Ode to Cynthia, on the Approach of Spring
Now in the cowslip's dewy cell
The fairies make their bed,
They hover round the crystal well,
The turf in circles tread.
The lovely linnet now her song
Tunes sweetest in the wood;
The twittering swallow skims along
The azure liquid flood.
The morning breeze wafts Flora's kiss
In fragrance to the sense;
The happy shepherd feels the bliss,
And she takes no offence.
But not the linnet's sweetest song
That ever fill'd the wood;
Or twittering swallow that along
The azure liquid flood
Skims swiftly, harbinger of spring,
Or morning's sweetest breath,
Or Flora's kiss, to me can bring
A remedy for death.
For death-what do I say? Yes, death
Must surely end my days,
If cruel Cynthia slights my faith,
And will not hear my lays.
No more with festive garlands bound,
I at the wake shall be;
No more my feet shall press the ground
In dance with wonted glee;
No more my little flock I'll keep,
To some dark cave I'll fly;
I've nothing now to do but weep,
To mourn my fate, and sigh.
Ah! Cynthia, thy Damon's cries
Are heard at dead of night;
But they, alas! are doom'd to rise
Like smoke upon the sight.
They rise in vain, ah me! in vain
Are scatter'd in the wind;
Cynthia does not know the pain
That rankles in my mind.
If sleep perhaps my eyelids close,
'Tis but to dream of you;
A while I cease to feel my woes,
Nay, think I 'm happy too.
I think I press with kisses pure,
Your lovely rosy lips;
And you're my bride, I think I'm sure,
Till gold the mountain tips.
When waked, aghast I look around,
And find my charmer flown;
Then bleeds afresh my galling wound,
While I am left alone.
Take pity, then, O gentlest maid!
On thy poor Damon's heart:
Remember what I've often said,
'Tis you can cure my smart.
poem by William Shenstone
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Related quotes
The Sweetest Kiss of Death
The sweetest kiss I’ll ever get,
Is the sweetest kiss of death.
Its dark embrace,
A holy place,
To end my pain and suffering.
On so many days
It seems a calming way,
to forget all of my lies.
Second by second,
Minute by minute,
The time ticks slowly by.
That day could not come fast enough
That day that I will die
Because
The sweetest kiss I’ll ever get,
Is the sweetest kiss of death.
poem by Mikayla Haberbosch
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Razorblade Kiss
I taste death in every kiss we share
Every sundown seems to be the last we have
Your breath on my skin has the scent of our end
Im drunk on your tears, baby, cant you see its hurting
Mmhhh mmmhhhh
Every time we touch we get closer to heaven
And at every sunrise our sins are forgiven
Uh.uh
You on my skin this must be the end
The only way you can love me is to hurt me again
And again
And again
And again
Your love is a razorblade kiss
Sweetest is the taste from your lips
Your love is a razorblade kiss
Sweetest is the taste from your lips
Oh the taste from your lips, my darling
Taste from your lips, oh my love
Only inside Im free
Im tired of waiting
Youve got to let me dream
Inside you baby
Im not afraid to feel
I want you to love me
Cause you are the one
Cause you are the one
Cause you are the one
Your love is a razorblade kiss
Sweetest is the taste from your lips
Your love is a razorblade kiss
Sweetest is the taste from your lips
Your love is a razorblade kiss
Sweetest is the taste from your lips
Your love is a razorblade kiss
Sweetest is the taste from your lips
song performed by by H.i.m. (his Infernal Majesty)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Razorblade Kiss
I taste death in every kiss we share
Every sundown seems to be the last we have
Your breath on my skin has the scent of our end
I'm drunk on your tears, baby, can't you see it's hurting
Mmhhh mmmhhhh
Every time we touch we get closer to heaven
And at every sunrise our sins are forgiven
Uh.uh
You on my skin this must be the end
The only way you can love me is to hurt me again
And again
And again
And again
Your love is a razorblade kiss
Sweetest is the taste from your lips
Your love is a razorblade kiss
Sweetest is the taste from your lips
Oh the taste from your lips, my darling
Taste from your lips, oh my love
Only inside i'm free
I'm tired of waiting
You've got to let me dream
Inside you baby
I'm not afraid to feel
I want you to love me
Cause you are the one
Cause you are the one
Cause you are the one
Your love is a razorblade kiss
Sweetest is the taste from your lips
Your love is a razorblade kiss
Sweetest is the taste from your lips
Your love is a razorblade kiss
Sweetest is the taste from your lips
Your love is a razorblade kiss
Sweetest is the taste from your lips
song performed by by H.I.M.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Wakening, John Attye's First Book of Airs
ON a time the amorous Silvy
Said to her shepherd, 'Sweet, how do ye?
