The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part II: To Juliet: XXXV
THE SAME CONTINUED
Old memories are sweet, but these are new
And smart like wounds yet green. But one there is
Which, for the cause that it was dear to you
In days which counted upon greater bliss,
Is fairer now and dearer far than these;
And this the memory is of some hours spent
One afternoon when, seated at your knees,
I made narration (it was middle Lent
And you with Judas flowers had filled your lap),
Of the wise secret of these rhymes of mine,
And gave a promise, which behold I keep,
To write them out for you, each idle line,
Throwing you all my rubbish in one heap.
Poor stuff perhaps. And yet it made you weep.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Related quotes
We Used To
Mmm....
We used to walk through fields of green
We used to sit by clear blue streams
We used to be so happy
Me and you
We used to do such silly things
We used to make love in the rain
We used to
Yes, we used to
Then you went away
Leaving me with the memories we made
Memories of those sweet yesterdays
Spent with you
Spent with you
And even though youre gone
I still think so often of you
And the things that we no longer do
Like we used to
Oh we used to
We used to be so much in love
We used to kiss and hold and touch
We used to find so many things to do
We used to laugh and plan and dream
We used to own the world it seemed
We used to
Yes we used to
Then you went away
Leaving me with the memories we made
Memories of those sweet yesterdays
Spent with you
Spent with you
Oh and even though youre gone
I still think so often of you
And the things that we no longer do
Like we used to
Oh we used to
La...mmm....
Ahh....
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Orange juice kiss
A circle of dried, sweet orange juice
Finger to mouth, the taste memories seduce
Memories of that sweet orange juice kiss
Thoughts race to the past and days of bliss
The giggling young angel standing at the bedside
The past and the present, emotions collide
Those glorious hours playing in the park
Warm sunny days before the onset of dark
When long summer day’s end and it’s time to rest
Sweet angel climbs up and lays head on my chest
If there’s one memory that brings me this bliss
It’s the memory of that sweet orange juice kiss
poem by Brian 'Peza' Perrins
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To Louise
OH, the poets may sing of their Lady Irenes,
And may rave in their rhymes about wonderful queens;
But I throw my poetical wings to the breeze,
And soar in a song to my Lady Louise.
A sweet little maid, who is dearer, I ween,
Than any fair duchess, or even a queen.
When speaking of her I can't plod in my prose,
For she's the wee lassie who gave me a rose.
Since poets, from seeing a lady's lip curled,
Have written fair verse that has sweetened the world;
Why, then, should not I give the space of an hour
To making a song in return for a flower?
I have found in my life — it has not been so long —
There are too few of flowers — too little of song.
So out of that blossom, this lay of mine grows,
For the dear little lady who gave me the rose.
I thank God for innocence, dearer than Art,
That lights on a by-way which leads to the heart,
And led by an impulse no less than divine,
Walks into the temple and sits at the shrine.
I would rather pluck daisies that grow in the wild,
Or take one simple rose from the hand of a child,
Than to breathe the rich fragrance of flowers that bide
In the gardens of luxury, passion, and pride.
I know not, my wee one, how came you to know
Which way to my heart was the right way to go;
Unless in your purity, soul-clean and dear,
God whispers his messages into your ear.
You have now had my song, let me end with a prayer
That your life may be always sweet, happy, and fair;
That your joys may be many, and absent your woes,
O dear little lady who gave me the rose!
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Did You Really Make Me, Me
Dear God,
You said you could take my doubts
I'm sorry I'm not filled with love an adoration right now
But this is what I think, I know you'd want me to be honest
So this is what I'm really wondering, so answer me
Dear God,
Did you really make me, me?
God you gave me eyes to see
God you gave me every hair on head
God you gave me life and now I'm not dead
You said you gave me all the gifts I had
For the longest time
I scorned these gifts saying I had none, not even this rhyme
But you're my loving Father, God you're my dad
But did you really make me me?
