The Convent
If chance some pensive stranger, hither led,
His bosom glowing from majestic views,
Temple and tower 'mid the bright landscape's hues,
Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bed?
A maid of sorrow. To the cloistered scene,
Unknown and beautiful a mourner came,
Seeking with unseen tears to quench the flame
Of hapless love: yet was her look serene
As the pale moonlight in the midnight aisle;--
Her voice was gentle and a charm could lend,
Like that which spoke of a departed friend;
And a meek sadness sat upon her smile!--
Now, far removed from every earthly ill,
Her woes are buried, and her heart is still.
poem by William Lisle Bowles
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XII. Written at a Convent.
IF chance some pensive stranger, hither led,
His bosom glowing from majestic views,
The gorgeous dome, or the proud landscape's hues,
Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bed --
'Tis poor Matilda! To the cloister'd scene,
A mourner, beauteous and unknown, she came,
To shed her tears unseen; and quench the flame
Of fruitless love: yet was her look serene
As the pale midnight on the moon-light isle --
Her voice was soft, which e'en a charm could lend,
Like that which spoke of a departed friend,
And a meek sadness sat upon her smile!
Now here remov'd from ev'ry human ill,
Her woes are buried, and her heart is still.
poem by William Lisle Bowles
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Under The Moonlight
Under this moonlight I know I have no chance with you,
You look at me with such sadness,
Those eyes put me under a spell,
A spell I can not break,
Such sorrow,
Under the moonlight,
You glow with such beauty,
Your smile,
Your laughter,
Your touch,
How I miss those,
My eyes feel with tears,
Such sadness,
You can not bare to ignore,
Under this moonlight,
You say I look beautiful,
You look at me as if we were to kiss under this moonlight,
I can feel your hands all around me,
You speak to me with soften words,
You wisper in my ears,
Under the moonlight,
You shine like the sun,
You made me happy till the day you left me with a broken promise,
A broken heart,
Under this moonlight,
I cried for you,
A soften words you can not hear,
Something that I rather leave behind,
Something you and I don't belong,
Under the moonlight,
We say our goodbyes.
poem by Jennifer Rondeau
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The Last Rose Of Summer
That strain again? It seems to tell
Of something like a joy departed;
I love its mourning accents well,
Like voice of one, ah! broken-hearted.
That note that pensive dies away,
And can each answering thrill awaken,
It sadly, wildly, seems to say,
Thy meek heart mourns its truth forsaken.
Or there was one who never more
Shall meet thee with the looks of gladness,
When all of happier life was o'er,
When first began thy night of sadness.
Sweet mourner, cease that melting strain,
Too well it suits the grave's cold slumbers;
Too well the heart that loved in vain
Breathes, lives, and weeps in those wild numbers.
poem by Charles Wolfe
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Sonnet to Hope
O, ever skilled to wear the form we love!
To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart;
Come, gentle Hope! with one gay smile remove
The lasting sadness of an aching heart.
Thy voice, benign Enchantress! let me hear;
Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom,--
That Fancy's radiance, Friendship's precious tear,
Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune's gloom.
But come not glowing in the dazzling ray,
Which once with dear illusions charm'd my eye,--
O! strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way
The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die;
Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast,
That asks not happiness, but longs for rest!
poem by Helen Maria Williams
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Sorrow Celebrated
Heaviness of the moment braces itself
The feel of loss utterly serene desolate
Lack lustre thoughts deeply breathed
In soulful memory of dear departed
It is sorrow celebrated in deed, in feel
Cannot be seen again, nor heard out
Grim sadness is loss, a personal one
My loss is mine and mine alone
Unseen or seen can judge
Is sorrow celebrated in thought, in heart?
A face so bright, involved to end
A heart too kind too bent to mend
So warm the feel it made to reel
Unsaid some words my ego squeals
My sorrow celebrated with unseen tears
So many thoughts so many things
In form and mind does memory bring
A struggle through that had no end
Pain in soul now streaks defend
Why does sorrow celebrate so grandly?
poem by Aryaindia India
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Mel..Nad..In My Daughters Eyes
In Both My Daughters Eyes
You two came out of heaven to make happiness dear.
