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Love In The Age Of Chivalry

FROM PEYRE VIDAL, THE TROUBADOUR.

The earth was sown with early flowers,
The heavens were blue and bright--
I met a youthful cavalier
As lovely as the light.
I knew him not--but in my heart
His graceful image lies,
And well I marked his open brow,
His sweet and tender eyes,
His ruddy lips that ever smiled,
His glittering teeth betwixt,
And flowing robe embroidered o'er,
With leaves and blossoms mixed.
He wore a chaplet of the rose;
His palfrey, white and sleek,
Was marked with many an ebon spot,
And many a purple streak;
Of jasper was his saddle-bow,
His housings sapphire stone,
And brightly in his stirrup glanced
The purple calcedon.
Fast rode the gallant cavalier,
As youthful horsemen ride;
'Peyre Vidal! know that I am Love,'
The blooming stranger cried;
'And this is Mercy by my side,
A dame of high degree;
This maid is Chastity,' he said,
'This squire is Loyalty.'

poem by William Cullen Bryant
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Blossoms and My Love

The unusual winter warmth,
Has brought the spring fever in the nature and in my heart,
The pink, purple and white blossoms are blooming all around,
just reminding me of your warm and sensuous loving heart.

How can I compare your beauty with the spring blossoms?
In red blossoms, I see your luscious red lips,
In white blossoms, I see your beautiful body,
The purple blossoms, reminds me of the depth of your eyes,

Closer I get to the blossoms,
closer I get to the God's intricate creation,
Closer I get to your loving affection,
closer I watch the heavenly smiles on your lips.

Under the blossoming tree I walk,
the fragrance fills my love yearning heart,
When I hug you with my sincere love,
your sweet 'I love you' words, fills me with eternal love.

poem by Jay P Narain
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3 Three

A purple envelope
With a purple card inside
Fell out from the book
I took out from the shelf

Three purple flowers
Neatly pressed and glued
On the purple card
Smiled a weary smile

Slanted flowery letters
Flowing across the page...

'Throw open the curtains
Of the window of your heart
To let the sunshine dance
With the purple flowers...
Love you for ever.....!
03-03-03'

poem by Rowving Smith
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To A Beautiful Child On Her Birthday With A Wreath Of Flowers

Whilst others give thee wond’rous toys,
Or jewels rich and rare,
I bring but flowers—more meet are they
For one so young and fair.

’Tis not because that snowy brow
Might with the lily vie,
Or violet match the starry glance
Of that dark, lustrous eye;

Nor yet because a brighter blush
E’en rose leaf never wore,
But ’tis that in their leaves lies hid
A rare and mystic lore.

And with its aid I now shall form
A wreath of flow’rets wild—
Graceful, and full of meaning sweet,
To deck thy brow, fair child!

The primrose, first, the emblem fit
Of budding, early youth;
The daisy in whose leaves we read
Pure innocence and truth.

The rosebud, sign of youthful charms,
We well may give to thee,
And with it join the sweet frail leaves
Of the shrinking sensitive tree.

And, tribute to thy modesty,
The violet emblem meet,—
Itself concealing, yet on all
Shedding its perfume sweet.

And for thy kind and gentle heart
We bring the jessamine,
To twine with ivy, ever green—
True friendship’s sacred sign.

Thy wreath is formed—of blossoms bright
I’ve twined each link, and, yet,
Another flower I still must add,
The fragrant mignonnette,

Which says “However great the charms
That to thy lot may fall
Thy qualities of heart and mind
By far surpass them all.”

Aye, be it thus, and ever may
This lovely wreath, as now—
Emblem of every precious gift—
Be fit to deck thy brow.

But, last and dearest, ’mid the buds
Of that bright varied lot
Must ever be, my gentle child,
The sweet forget-me-not!

poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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A Perfect Strain

O BID the minstrel tune his harp,
And bid the minstrel sing;
And let it be a perfect strain
That round the hall shall ring:
A strain to throb in lady's heart,
To brim the warrior's soul,
As dew fills up the summer rose
And wine the lordly bowl!

