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The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part II: To Juliet: XXXIV

THE SAME CONTINUED
Yes, Spring is come, but joy alas is gone,--
Gone ere we knew it, while our foolish eyes,
Which should have watched its motions every one
Were looking elsewhere, at the hills, the skies,
Chasing vain thoughts, as children butterflies,
Until the hour struck and the day was done,
And we looked up in passionate surprise
To find that clouds had blotted out our sun.
Our joys are gone. And what is left to us,
Who loved not even love when it was here?
What but a voice which sobs monotonous
As these sad waves upon the rocks, the dear
Fond voice which once made music with our own,
And which our hearts now ache to think upon.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Heartbreak-2

Silvery rays from the sky
will have no meaning now
never same will be the dawn.
Waves shirk to embrace beach.
Day sobs, night weeps.
Breeze no longer rustles the leaves.
Flowers robbed of their magic.
Fragrance no more validating their love.
Cuckoo loses her voice and
wait becomes redundant for dusky eyes.
Heart is drained of emotions.
Mind in the process of evaluation.
Body limited to the motions,
as some one dearest
to the heart, mind and soul
first loved, then left
never to return.

poem by Tribhawan Kaul
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Recollections Of Love

I

How warm this woodland wild Recess !
Love surely hath been breathing here ;
And this sweet bed of heath, my dear !
Swells up, then sinks with faint caress,
As if to have you yet more near.

II

Eight springs have flown, since last I lay
On sea-ward Quantock's heathy hills,
Where quiet sounds from hidden rills
Float hear and there, like things astray,
And high o'er head the sky-lark shrills.

III

No voice as yet had made the air
Be music with your name ; yet why
That asking look ? that yearning sigh ?
That sense of promise every where ?
Belovéd ! flew your spirit by ?

IV

As when a mother doth explore
The rose-mark on her long-lost child,
I met, I loved you, maiden mild !
As whom I long had loved before--
So deeply had I been beguiled.

V

You stood before me like a thought,
A dream remembered in a dream.
But when those meek eyes first did seem
To tell me, Love within you wrought--
O Greta, dear domestic stream !

VI

Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep,
Has not Love's whisper evermore
Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar ?
Sole voice, when other voices sleep,
Dear under-song in clamor's hour.

poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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When It Sings

All the words you say to me
Have music in them
All the sorrows and the joys like magnetism
And a selfish boy looks through a prism
And says what is
But never asks what isn't
But a voice contains many precious things
It laughs
And then it sings
And all the lies that we can tell
To our foolish selves
Maybe this is the love song that I refused to
Write her when I loved her like I used to
And I fear my heart may spin and fracture
Like tears of stone falling from a statue
But a voice contains all that's true and false
Then cries for someone else
And for some honest tenderness
So I must confess
All the words you say to me
Have music in them
All the sorrows and the joys like magnetism
And a selfish boy looks through a prism
And says what is
But never asks what isn't

song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lay Down Your Weary Tune

Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.
Struck by the sounds before the sun,
I knew the night had gone.
The morning breeze like a bugle blew
Against the drums of dawn.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.
The ocean wild like an organ played,
The seaweeds wove its strands.
The crashin waves like cymbals clashed
Against the rocks and sands.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.
I stood unwound beneath the skies
And clouds unbound by laws.
The cryin rain like a trumpet sang
And asked for no applause.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.
The last of leaves fell from the trees
And clung to a new loves breast.
The branches bare like a banjo played
To the winds that listened best.
I gazed down in the rivers mirror
And watched its winding strum.
The water smooth ran like a hymn
And like a harp did hum.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.

song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Widow's Hymn

How near me came the hand of Death,
When at my side he struck my dear,
And took away the precious breath
Which quicken’d my belovàd peer!1
How helpless am I thereby made!
By day how grieved, by night how sad!
And now my life’s delight is gone,
—Alas! how am I left alone!
The voice which I did more esteem
Than music in her sweetest key,
Those eyes which unto me did seem
More comfortable than the day;
Those now by me, as they have been,
Shall never more be heard or seen;
But what I once enjoy’d in them
Shall seem hereafter as a dream.
Lord! keep me faithful to the trust
Which my dear spouse reposed in me:
To him now dead preserve me just
In all that should performàd be!
For though our being man and wife
Extendeth only to this life,
Yet neither life nor death should end
The being of a faithful friend.

poem by George Wither
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Parted Presence