Kiss me this once and then God be with ye,
My sweetest dear!
Kiss me this once and then God be with ye,
For now the morning draweth near.'
With that, her fairest bosom showing,
Op'ning her lips, rich perfumes blowing,
She said, 'Now kiss me and be going,
My sweetest dear!
Kiss me this once and then be going,
For now the morning draweth near.'
With that the shepherd waked from sleeping,
And spying where the day was peeping,
He said, 'Now take my soul in keeping,
My sweetest dear!
Kiss me and take my soul in keeping,
Since I must go, now day is near.'
Sweetest Sin
Can you imagine us,
Making love..
The way you would feel the first time that we touched,
Can you think of it..
The way I dream of it,
I want you to see like im seeing you..
It's a picture of perfection,
The vision of you and me..
Your lips upon my lips,
Can you just picture this..
Your finger tips on my finger tips,
Your skin upon my skin..
Would be the Sweetest Sin,
Would be the Sweetest Sin..
All night I lie awake,
Cause it's to much to take..
Dreamin' about the love that we could make..All day,
I think of scenes..
To get you next to me,
I want you so bad that I can barely breathe..
It's a sign of my obsession,
That I can't stop thinkin bout'
Your lips upon my lips,
Can you invision this..
Temptation that I could never resist,
Your skin upon my skin..
Would be the Sweetest Sin,
That would be the Sweetest Sin..
It would feel so good,
To be so bad..
You don't know how bad.. I want that,
I would do anything to feel your love..
Your lips upon my lips,
Can you just picture this..
Your finger tips on my finger tips,
Your skin upon my skin..
Would be the Sweetest Sin,
That Would be the Sweetest Sin..
Your lips upon my lips,
Can you invision this..
Temptation that I could never resist,
Your skin upon my skin..
Would be the Sweetest Sin,
Would be the Sweetest Sin..
Your lips upon my lips.. would be the Sweetest Sin
song performed by by Jessica Simpson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Invitation
DAMON.
Haste! Sylvia! haste, my charming Maid!
Let's leave these fashionable toys;
Let's seek the shelter of some shade,
And revel in ne'er fading joys.
See spring in liv'ry gay appears,
And winter's chilly blasts are fled;
Each grove its leafy honours rears,
And meads their lovely verdure spread!
SYLVIA.
Yes Damon, glad I'll quit the town,
Its gaities now languid seem;
Then sweets to luxury unknown
We'll taste, and sip th' untainted stream.
In Summer's sultry noon-tide heat,
I'll lead thee to the shady grove;
There hush thy cares, or pleas'd repeat
Those vows that won my soul to love.
DAMON.
When o'er the mountain peeps the dawn,
And round her ruddy beauties play,
I'll wake my Love to view the lawn,
Or hear the warblers hall the day.
But, without thee, the rising morn
In vain awakes the cooling breeze,
In vain does nature's face adorn;
Without my Sylvia nought can please.
SYLVIA.
At night, when universal gloom
Hides the bright prospect from our view,
When the gay groves give up their bloom,
And verdant meads their lovely hue;
Tho' fleeting spectres round me move,
When in thy circling arms I'm prest,
I'll hush my rising fears with love,
And sink in slumber on thy breast.
DAMON.
The new-blown rose, whilst on its leaves
Yet the bright scented dew-drops found,
Pleas'd on thy bosom, whilst it heaves,
Shall shake its heav'nly fragrance round.
Then mingled sweets the sense shall raise,
Then mingled beauties catch the eye;
What pleasure on such charms to gaze!
What rapture mid such sweets to lie!
SYLVIA.
How sweet thy words!--but, Damon cease,
Nor strive to fix me ever here;
Too well you know these accents please,
That oft have fill'd my ravish'd ear.
