Anacreontic
'Twas in a cool Aonian glade,
The wanton Cupid, spent with toil,
Had sought refreshment from the shade,
And stretch'd him on the mossy soil.
A vagrant Muse drew nigh, and found
The subtle traitor fast asleep;
And is it thine to snore profound,
She said, yet leave the world to weep?
But hush!-from this auspicious hour
The world, I ween, may rest in peace,
And, robb'd of darts, and stript of power,
Thy peevish petulance decrease.
Sleep on, poor Child! whilst I withdraw,
And this thy vile artillery hide-
When the Castalian fount she saw,
And plunged his arrows in the tide.
That magic fount,ill-judging maid,
Shall cause you soon to curse the day
You dared the shafts of Love invade,
And gave his arms redoubled sway.
For in a stream so wondrous clear,
When angry Cupid searches round,
Will not the radiant points appear?
Will not the furtive spoils be found?
Too soon they were; and every dart.
Dipt in the Muse's mystic spring,
Acquired new force to wound the heart,
And taught at once to love and sing.
Then farewell, ye Pierian quire!
For who will now your altars throng?
From Love we learn to swell the lyre,
And Echo asks no sweeter song.
poem by William Shenstone
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Related quotes
Corinna
This day (the year I dare not tell)
Apollo play'd the midwife's part;
Into the world Corinna fell,
And he endued her with his art.
But Cupid with a Satyr comes;
Both softly to the cradle creep;
Both stroke her hands, and rub her gums,
While the poor child lay fast asleep.
Then Cupid thus: 'This little maid
Of love shall always speak and write;'
'And I pronounce,' the Satyr said,
'The world shall feel her scratch and bite.'
Her talent she display'd betimes;
For in a few revolving moons,
She seem'd to laugh and squall in rhymes,
And all her gestures were lampoons.
At six years old, the subtle jade
Stole to the pantry-door, and found
The butler with my lady's maid:
And you may swear the tale went round.
She made a song, how little miss
Was kiss'd and slobber'd by a lad:
And how, when master went to p—,
Miss came, and peep'd at all he had.
At twelve, a wit and a coquette;
Marries for love, half whore, half wife;
Cuckolds, elopes, and runs in debt;
Turns authoress, and is Curll's for life.
Her common-place book all gallant is,
Of scandal now a cornucopia;
She pours it out in Atalantis
Or memoirs of the New Utopia.
poem by Jonathan Swift
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Love Disarmed
Beneath a Myrtle's verdant Shade
As Cloe half asleep was laid,
Cupid perch'd lightly on Her Breast,
And in That Heav'n desir'd to rest:
Over her Paps his Wings He spread:
Between He found a downy Bed,
And nestl'd in His little Head.
Still lay the God: The Nymph surpriz'd,
Yet Mistress of her self, devis'd,
How She the Vagrant might inthral,
And Captive Him, who Captives All.
Her Boddice half way She unlac'd:
About his Arms She slily cast
The silken Bond, and held Him fast.
The God awak'd; and thrice in vain
He strove to break the cruel Chain;
And thrice in vain He shook his Wing,
Incumber'd in the silken String.
Flutt'ring the God, and weeping said,
Pity poor Cupid, generous Maid,
Who happen'd, being Blind, to stray,
And on thy Bosom lost his Way:
Who stray'd, alas! but knew too well,
He never There must hope to dwell.
Set an unhappy Pris'ner free,
Who ne'er intended Harm to Thee.
To Me pertains not, She replies,
To know or care where Cupid flies;
What are his Haunts, or which his Way;
Where He would dwell, or whither stray:
Yet will I never set Thee free:
For Harm was meant, and Harm to Me.
Vain Fears that vex thy Virgin Heart!
I'll give Thee up my Bow and Dart:
Untangle but this cruel Chain,
And freely let Me fly again.
Agreed: Secure my Virgin Heart:
Instant give up thy Bow and Dart:
The Chain I'll in Return unty;
And freely Thou again shalt fly.
Thus She the Captive did deliver:
The Captive thus gave up his Quiver.
The God disarm'd, e'er since that Day
Passes his Life in harmless Play;
Flies round, or sits upon her Breast,
A little, flutt'ring, idle Guest.
E'er since that Day the beauteous Maid
Governs the World in Cupid's stead;
Directs his Arrow as She wills;
Gives Grief, or Pleasure; spares, or kills.
poem by Matthew Prior
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If Cupid
Love can hit you
no matter where you are
whether it be at a funeral
or at a fun fair.
