A Song : The Sparkling Eye
The sparkling eye, the mantling cheek,
The polished front, the snowy neck,
How seldom we behold in one!
Glossy locks, and brow serene,
Venus' smiles, Diana's mien,
All meet in you, and you alone.
Beauty, like other powers, maintains
Her empire, and by union reigns;
Each single feature faintly warms:
But where at once we view displayed
Unblemished grace, the perfect maid
Our eyes, our ears, our heart alarms.
So when on earth the god of day
Obliquely sheds his tempered ray,
Through convex orbs the beams transmit,
The beams that gently warmed before,
Collected, gently warm no more,
But glow with more prevailing heat.
poem by William Cowper
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Gently
(words & music by wizell - lisbona)
Gently your eyes met mine
Tender, trusting, true
Gently your hand took mine
Thrilled me through and through
Gently, oh so gently
Gentle as the dawn
Gently, oh so gently
Our true love was born
Gently your lips kissed mine
As we strolled along
Gently your heart touched mine
Young and warm and strong
Gently the hour is near
When true loves have to part
Gently well meet again
One more kiss, sweetheart
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lines on Hearing it Declared that No Women Were So Handsome as the English
BEAUTY, the attribute of Heaven!
In various forms to mortals given,
With magic skill enslaves mankind,
As sportive fancy sways the mind.
Search the wide world, go where you will,
VARIETY pursues you still;
Capricious Nature knows no bound,
Her unexhausted gifts are found
In ev'ry clime, in ev'ry face,
Each has its own peculiar grace.
To GALLIA's frolic scenes repair,
There reigns the tyny DEBONAIRE;
The mincing stepthe slender waist,
The lip with bright vermilion grac'd:
The short pert nosethe pearly teeth,
With the small dimpled chin beneath,
The social converse, gay and free,
The smart BON-MOT and REPARTEE.
ITALIA boasts the melting fair,
The pointed step, the haughty air,
Th' empassion'd tone, the languid eye,
The song of thrilling harmony;
Insidious LOVE conceal'd in smiles
That charmsand as it charms beguiles.
View GRECIAN MAIDS, whose finish'd forms
The wond'ring sculptor's fancy warms!
There let thy ravish'd eye behold
The softest gems of Nature's mould;
Each charm, that REYNOLDS learnt to trace,
From SHERIDAN's bewitching face.
Imperious TURKEY's pride is seen
In Beauty's rich luxuriant mien;
The dark and sparkling orbs that glow
Beneath a polish'd front of snow:
The auburn curl that zephyr blows
About the cheek of brightest rose:
The shorten'd zone, the swelling breast,
With costly gems profusely drest;
Reclin'd in softly-waving bow'rs,
On painted beds of fragrant flow'rs;
Where od'rous canopies dispense
ARABIA's spices to the sense;
Where listless indolence and ease,
Proclaim the sov'reign wish, to please.
'Tis thus, capricious FANCY shows
How far her frolic empire goes !
On ASIA's sands, on ALPINE snow,
We trace her steps where'er we go;
The BRITISH Maid with timid grace;
The tawny INDIAN 's varnish'd face;
The jetty AFRICAN; the fair
Nurs'd by EUROPA's softer air;
With various charms delight the mind,
For FANCY governs ALL MANKIND.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Song #5
I would not feign a single sigh
Nor weep a single tear for thee:
The soul within these orbs burns dry;
A desert spreads where love should be.
I would not be a worm to crawl
A writhing suppliant in thy way;
For love is life, is heaven, and all
The beams of an immortal day.
For sighs are idle things and vain,
And tears for idiots vainly fall.
I would not kiss thy face again
Nor round thy shining slippers crawl.
Love is the honey, not the bee,
Nor would I turn its sweets to gall
For all the beauty found in thee,
Thy lily neck, rose cheek, and all.
I would not feign a single tale
Thy kindness or thy love to seek;
Nor sigh for Jenny of the Vale,
Her ruby smile or rosy cheek.
I would not have a pain to own
For those dark curls and those bright eyes
A frowning lip, a heart of stone,
False love and folly I despise.
poem by John Clare
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The Attribute of Venus
Yes; Fulvia is like Venus fair,
Has all her bloom, and shape, and air;
But still, to perfect every grace,
She wants-the smile upon her face.
The crown majestic Juno wore;
And Cynthia's brow the crescent bore;
An helmet mark'd Minerva's mien;
But smiles distinguish'd Beauty's queen.
Her train was form'd of Smiles and Loves;
Her chariot drawn by gentlest doves;
And from her zone, the nymph may find
'Tis Beauty's province to be kind.