Dear God,
You gave me all of my gifts, so You gave me the gift to run
You gave me everything, so You gave me the motivation to run
Didn't you God?
Doesn't this mean that you gave me this desire?
I love to hike, I love each and every esplanade
Did you MAKE me to love them prior
Or did I learn to?
Did you make me with my desires, all of them, was that really You?
If it was then aren't you pleased when I run
Aren't you pleased when I do those things You made me for
Even if it makes my legs sore, my mind sore, whatever sore.
Aren't you pleased with me, pleased with your son?
Dear God,
Did You MAKE me with ALL my desires, everything I like to do
Do You bless my efforts with them too
I just don't understand why I like anything unless you made me that way
I just don't understand because what I really want to say
Right now is that I'm doubting
I'm thinking
That I gave myself these desires, but Father
Sorry to be a bother
But I cannot handle that conclusion
Tell me it's all an illusion
Tell me my desires ARE from YOU
Because if they're not, I don't know what I'd do
I'd question everything that I do
I might even start to question You too
I wouldn't know my purpose or if I should run
If I should spend hours in the sun
If I should play video games or eat ramen
If I should ride my bike
If I should go out and hike
This is way too much of a strain
I cannot bear this burden of worrying about what to do
So please tell me it's from You
Please tell me you made me to run God
God you said You can handle my doubts.... but I cant feel you right now
God I know you're there so I bow
But I'm doubting, tell me you made me Father.... Father....
Dear God,
Please promise me that you made me, me
poem by David Knox
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Weep Day
I never went to the tropical island
Though everybody said they saw me there
And it wasnt me you punched a hole in
At the west german protest march
Simultaneous events dont happen
We are isolated temporally
And a part is never called the whole thing
Though it bothers us to know its so
Every man is made of two opinions
Every woman has a second half
And its samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man (samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man)
Yes, its samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man (samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man)
I didnt write the words you hear me singing (didnt write the words you hear me singing)
I didnt sing the line before this one (didnt sing the line before this one)
You are not the one I was addressing (you are not the one I was addressing)
That person took a train to africa (africa)
Where he met the consulate from belgium
Who is now a buddhist in a cave
Who is pitching for the oakland raiders
Striking out the batter she became
Every man is made of two opinions
Every woman has a second half
And its samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man (samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man)
Yes, its samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man (samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man)
Yes, its samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man (samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man)
Weep day for urine man (weep day for urine man)
Weep day for urine man (weep day for urine man)
Weep day for urine man (weep day for urine man)
Weep day weep day
Weep day weep day
Weep day weep day
Weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep)
Weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep)
Weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep)
Weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep)
Weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep)
Weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep)
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Childhood Memories
Each hour that passed and every moment
Gone by become a memory
There will be sad ones but most happy and gay
Childhood memories like models of clay
Sunny days spent along the river edge
Resting in clumps of clover
Picking flowers to overfill
Endless hours spent on violet hill
A race to the very old tree
With a feeling of being so free
To dance around it's matronly base
Every one ready go let us chase
That elusive butterfly purple and blue
The world only belonged to me and you
A plunge in the river immersed in emerald green
In touch only with silence a silver sheen
Drifting down to pebbles and stalks
A world of pleasure beyond believe
It once was mine but not to keep
poem by Ingeborg von Finsterwalde
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What A Difference A Day Makes
What a difference a day made
Twenty-four little hours
Brought the sun and the flowers
Where there used to be rain
My yesterday was blue, dear
Today Im part of you, dear
My lonely nights are through, dear
Since you said you were mine
What a difference a day makes
Theres a rainbow before me
Skies above cant be stormy
Since that moment of bliss, that thrilling kiss
Its heaven when you find romance on your menu
What a difference a day made