We may not know it at the time,
but cupid always shoots
his arrows straight and true.
You could be on a bus, plane or train
if cupid has his arrows set
there is nothing you can do.
You cannot duck or weave.
If cupid has his arrows set
love will come to you.
You maybe dancing at a ballroom,
if cupid spies a different partner
it is all over for you.
You will not see it coming
and will not even feel a thing
until you are the church
slipping on the wedding ring.
For if cupid has you in his sights,
there is nothing you can do.
25 February 2011
poem by David Harris
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Sinfonia Eroica
(To Sylvia.)
My Love, my Love, it was a day in June,
A mellow, drowsy, golden afternoon;
And all the eager people thronging came
To that great hall, drawn by the magic name
Of one, a high magician, who can raise
The spirits of the past and future days,
And draw the dreams from out the secret breast,
Giving them life and shape.
I, with the rest,
Sat there athirst, atremble for the sound;
And as my aimless glances wandered round,
Far off, across the hush'd, expectant throng,
I saw your face that fac'd mine.
Clear and strong
Rush'd forth the sound, a mighty mountain stream;
Across the clust'ring heads mine eyes did seem
By subtle forces drawn, your eyes to meet.
Then you, the melody, the summer heat,
Mingled in all my blood and made it wine.
Straight I forgot the world's great woe and mine;
My spirit's murky lead grew molten fire;
Despair itself was rapture.
Ever higher,
Stronger and clearer rose the mighty strain;
Then sudden fell; then all was still again,
And I sank back, quivering as one in pain.
Brief was the pause; then, 'mid a hush profound,
Slow on the waiting air swell'd forth a sound
So wondrous sweet that each man held his breath;
A measur'd, mystic melody of death.
Then back you lean'd your head, and I could note
The upward outline of your perfect throat;
And ever, as the music smote the air,
Mine eyes from far held fast your body fair.
And in that wondrous moment seem'd to fade
My life's great woe, and grow an empty shade
Which had not been, nor was not.
And I knew
Not which was sound, and which, O Love, was you.
Children Of Love
The holy boy
Went from his mother out in the cool of the day
Over the sun-parched fields
And in among the olives shining green and shining grey.
There was no sound,
No smallest voice of any shivering stream.
Poor sinless little boy,
He desired to play and to sing; he could only sigh and dream.
Suddenly came
Running along to him naked, with curly hair,
That rogue of the lovely world,
That other beautiful child whom the virgin Venus bare.
The holy boy
Gazed with those sad blue eyes that all men know.
Impudent Cupid stood
Panting, holding an arrow and pointing his bow.
(Will you not play?
Jesus, run to him, run to him, swift for our joy.
Is he not holy, like you?
Are you afraid of his arrows, O beautiful dreaming boy?)
And now they stand
Watching one another with timid gaze;
Youth has met youth in the wood,
But holiness will not change its melancholy ways.
Cupid at last
Draws his bow and softly lets fly a dart.
Smile for a moment, sad world! -
It has grazed the white skin and drawn blood from the sorrowful heart.
Now, for delight,
Cupid tosses his locks and goes wantonly near;
But the child that was born to the cross
Has let fall on his cheek, for the sadness of life, a compassionate tear.
Marvellous dream!
Cupid has offered his arrows for Jesus to try
He as offered his bow for the game.
But Jesus went weeping away, and left him there wondering why.
poem by Harold Monro
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By Moschus
I slept when Venus enter'd: to my bed
A Cupid in her beauteous hand she led,
A bashful seeming boy, and thus she said:
'Shepherd, receive my little one! I bring
An untaught love, whom thou must teach to sing.'
She said, and left him. I, suspecting nought,
Many a sweet strain my subtle pupil taught,
How reed to reed Pan first with osier bound,
How Pallas form'd the pipe of softest sound,
How Hermes gave the lute, and how the quire
Of Phoebus owe to Phoebus' self the lyre.
Such were my themes; my themes nought heeded he
But ditties sang of amorous sort to me.
The pangs that mortals and immortals prove
From Venus' influence and the darts of love.
