No Sorrow Peculiar To The Sufferer
The lover, in melodious verses,
His singular distress rehearses;
Still closing with a rueful cry,
'Was ever such a wretch as I!'
Yes! thousands have endured before
All thy distress; some, haply, more.
Unnumber’d Corydons complain,
And Strephons, of the like disdain;
And if thy Chloe be of steel,
Too deaf to hear, too hard to feel;
Not her alone that censure fits,
Nor thou alone hast lost thy wits.
poem by William Cowper
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The Beggar
Encouraged by thy word
Of promise to the poor;
Behold, a beggar, Lord,
Waits at thy mercy's door!
No hand, no heart, O Lord, but thine,
Can help or pity wants like mine.
The beggar's usual plea
Relief from men to gain,
If offered unto thee,
I know thou would'st disdain:
And pleas which move thy gracious ear,
Are such as men would scorn to hear.
I have no right to say
That though I now am poor,
Yet once there was a day
When I possessed more:
Thou know'st that from my very birth,
I've been the poorest wretch on earth.
Nor can I dare profess,
As beggars often do,
Though great is my distress,
My wants have been but few:
If thou shouldst leave my soul to starve,
It would be what I well deserve.
'Twere folly to pretend
I never begged before;
Or if thou now befriend,
I'll trouble thee no more:
Thou often hast relieved my pain,
And often I must come again.
Though crumbs are much too good
For such a dog as I;
No less than children's food
My soul can satisfy:
O do not frown and bid me go,
I must have all thou canst bestow.
poem by John Newton
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Ch 08 On Rules For Conduct In Life - Maxim 63
It is written in the Evangel: ‘O son of Adam, if I give thee riches, thou wilt turn away from me with mundane cares, and if I make thee poor thou wilt sit down with a sad heart; then where wilt thou enjoy the sweetness of adoring me, and when wilt thou hasten to serve me?’
Sometimes thou art made haughty, and careless by wealth,
Sometimes art in distress from exhaustion and penury.
If thy state be such in joy and in distress,
I know not when thou wilt turn to God from thyself.
Fatima And Raduan
FROM THE SPANISH.
Diamante falso y fingido,
Engastado en pedernal, &c.
'False diamond set in flint! the caverns of the mine
Are warmer than the breast that holds that faithless heart of thine;
Thou art fickle as the sea, thou art wandering as the wind,
And the restless ever-mounting flame is not more hard to bind.
If the tears I shed were tongues, yet all too few would be
To tell of all the treachery that thou hast shown to me.
Oh! I could chide thee sharply--but every maiden knows
That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes.
'Thou hast called me oft the flower of all Grenada's maids,
Thou hast said that by the side of me the first and fairest fades;
And they thought thy heart was mine, and it seemed to every one
That what thou didst to win my love, from love of me was done.
Alas! if they but knew thee, as mine it is to know,
They well might see another mark to which thine arrows go;
But thou giv'st me little heed--for I speak to one who knows
That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes.
'It wearies me, mine enemy, that I must weep and bear
What fills thy heart with triumph, and fills my own with care.
Thou art leagued with those that hate me, and ah! thou know'st I feel
That cruel words as surely kill as sharpest blades of steel.
'Twas the doubt that thou wert false that wrung my heart with pain;
But, now I know thy perfidy, I shall be well again.
I would proclaim thee as thou art--but every maiden knows
That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes.'
Thus Fatima complained to the valiant Raduan,
Where underneath the myrtles Alhambra's fountains ran:
The Moor was inly moved, and blameless as he was,
He took her white hand in his own, and pleaded thus his cause.
'Oh, lady, dry those star-like eyes--their dimness does me wrong;
If my heart be made of flint, at least 'twill keep thy image long;
Thou hast uttered cruel words--but I grieve the less for those,
Since she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes.'
poem by William Cullen Bryant
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Humbled And Silenced By Mercy
Once perishing in blood I lay,
Creatures no help could give,
But Jesus passed me in the way,
He saw, and bid me live.
Though Satan still his rule maintained,
And all his arts employed;
That mighty Word his rage restrained,
I could not be destroyed.
At length the time of love arrived
When I my Lord should know,
Then Satan, of his pow'r deprived,
Was forced to let me go.
O can I e'er that day forget
When Jesus kindly spoke!
Poor soul, my blood has paid thy debt,
And now I break thy yoke.
Henceforth I take thee for my own,
And give myself to thee;
Forsake the idols thou hast known,
And yield thyself to me.