O let the minstrel's voice ring clear,
His touch sweep gay and light;
Nor let his glittering tresses know
One streak of wintry white.
And let the light of ruddy June
Shine in his joyous eyes,
If he would wake the only strain
That never fully dies!

O what the strain that woos the knight
To turn from steed and lance,
The page to turn from hound and hawk,
The maid from lute and dance;
The potent strain, that nigh would draw
The hermit from his cave,
The dryad from the leafy oak,
The mermaid from the wave;
That almost might still charm the hawk
To drop the trembling dove?
O ruddy minstrel, tune thy harp,
And sing of Youthful Love!

poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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The Grand Seigneur

To the hut of the peasant, or lordly hall,
To the heart of the king, or humblest thrall,
Sooner or late, love comes to all,
And it came to the Grand Seigneur, my dear,
It came to the Grand Seigneur.

The robins were singing a roundelay,
And the air was sweet with the breath of May,
As a horseman rode thro' the forest way,
And he was a Grand Seigneur, my dear,
He was a grand Seigneur.

Lord of the Manor, Count Bellefontaine,
Had spurr'd over many a stormy plain
With gallants of France at his bridle rein,
For he was a brave Cavalier, my dear--
He was a brave Cavalier.

But the huntsman's daughter, La Belle Marie,
Held the Knight's proud heart in captivity,
And oh! she was fair as the fleur de lys,
Tho' only a peasant maid, my dear,
Only a peasant maid.

Thro' the woodland depths on his charger grey
To the huntsman's cottage he rides away,
And the maiden lists to a tale to-day
That haughtiest dame might hear, my dear,
That haughtiest dame might hear.

But she cried 'Alas! it may never be,
For my heart is pledged to the young Louis,
And I love him, O Sire, so tenderly,
Tho' he's only a poor Chasseur, my Lord,
Only a poor Chasseur.'

'Enough,' spake the Knight with a courtly bow,
'Be true to thy lover and maiden vow,
For virtue like thine is but rare, I trow,
And farewell to my dream of love, and thee,
Farewell to my dream of thee.'

And they say the gallant Count Bellefontaine
Bestowed on the couple a rich domain,
But you never may hear such tale again,
For he was a Grand Seigneur, my dear,
He was a Grand Seigneur!

poem by William Henry Drummond
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The Blossoms On The Trees

Blossoms crimson, white, or blue,
Purple, pink, and every hue,
From sunny skies, to tintings drowned
In dusky drops of dew,
I praise you all, wherever found,
And love you through and through--;
But, Blossoms On The Trees,
With your breath upon the breeze
There's nothing all the world around
As half as sweet as you!

Could the rhymer only wring
All the sweetness to the lees
Of all the kisses clustering
In juicy Used-to-bes,
To dip his rhymes therein and sing
The blossoms on the trees--,
'O Blossoms on the Trees,'
He would twitter, trill, and coo,
'However sweet, such songs as these
Are not as sweet as you--:
For you are blooming melodies
The eyes may listen to!'

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Old Scotish Cavalier

I.

Come listen to another song,
Should make your heart beat high,
Bring crimson to your forehead,
And the lustre to your eye;-
It is a song of olden time,
Of days long since gone by,
And of a Baron stout and bold
As e'er wore sword on thigh!
Like a brave old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!

II.

He kept his castle in the north,
Hard by the thundering Spey;
And a thousand vassals dwelt around
All of his kindred they.
And not a man of all that clan
Had ever ceased to pray
For the Royal race they loved so well,
Though exiled far away
From the steadfast Scottish cavaliers,
All of the olden time!

III.

His father drew the righteous sword
For Scotland and her claims,
Among the loyal gentlemen
And chiefs of ancient names
Who swore to fight or fall beneath
The standard of King James,
And died at Killiecrankie pass
With the glory of the Graemes;
Like a true old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!

IV.

He never owned the foreign rule,
No master he obeyed,
But kept his clan in peace at home,
From foray and from raid;
And when they asked him for his oath,
He touched his glittering blade,
And pointed to his bonnet blue,
That bore the white cockade:
Like a leal old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!