Thus was the teacher by the pupil taught;
His lessons I retain'd, he mine forgot.
poem by William Cowper
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Prop: 2, L: 11 E: Quicunque &c
Vast was his soul some favorite above
Whose bolder pencil made a boy of love
A boy he thought him lovers less then boyes
Who barter all things for a crop of toyes
He wisely too his roving pow'r bestowd—
& in unconstant feathers drest the God
for now we love anon we hate ye same
Fantastick passion varyes all extreams
Justly he drew him for his play things darts
The little wanton sports with bleeding hearts
Justly he drew them to my cost Ive found
Unseen they fly & still secure to wound
his arms & younger follys fill my heart
But he has lost or hid his better part
His wings no more their heav'nly burthen bear
He sitts an everlasting trouble here
My bloud he fires torments my wretched breast
Drains all my bones & robs my soul of rest
Cease cruell master fly to fuller veines
Your slave is wasted with incessant pains
Imploy your force on something I alas
Am but the shadow of the man I was
Why shoud I dy who live but for your use
& to your part debauch the virgin muse
Who write of nought but arrows flames & eyes
& sing your brightest servants to the skyes.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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Knowledge Is Power
In the morning watch,
Into the midst of learning;
In the evening tide,
Out of the muse that muses;
A knowledge from a pavement made to achieve success,
Like the tune of a beautiful song.
Say it again,
Write it again,
Sing it again,
Play it again,
Come to ACTION SECONDARY TECHNICAL SCHOOL;
A learning environment with love and care.
I do remember, i do remember! !
Like the watchful minutes to the hour when,
I have this loving muse to all who want to learn.
Look!
Over there is ACTION SECONDARY TECHNICAL SCHOOL;
A place where knowledge gained is power to you!
I remember,
Like the open window;
With 'deep-green unifrom' to the vegetation.
Now i know,
'Knowledge is power'!
A peaceful atmosphere of love and care to share with you.
To learn,
To know,
Of a muse like rain drops;
With teachers dedicated to serve you all.
Go, tell it on the moutains;
A candle light from MADINA ESTATE where,
Knowledge is power.
Listen oh heavens,
Hear oh earth,
ACTION SECONDARY TECHNICAL SCHOOL is around you;
A place where knowledge is acquired through learning.
Of the 'grey-trousers' to the world so sweet,
A candle light of hope;
Of the muse that leads to love,
Like a pleasant wit at hand;
A timely success iy all that you need in life.
This is wher love is found,
This is where people learn to gain,
With hopeful years at school;
I remember,
I remember!
'Grey-trousers like grey hairs;
Where knoeledge abounds to the wise like,
The school itself.
Come to where ACTION SECONDARY TECHNICAL is,
Come to gain your knowledge as well;
Learning,
The day's fair face.
Say it again like,
ACTION SECONDARY TECHNICAL SCHOOL;
Like a muse to the world so sweet.
Write it again,
With love and care from the teachers;
Come to this atmosphere where,
Knowledge is power.
A learning place of joy,
To sing to it again and again;
With students and teachers to share their views in,
This royal place of knowledge.
This place of love and care,
This place of a muse that muses;
The day is done when,
You have gained your knowledge.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Cupid's Mess!
Here comes the valentine day,
The season and time of the year,
When cupid is more busier than ever,
Shooting arrows to young as well as selected old hearts.
Cupid is known to play the game of love,
He with his symbolic bow and arrows,
Is known to ignite love among young hearts,
Creating love confusion is cupid’s favorite game.
His most successful moments,
When hearts become fully dipped in love,
And when their hearts act stronger than their mind,
And when the victims are not in their actual disposition.
So great was the joy of Cupid,
His sense of pride in his success,
To see the pain and excitement of people in love,
So Cupid was called by angels as 'Stupid Cupid'!
10/02/09
Valentine Day's special
poem by Winnie Angel
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To William Butler Yeats
Tell us of beauty! Touch thy silver lyre
And bid thy Muse unfold her shining wings!
Tell us of joy—of those unaging things
Which wither not, nor are consumed of fire,
Things unto which the souls of all aspire!
Sing us the mystic song thine Erin sings,
Her poignant dreams, her weird imaginings,
With magic of thy "Land of Heart's Desire!"
Let others hate!—from lips not thine be hurled
Reproaches; since all hate at last must prove
Abortive, though it triumph for a while.
The gospels that indeed have won the world
Laid their foundations in the strength of love.
Sing thou, a lover, of thy wave-washed Isle!
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Mine and Thine (1904)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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To William Butler Yeats
Tell us of beauty! Touch thy silver lyre
And bid thy Muse unfold her shining wings!