Come, lead me to these promis'd joys,
That dwelt so lately on thy tongue;
Direct me by thy well known voice,
And calm my transports with thy song!
poem by Thomas Godfrey
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To Isa in Heaven
Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew,
She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven! — Young.
Where is she now?
Oh! Isa! tell me where thou art?
If death has laid his hand upon thy brow,
Has he not touched my heart?
Has he not laid it in the grave with thine,
And buried all my joys?—Speak! thou art mine!
If thou were dead,
I would not ask thee to reply;
But thou art living—thy dear soul has fled
To heaven, where it can never die!
Then why not come to me? Return—return
And comfort me, for I have much to mourn!
I sigh all day!
I mourn for thee the livelong night!
And when the next night comes, thou art away,
And so is absent my delight!
Oh! as the lone dove for his absent mate,
So is my soul for thee disconsolate!
I long for death—
For any thing—to be with thee!
I did inhale, alas! thy dying breath,
That it might have some power on me
To make me what thou art!—but, thou art dead!
And I am here!—it strengthened me instead!
Joy there is none—
It went into the grave with thee!
And grief, because my spirit is alone,
Is all that comes to comfort me!
The very air I breathe is turned to sighs,
And all mine soul is melting from mine eyes!
I hear, at even,
The liquid carol of birds;
Their music makes me think of thee in heaven,
It is so much like thy sweet words.
The brooklet whispers, as it runs along,
Our first love-story with its liquid tongue.
Wake, Isa! wake!
And come back in this world again!
Oh! come down to me, for my soul's dear sake,
And cure me of this trying pain!
I would give all that earth to man can be,
If thou wert only in this world with me!
Day after day
I seek thee, but thou art not near!
I sit down on thy grave in the cold clay,
And listen for thy soul!—oh! dear!
And when some withered leaf falls from the tree,
I start as if thy soul had spoke to me!
And so it is,
And so it ever more must ever be
To him, who has been robbed of all the bliss
He ever knew, by loving thee!
For misery, in thine absence, is my wife!
What joy had been, hadst thou remained in life!
It is now even;
The birds have sung themselves to sleep;
And all the stars seem coming out of heaven,
As if to look upon me weep!—
Oh! let me not look up to thee in vain,
But come back to me in this world again!
poem by Thomas Holley Chivers (1842)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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In Autumn
The leaves are many under my feet,
And drift one way.
Their scent of death is weary and sweet.
A flight of them is in the grey
Where sky and forest meet.
The low winds moan for sad sweet years;
The birds sing all for pain,
Of a common thing, to weary ears,--
Only a summer's fate of rain,
And a woman's fate of tears.
I walk to love and life alone
Over these mournful places,
Across the summer overthrown,
The dead joys of these silent faces,
To claim my own.
I know his heart has beat to bright
Sweet loves gone by;
I know the leaves that die to-night
Once budded to the sky;
And I shall die from his delight.
O leaves, so quietly ending now,
You heard the cuckoos sing.
And I will grow upon my bough
If only for a spring,
And fall when the rain is on my brow.
O tell me, tell me ere you die,
Is it worth the pain?
You bloomed so fair, you waved so high;
Now that the sad days wane,
Are you repenting where you lie?
I lie amongst you, and I kiss
Your fragrance mouldering.
O dead delights, is it such bliss,
That tuneful Spring?
Is love so sweet, that comes to this?
Kiss me again as I kiss you;
Kiss me again;
For all your tuneful nights of dew,
In this your time of rain,
For all your kisses when Spring was new.
You will not, broken hearts; let be.
I pass across your death
To a golden summer you shall not see,
And in your dying breath
There is no benison for me.
There is an autumn yet to wane,
There are leaves yet to fall,
Which, when I kiss, may kiss again,
And, pitied, pity me all for all,
And love me in mist and rain.
poem by Alice Meynell
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Go Away, Death!
Go away, Death!
You have come too soon.
To sunshine and song I but just awaken,
And the dew on my heart is undried and unshaken;
Come back at noon.
Go away, Death!
What a short reprieve!
The mists of the morning have vanished, I roam
Through a world bright with wonder, and feel it my home;
Come back at eve.
Go away, Death!
See, it still is light.