V.

At length the news ran through the land-
THE PRINCE had come again!
That night the fiery cross was sped
O'er mountain and through glen;
And our old Baron rose in might,
Like a lion from his den,
And rode away across the hills
To Charlie and his men,
With the valiant Scottish cavaliers,
All of the olden time!

VI.

He was the first that bent the knee
When the STANDARD waved abroad,
He was the first that charged the foe
On Preston's bloody sod;
And ever, in the van of fight,
The foremost still he trod,
Until, on bleak Culloden's heath,
He gave his soul to God,
Like a good old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!

VII.

Oh! never shall we know again
A heart so stout and true-
The olden times have passed away,
And weary are the new:
The fair White Rose has faded
From the garden where it grew,
And no fond tears save those of heaven
The glorious bed bedew
Of the last old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!

poem by William Edmondstoune Aytoun
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Fade To Purple

As if Im sitting on purple clouds
Covered in purple shrouds
Singing purple kissed melodies loud
The Purple Master himself would be proud

Gifted, these fragrant purple flowers
Soaking wet, drenched from purple showers
Lifted, high high high atop purple towers

Yet as I walk through purple haze rooms
Filled with purple phased fumes
Im enlightened by the purple tazed blooms
Purple vibes that remove crazed glooms

Hungry I appetize on purple wood blunts
To then feast upon a purple smoke lunch
Break bread, along with the purple grape bunch
Fade To Purple To Get Me Through The Crunch

poem by Jamie Ellen Christian
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Red Lips, Blue Eyes, Little White Lies

(kostas/brent moyer)
Red lips, blue eyes and little white lies
Oh darlin Im a fool for you
Hey darlin why cant you can be true
Red lips, blue eyes and sweet disguise
Oh darlin the things you put me through
Your little white lies are breaking my heart in two
You come around and tell me that you love me so
You take a little loving then you say you gotta go
I know hes waiting for you on the other side of town
Well Im a fool to love you baby cause I know youre messing around
Red lips, blue eyes and little white lies
Oh darlin why cant you be true
Im crazy to love you baby you know I do, yeah
Sooner or later youll have to face the truth
Little white lies will catch up with you
With nowhere to run and no where to hide
And no one to love you there by your side
Red lips, blue eyes and little white lies
Oh darlin the things you put me through
But your little white lies are gonna catch up with you
Oh your little white lies are gonna catch up with you
Baby your little white lies are gonna catch up with you

song performed by by Gary Allan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Lovely Lavender Day

Purple, everything purple, purple
the colour I love, everything packaged
in purple – tile cleaner in a purple
container for lavender sweetness

Also power-cleaning cream for lavender-
fresh effects, the bottle appealing in a
soft purple hue, fabric conditioner in purple
too, accompanied by lavender promises

And my purple hot water bottle – I bought
Nici a purple fleece; a purple coverlet
on my bed, my favourite chocolate in a
purple wrapper

Purple is spiritual in the division of
seven chakra colours – red is earthed in
primitive desire, followed by orange, yellow,
green – the colour of love – and

Blue – the colour of communication, then
purple for third-eye enlightenment - purple
adds lustre and the sweetness of vague
mistiness to everything on which it appears;

Wishing you a lovely lavender day
in all hues of purple and blue!

poem by Margaret Alice
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The Color Purple

a friend of mine is obsessed with purple
she says it's a royal color
fits for kings and queens
and she feels like a princess
on her purple hair
her purple dress
and purple bra and
purple shoes
the walls of her house are painted
the railings of the stairs
the windows
the doors are all purple now
the flowers in her garden
and the leaves of her trees
the grass
all purple too
her speech is purple too
the movies she watch are all in the shade of purple
her car turned purple too
royal color that is what she says

i tell her bluntly, ' You are boring, purple! '

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Under the Purple Flowers

In the purple flowers’ shade
You kissed me the first kiss.
The moon lit its light of jade;
The cicadas sang their song of bliss.