Ah, worthless heart! it promised fair,
And said it would be thine;
I little thought it e'er would dare
Again with idols join.
Lord, dost thou such backslidings heal,
And pardon all that's past?
Sure, if I am not made of steel,
Thou hast prevailed at last.
My tongue, which rashly spoke before,
This mercy will restrain;
Surely I now shall boast no more,
Nor censure, nor complain.
poem by John Newton
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Ch 08 On Rules For Conduct In Life - Admonition 19
Ask not a dervish in poor circumstances, and in the distress of a year of famine, how he feels, unless thou art ready to apply a salve to his wound or to provide him with a maintenance.
When thou seest an ass, fallen in mud with his load,
Have mercy in thy heart and step not on his head.
But when thou hast gone and asked him how he fell,
Gird thy loins and take hold of his tail like a man.
Scandalmonger
Good Morrow gossip art thou well?
Methinks thou hast some news to tell,
what scandal now has reached thine ears.
Must thou believe all that thou hears?
And must thou then embroider it
to make a tastier tidbit.
Thou spreadest rumour cheerfully
shouldst thou not tremble fearfully
Does not thy conscience bother thee.
Art thou so blind thou canst not see,
thy flapping tongue doth cause distress
to honest folk who are helpless.
Against thy tongue there’s no defence.
None can proclaim their innocence.
21-May-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Psalm 107
Those who wander far from God
And find no place to dwell
they begin to hunger and to thirst
As they approach the gates of hell
Then they cried out unto God
In the depths of their distress
He delivered them and set them free
And they thanked Him for His goodness
He satisfies the longing soul
He fills the hungry heart
He gives living water from above
And every soul a brand new start
Those who dwell in darkness
And refuse to hear their God
Their hearts are brought down very low
As they rebel against God's word
Then they cried out unto God
In the depths of their distress
He delivered them and set them free
And they thanked Him for His goodness
He has broken down the gates of bronze
And cut the bars of iron in two
The gates of hell shall not prevent
The Lord and what He has to do
Those who say there is no God
Are fools and are afflicted
Their sins will lead them near to death
Unless they are convicted
Then they cried out unto God
In the depths of their distress
He delivered them and set them free
And they thanked Him for His goodness
Gods children often times are caught
In storms that God did send
They discover that they need Gods help
As they come to their wits end
Then they cried out unto God
In the depths of their distress
He delivered them and set them free
And they thanked Him for His goodness
God hears the cries of those who call
He creates rivers in the barren place
But the proud mans voice is never heard
From them He turns His holy face
poem by Frank McEleny
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Ch 02 The Morals Of Dervishes Story 06
A hermit, being the guest of a padshah, ate less than he wished when sitting at dinner and when he rose for prayers he prolonged them more than was his wont in order to enhance the opinion entertained by the padshah of his piety.
O Arab of the desert, I fear thou wilt not reach the Ka’bah
Because the road on which thou travellest leads to Turkestan.
When he returned to his own house, he desired the table to be laid out for eating. He had an intelligent son who said: ‘Father, hast thou not eaten anything at the repast of the sultan?’ He replied: ‘I have not eaten anything to serve a purpose.’ The boy said: ‘Then likewise say thy prayers again as thou hast not done anything to serve that purpose.’
O thou who showest virtues on the palms of the hand
But concealest thy errors under the armpit
What wilt thou purchase, O vain-glorious fool,
On the day of distress with counterfeit silver?
Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom
Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves, the earliest of ' the year;
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:
And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream,
And lingering pause and lightly tread;
Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead!
Away I we know that tears are vain,
That death nor heeds nor hears distress:
Will this unteach us to complain?
Or make one mourner weep the less?
And thou - who tell'st me to forget,
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
My Thief
When I go to sleep, you become my thief
Why dont you steal what you can keep?
But you wont let me be
You break into my dreams
And every day seems different
Sometimes I pretend youll come back again
And youll console the heart you stole
Have pity on the man
Who knows that you have gone
And has begun to break down
I feel almost possessed
So long as I dont lose this glorious distress then
You can take all I have left
I know its over
If you cant be my lover
Be my thief
Im so drowsy now, Ill unlock the door
What fades in time will hurt much more
So heres that happy scene
Where you come back to me
Its only found in fiction
I feel almost possessed
So long as I dont lose this glorious distress then
You can take all I have left
I know its over
If you cant be my lover
Be my thief
I didnt lead you on,
But there will always be
A little larceny in everyone
So hush and dont you cry
Im trying to be kind
Because I have a perfect alibi
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Oh! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom
I
Oh! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom!
