Related quotes: The fatal hours are wondrous...

Song IX. - The fatal hours are wondrous near

The fatal hours are wondrous near,
That from these fountains bear my dear;
A little space is given; in vain
She robs my sight, and shuns the plain.

A little space, for me to prove
My boundless flame, my endless love;
And, like the train of vulgar hours,
Invidious Time that space devours.

Near yonder beech is Delia's way,
On that I gaze the livelong day;
No eastern monarch's dazzling pride
Should draw my longing eyes aside.

The chief that knows of succours nigh,
And sees his mangled legions die,
Casts not a more impatient glance
To see the loitering aids advance.

Not more the schoolboy, that expires
Far from his native home, requires
To see some friend's familiar face,
Or meet a parent's last embrace-

She comes-but, ah! what crowds of beaus
In radiant bands my fair enclose!
Oh! better hadst thou shunn'd the green;
Oh, Delia! better far unseen.

Methinks, by all my tender fears,
By all my sighs, by all my tears,
I might from torture now be free-
'Tis more than death to part from thee!

poem by William Shenstone
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Related quotes

A Lost Love

I meet thy pensive, moonlight face;
Thy thrilling voice I hear;
And former hours and scenes retrace,
Too fleeting, and too dear!

Then sighs and tears flow fast and free,
Though none is nigh to share;
And life has nought beside for me
So sweet as this despair.

There are crush'd hearts that will not break;
And mine, methinks, is one;
Or thus I should not weep and wake,
And thou to slumber gone.

I little thought it thus could be
In days more sad and fair
That earth could have a place for me,
And thou no longer there.

Yet death cannot our hearts divide,
Or make thee less my own:
Twere sweeter sleeping at thy side
Than watching here alone.

Yet never, never can we part,
While Memory holds her reign:
Thine, thine is still this wither'd heart,
Till we shall meet again.

poem by Henry Francis Lyte
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Sonnet XXXIX: Look, Delia

Look, Delia, how we 'steem the half-blown Rose,
The image of thy blush and Summer's honor,
Whilst in her tender green she doth enclose
That pure sweet Beauty Time bestows upon her.
No sooner spreads her glory in the air,
But straight her full-blown pride is in declining;
She then is scorn'd that late adorn'd the Fair;
So clouds thy beauty after fairest shining.
No April can revive thy wither'd flowers,
Whose blooming grace adorns thy glory now;
Swift speedy Time, feather'd with flying hours,
Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.
O let not then such riches waste in vain,
But love whilst that thou mayst be lov'd again.

poem by Samuel Daniel
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Delia: XXXI (1592 version): Look, Delia, how we 'steem the

XXXI (

version)
Look, Delia, how we 'steem the half-blown rose,
The image of thy blush and summer's honour,
Whilst in her tender green she doth enclose
That pure sweet beauty time bestows upon her.
No sooner spreads her glory in the air
But straight her full-blown pride is in declining;
She then is scorn'd that late adorn'd the fair:
So clouds thy beauty after fairest shining.
No April can revive thy wither'd flowers,
Whose blooming grace adorns thy beauty now;
Swift speedy time, feather'd with flying hours,
Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.
O let not then such riches waste in vain,
But love whilst that thou mayst be lov'd again.

poem by Samuel Daniel
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Primal Death

Space
Time
Space
Travel
Raining
Ai ming
Space
Time
Space
Expanding
Un iting
Increasing
Space
Time
Space
Sweeping
Restraining
Stretching
Space
Time
Space
Wrestling
Throwing
Throwi ng up
Space
Time
Space
Falling
Sinkin g
Overturning
Space
Time
Space
Whi rling
Space
Time
Space
Disturbing
Space
Time
Space
Whirring
Space
Ti me Space
Erring at
Nothing

poem by August Stramm
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A Woman’s Sonnets: IX

The day draws nigh, methinks, when I could stay
Calm in thy presence with no dream of ill,
When, having put all earthliness away,
I could be near thee, touching thee, and still
Feel no mad throbbing at my foolish heart,
No sudden rising of unbidden tears,
Could mark thee come and go, to meet our part,
Without the gladness and without the fears.
Have patience with me then for this short space.
I shall be wise, but may not yet unmoved
See a strange woman put into my place
And happy in thy love, as I was loved:
This were too much. Ah, let me not yet see
The love--light in thine eyes, and not for me.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Third Sunday After Trinity

O hateful spell of Sin! when friends are nigh,
To make stern Memory tell her tale unsought,
And raise accusing shades of hours gone by,
To come between us and all kindly thought!

Chilled at her touch, the self-reproaching soul
Flies from the heart and home she dearest loves,
To where lone mountains tower, or billows roll,
Or to your endless depth, ye solemn groves.