Then, time passed fast and blind;
You went to your studies above
Leaving the purple flowers behind
With such a dreamlike love.

In each letter sent to the old place
You said you still missed this start
With the purple flowers of grace
And this young and true heart.

I have come back each day alone
To see the old flowers obsess
And hear the cicadas groan;
I feel such a vague distress.

I have nurtured my pastoral love
Now that summer is back to see
With the purple flowers above
I am an amorous banyan tree.

poem by ThanhThanh NhuanLe
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Uhland's

There were three cavaliers that went over the Rhine,
And gayly they called to the hostess for wine.
"And where is thy daughter? We would she were here,--
Go fetch us that maiden to gladden our cheer!"

"I'll fetch thee thy goblets full foaming," she said,
"But in yon darkened chamber the maiden lies dead."
And lo! as they stood in the doorway, the white
Of a shroud and a dead shrunken face met their sight.

Then the first cavalier breathed a pitiful sigh,
And the throb of his heart seemed to melt in his eye,
And he cried, "Hadst thou lived, O my pretty white rose,
I ween I had loved thee and wed thee--who knows?"

The next cavalier drew aside a small space,
And stood to the wall with his hands to his face;
And this was the heart-cry that came with his tears:
"I loved her, I loved her these many long years!"

But the third cavalier kneeled him down in that place,
And, as it were holy, he kissed that dead face:
"I loved thee long years, and I love thee to-day,
And I'll love thee, dear maiden, forever and aye!"

poem by Eugene Field
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Little Poem About Petunia

Purple, as in flowers,
Has an after image of blue
Such that, spreading out from petunia,
One has to check,
If there's a blue bud behind it
Or but the magical quality of
Expansive purple hue.

Magic always comforts me,
(Even if a treatise on optics
Such phenomena might explain) .
If purple can send a bolt
Of blue lightning to my eye
Then I don't have to live flattened,
Heart-crushed and bored silly
By the grey of the limiting,
The soul-deadening mundane.

poem by Jan Freundschuh
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Carnations in the garden

There are carnations in the garden
in colours of ruby red,
pure white and blossom pink
and some pink with deep purple inside
and others purple-blue.

I smell the sweet fresh flowers
and look at colours
hue as if by magic
into each other.

Some grow in flowering pots,
some are planted in flowerbeds,
others even in the rock garden

and the flowers at places are mixed
to catch the eye
and everywhere there’s care
and a lot of love
that went into the tending of it.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Riding Home

Who are these that go to the high peaks and the snow?
Side by side do they ride, their steady eyes aglow.
Gallant gentlemen, they go spurring o'er the plain;
Home from the war again.

As they pass without a sound, there is many a red wound.
Oh, pale they are and faint they are, these warriors renowned!
Yet smiling all together in the calm sweet weather,
As they ride home together.

Where the white bed is spread and the feast is set afar
And the welcome awaits and the door stands ajar,
Those who droop to the saddle-bow they shall have rest enow,
Quiet and rest enow.

Like leaves of a wood vast their numbers as they passed,
Like winds in the pines their horses speeding fast;
And spent with victory their haggard faces be,
As they ride fast and free.

Some will meet and greet them as they leap to the ground
With soft cries, wet eyes, and fond arms around;
Lead them in to begin New Life, to which all loves
Home like a flock of doves.

poem by Katharine Tynan
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A Flower To Auroville Mother-42

Wallich Geranium(Geranium wallichianum)
Geranium Buxton Blue(Geranium wallichianum 'Buxton Blue')
Roundleaf Geranium(Geranium rotundifolium)
Small Geranium(Geranium pusillum)
Trailing Geranium(Geranium procurrens)
Meadow Cranesbill, Meadow Geranium(Geranium pratense)
Black Eyed Geranium(Geranium ocellatum)
Nepal Geranium(Geranium nepalense)
Himalayan Geranium(Lilac Cranesbill, Geranium himalayense)
Don's Geranium(Geranium donianum)