Tell us of joy—of those unaging things
Which wither not, nor are consumed of fire,
Things unto which the souls of all aspire!
Sing us the mystic song thine Erin sings,
Her poignant dreams, her weird imaginings,
With magic of thy "Land of Heart's Desire!"
Let others hate!—from lips not thine be hurled
Reproaches; since all hate at last must prove
Abortive, though it triumph for a while.
The gospels that indeed have won the world
Laid their foundations in the strength of love.
Sing thou, a lover, of thy wave-washed Isle!
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Mine and Thine (1904)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Cantata. Set By Mons. Galliard
Recit.
Beneath a verdant laurel's ample shade
His lyre to mournful numbers strung,
Horace, immortal bard supinely laid,
To Venus thus address'd the song;
Ten thousand little loves around,
Listening dwelt on every sound.
Ariet.
Potent Venus, bid thy son
Sound no more his dire alarms:
Youth on silent wings is flown;
Graver years come rolling on,
Spare my age unfit for arms:
Safe and humble let me rest,
From all amorous care released.
Potent Venus, bid thy son
Sound no more his dire alarms.
Recit.
Yet, Venus, why do I each morn prepare
The fragrant wreath for Cloe's hair?
Why, why do I all day lament and sigh,
Unless the beauteous maid be nigh?
And why all night pursue her in my dreams
Through flowery meads and crystal streams?
Recit.
Thus sung the bard, and thus the goddess spoke:
Submissive bow to Love's imperious yoke;
Every state and every age
Shall own my rule and fear my rage:
Compell'd by me, thy Muse shall prove
That all the world was born to love.
Ariet.
Bid thy destined lyre discover
Soft desire and gentle pain:
Often praise, and always love her;
Through her ear her heart obtain.
Verse shall please and sight shall move her,
Cupid does with Phoebus reign.
poem by Matthew Prior
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African Spokesman
I am the African Spokesman and,
I have something for you;
Because, the muse of my African Stew tastes different from yours!
And, it is infused with a special ingredient from the African Soil.
I am the muse that you are reading and,
I am the African Child with my words so sweet! !
And like the love of your mind without the wars around you;
Because, i am always for the peace of this world.
I am the African Spokesman and,
I am presenting the muse of my mind from Africa to educate you;
For, mankind had now made more amumunitions for war!
But, we really don't need them when, we talk about peace on this earth.
Listen and look for peace around you always,
Learn and care for others around you always,
For education is not always about degrees! !
Because, the very professors are the very ones who made these weapons of war.
The African Spokesman is what i am,
Along the streets of Africa and around the hiding places of the ghettoes!
For, i have seen many things in my life and, i have more to tell to you;
But, like the colours of the rainbow,
We need to love each other in the name of the colours that nature gave us.
I am the African Spokesman and,
I have something for you;
But, if you listen very carefully, you will feel the muse of my love around you!
Because, this world is now being captured by the weapons of war than peace.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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To A Friend Who Had Declared His Intention Of Writing No More Poetry
Dear Charles! whilst yet thou wert a babe, I ween
That Genius plunged thee in that wizard fount
High Castalie: and (sureties of thy faith)
That Pity and Simplicity stood by.
And promised for thee that thou shouldst renounce
The world's low cares and lying vanities,
Steadfast and rooted in the heavenly Muse,
And washed and sanctified to Poesy.
Yes -- thou wert plunged but with forgetful hand
Held, as by Thetis erst her warrior son:
And with those recreant unbaptized heels
Thou'rt flying from thy bounden minist'ries--
So sore it seems and burthensome a task
To weave unwithering flowers! But take thou heed:
For thou art vulnerable, wild-eyed boy,
And I have arrows mystically dipt,
Such as may stop thy speed. Is thy Burns dead?
And shall he die unwept, and sink to earth
'Without the meed of one melodious tear?'
Thy Burns, and Nature's own beloved bard,
Who to the 'Illustrious of his native Land,
So properly did look for patronage.'
Ghost of Maecenas! hide thy blushing face!
They snatched him from the sickle and the plough--
To gauge ale-firkins.
Oh! for shame return!
On a bleak rock, midway the Aonian mount,
There stands a lone and melancholy tree,
Whose aged branches to the midnight blast
Make solemn music: pluck its darkest bough,
Ere yet the unwholesome night-dew be exhaled,
And weeping wreath it round thy Poet's tomb.