And the difference is you
What a difference a day makes
Theres a rainbow before me
Skies above cant be stormy
Since that moment of bliss, that thrilling kiss
Its heaven when you find romance on your menu
What a difference a day made
And the difference is you
song performed by by En Vogue
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Calico Plains
(matraca berg/mike noble)
Sweet abilena looks out at the midwestern sky
Sweet seventeen with a faraway look in her eyes
She said, I feel like a bird in a cage
But come september Im flying away
I said, Im gonna miss you then I made her promise to write
Since we were tall as the corn in the spring
We shared every secret, shared every dream
So anxious to grow in the new summer rain
And bloom like a rose on the calico plains
How could she hear as we laughed on that warm summer night
The tiny heart of the baby she carried inside
I stood beside her when september came
Watched her get married and caught the bouquet
And like those hand me down dresses she gave me
I made her dreams mine
From a seat by the window on wings made of steel
I stared at the patchwork over the fields
Where young tears that once fell like warm summer rain
Were turning to snow on the calico plains
Sweet abilena looks out at the midwestern sky
Closer to thirty but farther away in her eyes
She holds her babies like she holds her dreams
Each night she kisses and rocks them to sleep while
She reads the letters she makes me promise to write
Sweet abliena looks out at the midwestern sky
song performed by by Pam Tillis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Green Grow the Rashes
Green grow the rashes, O
Green grow the rashes, O
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
Are spent among the lasses, O
There's nought but care on ev'ry han',
In every hour that passes, O
What signifies the life o' man,
An' 'twere na for the lasses, O.
Green grow the rashes, O
Green grow the rashes, O
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
Are spent among the lasses, O
The warl'y race may riches chase,
An' riches still may fly them, O
An' tho' at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.
Green grow the rashes, O
Green grow the rashes, O
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
Are spent among the lasses, O
But gie me a cannie hour at e'en,
My arms about my dearie, O,
An' warl'y cares an' war'ly men
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!
Green grow the rashes, O
Green grow the rashes, O
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
Are spent among the lasses, O
For you sae douce, ye sneer at this
Ye're nought but senseless asses, O
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.
Green grow the rashes, O
Green grow the rashes, O
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
Are spent among the lasses, O
Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O
Her prentice han' she try'd on man,
An' then she made the lasses, O.
Green grow the rashes, O
Green grow the rashes, O
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
Are spent among the lasses, O
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Absences
It's snowing this afternoon and there are no flowers.
There is only this sound of falling, quiet and remote,
Like the memory of scales descending the white keys
Of a childhood piano--outside the window, palms!
And the heavy head of the cereus, inclining,
Soon to let down its white or yellow-white.
Now, only these poor snow-flowers in a heap,
Like the memory of a white dress cast down . . .
So much has fallen.
&n bsp; &nb sp; & nbsp; And I, who have listened for a step
All afternoon, hear it now, but already falling away,
Already in memory. And the terrible scales descending
On the silent piano; the snow; and the absent flowers abounding.
poem by Donald Justice
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Until The day I die...My Treasures!
Treasure You Until The Day I Die..
Alone I sit and in sweet silence am filled with thought,
Of my loving brothers whom in troubles I desperately sought.
Memories linger in my heart the happy hours we spent,
Every vacation filled with fragrant smiles removing any dent.
When lost in troubled tides my twin rivers overflow in repent,
And their warmth love and words of wisdom they kindly lent.
Like the ocean waters ends in the pebbled seashore.
And the fast changing days that that come and go as before.
Awaken me to reality that I must justly be contend.
As soon the hands of the clock will hasten the pain to touch an end!
Create Date: Sunday, April 18,2010
poem by Shirani Ibrahim
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Dancing With You
i have a memory
of a dance,
of my hands on your waist
your arms around me
the smell of your hair
the laugh you made
as i tease your ear
the promise made
your lips touch mine
no memory
of the song
only the music
my memory
dancing with joy
holding on
to you
Lover's Quarrels
JOIN hands, my dear, clasp long and close and fast,
Even this present we shall soon call past,
And lay among the unforgotten days,
Not the less loved because they could not last.