LOVE, I speak to your heart,
Your heart that is always here.
Oh draw me deep to its sphere,
Though you and I are apart,
And yield, by the spirit's art,
Each distant gift that is dear.
O love, my love, you are here!
Your eyes are afar to-day,
Yet, love, look now in mine eyes.
Two hearts sent forth may despise
All dead things by the way.
All between is decay,
Dead hours and this hour that dies.
O love, look deep in mine eyes!
Your hands to-day are not here,
Yet lay them, love, in my hands.
The hourglass sheds its sands
All day for the dead hours' bier;
But now, as two hearts draw near,
This hour like a flower expands.
O love, your hands in my hands!
Your voice is not on the air,
Yet, love, I can hear your voice:
It bids my heart to rejoice
As knowing your heart is there,—
A music sweet to declare
The truth of your steadfast choice.
O love, how sweet is your voice!
To-day your lips are afar,
Yet draw my lips to them, love.
Around, beneath, and above,
Is frost to bind and to bar;
But where I am and you are,
Desire and the fire thereof.
O kiss me, kiss me, my love!
Your heart is never away,
But ever with mine, for ever,
For ever without endeavour,
To-morrow, love, as to-day;
Two blent hearts never astray,
Two souls no power may sever,
Together, O my love, for ever!

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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With Eternity Standing By

How shall I bid you good--bye,
Dear, without tears?
Only once in the years,
The idle vanishing years,
We met, with Eternity standing by,
And loved, a little forgotten space,
I for the sake of your beautiful face,
You I hardly know how or why,
Or whether you loved me indeed, alas,
With Eternity standing by.

We played our comedy parts,
Scene after scene.
You were to be my queen,
My dear sweet comedy queen,
I your lover and knave of hearts
Who kissed your hand in the make--believe
And looked for the bee in your royal sleeve,
And stopped, because of the pain that smarts,
The pangs that soften, the sighs that grieve,
And the rest of the tragic parts.

We did not know that we loved,
Not at the first of it.
That, ah that was the worst of it,
The aching sorrowful worst of it,
Not till I saw that your soul was moved
At the sound of my voice, as in tears I read
Of Guinevere and the days long dead,
And the knights and ladies who lived and loved
And went to their graves and were harvested.
Then, ah then, it was proved.

So I dare not bid you good--bye,
Dear, without tears.
Things there are in the years,
The coming ominous years,
All too sad for us not to cry.
Other joys shall forgotten be,
But not the pilgrimage made with me,
The Severn's flood and the angry sky,
And the love we talked of, which could not be
With Eternity standing by.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Butterflies

O child of Joy! What idle life is thine!
Thou, in these meadows, while thy skies are blue,
And while thy joys are new to thee like wine,
Chasest mad butterflies as children do.
And lo, thou turnest from them to repine,
Because it was not love thou didst pursue.

O child of Hope! Thou sighest thy sad sighs,
Mourning for that which is not nor can be.
Where is the noon can match with thy sunrise?
Whose is the heart shall win thy constancy?
Thou, with thy foolish loves, mad butterflies,
What dost thou ask of my sad heart and me?

O child of Love, begotten for man's bliss!
O child of Pleasure, nursed for thy own pain!
Needs must I weep the day of thy distress,
The fate that brushes at thy arm in vain,
Thy skies of blue, thy broken happiness,
The hopes thou chasest never to attain.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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It's A New World

Females had their expected place
one of submission, few choices
no dreams
beyond children and home.

Fifties females had no voice
but the children watched;
and the children grew
and knew there was more.

A matter of choice with a voice!
Any way this girl can shout it
stands as anthem to her place...
helping others to find the same grace.

poem by Carolyn Brunelle
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The Youth By The Brook

Beside the brook the boy reclined
And wove his flowery wreath,
And to the waves the wreath consigned--
The waves that danced beneath.
"So fleet mine hours," he sighed, "away
Like waves that restless flow:
And so my flowers of youth decay
Like those that float below."

"Ask not why I, alone on earth,
Am sad in life's young time;
To all the rest are hope and mirth
When spring renews its prime.
Alas! the music Nature makes,
In thousand songs of gladness--
While charming all around me, wakes
My heavy heart to sadness."

"Ah! vain to me the joys that break
From spring, voluptuous are;
For only one 't is mine to seek--
The near, yet ever far!
I stretch my arms, that shadow-shape
In fond embrace to hold;
Still doth the shade the clasp escape--
The heart is unconsoled!"