To smile away the sorrow and kiss away the tears.
You became a strength and an everlasting glory,
Your beautiful face and beautiful smile tells a story.
You are God's miracle and the future was in your eye.
That did many a resuce gave the power to fly high.
Your ever glowing stlye brightened the darkened days.
a helping hand you never did hesitate, come what may.
Generation Gap didnt matter as friends we became a team.
Your heart pure with sweetness of love an overflowing stream...
The differences disputes we shared never did us break,
Memories precious and our wondrous days we did make.
As a friend, teacher, sister and motherly hand you lend..
To rest a weary head on your youthful gentle lap till the end.
Create Date: Saturday, April 17,2010
poem by Shirani Ibrahim
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N. P. Rogers
Rogers, will not future story
Tell thy glorious fame?
And in hues of living glory
Robe thy spotless name?
There was more than mortal seeming
In thy wondrous eye,--
Like a silv'ry star-ray gleaming
Through a liquid _sky_.
Of that angel spirit telling,
Noble, clear and bright,
In thy 'inner temple' dwelling,
Veiled from mortal sight!
Of that spirit meek and lowly,
Yet so bold and free,
In its all-absorbing, holy,
Love of Liberty.
Thou didst leave us, gentle brother,
In thy manhood's pride;
And we vainly seek another
Heart so true and tried!
Thou art dwelling with the angels
In the spirit land!
Chanting low and sweet evangels,
'Mid a seraph band.
But when Freedom's champions rally
'Gainst the despot's sway,
Then they mourn the friend and ally
That has passed away.
And when Liberty's bright banner
Waves o'er land and sea,
And is heard the loud hosanna
Of the ransomed free,--
On its silken folds, in letters
Traced with diamond bright,
Shall thy name, the foe of fetters,
Blaze in hues of light!
poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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Lines To The Memory Of A Very Amiable Young Lady, Who Died At The Age Of Eighteen
AT length, departed saint! thy pangs are o'er,
And earthly suff'ring shall be thine no more;
Like some young rose-bud, blighted in its May,
Thy virtues bloom'd, to wither soon away!
Around thy grave let Spring her off'ring strew,
Her drooping lilies, bath'd in fragrant dew;
Emblems of thee, thou sweet, lamented maid;
Thou spotless lily, doom'd so soon to fade!
Angelic sweetness, piety refin'd,
Within thy gentle bosom were enshrin'd.
Thy heav'nly mind display'd, in early youth,
The fairest blossom of celestial truth—
How oft, sweet girl! thy soothing tears would flow,
In sacred sympathy with others' woe!
Yet Patience taught thee to sustain thy own,
Suppress the sigh, and hush the rising moan;
'Midst anguish, still to wear the placid mien,
Mild Resignation's smile and look serene!
Ye who have watch'd beside the mournful bed,
And rais'd, with anxious care, the languid head;
Gaz'd on the pallid cheek, the faded eye,
And heard the breathings of the parting sigh;
Ye who have mourn'd a sister's early doom,
Or bent in sorrow o'er a daughter's tomb;
Oh! weep for those, who sadly now deplore,
The fate, the virtues, of the maid no more.
What pow'r can sooth a tender parent's grief,
Or bring the friend's, the sister's woes relief?
Religion pure, ineffably divine,
Angel of peace, that heav'nly pow'r is thine,
Though spreading glooms the beam of joy may shroud,
Still, still thy rainbow brightens in the cloud;
Dispels the mist of error and of night,
Till fairer prospects open on the sight;
The blissful regions of eternal rest,
The calm, Elysian mansions of the blest.
—There too, each pang, each earthly suff'ring o'er,
Her gentle spirit soars, to weep no more!
'Mourn not for me,' the happy seraph cries,
'Exulting, lo! I gain my native skies!