Over earth broods a quiet more blissful than glee,
And the beauty of sadness lies low on the sea;
Come back at night.
Come to me, Death!
I no more would stay.
The night-owl hath silenced the linnet and lark,
And the wailing of wisdom sounds sad in the dark;
Take me away.
poem by Alfred Austin
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Spring Dirge
A child came singing through the dusty town
A song so sweet that all men stayed to hear,
Forgetting for a space their ancient fear
Of evil days and death and fortune’s frown.
She sang of Winter dead and Spring new-born
In the green fields beyond the far hills’ bound;
And how this fair Spring, coming blossom-crowned,
Would cross the city’s threshold on the morn.
And each caged bird in every house anigh,
Even as she sang, caught up the glad refrain
Of Love and Hope and fair days come again,
Till all who heard forgot they had to die.
And all the ghosts of buried woes were laid
That heard the song of this sweet sorceress;
The Past grew to a dream of old distress,
And merry were the hearts of man and maid.
So, at the first faint blush of tender dawn,
Spring stole with noiseless steps through the gray gloom,
And men knew only by a strange perfume
That she had softly entered and withdrawn.
But ah! the lustre of her violet eyes
Was dimmed with tears for her sweet singing maid,
Whose voice would sound no more in shine or shade
To charm men’s souls at set of sun or rise.
For there, with dews of dawn upon her hair,
Like a fair flower plucked and flung away,
Dead in the street the little maiden lay
Who gave new life to hearts nigh dead of care.
Alas! must this be still the bitter doom
Awaiting those, the finer-souled of earth,
Who make for men a morning song of mirth
While yet the birds are dumb amid the gloom?
They walk on thorny ways with feet unshod,
Sing one last song, and die as that song dies.
There is no human hand to close their eyes,
And very heavy is the hand of God.
poem by Victor James Daley
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Songs of Joy
Sing out, my soul, thy songs of joy;
Sing as a happy bird will sing
Beneath a rainbow's lovely arch
In the spring.
Think not of death in thy young days;
Why shouldst thou that grim tyrant fear?
And fear him not when thou art old,
And he is near.
Strive not for gold, for greedy fools
Measure themselves by poor men never;
Their standard still being richer men,
Makes them poor ever.
Train up thy mind to feel content,
What matters then how low thy store?
What we enjoy, and not possess,
Makes rich or poor.
Filled with sweet thought, then happy I
Take not my state from other's eyes;
What's in my mind -- not on my flesh
Or theirs -- I prize.
Sing, happy soul, thy songs of joy;
Such as a Brook sings in the wood,
That all night has been strengthened by
Heaven's purer flood.
poem by William Henry Davies
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The Kiss of Death
I
There she lay
Her soul astray
Her cruel lips
Where my soul slips
Into the taste of death
To find her breath
The breath of pain,
Where souls are slain
Death does not kill pain!
It lives in the one who suffer from it.
II
Death is the ultimate symbol of life
Its deadly kiss pierces harder
Than the plunge of a sharpen knife….
Death comes to us all
We know not when
Or where death will call
So our souls
Slowly slip
Into death's kiss
On her lip
Where we slowly sip
Death's dead breath
The kiss of Death
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Cynthia
Cynthia, when you come walkin by
Youre an inspirin sight
Cynthia, you dont smile or say hi
But baby thats alright
cause I dont need to hold you
Or taste your kiss
I just like knowin cynthia, you exist at all
In a world like this
Cynthia, when you pass it seems
Like this whole town drops
Cynthia, maybe its just me babe
Some fool stuck here watchin the clock
Well, you give us a reason to start whisper why
To stop singin, baby, and salute your style
Yeah cynthia
Well now you aint the finest thing Ill never have
And when you go the hurt you leave
Well, baby, it aint so bad
No it aint cynthia
Yeah there aint a man in this whole town
Wholl say you aint fine
Dyou hear them guys talkin
Tell me, baby, do you mind
Well you make us happy, honey, when we feel sad
To see sumpnso good, in a world gone bad
Theres still cynthia, oh yeah
Cynthia, no one knows your number
No one knows where you live
Cynthia, I wonder do you understand
This strange thing you give
Yeah, well baby, is it your style
The mystery in your smile
Or just how cool you walk
In a world gone wild
Ah tell me if you will, cynthia
Well I gotta be pretty naive to believe in you
I know you aint ever gonna be my dream come true
Thats alright, I gotta dream
Thats as good as you, cynthia
Oh now baby, this aint no come-on
Its a walk on, walk on
Oh thats right, oh yeah
Mmmm, you make me holier
Yeah, yeah, alright
I said yeah, yeah, alright
Well shes a yeah, yeah, alright
I said yeah, yeah, alright
Well its a yeah, yeah, alright
Well shes a yeah, yeah, alright
I said yeah, yeah, alright
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Verses by Lady Geralda
Why, when I hear the stormy breath
Of the wild winter wind
Rushing o'er the mountain heath,
Does sadness fill my mind?