"Come forth, fair friend, come forth below,
And leave thy lofty hall,
The fairest flowers the spring can know
In thy dear lap shall fall!
Clear glides the brook in silver rolled,
Sweet carols fill the air;
The meanest hut hath space to hold
A happy loving pair!"

poem by Friedrich Schiller
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Three Songs

LOVE, thou art best of Human Joys,
Our chiefest Happiness below;
All other Pleasures are but Toys,
Musick without Thee is but Noise,
And Beauty but an empty Show.
Heav'n, who knew best what Man wou'd move,
And raise his Thoughts above the Brute;
Said, Let him Be, and let him Love;
That must alone his Soul improve,
Howe'er Philosophers dispute.

II

Quickly, Delia, Learn my Passion,
Lose not Pleasure, to be Proud;
Courtship draws on Observation,
And the Whispers of the Croud.

Soon or late you'll hear a Lover,
Nor by Time his Truth can prove;
Ages won't a Heart discover,
Trust, and so secure my Love

III

'TIS strange, this Heart within my breast,
Reason opposing, and her Pow'rs,
Cannot one gentle Moment rest,
Unless it knows what's done in Yours.
In vain I ask it of your Eyes,
Which subt'ly would my Fears controul;
For Art has taught them to disguise,
Which Nature made t' explain the Soul.

In vain that Sound, your Voice affords,
Flatters sometimes my easy Mind;
But of too vast Extent are Words
In them the Jewel Truth to find.

Then let my fond Enquiries cease,
And so let all my Troubles end:
For, sure, that Heart shall ne'er know Peace,
Which on Anothers do's depend.

poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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Young Laughters, and My Music!

Young laughters, and my music! Aye till now
The voice can reach no blending minors near;
'Tis the bird's trill because the spring is here
And spring means trilling on a blossomy bough;
'Tis the spring joy that has no why or how,
But sees the sun and hopes not nor can fear--
Spring is so sweet and spring seems all the year.
Dear voice, the first-come birds but trill as thou.

Oh music of my heart, be thus for long:
Too soon the spring bird learns the later song;
Too soon a sadder sweetness slays content
Too soon! There comes new light on onward day,
There comes new perfume o'er a rosier way:
Comes not again the young spring joy that went.

poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Thoughts of Home

I watched them from the window, thy children at their play,
And I thought of all my own dear friends, who were far, oh, far away,
And childish loves, and childish cares, and a child’s own buoyant gladness
Came gushing back again to me with a soft and solemn sadness;
And feelings frozen up full long, and thoughts of long ago,
Seemed to be thawing at my heart with a warm and sudden flow.

I looked upon thy children, and I thought of all and each,
Of my brother and my sister, and our rambles on the beach,
Of my mother’s gentle voice, and my mother’s beckoning hand,
And all the tales she used to tell of the far, far English land;
And the happy, happy evening hours, when I sat on my father’s knee,
Oh! many a wave is rolling now betwixt that seat and me!

And many a day has passed away since, I left them o’er the sea,
And I have lived a life since then of boyhood’s thoughtless glee;
Yet of the blessed times gone by not seldom would I dream,
And childhood’s joy, like faint far stars, in memory’s heaven would gleam,
And o’er the sea to those I loved my thoughts would often roam,
But never knew I until now the blessings of a home!

I used to think when I was there that my own true home was here,
But home is not in land or sky, but in those whom each holds dear.
The evening’s cooling breeze is fanning my temples now,
But then my frame was languid, and heated was my brow,
And I longed for England’s cool, and for England’s breezes then,
But now I would give full many a breeze to be back in the heat again.

But when cold strange looks without, and proud high thoughts within,
Are weaving round my heart the woof of selfishness and sin;
When self begins to roll a far, a worse and wider sea
Of careless and unloving thoughts between those friends and me,
I will think upon these moments, and call to mind the day
When I watched them from the window, thy children at their play.

poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Strangers Eyes

All alone, a rainy night
No one around but I fell someone watching me
I look around, the street is bare nobody there
I wonder what it could be
As I turned to walk away
Suddenly I saw his face
Never minding that we were alone
Didnt care about the time, at the moment I was felling fine
I was looking into strangers eyes
(he caught me by surprise)
They looked right through me
(he looking into my eyes)
Never knew
Never, ever thought that love could be
(thats when he came)
He came and captured me
Like a scene out of a dream, I cant believe it
Kind of strange and familiar
But in his eyes I get a sign, I get a feeling
I get the feeling he knows me
Maybe I could stay a while, maybe I could make you smile
I dont have much to do
Maybe we could walk awhile
Maybe, maybe we could talk awhile
Cant help looking into strangers eyes
I was looking into strangers eyes
(he caught me by surprise)
They looked right through me
(he looked into my eyes)
Never knew
Never, ever thought that love could be
(thats when he came)
He came and captured me
How was I to know this would happen
Thought I didnt know I would meet this stranger
Its the kind of thing that dreams are made of
And I keep thinking about strangers eyes
I was looking into strangers eyes
(he caught me by surprise)
They looked right through me
(he looked into my eyes)
Never knew
Never, ever thought that love could be
(thats when he came to me)
He came and captured me

song performed by by Vanessa Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You Must Leave Me