A golden harp enraptur'd now I bear,
A wreath of bright, unfading palms I wear!
Mourn not for me, escap'd from ev'ry woe!
I gaze with pity, on the scenes below!
And bless the hour, when, freed from mortal clay,
My spirit mounted to the realms of day!
Oh! think, when past, a few eventful years,
Of toil and sorrow in the vale of tears;
Then shall we meet, releas'd from ev'ry pain,
Then shall we meet—nor ever part again!'
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Image worship
Why mounts my blood to cheek and brow,
Like an ascending flame,
Whene'er from careless lips I hear
The accents of thy name?
Why, when my idle fancy seeks
Some pictured form to trace,
Beneath my pencil still will grow
The features of thy face?
Why comes thy haunting shadow thus
Between the world and me,
To bind my spirit with a charm
That blinds to all but thee?
To bid me watch thine upward course,
Thy path from mine so far;
As earth, 'mid all the hosts of heaven,
Watches the polar star?
Thy cold and polished courtesy,
Each look and tone of thine,
Might well have roused the woman's pride
In duller souls than mine.
They tell me, too, thy heart is light, --
That more than once thou'st loved;
And 'mid all flowers of loveliness
That bee-like thou hast roved.
Why is it, then, while o'er thy heart
There comes no thought of me,
The good, the true, the beautiful,
All speak to me of thee?
Think'st thou 'tis what the world calls love,
Love that return is seeking?
No -- I would scorn a love I sought,
Although my heart were breaking.
It is because within the human heart
There is an altar to an Unknown God,
Who from the gods of this world dwells apart,
And in the Unseen, the Unreal, has his abode.
This disembodied thought the soul pursues,
And seeking in the visible a sign,
She moulds an image, like the apostate Jews,
And sets her idol on the vacant shrine.
Thus worshipped once an Indian maid the sun;
Thus was an Arab boy won by a star;
Thus loved a maid of France the god in stone;
And thus did Numa love a shape of air.
What were the sun, the star, the god, to them,
The fond idolators! thou art to me;
And rapturous as a poet's earliest dream,
Is the sweet worship that I give to thee.
The world around me is so dark and cold,
Life hath for me such draughts of bitter sadness,
Oh, bid me not the mocking Real behold!
Oh, wake me not from this delicious madness!
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Diamonds Sparkle 0595 Current Version
Mined diamonds sparkle in bright light's reflection
Although no such distinction may one glean
Uncut, when, buried, beauty's sheen's unseen.
Destined love links minds, finds fond affection,
Evolves above what natural selection
Could create through stray mutating gene.
Music in one voice joy's choice has been
Attracted through predestined web, election
Unlooked for, an ethereal subjection.
Devoid of chance, one glance gleamed on life's screen.
EGO SUM who follows fate unseen.
Choice smiles, I am! that is my soul connection,
Means where our dream is care within one name,
Charm came whose flame fast put past fame to shame.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Prayer Contemplating Final Farewells
Most Compassionate Heart
Who created love as the mystical essence
That sustains the universe,
Be with us in the lonely hour
Of final farewells,
At the moment
When we must acquiesce
To contemplate
The beautiful eyes
Of a friend or loved one
For which we will never
Gaze into again,
The hands that will no longer
Clasp ours in kind unity,
The loving voice stilled
From which we found
Pleasure and solace,
The brother or sister
Who journeyed with us
Through mutual struggles,
The mother or father
Who conceived our heart
And carried us
Through the most fragile days
Of this earthly sojourn.
Guide us through the sorrow
To understand and accept your purposes,
Grant us the knowledge and ability
To incorporate our departed loved ones
Into our own being,
To remember every smile and friendly greeting,
To recall every wise conversation,
To not lose a single kiss
But to have those treasured experiences
Woven into the very fabric of our existence
So that there is no death but only life,
That our own capacity to love
May only grow and increase aided by those
Who live within us,
That our departed loved ones
May yet touch many lives
Using the kindness of our hands.