In vain: the averted cheek in loneliest dell
Is conscious of a gaze it cannot bear,
The leaves that rustle near us seem to tell
Our heart's sad secret to the silent air.

Nor is the dream untrue; for all around
The heavens are watching with their thousand eyes,
We cannot pass our guardian angel's bound,
Resigned or sullen, he will hear our sighs.

He in the mazes of the budding wood
Is near, and mourns to see our thankless glance
Dwell coldly, where the fresh green earth is strewed
With the first flowers that lead the vernal dance.

In wasteful bounty showered, they smile unseen,
Unseen by man--but what if purer sprights
By moonlight o'er their dewy bosoms lean
To adore the Father of all gentle lights?

If such there be, O grief and shame to think
That sight of thee should overcloud their joy,
A new-born soul, just waiting on the brink
Of endless life, yet wrapt in earth's annoy!

O turn, and be thou turned! the selfish tear,
In bitter thoughts of low-born care begun,
Let it flow on, but flow refined and clear,
The turbid waters brightening as they run.

Let it flow on, till all thine earthly heart
In penitential drops have ebbed away,
Then fearless turn where Heaven hath set thy part,
Nor shudder at the Eye that saw thee stray.

O lost and found! all gentle souls below
Their dearest welcome shall prepare, and prove
Such joy o'er thee, as raptured seraphs know,
Who learn their lesson at the Throne of Love.

poem by John Keble
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The brain is all space

boundless is space
so is this brain
take away its organics
you have a space
as boundless as space
pump in the organics
you get to experience
the power of space
and a transient piano
that affords a transcendental
tune of bewilderment
pain, joy, fun
until the brains trades
space for space
in all the darkness

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Delia

Delia was a gambling girl, gambled all around,
Delia was a gambling girl, she laid her money down.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Delias dear ol mother took a trip out west,
When she returned, little delia gone to rest.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Delias daddy weeped, delias momma moaned,
Wouldnt have been so bad if the poor girl died at home.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Curtis looking high, curtis looking low,
He shot poor delia down with a cruel forty-four.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
High up on the housetops, high as I can see,
Looking for them rounders, looking out for me.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Men in atlanta, tryin to pass for white,
Delias in the graveyard, boys, six feet out of sight.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Judge says to curtis, whats this noise about?
All about them rounders, judge, tryin to cut me out.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Curtis said to the judge, what might be my fine?
Judge says, poor boy, you got ninety-nine.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Curtis in the jail house, drinking from an old tin cup,
Delias in the graveyard, she aint gettin up.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Delia, oh delia, how can it be?
You loved all them rounders, never did love me.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Delia, oh delia, how can it be?
You wanted all them rounders, never had time for me.
All the friends I ever had are gone.

song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You ask why these mountains

YOU ask why these mountains delight me no more,
And why lovely Clwyd's attractions are o'er;
Ah! have you not heard, then, the cause of my pain?
The pride of fair Clwyd, the boast of the plain,
We never, no never, shall gaze on again!

What though from her coldness keen anguish I felt,
And vainly, to move her, in agony knelt;
Yet could I restore her, I'd never complain,
Not e'en though she doomed me to endless disdain....
I'd bear any torture to see her again.

I grieved when on others with kindness she gazed,
I mourned when another with pleasure she praised;
But could I recall her to life by my pain,
I'd urge her to favour some happier swain,
And wish no reward but to see her again.

Those beauties that charmed me, from death I would free,
Though sure that those beauties another's should be!
But truth, and affection, and grief are all vain;
The pride of fair Clwyd, the boast of our plain,
We never, ah never! can gaze on again!

poem by Amelia Opie
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An Ode To Mr. Howard

Dear Howard, from the soft assaults of love
Poets and painters never are secure;
Can I untouch'd the fair one's passions move,
Or thou draw beauty, and not feel its power?

To great Appelles when young Ammon brought
The darling idol of his captive heart;
And the pleased nymph with kind attention sat,
To have her charms recorded by his art:

The amorous master own'd her potent eyes:
Sigh'd when he look'd, and trembled as he drew:
Each flowing line confirm'd his first surprise,
And, as the piece advanced, the passion grew.

While Philip's son, while Venus' son, was near,
What different tortures does his bosom feel?
Great was the rival, and the god severe:
Nor could he hide his flame, nor durst reveal.

The prince, renown'd in bounty as in arms,
With pity saw the ill-conceal'd distress;
Quitted his title to Campaspe's charms,
And gave the fair one to the friend's embrace.