For long ago I loved to lie
Upon the pathless moor,
To hear the wild wind rushing by
With never ceasing roar;
Its sound was music then to me;
Its wild and lofty voice
Made by heart beat exultingly
And my whole soul rejoice.
But now, how different is the sound?
It takes another tone,
And howls along the barren ground
With melancholy moan.
Why does the warm light of the sun
No longer cheer my eyes?
And why is all the beauty gone
From rosy morning skies?
Beneath this lone and dreary hill
There is a lovely vale;
The purling of a crystal rill,
The sighing of the gale,
The sweet voice of the singing bird,
The wind among the trees,
Are ever in that valley heard;
While every passing breeze
Is loaded with the pleasant scent
Of wild and lovely flowers.
To yonder vales I often went
To pass my evening hours.
Last evening when I wandered there
To soothe my weary heart,
Why did the unexpected tear
From my sad eyelid start?
Why did the trees, the buds, the stream
Sing forth so joylessly?
And why did all the valley seem
So sadly changed to me?
I plucked a primrose young and pale
That grew beneath a tree
And then I hastened from the vale
Silent and thoughtfully.
Soon I was near my lofty home,
But when I cast my eye
Upon that flower so fair and lone
Why did I heave a sigh?
I thought of taking it again
To the valley where it grew.
But soon I spurned that thought as vain
And weak and childish too.
And then I cast that flower away
To die and wither there;
But when I found it dead today
Why did I shed a tear?
O why are things so changed to me?
What gave me joy before
Now fills my heart with misery,
And nature smiles no more.
And why are all the beauties gone
From this my native hill?
Alas! my heart is changed alone:
Nature is constant still.
For when the heart is free from care,
Whatever meets the eye
Is bright, and every sound we hear
Is full of melody.
The sweetest strain, the wildest wind,
The murmur of a stream,
To the sad and weary mind
Like doleful death knells seem.
Father! thou hast long been dead,
Mother! thou art gone,
Brother! thou art far away,
And I am left alone.
Long before my mother died
I was sad and lone,
And when she departed too
Every joy was flown.
But the world's before me now,
Why should I despair?
I will not spend my days in vain,
I will not linger here!
There is still a cherished hope
To cheer me on my way;
It is burning in my heart
With a feeble ray.
I will cheer the feeble spark
And raise it to a flame;
And it shall light me through the world,
And lead me on to fame.
I leave thee then, my childhood's home,
For all thy joys are gone;
I leave thee through the world to roam
In search of fair renown,
From such a hopeless home to part
Is happiness to me,
For nought can charm my weary heart
Except activity.
poem by Anne Brontë
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To Songs At the Marriage Of The Lord Fauconberg And The Lady Mary Cromwell
song Fauc1
First.
[Chorus. Endymion. Luna.]
Chorus.
Th' Astrologers own Eyes are set,
And even Wolves the Sheep forget;
Only this Shepherd, late and soon,
Upon this Hill outwakes the Moon.
Heark how he sings, with sad delight,
Thorough the clear and silent Night.
Endymion
Cynthia, O Cynthia, turn thine Ear,
nor scorn Endymions plaints to hear.
As we our Flocks, so you command
The fleecy Clouds with silver wand.
Cynthia
If thou a Mortal, rather sleep;
Or if a Shepherd, watch thy Sheep.
Endmymion
The Shepherd, since he saw thine Eyes,
And Sheep are both thy Sacrifice.
Nor merits he a Mortal's name,
That burns with an immortal Flame.