Then smile, my Fair! and all, whose aim
Aspires to paint the Cyprian dame,
Or bid her breathe in living stone,
Shall take their forms from you alone.
poem by William Shenstone
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Ariste
Let ancient stories round the painter's art,
Who stole from many a maid his Venus' charms,
Till warm devotion fired each gazer's heart
And every bosom bounded with alarms.
He culled the beauties of his native isle,
From some the blush of beauty's vermeil dyes,
From some the lovely look, the winning smile,
From some the languid lustre of the eyes.
Low to the finished form the nations round
In adoration bent the pious knee;
With myrtle wreaths the artist's brow they crowned,
Whose skill, Ariste, only imaged thee.
Ill-fated artist, doomed so wide to seek
The charms that blossom on Ariste's cheek!
poem by Robert Southey
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Roswell
...A vision of Splendour...
Cast light beams through ebony sky
...Radiant Wonder of Wonders...
Of the days of by and by
...Not moon beams nor a star...
Nor Super Nova's aflash
Nor Comet, Nor Rocket
...To the Earth they did crash...
Light beams so different
...There really is no explanation...
Accept that perhaps, they are:
...Sparkling Delights from
Another Galaxy Nation!
poem by Theodora Onken
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A Gigolo Lies in Wait
He is hit by the beams of her roving eyes
and swept off to the sky by her sensual looks.
But reach his ears to her groans and longing sighs.
Those who have no feel of love hate the mad guys
who keep open the pages of their hearts' books.
He is hit by the beams of her roving eyes.
The rogues who share the bed where the strumpet lies,
dare to kill the sparrows which chirp by the brooks.
But reach his ears to her groans and longing sighs.
The poofs and ponces who feel no lovers' ties
live in peace undisturbed by the rabbles' hooks.
He is hit by the beams of her roving eyes.
Her orgling glances are her restless heart's spies
who know not the pangs of a bloke, a girl rooks.
But reach his ears to her groans and longing sighs.
When armed men mob to lynch, his heart soars and flies.
Gigabytes of news they get from all the nooks.
But he's hit by the beams of her roving eyes.
And reach his ears to her groans and longing sighs.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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On Mrs Mendez' Birthday, Who Was Born On Valentine's Day
Thine is the gentle day of love,
When youths and virgins try their fate;
When, deep retiring to the grove,
Each feathered songster weds his mate.
With tempered beams the skies are bright,
Earth decks in smiles her pleasing face;
Such is the day that gave thee light,
And speaks as such thy every grace.
poem by James Thomson
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Soapy Hands
'Ours is a Parking Lot Love
a sometimes
Shouts Too Loud Love, ' I said.
'A Let's Talk It Out On The Porch Love.' she says
'so the kids won't hear.'
Slow walks, ' I say
Beach talks, ' you say
'holiday stress
and just please don't tell
those same old jokes again this year.'
'I solemnly agree
and forget and
tell the same old jokes again
and your eyes gently roll
and I complain
'how come your sister knows
what I like in bed? '
and my eyes gently roll.
I complain that
'I can't find anything-
you keep moving my stuff.'
'You mean the stuff you just throw in the closet'? she says
letting her eyes gently roll.
'I come up behind as you do the dishes, ' I say
'like now kissing your neck
as you gently protest;
soapy hands and wetting places
we silently stand like this
gentle breathing
our unspoken celebration
of our Not Perfect Love
but one which is ours
realizing again
that our memories
while not perfect
are ours
binding us
shared;
that
that Future Tense we'd pursued so long
had settled in
in our
sudden appreciation
of Now
and warm
soapy
soothing hands, '
I say.
You turn around
facing me
apron soapy
mouth open.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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A Song
The Shape alone let others prize,
The Features of the Fair;
I look for Spirit in her Eyes,
And Meaning in her Air.
A Damask Cheek, an Iv'ry Arm,
Shall ne'er my Wishes win,
Give me an animated Form,
That speaks a Mind within.
A Face where awful Honour shines,
Where Sense and Sweetness move,
And Angel Innocence refines,
The Tenderness of Love.
These are the Soul of Beauty's frame,
Without whose vital Aid,
Unfinish'd all her Features seem,
And all her Roses dead.
But ah! where both their Charms unite,
How perfect is the View,
With ev'ry Image of Delight,
With Graces ever new.
Of Pow'r to charm the greatest Woe,
The wildest Rage controul,
Diffusing Mildness o'er the Brow,
And Rapture thro' the Soul.