Thus the more beauteous Cloe sat to thee,
Good Howard, emulous of the Grecian art:
But happy thou, from Cupid's arrow free,
And flames that pierced thy predecessor's heart!

Had thy poor breast received an equal pain;
Had I been vested with the monarch's power;
Thou must have sigh'd, unlucky youth, in vain;
Nor from my bounty hadst thou found a cure.

Though, to convince thee that the friend did feel
A kind concern for thy ill-fated care,
I would have sooth'd thy flame I could not heal;
Given thee the world; though I withheld the fair.

poem by Matthew Prior
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To Henry, Written to a Russian Air

How I hail this morn's appearing!
It will thee, my love, restore:
Safety danger past endearing,
Sure we meet to part no more!

Fame is thine, lo! crowds aver it,
And her smile is dear to thee;
But I charge thee, don't prefer it
E'er again to home and me.

Thou, thy country's call obeying,
Hast her battles nobly fought;
And, thy ready zeal repaying,
See, she gives the laurels sought.

But have I no claims, my rover?
Claims as fondly dear to thee?
Yes, O yes! and, wandering over,
Thou wilt rest with love and me.

Ha! methinks, thy glances reading,
From thine eyes my fate I know;
Duty still love's claim impeding,
Thou again must seek the foe.

Of my fears too dread revival!
Yet, with tearful joy I see,
Duty is the only rival
Potent over love and me.

poem by Amelia Opie
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Sonnet XLIV: O Be Not Griev'd

O be not griev'd that these my papers should
Betray unto the world how fair thou art,
Or that my wits have show'd the best they could
The chastest flame that ever warmed heart.
Think not, sweet Delia, this shall be thy shame,
My Muse should sound thy praise with mournful warble;
How many live, the glory of whose name
Shall rest in ice when thine is grav'd in marble?
Thou mayst in after ages live esteem'd,
Unburied in these lines reserv'd in pureness;
These shall entomb those eyes that have redeem'd
Me from the vulgar, thee from all obscureness.
Although my carefull accents ne'er mov'd thee,
Yet count it no disgrace that I have lov'd thee.

poem by Samuel Daniel
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Love Elegy, to Laura

Too heedless friend, why thus augment the flame
That glows resistless in my beating breast?
Why with thy praises grace his fatal name,
Who robs thy Emma's hapless heart of rest?

Why needest thou dwell on Henry's graceful ease;
Why praise the timid worth his glance reveals;
Why speak enraptured of his power to please,
Whose power to wound my aching bosom feels?

Say not, "That gentle voice was formed for love,"
Nor in his eyes such sweet expression see;
Say not, that tenderness those glances prove,
Which never fix with tenderness on me.

Too well my Henry's charms I've numbered o'er,
And thus to end the fond survey is mine:
His heart will own some brighter fair one's power;
Think not, lost Emma, he can e'er be thine.

Yet why despair? Though Beauty's boasted rose
On others' cheeks in livelier colours shine,
The tender heart that in my bosom glows
The palm of fondness will to none resign.

Though brighter radiance beams in others' eyes,
By shape, by colour formed the soul to steal;
If Love's expression Henry's heart can prize,
Then, Henry's heart the power of mine must feel.

Yet vain the hope: "Fond maid, thy love suppress,"
Calm Reason cries; "go, learn to check the sigh:
But, if resolved to love in rash excess,
Seek out some lonely shade, despair, and die!"

Then, Laura, bid to Henry's praise farewel!
Forget his merit, and my hopeless flame;
On the dear theme no more ill-judging dwell,
And from thy memory blot his fatal name.

But if I urge this plaintive prayer in vain,
Bid execrations on that name attend;
And him, my Laura, view with cold disdain,
Who sees unmoved the sorrows of thy friend.

Say, such the scorn, the pride of Henry's breast,
It cannot Love's endearing softness share,
Say, vice degrades....Hold! slight my wild request,
Nor by such calumny my fury dare.

No....from my frantic wishes still appeal,
Declare that Henry is from error free;
Or the keen hate for him I bade thee feel,
My wayward heart will learn to feel for thee.

poem by Amelia Opie
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Songs Set To Music: 15. Set By Mr. De Fesch

Farewell, Amynta, we must part;
The charm has lost its power
Which held so fast my captived heart
Until this fatal hour.

Hadst thou not thus my love abused,
And used me ne'er so ill,
Thy cruelty I had excused,
And I had loved thee still.

But know, my soul disdain'd thy sway,
And scorns thy charms and thee,
To which each fluttering coxcomb may
As welcome be as me.

Think in what perfect bliss you reign'd,
How loved before thy fall,
And now, alas! how much disdain'd
By me, and scorn'd by all.