Alike and similar somewhat, somewhat
Hey, geraniums, such halcyon breeze
You colour along with dulcet delight
While the Himalayas proudly greets
In acceptance welcoming me thereat
How do I thank you in great words
When I'm wordless with wonder-heart

O'Wallich of rose-pink and red-purple
O' Buxton Blue of opal or angel-blue
O'Roundleaf Geranium of pale purple
O'Small Geranium of rosy pink hue
O'Trailing Geranium of pinkish purple
Of leaves similar, hairy sparse so true
So true mercy hearts hearty yours all

O'Meadow Geranium purplish red and white
O'Black Eyed Geranium black eyed purple
O'Nepal Geranium wild and small and white
O'Himalayan Geranium blue and beautiful
O'Don's Geranium pinkish purple and sweet
Of herbs and veins similar and beautiful
So true mercy hearts hearty yours sweet

poem by Indira Renganathan
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Love's Rose

I.
Hopes, that swell in youthful breasts,
Live not through the waste of time!
Love’s rose a host of thorns invests;
Cold, ungenial is the clime,
Where its honours blow.
Youth says, ‘The purple flowers are mine,’
Which die the while they glow.

II.
Dear the boon to Fancy given,
Retracted whilst it’s granted:
Sweet the rose which lives in Heaven,
Although on earth ’tis planted,
Where its honours blow,
While by earth’s slaves the leaves are riven
Which die the while they glow.

III.
Age cannot Love destroy,
But perfidy can blast the flower,
Even when in most unwary hour
It blooms in Fancy’s bower.
Age cannot Love destroy,
But perfidy can rend the shrine
In which its vermeil splendours shine.

poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Robert the Bruce

Meditation you and to it barges are pulled out parades
and mediate your purple reigned will
shrouded too you comes the effervescent rain
and glands alive deep inside
the brain one half or to your it's other
live and let live but to die
far a slice of English pie, curried in favor
the sun when it rises the hill covered top
full with, 'Robert the Bruce she keeps full with snow
when it melts whom but the keeper must know
and i will but a will made of old yellow paper
and roads well known when I changed
and lines drawn out not in sand but in minds
are they kept as the tide moving out can come in
is more land made thus simple with machines
and sea walls of dark stone where none there were
mixed with shell and cypress for color
and purple thick cedar is Caesars a barge
where it rests it is marked, marked naught the sea.
as Sara, her gown how it glows................

poem by Is It Poetry
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Kingdom of Love

In the dawn of the day when the sea and the earth
Reflected the sunrise above,
I set forth with a heart full of courage and mirth
To seek for the Kingdom of Love.
I asked of a Poet I met on the way
Which cross-road would lead me aright.
And he said: "Follow me, and not long you shall see
Its glittering turrets of light."

And soon in the distance a city shone fair,
"Look yonder," he said; "how it gleams!"
But alas! for the hopes that were doomed to despair,
It was only the "Kingdom of Dreams."
Then the next man I asked was a gay Cavalier,
And he said: "Follow me, follow me;"
And with laughter and song we went speeding along
By the shores of Life's beautiful sea.

Then we came to a valley more tropical far
Than the wonderful vale of Cashmere,
And I saw from a bower a face like a flower
Smile out on the gay Cavalier.
And he said: "We have come to humanity's goal:
Here love and delight are intense."
But alas and alas! for the hopes of my soul
It was only the "Kingdom of Sense."

As I journeyed more slowly I met on the road
A coach with retainers behind.
And they said: "Follow me, for our Lady's abode
Belongs in that realm, you will find."
'Twas a grand dame of fashion, a newly made bride,
I followed, encouraged and bold;
But my hopes died away like the last gleams of day,
For we came to the "Kingdom of Gold."

At the door of a cottage I asked a fair maid.
"I have heard of that realm," she replied;
"But my feet never roam from the "Kingdom of Home,"
So I know not the way," and she sighed.
I looked on the cottage; how restful it seemed!
And the maid was as fair as a dove.
Great light glorified my soul as I cried:
"Why home is the 'Kingdom of Love!'"

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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