Then in the outskirts, where pollutions grow,
Pick the rank henbane and the dusky flowers
Of night-shade, or its red and tempting fruit,
These with stopped nostril and glove-guarded hand
Knit in nice intertexture, so to twine,
The illustrious brow of Scotch Nobility.
poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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The Solitary Lyre
Wherefore, unlaurell'd Boy,
Whom the contemptuous Muse will not inspire,
With a sad kind of joy
Still sing'st thou to thy solitary lyre?
The melancholy winds
Pour through unnumber'd reeds their idle woes,
And every Naiad finds
A stream to weep her sorrow as it flows.
Her sighs unto the air
The Wood-maid's native oak doth broadly tell,
And Echo's fond despair
Intelligible rocks re-syllable.
Wherefore then should not I,
Albeit no haughty Muse my heart inspire,
Fated of grief to die,
Impart it to my solitary lyre?
poem by George Darley
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The German Student’s Love-Song
I.
BY the rush of the Rhine's broad stream,
Down whose rapid tide
We sailed as in some sweet dream
Sitting side by side;
By the depth of its clear blue wave
And the vine-clad hills,
Which gazed on its heart and gave
Their tribute rills;
By the mountains, in purple shade,
And those valleys green
Where our bower of rest was made,
By the world unseen;
By the notes of the wild free bird,
Singing over-head
When nought else in the sunshine stirr'd
Round our flowery bed;
By these, and by Love's power divine,
I have no thought but what is thine!
II.
By the glance of thy radiant eyes,
Where a glory shone
That was half of the summer skies
And half their own;
By the light and yet fervent hold
Of thy gentle hand,--
(As the woodbines the flowers enfold
With their tender band
By thy voice when it breathes in song,
And the echo given
By lips that to Earth belong,
Float up to Heaven;
By the gleams on thy silken hair
At the sunset hour,
And the breadth of they forehead fair
With its thoughtful power;
By these, and by Love's soul divine,
I have no hope but what is thine!
III.
By the beauty and stilness round
When the lake's lone shore
Scarce echoed the pleasant sound
Of the distant oar;
By the moonlight which softly fell
On all objects near,
And thy whisper seemed like a spell
In thy Lover's ear;
By the dreams of the restless past,
And the hope that came
Like sunshine in shadow cast
With thy gentle name;
By the beat of thy good true heart
Where pure thoughts have birth;
By thy tears, when Fate bade us part,
And thy smiles of mirth;
By these, and by Love's power divine,
I have no hope but what is thine!
IV.
By the gloom of those holy fanes
Where the light stream'd through
Dim orange and purple panes
On the aisles below;
By the ruin'd and roofless wall
Of that castle high,
With its turrets so grey and tall
In the clear blue sky;
By beauty, because its light
Should thy portion be,
And whatever is fair and bright
Seems a part of thee;
And by darkness and blank decay,
Because they tell
What the world would be, THOU away,
Whom I love so well;
By these, and by Love's power divine,
My heart, my soul, my life, are thine!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Elegy VII. Anno Aetates Undevigesimo (Translated From Milton)
As yet a stranger to the gentle fires
That Amathusia's smiling Queen inspires,
Not seldom I derided Cupid's darts,
And scorn'd his claim to rule all human hearts.
Go, child, I said, transfix the tim'rous dove,
An easy conquest suits an infant Love;
Enslave the sparrow, for such prize shall be
Sufficient triumph to a Chief like thee;
Why aim thy idle arms at human kind?
Thy shafts prevail not 'gainst the noble mind.
The Cyprian heard, and, kindling into ire,
(None kindles sooner) burn'd with double fire.
It was the Spring, and newly risen day
Peep'd o'er the hamlets on the First of May;
My eyes too tender for the blaze of light,
Still sought the shelter of retiring night,
When Love approach'd, in painted plumes arrayed;
Th'insidious god his rattling darts betray'd,
Nor less his infant features, and the sly
Sweet intimations of his threat'ning eye.
Such the Sigeian boy is seen above,
Filling the goblet for imperial Jove;
Such he, on whom the nymphs bestow'd their charms,
Hylas, who perish'd in a Naiad's arms.
Angry he seem'd, yet graceful in his ire,
And added threats, not destitute of fire.
'My power,' he said, 'by others pain alone,
'Twere best to learn; now learn it by thy own!
With those, who feel my power, that pow'r attest!
And in thy anguish be my sway confest!