Cynthia
I have enough for me to do,
Ruling the Waves that Ebb and Flow.
Endymion
Since thou disdain'st not then to share
On Sublunary things thy Care;
Rather restrain these double Seas,
Mine Eyes uncessant deluges.
Cynthia
My wakeful Lamp all night must move,
Securing their Repose above.
Endymion
If therefore thy resplendent Ray
Can make a Night more bright then Day;
Shine thorough this obscurer Brest,
With shades of deep Despair opprest.
Chorus.
Courage, Endymion, boldly Woo,
Anchises was a Shepheard too:
Yet is her younger Sister laid
Sporting with him in Ida's shade:
And Cynthia, though the strongest,
Seeks but the honour to have held out longest.
Endymion
Here unto Latmos Top I climbe:
How far below thine Orbe sublime?
O why, as well as Eyes to see,
Have I not Armes that reach to thee?
Cynthia
'Tis needless then that I refuse,
Would you but your own Reason use.
Endymion
Though I so high may not pretend,
It is the same so you descend.
Cynthia
These Stars would say I do them wrong,
Rivals each one for thee too strong.
Endymion
The Stars are fix'd unto their Sphere,
And cannot, though they would, come near.
Less Loves set of each others praise,
While Stars Eclypse by mixing Rayes.
Cynthia
That Cave is dark.
Endymion
Then none can spy:
Or shine Thou there and 'tis the Sky.
Chorus.
Joy to Endymion,
For he has Cynthia's favour won.
And Jove himself approves
With his serenest influence their Loves.
For he did never love to pair
His Progeny above the Air;
But to be honest, valiant, wise,
Makes Mortals matches fit for Deityes.
song Fauc2
Second Song.
[Hobbinol. Phillis. Tomalin.]
Hobbinol
Phillis, Tomalin, away:
Never such a merry day.
For the Northern Shepheards Son
Has Menalca's daughter won.
Phillis
Stay till I some flow'rs ha'ty'd
In a Garland for the Bride.
Tomalin
If Thou would'st a Garland bring,
Philiis you may wait the Spring:
They ha' chosen such an hour
When She is the only flow'r.
Phillis
Let's not then at least be seen
Without each a Sprig of Green.
Hobbinol
Fear not; at Menalca's Hall
There is Bayes enough for all.
He when Young as we did graze,
But when Old he planted Bayes.
Tomalin
Here She comes; but with a Look
Far more catching then my Hook.
'Twas those Eyes, I now dare swear,
Led our Lambs we knew not where.
Hobbinol
Not our Lambs own Fleeces are
Curl'd so lovely as her Hair:
Nor our Sheep new Wash'd can be
Half so white or sweet as She.
Phillis
He so looks as fit to keep
Somewhat else then silly Sheep.
Hobbinol
Come, lets in some Carol new
Pay to Love and Them their due.
All.
Joy to that happy Pair,
Whose Hopes united banish our Despair.
What Shepheard could for Love pretend,
Whil'st all the Nymphs on Damon's choice attend?
What Shepherdess could hope to wed
Before Marina's turn were sped?
Now lesser Beauties may take place,
And meaner Virtues come in play;
While they,
Looking from high,
Shall grace
Our Flocks and us with a propitious Eye.
But what is most, the gentle Swain
No more shall need of Love complain;
But Virtue shall be Beauties hire,
And those be equal that have equal Fire.
Or who despair, now Damon does enjoy?
Marina yields. Who dares be coy?
Joy to that happy Pair,
Whose Hopes united banish our Despair.
poem by Andrew Marvell
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Love Cannot Die
In crime and enmity they lie
Who sin and tell us love can die,
Who say to us in slander's breath
That love belongs to sin and death.
From heaven it came on angel's wing
To bloom on earth, eternal spring;
In falsehood's enmity they lie
Who sin and tell us love can die.
Twas born upon an angel's breast.
The softest dreams, the sweetest rest,
The brightest sun, the bluest sky,
Are love's own home and canopy.
The thought that cheers this heart of mine
Is that of love; love so divine
They sin who say in slander's breath
That love belongs to sin and death.
The sweetest voice that lips contain,
The sweetest thought that leaves the brain,
The sweetest feeling of the heart--
There's pleasure in its very smart.