May we walk
In the candlelight of hope
That seems dramatically dimmed by immense sadness
But which you never allow to be completely extinguished.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
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To Resignation
MAID of the placid smile and heav'nly mien,
With beaming eye, tho' tearful yet serene;
Teach me, like thee, in sorrow's ling'ring hour,
To bless devotion's all-consoling pow'r;
Teach me, like thee, when storms around me rise,
And spreading glooms obscure the azure skies,
On one unclouded light to fix my view,
For ever brilliant and for ever true;
The star of faith! whose mild, celestial ray,
With steady lustre shall direct my way:
Thy seraph-hand shall raise my drooping head;
Angel of peace! thy wings around me spread;
With hallow'd spells my fainting spirit cheer,
Hush the sad murmur, dry the starting tear.
Thus when the halcyon broods upon the tides,
The winds are lull'd, the mountain-wave subsides;
Soft rainbow-hues, reflected, tinge the deep,
And balmy zephyrs on its bosom sleep—
Maid of the placid smile! my troubled soul,
Would own thy gentle reign, thy mild control;
Though the pale cypress twine thy sainted brow,
Eternal palms for thee, in heav'n shall blow.
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Bridge
I stood on the bridge at midnight,
As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon rose o'er the city,
Behind the dark church-tower.
I saw her bright reflection
In the watrers under me,
Like a golden goblet falling
And sinking into the sea.
And far in the hazy distance
Of that lovely night in June,
The blaze of the gleaming furnace
Gleamed redder than the moon.
Among the long, black rafters
The wavering shadows lay,
And the current that came from the ocean
Seemed to lift and bear them away.
As, sweeping and eddying through them
Rose the belated tide,
And, streaming into the moonlight,
The seaweed floated wide.
And like those waters rushing
Among the wooden piers,
A flood of thoughts came o'er me
That filled my eyes with tears.
How often, oh how often,
In the days that had gone by,
I had stood on that bridge at midnight
And gazed on that wave and sky!
How often oh how often,
I had wished that the ebbing tide
Would bear me away on its bosom
O'er the ocean wild and wide!
For my heart was hot and restless,
And my life was full of care,
And the burden laid upon me
Seemed greater than I could bear.
But now it has fallen from me,
It is buried in the sea;
And only the sorrow of others
Throws its shadow over me.
Yet whenever I cross the river
On its bridge with wooden piers,
Like the odor of brine from the ocean
Comes the thought of other years.
And I think how many thousands
Of care-encumbered men,
Each bearing his burden of sorrow,
Have crossed the bridge since then.
I see the long procession
Still passing to and fro,
The young heart hot and restless,
And the old subdued and slow!
And forever and forever,
As long as the river flows,
As long as the heart has passions,
As long as life has woes;
The moon and its broken reflection
Aand its shadows shall appear,
As the symbol of love in heaven,
And its wavering image here.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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While Gazing on the Moon's Light
While gazing on the moon's light,
A moment from her smile I turn'd,
To look at orbs that, more bright,
In lone and distant glory burn'd.
But too far
Each proud star,
For me to feel its warming flame;
Much more dear
That mild sphere,
Which near our planet smiling came;
Thus, Mary, be but thou my own,
While brighter eyes unheeded play,
I'll love those moonlight looks alone
That bless my home and guide my way.
The day had sunk in dim showers,
But midnight now, with lustre meet,
Illumined all the pale flowers,
Like hope upon a mourner's cheek.
I said (while
The moon's smile
Play'd o'er a stream, in dimpling bliss,)
"The moon looks
On many brooks,
The brook can see no moon but this;"
And thus, I thought, our fortunes run,
For many a lover looks to thee,
While oh! I feel there is but one,
One Mary in the world for me.
poem by Thomas Moore
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Elegy XXII. Written in the Year ----, When the Rights of Sepulture Were So Frequently Violated
Say, gentle Sleep! that lov'st the gloom of night,
Parent of dreams! thou great Magician! say,
Whence my late vision thus endures the light,
Thus haunts my fancy through the glare of day?