YOU MUST LEAVE ME

You must leave me as I was before.
You must let me be at peace.
You must not hold on to my heart anymore.
My heart you must release.

Yes, I love thee like the sky loves the sun
and know that I always will.
Yes, I love thee like children love to run
with hearts that are racing still.

I cannot be left with just your voice
although it’s the voice I hear.
My needs are selfish where you’re concerned.
I need all of you, my dear.

I need your hands, your mouth, your smile,
your passion and your heart.
And since that’s near impossible
you must leave me. You must depart.

The music will change when you go.
No longer will melodies play
like they did when first we met, my love,
no longer on any day.

You must leave me as I was before,
despondent and not knowing why?
You must leave me now, my love and know
that I’ll love you until I die.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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Little Lucy Landman

Oh, the day has set me dreaming
In a strange, half solemn way
Of the feelings I experienced
On another long past day,--
Of the way my heart made music
When the buds began to blow,
And o' little Lucy Landman
Whom I loved long years ago.

It 's in spring, the poet tells us,
That we turn to thoughts of love,
And our hearts go out a-wooing
With the lapwing and the dove.
But whene'er the soul goes seeking
Its twin-soul, upon the wing,
I 've a notion, backed by mem'ry,
That it's love that makes the spring.

I have heard a robin singing
When the boughs were brown and bare,
And the chilling hand of winter
Scattered jewels through the air.
And in spite of dates and seasons,
It was always spring, I know,
When I loved Lucy Landman
In the days of long ago.

Ah, my little Lucy Landman,
I remember you as well
As if 't were only yesterday
I strove your thoughts to tell,--
When I tilted back your bonnet,
Looked into your eyes so true,
Just to see if you were loving
Me as I was loving you.

Ah, my little Lucy Landman
It is true it was denied
You should see a fuller summer
And an autumn by my side.
But the glance of love's sweet sunlight
Which your eyes that morning gave
Has kept spring within my bosom,
Though you lie within the grave.

poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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The Desert Wind

I went with happy heart (how happy!) a while since
Behind my camel flocks,
Piping all day where the Nile pastures end
And the white sand begins
Among the rocks.
The wheeling eagles mocked me high there from the skies,
The red blast of the desert wind
Hath seared mine eyes.

I saw a lady pass, (what lady?) none could tell,
Nor of her tribe nor race,
Of Roum or Franjistan or Fars or Hind;
None knew. But I knew well
That her sweet face
Had blossomed first within the gates of Paradise.
The red blast of the desert wind
Hath seared mine eyes.

Within a tasselled frame, rich wrought, she sat and sang
A song of love so sweet,
That beast and bird and serpent came behind,
And lizard with shut fang
And faltering feet.
My flocks strayed after them, and I who heard likewise.
The red blast of the desert wind
Hath seared mine eyes.

Upon a camel tall (how tall!) she rode by me
Enrobed in white and red,
And veiled to her bright eyes in bands that bind
But hide not all souls see;
And on her head
A crown entwined of wool with gold and various dyes.
The red blast of the desert wind
Hath seared mine eyes.

Out to the wilderness, all day, we followed her.
By winding paths untrod,
O'er rock and plain none knew nor I could find,
Although my home was there;
And still we rode.
The creatures tired and stopped; but I went on with sighs.
The red blast of the desert wind
Hath seared mine eyes.

We came to a deep pool (how deep!) I knew of none
In all that land accursed,
A pool of waters clear with white shells lined,
And there we lighted down
And suaged our thirst,
And bathed our weary limbs, we two without disguise.
The red blast of the desert wind
Hath seared mine eyes.

Upon the brink we sat (ah me!) alone, we two,
In that fair empty place.
I kissed her hands and told her all my mind,
And dared her grace to sue,
Her utter grace.
And she with smiles said ``yea'' to my too blest surprise.
The red blast of the desert wind
Hath seared mine eyes.