Make haste to put our hasty words away,
And hide them with dead leaves of yesterday,
Cast them aside among forgotten things,
Keep the love warm that turns to green life's grey.
Each little thorn that pricks these present hours
Is sure to hide under our memories' flowers,
Till we shall say, turning the dry wreath over,
'How sweet they were--these dear dead days of ours!'
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Invitation to the Voyage
Imagine, ma petite,
Dear sister mine, how sweet
Were we to go and take our pleasure
Leisurely, you and I—
To lie, to love, to die
Off in that land made to your measure!
A land whose suns' moist rays,
Through the skies' misty haze,
Hold quite the same dark charms for me
As do your scheming eyes
When they, in their like wise,
Shine through your tears, perfidiously.
There all is order, naught amiss:
Comfort and beauty, calm and bliss.
Treasure galore—ornate,
Time-glossed—would decorate
Our chamber, where the rarest blooms
Would blend their lavish scent,
Heady and opulent,
With wisps of amber-like perfumes;
Where all the Orient's
Splendid, rich ornaments—
Deep mirrors, ceilings fine—would each,
In confidential tone,
Speak to the soul alone
In its own sweet and secret speech.
There all is order, naught amiss:
Comfort and beauty, calm and bliss.
See how the ships, asleep—
They who would ply the deep!—
Line the canals: to satisfy
Your merest whim they come
From far-flung heathendom
And skim the seven seas. —On high,
The sunset's rays enfold
In hyacinth and gold,
Field and canal; and, with the night,
As shadows gently fall,
Behold! Life sleeps, and all
Lies bathed in warmth and evening light.
There all is order, naught amiss:
Comfort and beauty, calm and bliss.
poem by Charles Baudelaire
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A Rocking Hymn
Sweet baby, sleep! what ails my dear,
What ails my darling thus to cry?
Be still, my child, and lend thine ear
To hear me sing thy lullaby.
My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;
Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear?
What thing to thee can mischief do?
Thy God is now thy father dear,
His holy Spouse, thy mother too.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Though thy conception was in sin,
A sacred bathing thou hast had;
And, though thy birth unclean hath been,
A blameless babe thou now art made.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep,
While thus thy lullaby I sing,
For thee great blessings ripening be;
Thine eldest brother is a King,
And hath a kingdom bought for thee.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Sweet baby, sleep and nothing fear,
For whosoever thee offends,
By thy protector threat'ned are,
And God and angels are thy friends.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
When God with us was dwelling here,
In little babes he took delight;
Such innocents as thou, my dear,
Are ever precious in His sight.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
A little infant once was He,
And, strength in weakness, then was laid
Upon His virgin-mother's knee,
That power to thee might be conveyed.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
In this, thy frailty and thy need,
He friends and helpers doth prepare,
Which thee shall cherish, clothe and feed;
For of thy weal they tender are.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The King of kings, when he was born,
Had not so much for outward ease;
By Him such dressings were not worn,
Nor such like swaddling-clothes as these.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Within a manger lodged thy Lord
Where oxen lay and asses fed;
Warm rooms we do to thee afford,
An easy cradle or a bed.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The wants that He did then sustain
Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee;
And by His torments and His pain
Thy rest and ease securèd be.
My baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou hast (yet more) to perfect this,
A promise and an earnest got
Of gaining everlasting bliss,
Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not;
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
poem by George Wither
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Fortis Green
Mum would shout and scream when dad would come home drunk
When she asked him where hed been, hed say up the clissold arms
Chatting up some huzzy, but he didnt mean no harm
Sunday morning drives, just to get away
Ramsgate or southend, it would always be a laugh
Paddling by the sea, trousers rolled up to the knees
Walking by the sea, full of dreams, eating ice cream
Grandmas burnt her cheeks getting brown, turn her over
Fortis green, memories of days when I was young
It can only be a memory. a time that now has gone
Theres uncle frank tellin stories from the war
Frightening all the kids, yet wed heard it all before
While the bombs were droppin round, there were parties underground
Aunt lils at the gin, while mums singing songs
From the 40s when variety, max miller was going strong
All the characters are gone, oh, what a blooming shame
I wish that it could be like it was in the old days
Sat on aunties knee, toasting bread in the fire-place
Fortis green, memories of days when I was young
It can only be a memory. a time that now has gone
Memories of fortis green, when I was just a lad
Collecting bottle tops, threepenny bits. fishing with my dad
Sisters in the doorway, snogging with her bloke
Scared to put the cat out case I put him off his stroke
But she wouldnt be denied, I got a shilling as a bribe
I used to do my courting on an old kitchen chair
The girls were all so sporting, but I only really cared for my little katie-sue
There was nothing she wouldnt do
Sunday after tea we would listen to the wireless
Hancocks half-hour, luxembourg. wed sit for hours
Fortis green, memories of days when I was young
It can only be a memory. a time that now has gone
Fortis green, memories of days when I was young
Collecting bottle tops, threepenny bits. fishing with my dad
Thats it
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Made Me A Man
As I work with the sweat upon my brow
As so to support my family my wife and child
I do for them, all that I can,
As GOD, he made me a man.
I Protect all which is mine and what I own
Which includes my possessions and also my home
At my wife’s side I will always stand
As GOD, he made me a man
I will never ever lie or cheat or steal
Never hurt anyone when instead I could heal
As I know what is in my greater plan
As GOD, he made me a man.
I will never ever start a war or even a fight
Whether I be wrong and they be right
I will talk with them, until we both understand
As GOD, he made me a man.
I will not break the vows I made to my wife
No matter the problems or even the rife
I know years from now in front of GOD I will stand
As GOD, he made me a man.
A soul and a life GOD he gave me
He showed me the roads and told me to be free
I gave up being a boy from worries I had not ran
As GOD, he made me a man.
As I say my prayers alone at night
I humble myself to the Lord and his might
I know that GOD, he made me a Man
But I am the one, who made me who I am.
poem by Randy McClave
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For The Window In St. Margaret’s
IN MEMORY OF A SON OF ARCHDEACON FARRAR
AFAR he sleeps whose name is graven here,
Where loving hearts his early doom deplore;
Youth, promise, virtue, all that made him dear
Heaven lent, earth borrowed, sorrowing to restore.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Waiting
A YOUNG fair girl among her flowers,
And, as to blossoms born in May,
Her morrows still brought sunnier hours
Than made up sunny yesterday.
She did but wait: 'Hope is so sweet;
We love so well, my love and I;
The hours that come, the hours that fleet,
End all in one glad by and by.'
A pale worn woman, scarcely sad,
But tired, like those who, too long pent,
Forget the joy they have not had
Of the free winds, and droop content.
She did but wait: 'Ah, no, to me
The silent hope is never dead;
What are the days that are to be
But part of the dear days long fled?'
He came: 'The wealth we need is mine;
And now?' 'Alas!' she said, 'in vain.
The love I love is noway thine,
I wait who never comes again.
Oh, for my lover of old days,
We two from all the world apart!
I must go lone on earth's bleak ways,
He is not now save in my heart.'
He wed another. She, alone,
Patient and weary, toiled for bread.
And bygone still was never gone,
The silent hope was never dead.
She did but wait: 'I have the past;
The new days live the old days o'er,
And there abides until the last
The by and by that was before.'
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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After Hearing Robin Hood
The songs of Sherwood Forest
Are lilac-sweet and clear;
The virile rhymes of merrier times
Sound fair upon mine ear.
Sweet is their sylvan cadence
And sweet their simple art.
The balladry of the greenwood tree
Stirs memories in my heart.
O braver days and elder
With mickle valor dight,
How ye bring back the time, alack!
When Harry Smith could write!
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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