Their Pow'r but faintly to express,
All Language must despair,
But go behold
Arpasia's
Face,
And read it perfect there.
poem by Mark Akenside
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She walks in beauty
I
She walks in beauty—like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to the tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
II
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o'er her face—
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
III
And on that cheek and o'er that brow
So soft, so calm yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow
But tell of days in goodness spent
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.
poem by Byron (1815)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sun Poems
Sun Poems
1
in the absence
of your rays
dear Sun
the fearful
created God
2
we trembled in our nights
in the wild
and you shattered the darkness
and you said:
‘Behold, Creatures -
Behold the Earth! ’
3
I lie asleep
and you send in
beams of messengers
dear Sun
each with the same message:
‘Hey, lazybones –
wakie! wakie! ’
4
by you
dear Sun
is life;
and through you
too is death
5
O setting Sun
do not drag my
heart down with you;
for it’s known in nations
where you do not shine as often
you snatch cheer and smiles away
till you come again;
do not let then my heart
dear Sun
sink with you
6
sun crazy sun
very disobedient and ill-tempered
unwilling to listen
to shine not too hot and not scorch the earth;
and show-off
and bad-tempered with its flares
7
see
the creatures of the earth
burrow deep
and go to sleep
in your absence;
and they come again
kicking and hungry
when you shine
8
I see you in the flower
that blooms it seems at random;
and I see you too
in the leaves of the lilly-pilly at my window
9
one must see the sun
or feel it
oneself
10
I think
you’re one hot blonde,
O Sun babe;
on this side of the universe
no one’s as hot as you
11
the clouds try catching you;
they are little children
and they think you are a ball
they can throw to one another
12
sometimes I wonder
in the loneliness of night
where you are
and then I see you
bouncing off the moon;
ha!
she rejects your advances
13
they look at the sun
but do not know how to see;
poets interpret it
as children play with clouds
and the holy ones attempt to
squeeze the sun into their texts
(Sun Poems - the complete text)
poem by Raj Arumugam
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Your Voice
Give me the pleasure I need
I’ve had enough of pain,
I need to hear your voice
seducing me gently
Love is not what I’ve got
in every step of my life
I need to hear your voice
loving me gently
Countless times I’ve asked myself
Who am I, What am I for
I need to hear your voice again
reassuring me gently
Come and make love to me
Let’s lose ourselves in frenzy
I need to hear your searching voice
calling for my name gently
Yes – that magnificently serene voice of yours,
warm, gentle, soft and seductive...
calming me within magical moments
Your embrace gives me eternal surety.
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Another
I.
As I beheld a winter's evening air,
Curl'd in her court-false-locks of living hair,
Butter'd with jessamine the sun left there.
II.
Galliard and clinquant she appear'd to give,
A serenade or ball to us that grieve,
And teach us A LA MODE more gently live.
III.
But as a Moor, who to her cheeks prefers
White spots, t' allure her black idolaters,
Me thought she look'd all ore-bepatch'd with stars.
IV.
Like the dark front of some Ethiopian queen,
Vailed all ore with gems of red, blew, green,
Whose ugly night seem'd masked with days skreen.
V.
Whilst the fond people offer'd sacrifice
To saphyrs, 'stead of veins and arteries,
And bow'd unto the diamonds, not her eyes.
VI.
Behold LUCASTA'S face, how't glows like noon!
A sun intire is her complexion,
And form'd of one whole constellation.
VII.
So gently shining, so serene, so cleer,
Her look doth universal Nature cheer;
Only a cloud or two hangs here and there.
poem by Richard Lovelace
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Lines:
I saw, or dreamed I saw, her sitting lone,
Her neck bent like a swan's, her brown eyes thrown
On some sweet poem -- his, I think, who sings
|Oenone, or the hapless Maud: no rings
Flashed from the dainty fingers, which held back
Her beautiful blonde hair. Ah! would these black
Locks of mine own were mingling with it now,
And these warm lips were pressed against her brow!
And, as she turned a page, methought I heard --
Hush! could it be? -- a faintly murmured word,
It was so softly dwelt on -- such a smile
Played on her brow and wreathed her lip the while
That my heart leaped to hear it, and a flame
Burned on my forehead -- Sa'ra! -- 't was my name.
poem by Henry Timrod
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I Saw, Or Dreamed I Saw
I saw, or dreamed I saw, her sitting lone,
Her neck bent like a swan's, her brown eyes thrown
On some sweet poem -- his, I think, who sings
|Oenone, or the hapless Maud: no rings
Flashed from the dainty fingers, which held back
Her beautiful blonde hair. Ah! would these black
Locks of mine own were mingling with it now,
And these warm lips were pressed against her brow!