Ah me, that night of stars, those bridal stars of heaven!
Ah me, those eyes of hers,
So sweet, so near, of that same starry kind,
Which drank their light ungiven,
(Poor blinded stars!)
And left them dark as they have left me wise.
The red blast of the desert wind
Hath seared mine eyes.

How shall I tell it? All three months of happy love
I lived with her, blest queen,
Fed on sole joy and what God's care might send
Of milk and treasure--trove
Of sorrels green,
And roots and tubers fine and samh which we made prize.
The red blast of the desert wind
Hath seared mine eyes.

Since when I search the Earth (sad Earth!) in vain to win
Once more her wondrous voice,
Which led me forth to doom and left me blind,
Bereft of flocks and kin
And homely joys,
Of wife and children's love and to behold the skies.
The red blast of the desert wind
Hath seared mine eyes.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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St. Francis and the Birds

Little sisters, the birds:
We must praise God, you and I­
You, with songs that fill the sky,
I, with halting words.

All things tell His praise,
Woods and waters thereof sing,
Summer, Winter, Autumn, Spring,
And the night and days.

Yea, and cold and heat,
And the sun and stars and moon,
Sea with her monotonous tune,
Rain and hail and sleet,

And the winds of heaven,
And the solemn hills of blue,
And the brown earth and the dew,
And the thunder even,

And the flowers' sweet breath.
All things make one glorious voice;
Life with fleeting pains and joys,
And our brother, Death.

Little flowers of air,
With your feathers soft and sleek,
And your bright brown eyes and meek,
He hath made you fair.

He hath taught to you
Skill to weave in tree and thatch
Nests where happy mothers hatch
Speckled eggs of blue.

And hath children given:
When the soft heads overbrim
The brown nests, then thank ye Him
In the clouds of heaven.

Also in your lives
Live His laws Who loveth you.
Husbands, be ye kind and true;
Be home-keeping, wives:

Love not gossiping;
Stay at home and keep the nest;
Fly not here and there in quest
Of the newest thing.

Live as brethren live:
Love be in each heart and mouth;
Be not envious, be not wroth,
Be not slow to give.

When ye build the nest,
Quarrel not o'er straw or wool;
He who hath be bountiful
To the neediest.

Be not puffed nor vain
Of your beauty or your worth,
Of your children or your birth,
Or the praise ye gain.

Eat not greedily:
Sometimes for sweet mercy's sake,
Worm or insect spare to take;
Let it crawl or fly.

See ye sing not near
To our church on holy day,
Lest the human-folk should stray
From their prayers to hear.

Now depart in peace:
In God's name I bless each one;
May your days be long i' the sun
And your joys increase.

And remember me,
Your poor brother Francis, who
Loves you and gives thanks to you
For this courtesy.

Sometimes when ye sing,
Name my name, that He may take
Pity for the dear song's sake
On my shortcoming.

poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part IV: Vita Nova: CIV

THE SAME CONTINUED
O world, in very truth thou art too young,
They gave thee love who measured out thy skies,
And, when they found for thee another star,
Who made a festival and straightway hung
The jewel on thy neck. O merry world,
Hast thou forgot the glory of those eyes
Which first looked love in thine? Thou hast not furled
One banner of thy bridal car for them.
O world, in very truth thou art too young.
There was a voice which sang about thy Spring,
Till Winter froze the sweetness of his lips,
And lo, the worms had hardly left his tongue
Before thy nightingales were come again.
O world, what courage hast thou thus to sing?
Say, has thy merriment no secret pain
No sudden weariness that thou art young?

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Love-Tokens

Afflictions do not come alone,
A voice attends the rod;
By both he to his saints is known,
A Father and a God!

Let not my children slight the stroke
I for chastisement send;
Nor faint beneath my kind rebuke,
For still I am their friend.

The wicked I perhaps may leave
Awhile, and not reprove;
But all the children I receive
I scourge, because I love.

If therefore you were left without
This needful discipline;
You might, with cause, admit a doubt,
If you, indeed, were mine.

Shall earthly parents then expect
Their children to submit?
And wilt not you, when I correct,
Be humbled at my feet?

To please themselves they oft chastise,
And put their sons to pain;
But you are precious in my eyes,
And shall not smart in vain.

I see your hearts, at present, filled
With grief, and deep distress;
But soon these bitter seeds shall yield
The fruits of righteousness.

Break through the clouds, dear Lord, and shine!
Let us perceive thee nigh!
And to each mourning child of thine
These gracious words apply.

poem by John Newton
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