The scent of rose and cinnamon
Is not like love remembered on;
In falsehood's enmity they lie
Who sin and tell us love can die.
poem by John Clare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dead!
Hush! or you'll wake her. Softly tread!
She slumbers in her little bed.
What do I see? A coffin! Dead?
Yes, dead at break of morning.
No, no, it cannot, cannot be!
I know that I can wake her. See!
She only plays at sleep. Ma mie,
Kiss me, for it is morning.
Look, pretty, look! Within, without,
Snowdrops and hyacinths lie about.
Why don't you clutch them with a shout
Blither than birds of morning?
You used to clap your hands with glee,
When I brought flowers. ``Are these for me?''
Now, now, you neither scent nor see
These incense-buds of morning.
Do you not know me, pet? Speak! speak!
There is no answer in her cheek.
To find her now where shall I seek?-
Seek in the vanished morning!
What can I do to make her heed?
I am crying, love; I am indeed.
Open your eyes and see. What need
To tease me all the morning?
Look! We will sally forth and play;
Ramble, and never ask our way,
Lessons and tasks all put away,
As though it were not morning.
We will do all that you desire,
And I will never, never tire
Of romping with you by the fire,
When 'tis no longer morning.
Your favourite tales, oft told before,
I'll tell you, darling, o'er and o'er;
It never shall be bedtime more,
Will you but wake this morning.
I will not ask you to sit still;
You shall be naughty when you will;
Shall spill my ink and spoil my quill,
And squander all my morning.
Alas! Alas! it is no cheat!
Quiet she lies from face to feet!
No smile, no sigh, no hue, no heat,
No earnest of the morning.
Draw high the sheet above her head.
She liked it, so. Dead? No, not dead.
The angels, hovering round her bed,
Will greet her in the morning.
poem by Alfred Austin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Song Of Love
A song of love
is the sweetest song,
any mortal will ever hear.
It is sung by a choir of angels,
with cherub faces,
and long golden flowing hair.
The song of love
is the silvery glint,
on a moonstone,
captured by one’s eye.
The bright twinkle,
which holds a heavenly sigh.
The song of love
is the stars that rush around your head.
The smile so serine,
that entraps the lonely heart.
The music that sweeps you off your feet,
and leaves you dancing in the air.
The song of love
is the sweetest song,
any mortal will ever hear.
It starts with the first kiss,
which leaves you wanting more,
and will never let you go.
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Happy
Some need gold and some need diamond rings
Or a drug to take away the pain that living brings
A promise of a better world to come
When whatever here is done
I dont need that sky of blue
All I knows since I found you, Im happy when Im in your arms
Happy, darling, come the dark
Happy when I taste your kiss
Im happy in a love like this
Theres a house upon a distant hill
Where you can hear the laughter of children ring
Guardian angels, they watch from above
Watching over the love that they bring
But at night I feel the darkness near, I awake and I find you near
Im happy with you in my arms
Im happy with you in my heart
Happy when I taste your kiss
Im happy in love like this
In a world of doubt and fear
I wake at night and reach to find you near
Lost in a dream, you caught me as I fell
I want more than just a dream to tell
Were born in this world, darling, with few days and trouble never far behind
Man and woman circle each other in a cage
A cage thats been handed down the line
Lost and running neath a million dead stars
Tonight lets shed our skins and slip these bars
Happy in each others arms
Happy baby, come the dark
Happy in each others kiss
I m happy in a love like this
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Baby Your Love Is The Sweetest Sin
Baby your love is the sweetest sin
Which shines like the stars above
Baby your love is the sweetest sin
That shows you’ll always be my luv
Baby your love is the sweetest sin
Adding music to my life
Baby your love is the sweetest sin
Which saves me from this pain and strife
Baby your love is the sweetest sin
You know you rock my world
Baby your love is the sweetest sin
You know I’ll always be your girl
Baby your love is the sweetest sin
Which washes away my pain
Baby your love is the sweetest sin
I’m happy and you’re the one to blame
Baby your love is the sweetest sin
Of you I’ll never tire
Baby your love is the sweetest sin
You are the spark that lights my fire
Baby your love is the sweetest sin
To you I’ll always be devout
Baby your love is the sweetest sin
Which I cannot live without
poem by Jade Hymora
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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