And, as she turned a page, methought I heard --
Hush! could it be? -- a faintly murmured word,
It was so softly dwelt on -- such a smile
Played on her brow and wreathed her lip the while
That my heart leaped to hear it, and a flame
Burned on my forehead -- Sa'ra! -- 't was my name.
poem by Henry Timrod
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Candlelight
So many bees, who know so much
that only bees can tell,
gave their life’s devotion
to this single source of light;
silent whisper for your attention
to what it has to tell your sight,
before its substance burns, returns
into the upper air…
gently burns on altar, or scented in the bathroom’s grace;
or here in front of you, gentle hypnotist
for the wandering mind;
to which it has so much to tell..
tells of humility; gently burning
in a stable, before a birth;
tells of loving-kindness; gives itself,
yet asks for nothing but to be itself;
tells of worship: worship, first, of what the bees are;
and here in this honey-coloured form
is their own worship;
waxing silent in murmured devotion;
warming miraculously, into liquid wax;
only love can be so liquid;
only love can reach so far;
liquid, warmed into this present light:
the candle’s flame you know so well
yet cannot shape or hold;
already, candle hints to you
that there is that beyond all sense:
for round its light, air’s gently warmed:
drawing the flame itself into the invisible above
like the soul that’s yearning for its homeland;
and beyond, within, that air you cannot see
unless it moves some other thing,
it lights the space – space which is not
bathroom, altar; but all space;
candle tells you of all that;
draws the mind with steady, silent truth
to all creation in a single flame;
flame that asks for naught of you
but your attention; which it will reward
by telling you in stillness,
what you worship in yourself;
the light of self, that shines before all men
and glorifies its maker
like a gentle flame that cannot be put out.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Fall Down Gently
She was only a girl, it was nobodys world
And she told me shed lived for a while
I was only 16 but I knew how to dream
I still dream though its way out of style
Id rather fall down gently
Than never fall down at all
Id rather fall down gently
Than never fall down at all, down at all
We were took by surprise
As we looked at the size
Of the man that we all called the lord
Just between you and me
Well there werent much to see
What with helmet and blood-stained sword
Id rather fall down gently
Than never fall down at all
Id rather fall down gently
Than never fall down at all, down at all
Id rather fall down gently
Than never fall down at all
Id rather fall down gently
Than never fall down at all, down at all
So it was somebodys world
And I was only the girl
And I told you Id be here for a while
cause when youre only 16
And you know how to dream
You keep dreaming til the dreaming gets wild
Id rather fall down gently
Than never fall down at all
Id rather fall down gently
Than never fall down at all
Id rather fall down gently
Than never fall down at all
Id rather fall down gently
Than never fall down at all
Id rather fall down gently
Than never fall down at all
Id rather fall down gently
Than never fall down at all
Id rather fall down gently
Than never fall down at all
Id rather fall down gently
song performed by by Men Without Hats
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Lass Of Cessnock Banks
On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells,
Could I describe her shape and mien!
Our lasses a' she far excels---
An she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!
She's sweeter than the morning dawn,
When rising Phoebus first is seen,
And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn---
An she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!
She's stately like yon youthful ash,
That grows the cowslip braes between,
And drinks the stream with vigour fresh---
An she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!
She's spotless like the flow'ring thorn,
With flow'rs so white and leaves so green,
When purest in the dewy morn---
An she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!
Her looks are like the vernal May,
When ev'ning Phoebus shines serene,
While birds rejoice on every spray---
An she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!
Her hair is like the curling mist,
That climbs the mountain-sides at e'en,
When flower-reviving rains are past---
An she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!
Her forehead's like the show'ry bow,
When gleaming sunbeams intervene,
And gild the distant mountain's brow---
An she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!
Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem,
The pride of all the flowery scene,
Just opening on its thorny stem---
An she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!
Her bosom's like the nightly snow,
When pale the morning rises keen,
While hid the murm'ring streamlets flow---
An she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!
Her lips are like yon cherries ripe,
That sunny walls from Boreas screen:
They tempt the taste and charm the sight
An she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!
Her teeth are like a flock of sheep,
With fleeces newly washen clean,
That slowly mount the rising steep---
An she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!
Her breath is like the fragrant breeze,
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean,
When Phoebus sinks behind the seas---
An she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!
Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush,
That sings on Cessnock banks unseen,
While his mate sits nestling in the bush---
An she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!