The silent moon had scaled the vaulted skies,
And anxious Care resign'd my limbs to rest;
A sudden lustre struck my wondering eyes,
And Silvia stood before my couch confest.
Ah! not the nymph so blooming and so gay,
That led the dance beneath the festive shade,
But she that, in the morning of her day,
Entomb'd beneath the grass-green sod was laid.
No more her eyes their wonted radiance cast,
No more her breast inspired the lover's flame;
No more her cheek the Pæstan rose surpass'd,
Yet seem'd her lip's ethereal smile the same.
Nor such her hair as deck'd the living face,
Nor such her voice as charm'd the listening crowd;
Nor such her dress as heighten'd every grace;
Alas! all vanish'd for the mournful shroud!
Yet seem'd her lip's ethereal charm the same;
That dear distinction every doubt removed;
Perish the lover, whose imperfect flame
Forgets one feature of the nymph he loved!
'Damon,' she said, 'mine hour allotted flies;
Oh! do not waste it with a fruitless tear!
Though grieved to see thy Sylvia's pale disguise,
Suspend thy sorrow, and attentive hear.
'So may thy Muse with virtuous fame be blest!
So be thy love with mutual love repaid!
So may thy bones in sacred silence rest!
Fast by the relics of some happier maid!
'Thou know'st how, lingering on a distant shore,
Disease invidious nipt my flowery prime;
And, oh, what pangs my tender bosom tore,
To think I ne'er must view my native clime!
'No friend was near to raise my drooping head;
No dear companion wept to see me die;
Lodge me within my native soil, I said,
There my fond parents' honour'd relics lie.
'Though now debarr'd of each domestic tear,
Unknown, forgot, I meet the fatal blow;
There many a friend shall grace my woful bier,
And many a sigh shall rise, and tear shall flow.
'I spoke, nor Fate forbore his trembling spoil;
Some venal mourner lent his careless aid,
And soon they bore me to my native soil,
Where my fond parents' dear remains were laid.
''Twas then the youths, from every plain and grove,
Adorn'd with mournful verse thy Sylvia's bier;
'Twas then the nymphs their votive garlands wove,
And strew'd the fragrance of the youthful year.
But why, alas! the tender scene display?
Could Damon's foot the pious path decline?
Ah, no! 'twas Damon first attuned his lay,
And sure no sonnet was so dear as thine.
'Thus was I bosom'd in the peaceful grave;
My placid ghost no longer wept its doom;
When savage robbers every sanction brave,
And with outrageous guilt defraud the tomb!
'Shall my poor corse, from hostile realms convey'd,
Lose the cheap portion of my native sands?
Or, in my kindred's dear embraces laid,
Mourn the vile ravage of barbarian hands?
'Say, would thy breast no deathlike torture feel,
To see my limbs the felon's gripe obey?
To see them gash'd beneath the daring steel?
To crowds a spectre, and to dogs a prey?
'If Pæan's Sons these horrid rites require,
If Health's fair science be by these refined,
Let guilty convicts, for their use, expire,
And let their breathless corse avail mankind.
'Yet hard it seems, when Guilt's last fine is paid,
To see the victim's corse denied repose;
Now, more severe, the poor offenceless maid
Dreads the dire outrage of inhuman foes.
'Where is the faith of ancient Pagans fled?
Where the fond care the wand'ring Manes claim?
Nature, instinctive, cries, Protect the dead,
And sacred be their ashes, and their fame!
'Arise, dear Youth! even now the danger calls;
Even now the villain snuffs his wonted prey;
See! see!I lead thee to yon sacred walls-
Oh! fly to chase these human wolves away.'
poem by William Shenstone
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Southampton Castle
INSCRIBED TO THE MARQUIS OF LANSDOWNE.
The moonlight is without; and I could lose
An hour to gaze, though Taste and Splendour here,
As in a lustrous fairy palace, reign!