I vanquish'd Phoebus, though returning vain
From his new triumph o'er the Python slain,
And, when he thinks on Daphne, even He
Will yield the prize of archery to me.
A dart less true the Parthian horseman sped,
Behind him kill'd, and conquer'd as he fled,
Less true th'expert Cydonian, and less true
The youth, whose shaft his latent Procris slew.
Vanquish'd by me see huge Orion bend,
By me Alcides, and Alcides's friend.
At me should Jove himself a bolt design,
His bosom first should bleed transfix'd by mine.
But all thy doubts this shaft will best explain,
Nor shall it teach thee with a trivial pain,
Thy Muse, vain youth! shall not thy peace ensure,
Nor Phoebus' serpent yield thy wound a cure.
He spoke, and, waving a bright shaft in air,
Sought the warm bosom of the Cyprian fair.
That thus a child should bluster in my ear
Provok'd my laughter more than mov'd my fear.
I shun'd not, therefore, public haunts, but stray'd
Careless in city, or suburban shade,
And passing and repassing nymphs that mov'd
With grace divine, beheld where'er I rov'd.
Bright shone the vernal day, with double blaze,
As beauty gave new force to Phoebus' rays.
By no grave scruples check'd I freely eyed
The dang'rous show, rash youth my only guide,
And many a look of many a Fair unknown
Met full, unable to control my own.
But one I mark'd (then peace forsook my breast)
One--Oh how far superior to the rest!
What lovely features! Such the Cyprian Queen
Herself might wish, and Juno wish her mien.
The very nymph was she, whom when I dar'd
His arrows, Love had even then prepar'd.
Nor was himself remote, nor unsupplied
With torch well-trimm'd and quiver at his side;
Now to her lips he clung, her eye-lids now,
Then settled on her cheeks or on her brow.
And with a thousand wounds from ev'ry part
Pierced and transpierced my undefended heart.
A fever, new to me, of fierce desire
Now seiz'd my soul, and I was all on fire,
But she, the while, whom only I adore,
Was gone, and vanish'd to appear no more.
In silent sadness I pursue my way,
I pause, I turn, proceed, yet wish to stay,
And while I follow her in thought, bemoan
With tears my soul's delight so quickly flown.
When Jove had hurl'd him to the Lemnian coast
So Vulcan sorrow'd for Olympus lost,
And so Oeclides, sinking into night,
From the deep gulph look'd up to distant light.
Wretch that I am, what hopes for me remain
Who cannot cease to love, yet love in vain?
Oh could I once, once more, behold the Fair,
Speak to her, tell her of the pangs I bear,
Perhaps she is not adamant, would show
Perhaps some pity at my tale of woe.
Oh inauspicious flame--'tis mine to prove
A matchless instance of disastrous love.
Ah spare me, gentle Pow'r!--If such thou be
Let not thy deeds, and nature disagree.
Now I revere thy fires, thy bow, thy darts:
Now own thee sov'reign of all human hearts.
Spare me, and I will worship at no shrine
With vow and sacrifice, save only thine.
Remove! no--grant me still this raging woe!
Sweet is the wretchedness, that lovers know:
But pierce hereafter (should I chance to see
One destined mine) at once both her and me.
Such were the trophies, that in earlier days,
By vanity seduced I toil'd to raise,
Studious yet indolent, and urg'd by youth,
That worst of teachers, from the ways of Truth;
Till learning taught me, in his shady bow'r,
To quit love's servile yoke, and spurn his pow'r.
Then, on a sudden, the fierce flame supprest,
A frost continual settled on my breast,
Whence Cupid fears his flames extinct to see,
And Venus dreads a Diomede15 in me.
poem by William Cowper
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Cupid And Ganymede
In Heav'n, one Holy-day, You read
In wise Anacreon, Ganymede
Drew heedless Cupid in, to throw
A Main, to pass an Hour, or so.
The little Trojan, by the way,
By Hermes taught, play'd All the Play.
The God unhappily engag'd,
By Nature rash, by Play enrag'd,
Complain'd, and sigh'd, and cry'd, and fretted;
Lost ev'ry earthly thing He betted:
In ready Mony, all the Store
Pick'd up long since from Danae's Show'r;
A Snush-Box, set with bleeding Hearts,
Rubies, all pierc'd with Diamond Darts;
His Nine-pins, made of Myrtle Wood;
(The Tree in Ida's Forest stood)
His Bowl pure Gold, the very same
Which Paris gave the Cyprian Dame;
Two Table-Books in Shagreen Covers;
Fill'd with good Verse from real Lovers;
Merchandise rare! A Billet-doux,
It's Matter passionate, yet true:
Heaps of Hair Rings, and cypher'd Seals;
Rich Trifles; serious Bagatelles.
