gentle breast!
Let Erin's--Cambria's minstrels be
With Burns's tuneful spirit blest!
poem by Joanna Baillie
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Sorrow Makes One A Hero Tomorrow
Without sorrow life is zero
We must accept fate's arrow
If our efforts are thorough
Our sorrow, God will borrow
Sorrows nicely shape our mind
Sorrows stop our being blind
Via sorrows, remedies we find
Sorrows are indirectly kind
In the absence of sorrow
Our mind does not grow
We think not like a hero
Our attitude is made narrow
Sorrows must be overcome
For which efforts we welcome
At last strong we become
This is sorrows' outcome
Our will-power, sorrows increase
To our heart, sorrows supply grease
Our talents, only sorrows release
In a gist, sorrows supply peace
Every sorrow at last dies
Not because of our cries
But because our soul tries
Life and success, sorrow ties
Sorrow less person is none
Sorrow is sure, if life has begun
'Sorrow trains brains' is a slogan
Sorrow is a tamable dragon
In sorrow, all must dip
By coming under its grip
All are lashed by sorrow's whip
To every life, sorrow makes a trip
Now sorrow will somehow vanish
But you cannot fully relinquish
Further sorrows, time will furnish
From life, sorrow, none can banish
Life and sorrow are closely associated
By life, sorrow is very much fascinated
By sorrow, peace is initially confiscated
Sorrow grows when life is sophisticated.
poem by Mailrangam Visvanathan Venkataraman
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Mater Christianorum, Ora Pro Nobis
In the hour of grief and sorrow,
When my heart is full of care,
Seeking sadly hope to borrow
From heaven’s promises and prayer;
When around me roll the waters
Of affliction’s stormy sea,
Mary, gentle Queen of Mercy,
In that hour, oh! pray for me!
When life’s pulses high are bounding
With the tide of earthly joy,
And when in mine ears are sounding
Strains of mirth without alloy;
When the whirl of giddy pleasure
Leaves no thought or feeling free,
And I slight my heavenly treasure,
Watchful Mother, pray for me!
When the soft voice of Temptation
Lures my listening soul to sin,
And, with baleful fascination,
Strives my vain, weak heart to win;
With the combat faint and weary,
If I call not then on thee—
In that time of peril dreary,
Tender Mother, pray for me!
If, in some unguarded hour
Of dark passion or of pride,
Evil thoughts, with serpent power
To my inmost bosom glide—
Ah! while I from bonds unholy,
Vainly seek myself to free—
Mary, pure and meek and lowly,
Pray, oh! Mary, pray for me!
When with Heaven high communing
In the solemn hour of prayer—
To its strains my soul attuning,
I forget all worldly care;
When earth’s voices for a season
My vex’d spirit have left free—
Still, dear Mother, near me hover!
Still, sweet Mary, pray for me!
And in that supremest hour,
When life’s end is drawing nigh—
When earth’s scenes and pomps and power
Fade before my tear-dimmed eye—
When I on the shore am lying
Of eternity’s wide sea—
Then, O Refuge of the dying,
Tender Mother, pray for me!
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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The Soldier’s Death
The day was o’er, and in their tent the weaned victors met,
In wine and social gaiety the carnage to forget.
The merry laugh and sparkling jest, the pleasant tale were there—
Each heart was free and gladsome then, each brow devoid of care.
Yet one was absent from the board who ever was the first
In every joyous, festive scene, in every mirthful burst;
He also was the first to dare each perilous command,
To rush on danger—yet was he the youngest of the band.
Upon the battle-field he lay a damp and fearful grave;
His right hand grasped the cherished flag—the flag he died to save;
While the cold stars shone calmly down on heaps of fallen dead,
And their pale light a halo cast round that fair sleeper’s head.
Say, was there none o’er that young chief to shed one single tear,
To sorrow o’er the end of his untimely stopt career?
Yes, but alas! the boundless sea its foam and crested wave,
Lay then between those beings dear and his cold, cheerless grave.
With all a mother’s doting love a mother yearned for him,
And watching for his quick return, a sister’s eye grew dim,
And, dearer still, a gentle girl, his fair affianced bride,—
And yet, with all these loving ones, unfriended, had he died.
No woman’s low, sweet voice was near one soothing word to say
Or gentle hand from his cold brow to wipe the damps away;
But yet why should we grieve for him, that hero gallant, brave?
His was a soldier’s glorious death, a soldier’s glorious grave!
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part II: To Juliet: XLII
THE SAME CONTINUED
We vex each other with our presence, I
By my regrets and by my mocking face,
You by your laughter and mad gaiety,
And both by cruel thoughts of happier days.
Is then the world so narrow that we pace
These streets like prisoners still with eyes askance,
As bound together in the fell embrace
Of a dark chain which bars deliverance?
Nay, go your ways. I will not vex you more.
Make your own terms with life, while you are fair.
There is none better learned in woman's lore.
You yet may take revenge on grief and care,
And 'twas your nature ever to be gay,
Why should I scoff? Be merry while you may.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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This Strange Voice
This strange voice,
Who is the one calling?
For the voice was like someone in distress!
Who could that be?
For it was at 4: 45 P.M. on the 27th of May 2010.
This strange voice,
Who could that be?
Maybe i will know about it later;
But this person needs my help.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Voices
Voice speaks every words.
Voice is within.
Give me voice.
I will give you words.
Voices of sorrows.
Makes me something to borrow.
Don't know what to borrow.
Voice has incredible powers.
The power to change.
Which will make common sense.
poem by Yash Pradhan
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Do You Have A Voice?
A light flashes through the dark night sky
The following sound seems to shake your world
The event and the following moment
Fills you with awe
And you still think you have a voice?
The sun
Never failing to rise and set
The sea
Continuously tumbling in its rage
The earth
Human habitat through the ages
And you still think you have a voice?
We pamper the vehicle of living
Feeding yearnings that should be starved
We forget of a certainty
The vehicle of living
Will soon nourish the soil
And nourish maggots and worms
The Power of Love
Greater than the forces of nature
it orders the steps of nature
A million human-made lights
Would never change the day to night
A million human-made heaters
Would never change winter to summer
Do you still think you have a voice?
Humans have one certain end
We strengthen our arms against inconvenience
We gain wealth
We seize wealth
We gain power, love, and admiration
We seize power
We seem immortal
It's the same end
The truth takes the day
God is love
Love is of God
It's a power that weakens our strength
Ever wonders what it does to our weakness?
Why do you think you have a voice?
www.myspace.com/feyisayoanjorin
poem by Feyisayo Anjorin
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