Regardless of the lights that blaze within,
I look upon the wide and silent sea,
That in the shadowy moonbeam sleeps:
How still,
Nor heard to murmur, or to move, it lies;
Shining in Fancy's eye, like the soft gleam,
The eve of pleasant yesterdays!
The clouds
Have all sunk westward, and the host of stars
Seem in their watches set, as gazing on;
While night's fair empress, sole and beautiful,
Holds her illustrious course through the mid heavens
Supreme, the spectacle, for such she looks,
Of gazing worlds!
How different is the scene
That lies beneath this arched window's height!
The town, that murmured through the busy day,
Is hushed; the roofs one solemn breadth of shade
Veils; but the towers, and taper spires above,
The pinnets, and the gray embattled walls,
And masts that throng around the southern pier,
Shine all distinct in light; and mark, remote,
O'er yonder elms, St Mary's modest fane.
Oh! if such views may please, to me they shine
How more attractive! but few years have passed,
Since there I saw youth, health, and happiness,
All circling round an aged sire, whose hairs
Are now in peace gone down; he was to me
A friend, and almost with a father's smile
Hung o'er my infant Muse. The cheerful voice
Of fellowship, the song of harmony,
And mirth, and wit, were there.
That scene is passed:
Cold death and separation have dissolved
The evening circle of once-happy friends!
So has it ever fared, and so must fare,
With all! I see the moonlight watery tract
That shines far off, beneath the forest-shades:
What seems it, but the mirror of that tide,
Which noiseless, 'mid the changes of the world,
Holds its inevitable course, the tide
Of years departing; to the distant eye
Still seeming motionless, though hurrying on
From morn till midnight, bearing, as it flows,
The sails of pleasurable barks! These gleam
To-day, to-morrow other passing sails
Catch the like sunshine of the vernal morn.
Our pleasant days are as the moon's brief light
On the pale ripple, passing as it shines!
But shall the pensive bard for this lament,
Who knows how transitory are all worlds
Before His eye who made them!
Cease the strain;
And welcome still the social intercourse
That soothes the world's loud jarring, till the hour
When, universal darkness wrapping all
This nether scene, a light from heaven shall stream
Through clouds dividing, and a voice be heard:
Here only pure and lasting bliss is found!
poem by William Lisle Bowles
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Written in the Blank Page of the Sorrows of Werther
O thou, who turnest this impassioned leaf,
Where Anguish claims the sympathetic grief,
If no relentless prejudice can bind
In stagnant frost the mercy of thy mind;
If thou shalt guess how hard to inflict the smart
Of icy absence on the glowing heart,
When all that charm'd the sense, th' affection won,
Dwells in that form, which prudence bids us shun;
That present, soothes each rankling woe to rest,
Departed, desolates the languid breast,
Then thou'lt lament, amidst thy virtuous blame,
The wretched victim of a baneful flame,
Where ill-starr'd Love its deadliest lightning shed
On the pale Suicide's devoted head,
And woes, that would no holier thought allow,
Threw ghastly shadows on the bleeding brow.--
Still, as thou weep'st their unresisted powers,
The virtues of the lost-one's happier hours
Shall o'er his fatal errors gently rise,
Live in thy heart, and consecrate thy sighs!
And for the soft compassion thou hast shown
For woes and frailties, to thy soul unknown,
For generous sympathy, which shines confest,
Eternal inmate of the noble breast,
Ne'er may embosom'd grief thine eye-lids dim,--
O! live to love, but not to mourn, like him!
poem by Anna Seward
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A Picture
'
The maiden is not dead, but sleepeth.
'
She is not gone;—still in our sight
That dearest maid shall live,
In form as true, in tints as bright,
As youth and health could give.