What sad Disorders Play begets!
Desp'rate and mad, at length He sets
Those Darts, whose Points make Gods adore
His Might, and deprecate his Pow'r:
Those Darts, whence all our Joy and Pain
Arise: those Darts—come, Seven's the Main,
Cries Ganymede: The usual Trick:
Seven, slur a Six; Eleven: A Nick.
Ill News goes fast: 'Twas quickly known,
That simple Cupid was undone.
Swifter than Lightning Venus flew:
Too late She found the thing too true.
Guess how the Goddess greets her Son:
Come hither, Sirrah; no, begon;
And, hark Ye, is it so indeed?
A Comrade You for Ganymede?
An Imp as wicked, for his Age,
As any earthly Lady's Page;
A Scandal and a Scourge to Troy:
A Prince's Son? A Black-guard Boy:
A Sharper, that with Box and Dice
Draws in young Deities to Vice.
All Heav'n is by the Ears together,
Since first That little Rogue came hither:
Juno her self has had no Peace:
And truly I've been favour'd less:
For Jove, as Fame reports, (but Fame
Says things not fit for Me to name)
Has acted ill for such a God,
And taken Ways extreamly odd.
And Thou, unhappy Child, She said
(Her Anger by her Grief allay'd)
Unhappy Child, who thus hast lost
All the Estate We e'er could boast;
Whither, O whither wilt Thou run,
Thy Name despis'd, thy Weakness known?
Nor shall thy Shrine on Earth be crown'd:
Nor shall thy Pow'r in Heav'n be own'd;
When Thou, nor Man, nor God can'st wound.
Obedient Cupid kneeling cry'd,
Cease, dearest Mother, cease to chide:
Gany's a Cheat, and I'm a Bubble:
Yet why this great Excess of Trouble?
The Dice were false: the Darts are gone:
Yet how are You, or I undone?
The Loss of These I can supply
With keener Shafts from Cloe's Eye:
Fear not, We e'er can be disgrac'd,
While That bright Magazine shall last:
Your crowded Altars still shall smoke;
And Man your Friendly Aid invoke:
Jove shall again revere your Pow'r,
And rise a Swan, or fall a Show'r.
poem by Matthew Prior
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11.11.11
Today is the 11th of November 2011!
And, you were born at 11: 11 A.M.27 years ago! !
However, the kiss of your lips with my muse was like,
The sweet muse of love and care in the land of beauty!
For, you are all that i need.
At 11: 11 P.M. i found your nakedness to the world so sweet!
And like the words of love to satisfy my muse in the land of beautiful roses;
But, i have a lot to learn from you as well,
Because, you are 27 years old today and,
You are a virgin! !
You were born 27 years ago but,
The sweet love of your muse came and touched my heart!
And, you will always remember my kiss;
For, this love is all about you and i! !
And like words of peace in the land of unity,
For, i am always ready fro your love.
11.11.11!
And like the date reserved for many Germans to marry;
But all over the world are the works and words of love to move us on,
For, you are like the words so sweet to touch my lips!
And i will always remember you because, you were born on this day.
You came into this world 27 years ago in the land of survival! !
Naked to the world to respect your muse;
But, the joy of your birth had brought peace to your culture,
For, you have really made a mark to respect my muse.
You were born on the 11th of November 1984,
And today, you are 27 years olf to respect the muse of love;
But your first kiss came along like the works of peace,
Because, you waited for it for a very long time! !
And today, you are ready for marriage;
But, try to keep your virginity for the man of your heart.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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There is a song in my heart......
There is a song in my heart
and I want to sing it for you in the misty night
No one will ever knows what I have written for you
because it has been written with my heart only for you
Let us be alone when I sing my song for you
and let the melody of my song echo in the sky
I want our world to sleep deep when I sing for you
then only my song will get into your heart softly
My nights are not enough to love you
nor my songs cannot be sung without you
I sing with my heart to tell you how much I love you
I sing with my soul to tell you how much I miss you
My song will wipe your tears away
and immerse my body into your arms for thirsting love
These feelings of loving song comes when I am only with you
and let my love song, sing in your living heart forever
poem by Ravi Sathasivam
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