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves, the earliest of the year—
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom—
II
And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream,
And lingering pause, and lightly tread,—
Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!
III
Away! we know that tears are vain,
That death nor heeds nor hears distress—
Will this unteach us to complain?
Or make one mourner weep the less?
And thou—who tell'st me to forget,
Thy looks are wan—thine eyes are wet.
poem by Byron from The Hebrew Melodies (1815)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Ch 05 On Love And Youth Story 10
In the exuberance of youth, as it usually happens and as thou knowest, I was on the closest terms of intimacy with a sweetheart who had a melodious voice and a form beautiful like the moon just rising.
He, the down of whose cheek drinks the water of immortality,
Whoever looks at his sugar lips eats sweetmeats.
I happened to notice something in his behaviour which was contrary to nature and not approved of by me. Accordingly I gathered up my skirt from him and, picking up the pieces of the chess-game of friendship, recited:
‘Go and do as thou listest.
Thou hast not our head; follow thine.’
I heard him saying when he went away:
‘If the bat desires not union with the sun
The beauty of the sun will not decrease.’
Saying this, he departed and his distress took effect on me:
I lost the time of union and man is ignorant
Of the value of delightful life before adversity.
Return. Slay me. For to die in thy presence
Is more sweet than to live after thee.
Thanks be to the bounty of God, he returned some time afterwards but his melodious voice had changed, his Joseph like beauty had faded, on the apple of his skin dust had settled as upon a quince so that the splendour of his beauty had departed. He wanted me to embrace him. I complied and said:
‘On the day when thou hadst a beauteous incipient beard
Thou drovest him, who desired the sight, from thy sight.
Today thou camest to make peace with him
But hast exhibited Fathah and Zammah.
His fresh spring is gone and he has become yellow.
Bring not the kettle because our fire is extinguished.
How long wilt thou strut about, showing arrogance,
Imagining felicity which has elapsed?
Go to him who will purchase thee.
Coquet with him who asks for thee.
They said: “Verdure in the garden is pleasing.”
He knows it who utters these words.
Namely, heartfelt affection for that green line
Fascinates the hearts of lovers more and more.
Thy garden is a bed of leeks.
The more thou weedest it the more they grow.
Whether thou pluckest out thy beard or not
This happiness of youthful days must end.
Had I the power of life as thou of the beard
I would not let it end till resurrection-day.
I asked and said: What has befallen the beauty of thy face
That ants are crawling round the moon?
He replied, smiling: “I know not what is the matter with my face.
Perhaps it wears black as mourning for my beauty.”’
Will Ye Also Go Away?
When any turn from Zion's way,
(Alas! what numbers do!)
Methinks I hear my Saviour say,
Wilt thou forsake me too?
Ah Lord! with such a heart as mine,
Unless thou hold me fast;
I feel I must, I shall decline,
And prove like them at last.
Yet thou alone hast pow'r, I know,
To save a wretch like me;
To whom, or whither, could I go,
If I should turn from thee?
Beyond a doubt I rest assured
Thou art the Christ of God;
Who hast eternal life secured
By promise and by blood.
The help of men and angels joined,
Could never reach my case;
Nor can I hope relief to find,
But in thy boundless grace.
No voice but thine can give me rest,
And bid my fears depart;
No love but thine can make me blest,
And satisfy my heart.
What anguish has that question stirred,
If I will also go?
Yet, Lord, relying on thy word,
I humbly answer, No!
poem by John Newton
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To Chloe Jealous
Dear Chloe, how blubber'd is that pretty face;
Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurl'd:
Prythee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says)
Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world.
How canst thou presume, thou hast leave to destroy
The beauties, which Venus but lent to thy keeping?
Those looks were design'd to inspire love and joy:
More ord'nary eyes may serve people for weeping.
To be vext at a trifle or two that I writ,
Your judgment at once, and my passion you wrong:
You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit:
Odds life! must one swear to the truth of a song?
What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows
The diff'rence there is betwixt nature and art:
I court others in verse; but I love thee in prose:
And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart.
The god of us verse-men (you know, child) the Sun,
How after his journeys he sets up his rest:
If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run;
At night he declines on his Thetis's breast.
So when I am wearied with wand'ring all day,
To thee my delight in the evening I come:
No matter what beauties I saw in my way;
They were but my visits, but thou art my home.
Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war;
And let us like Horace and Lydia agree:
For thou art a girl as much brighter than her,
As he was a poet sublimer than me.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Sonnet XXII. To Simplicity
O! I do love thee, meek Simplicity!
For of thy lays the lulling simpleness
Goes to my heart, and soothes each small distress--
Distress tho' small, yet haply great to me!
'Tis true, on Lady Fortune's gentlest pad
I amble on; yet tho' I know not why,
So sad I am! but should a friend and I
Grow cool and miff, O! I am very sad!
And then with sonnets and with sympathy
My dreamy bosom's mystic woes I pall;
Now of my false friend plaining plaintively,
Now raving at mankind in general:
But whether sad or fierce, 'tis simple all,
All very simple, meek Simplicity.
poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Element of Coalesce
One has distress
Another’s got a hopeless longing
There exists such sorrow
Our precious treasured element
“Affection”
Life would be so valuable
To know that every personal you’d pass by
Is embracing you in their heart
Alluring you with a warm smile day after day
One has distress
Another’s got a hopeless longing
There exists such sorrow
Our precious treasured element
“Connection”
If you were to come across a girl in deep sorrow,
What would you do?
If you have distress, what can you do?
Would being there for her be enough to divulge the light?
For the first time, I feel like I didn’t say enough
Don’t stop breathing, this is only the beginning
I can’t keep swimming in this bitter world, knowing that you’re alone
I hate what the world’s done to you, to I, to us
One has distress
Another’s got a hopeless longing
There exists such sorrow
Our precious treasured element
“Love”
Look closely on the floor, you’ll see with your own eyes
The path that we took all those years to get here has already disintegrated
poem by Aiden Florence
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To His Lute
MY lute, awake! perform the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
And end that I have now begun;
For when this song is said and past,
My lute, be still, for I have done.
As to be heard where ear is none,
As lead to grave in marble stone,
My song may pierce her heart as soon:
Should we then sing, or sigh, or moan?
No, no, my lute! for I have done.
The rocks do not so cruelly
Repulse the waves continually,
As she my suit and affectiòn;
So that I am past remedy:
Whereby my lute and I have done.
Proud of the spoil that thou hast got
Of simple hearts thorough Love's shot,
By whom, unkind, thou hast them won;
Think not he hath his bow forgot,
Although my lute and I have done.
Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain,
That makest but game of earnest pain:
Trow not alone under the sun
Unquit to cause thy lover's plain,
Although my lute and I have done.
May chance thee lie wither'd and old
The winter nights that are so cold,
Plaining in vain unto the moon:
Thy wishes then dare not be told:
Care then who list! for I have done.
And then may chance thee to repent
The time that thou has lost and spent
To cause thy lover's sigh and swoon:
Then shalt thou know beauty but lent,
And wish and want as I have done.
Now cease, my lute! this is the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
And ended is that we begun:
Now is this song both sung and past--
My lute, be still, for I have done.
poem by Sir Thomas Wyatt
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WoULd YoU CaRE iF i.....
i look at myself, falling apart, such a mess
so when I cry out of distress
don’t act like your deaf
would you care if I left?
would you care if I died?
would you care if you seen all the tears I have cried?
so if u see me today and not tomorrow
don’t feel sorrow
cuz even if I burn in hell
id be better off, so oh well….
but i ask you this
what will you miss?
what will reminded you of me?
a photo? Something you see?
a special lyric?
so lets hear it…
it just may be the only thing left behind
it will have to do, cuz, I cant handle this im going out of my f-cking mind
poem by tHeNameLeSs23drea Andrea Rivera
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Her Majesty Deception-The Governess
realities are thousands of skies
reflected in thousands of eyes
closing down because of too much light
blinking helplessly relentlessly
each blink entitled to its own sight
truely blind
mistaken mind
mere reflections of singular needs
mirroring themselves within an otherness
ashes of words where each lie feeds
Her Majesty Deception-The Governess
inspired by Carl Gustav Jung
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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WoULd YoU CaRE iF i.....
WoULd YoU CaRE iF i.....
i look at myself, falling apart, such a mess
so when I cry out of distress
don’t act like your deaf
would you care if I left?
would you care if I died?
would you care if you seen all the tears I have cried?
so if u see me today and not tomorrow
don’t feel sorrow
cuz even if I burn in hell
id be better off, so oh well….
but i ask you this
what will you miss?
what will reminded you of me?
a photo? Something you see?
a special lyric?
so lets hear it…
it just may be the only thing left behind
it will have to do, because, I cant handle this im going out of my f-cking mind
poem by Andrea Rivera
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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