Still, still is ours the modest eye;
The smile unwrought by art;
The glance that shot so piercingly
Affection's keenest dart;
The thrilling voice, I ne'er could hear
But felt a joy and pain;—
A pride that she was ours, a fear
Ours she might not remain;
Whether the page divine call'd forth
Its clear sweet, tranquil tone,
Or cheerful hymn, or seemly mirth
In sprightlier measure shown;
The meek inquiry of that face,
Musing on wonders found,
As 'mid dim paths she sought to trace
The truth on sacred ground;
The thankful sigh that would arise,
When aught her doubts removed,
Full sure the explaining voice to prize,
Admiring while she loved;
The pensive brow, the world might see
When she in crowds was found;
The burst of heart, the o'erflowing glee
When only friends were round;
Hope's warmth of promise, prompt to fill
The thoughts with good in store,
Match'd with content's deep stream, which still
Flow'd on, when hope was o'er;
That peace, which, with its own bright day,
Made cheapest sights shine fair;
That purest grace, which track'd its way
Safe from aught earthly there.
Such was she in the sudden hour
That brought her Maker's call,—
Proving her heart's self-mastering power
Blithely to part with all,—
All her eye loved, all her hand press'd
With keen affection's glow,
The voice of home, all pleasures best,
All dearest thoughts below.
From friend-lit hearth, from social board,
All duteously she rose;
For faith upon the Master's word
Can find a sure repose.
And in her wonder up she sped,
And tried relief in vain;
Then laid her down upon her bed
Of languor and of pain,—
And waited till the solemn spell,
(A ling'ring night and day,)
Should fill its numbers, and compel
Her soul to come away.
Such was she then; and such she is,
Shrined in each mourner's breast;
Such shall she be, and more than this,
In promised glory blest;
When in due lines her Saviour dear
His scatter'd saints shall range,
And knit in love souls parted here,
Where cloud is none, nor change.
poem by John Henry Newman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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4 The Tears In Your Eyes (live) (feat. Wendy & Lisa)
4 the Tears in Your Eyes [Controversy Music, ASCAP - 1985]
------------------------ [From "We Are the World"]
Long ago, there was a man
Could change stone to bread
With one touch of his hand
Made the blind see
And the dumb understand
And he died 4 the tears in your eyes (your eyes)
Many people came from all around
To hear this man preach
The glorious sound
He spoke of man in harmony, and love abound
And he died 4 the tears in your eyes (your eyes)
Died 4 the tears in your eyes (your eyes)
4 the tears in your eyes, and the tears of sorrow
For 6 may be all that there were
For the rising sun each day assures us
The meek shall inherit the earth (the earth)
Faith is word, we all should try
In describing a man
Who willingly died
Believe that your sorrow, hunger, and fears
Is less than the tears in your eyes (your eyes)
(your eyes) (your eyes)
Less than the tears in your eyes (your eyes)
4 the tears in your eyes, and the tears of sorrow
For 6 may be all that there were
For the rising sun each day assures us
The meek shall inherit the earth (the earth)
4 the tears in your eyes, and the tears of sorrow
For 6 may be all that there were
For the rising sun each day assures us
The meek shall inherit the earth (the earth
song performed by by Prince
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Monsoon
The Sun is nowhere to be seen,
Nor is there a trace where it had been.
The shy Sun hides its face
Behind its friend The Grey Cloud.
The Cloud oozes tears of joy and sorrow;
A melancholic sight!
And thunderous laughter.
For it saw its friend,
The Earth one long year ago!
Which now lies parched and dry below.
The tears of The Cloud,
Quench The Earth's bowel.
Till it can drink no more!
The Earth once lifeless,
Now ebbs with beauty
And life endless.
Now jealous, the once shy Sun,
Craves the limelight of its friend The Cloud!
Occasionally succeeding,
The Sun spreads its rays of smile,
While its friend The Cloud sheds its tears of joy!
A competition so good,
It lightens up the whole sky!
A fabulous feast for the eye!
Seven bright streaks with no beginning or end;
Rendered in the sky,
Which looks anew,
From The Earth below.
A beautiful light and sound orchestra!
poem by Vivian Thompson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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