But it's not her air, her form, her face,
Tho matching Beauty's fabled Queen:
'Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry grace---
An chiefly in her rogueish een!
poem by Robert Burns
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Elegy, Written In The Year 1758
Still, shall unthinking man substantial deem
The forms that fleet through life's deceitful dream?
On clouds, where Fancy's beam amusive plays,
Shall heedless Hope the towering fabric raise?
Till at Death's touch the fairy visions fly,
And real scenes rush dismal on the eye;
And from Elysium's balmy slumber torn
The startled soul awakes, to think and mourn.
O ye, whose hours in jocund train advance,
Whose spirits to the song of gladness dance,
Who flowery vales in endless view survey
Glittering in beams of visionary day;
O, yet while Fate delays th' impending wo,
Be roused to thought, anticipate the blow;
Lest, like the lightning's glance, the sudden ill
Flash to confound, and penetrate to kill;
Lest, thus encompass'd with funereal gloom,
Like me, ye bend o'er some untimely tomb,
Pour your wild ravings in Night's frighted ear,
And half pronounce Heavens sacred doom severe.
Wise, beauteous, good! O every grace combined,
That charms the eye, or captivates the mind!
Fair as the floweret opening on the morn,
Whose leaves bright drops of liquid pearl adorn!
Sweet, as the downy-pinion'd gale, that roves
To gather fragrance in Arabian groves!
Mild, as the strains, that, at the close of day
Warbling remote, along the vales decay! -
Yet, why with these compared? What tints so fine
What sweetness, mildness, can be match'd with thine?
Why roam abroad? Since still, to fancy's eyes,
I see, I see thy lovely form arise.
Still let me gaze, and every care beguile,
Gaze on that cheek, where all the Graces smile;
That soul-expressing eye, benignly bright,
Where meekness beams ineffable delight;
That brow, where Wisdom sits enthroned serene,
Each feature forms, and dignifies the mien:
Still let me listen, while her words impart
The sweet effusions of the blameless heart,
Till all my soul, each tumult charm'd away,
Yields, gently led, to Virtue's easy sway.
By thee inspired, O Virtue, age is young,
And music warbles from the faltering tongue:
Thy ray creative cheers the clouded brow,
And decks the faded cheek with rosy glow,
Brightens the joyless aspect, and supplies
Pure heavenly lustre to the languid eyes;
But when Youth's living bloom reflects thy beams,
Resistless on the view the glory streams,
Love, Wonder, Joy, alternately alarm,
And Beauty dazzles with angelic charm.
Ah whither fled! - ye dear illusions stay -
Lo, pale and silent lies the lovely clay.
How are the roses on that cheek decay'd,
Which late the purple light of youth display'd!
Health on her form each sprightly grace bestow'd;
With life and thought each speaking feature glow'd -
Fair was the flower, and soft the vernal sky;
Elate with hope, we deem'd no tempest nigh;
When lo, a whirlwind's instantaneous gust
Left all its beauties withering in the dust.
All cold the hand, that soothed Wo's weary head!
And quench'd the eye, the pitying tear that shed!
And mute the voice, whose pleasing accents stole,
Infusing balm, into the rankled soul!
O Death, why arm with cruelty thy power,
And spare the idle weed, yet lop the flower!
Why fly thy shafts in lawless error driven!
Is Virtue then no more the care of Heaven! --
But peace, bold thought! be still my bursting heart!
We, not Eliza , felt the fatal dart.
'Scaped the dark dungeon does the slave complain,
Nor bless the hand that broke the galling chain?
Say, pines not Virtue for the lingering morn,
On this dark wild condemn'd to roam forlorn?
Where Reason's meteor-rays, with sickly glow,
O'er the dun gloom a dreadful glimmering flow?
Disclosing dubious to th' affrighted eye
O'erwhelming mountains tottering from on high,
Black billowy seas in storm perpetual toss'd,
And weary ways in wildering labyrinths lost.
O happy stroke that bursts the bonds of clay,
Darts through the rending gloom the blaze of day,
And wings the soul with boundless flight to soar,
Where dangers threat, and fears alarm no more.
Transporting thought! here let me wipe away
The tear of grief, and wake a bolder lay.
But ah! the swimming eye o'erflows anew,
Nor check the sacred drops to pity due;
Lo, where in speechless, hopeless anguish, bend
O'er her loved dust, the Parent, Brother, Friend!
How vain the hope of man! - But cease thy strain,
Nor Sorrow's dread solemnly profane;
Mix'd with yon drooping Mourners, on her bier
In silence shed the sympathetic tear.
poem by James Beattie
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