Yet thinking of each happy hour,
Which I with thee have spent,
So robs my rage of all its power,
That I almost relent.

But pride will never let me bow;
No more thy charms can move;
Yet thou art worth my pity now,
Because thou hadst my love.

poem by Matthew Prior
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Lovers' Infiniteness

IF yet I have not all thy love,
Dear, I shall never have it all;
I cannot breathe one other sigh, to move,
Nor can intreat one other tear to fall;
And all my treasure, which should purchase thee,
Sighs, tears, and oaths, and letters I have spent;
Yet no more can be due to me,
Than at the bargain made was meant.
If then thy gift of love were partial,
That some to me, some should to others fall,
Dear, I shall never have thee all.

Or if then thou gavest me all,
All was but all, which thou hadst then;
But if in thy heart since there be or shall
New love created be by other men,
Which have their stocks entire, and can in tears,
In sighs, in oaths, and letters, outbid me,
This new love may beget new fears,
For this love was not vow'd by thee.
And yet it was, thy gift being general;
The ground, thy heart, is mine; what ever shall
Grow there, dear, I should have it all.

Yet I would not have all yet.
He that hath all can have no more;
And since my love doth every day admit
New growth, thou shouldst have new rewards in store;
Thou canst not every day give me thy heart,
If thou canst give it, then thou never gavest it;
Love's riddles are, that though thy heart depart,
It stays at home, and thou with losing savest it;
But we will have a way more liberal,
Than changing hearts, to join them; so we shall
Be one, and one another's all.

poem by John Donne
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Love's Infiniteness

If yet I have not all thy love,
Dear, I shall never have it all,
I cannot breathe one other sigh, to move,
Nor can entreat one other tear to fall,
And all my treasure, which should purchase thee,
Sighs, tears, and oaths, and letters I have spent.
Yet no more can be due to me,
Than at the bargain made was meant;
If then thy gift of love were partial,
That some to me, some should to others fall,
Dear, I shall never have thee all.

Or if then thou gavest me all,
All was but all, which thou hadst then;
But if in thy heart, since, there be or shall
New love created be, by other men,
Which have their stocks entire, and can in tears,
In sighs, in oaths, and letters outbid me,
This new love may beget new fears,
For, this love was not vowed by thee.
And yet it was, thy gift being general;
The ground, thy heart, is mine, whatever shall
Grow there, dear, I should have it all.

Yet I would not have all yet;
He that hath all can have no more,
And since my love doth every day admit
New growth, thou shouldst have new rewards in store;
Thou canst not every day give me thy heart,
If thou canst give it, then thou never gavest it:
Love's riddles are, that though thy heart depart,
It stays at home, and thou with losing savest it:
But we will have a way more liberal,
Than changing hearts, to join them, so we shall
Be one, and one another's all.

poem by John Donne
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To Emma

Far away, where darkness reigneth,
All my dreams of bliss are flown;
Yet with love my gaze remaineth
Fixed on one fair star alone.
But, alas! that star so bright
Sheds no lustre save by night.

If in slumbers ending never,
Gloomy death had sealed thine eyes,
Thou hadst lived in memory ever--
Thou hadst lived still in my sighs;
But, alas! in light thou livest--
To my love no answer givest!

Can the sweet hopes love once cherished
Emma, can they transient prove?
What has passed away and perished--
Emma, say, can that be love?
That bright flame of heavenly birth--
Can it die like things of earth?

poem by Friedrich Schiller
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The Lucayan's Song

Hail, lonely shore! hail, desert cave!
To you, o'erjoyed, from men I fly,
And here I'll make my early grave....
For what can misery do but die?

Sad was the hour when, fraught with guile,
Spain's cruel sons our valleys sought;
Unknown to us the Christian's wile,
Unknown the dark deceiver's thought.

They said, that here, for ever blest,
Our loved forefathers lived and reigned;
And we, by pious fondness prest,
Believed the flattering tales they feigned.

But when we learnt the mournful truth....
No, I'll the horrid tale forbear:
For on our trusting, blighted youth,
My brethren, who will drop a tear!

Thou treasure of these burning eyes,
Where wave thy groves, dear native isle?
Methinks where yon blue mountains rise,
'Tis there thy precious valleys smile!

Yes....yes....these tears of joy that start,
The softly-soothing truth declare:
Thou whisperest right, my beating heart....
My loved regretted home is there!

But then its trees that wave so high,
The glittering birds that deck each grove,
I cannot, cannot hence descry,
Nor, dearer far, the forms I love.

Yet still the winds that cool my brow,
And o'er these murmuring waters come,
A joy that mocks belief bestow;
For sure they lately left my home.

Then deeply I'll the breeze inhale,
To life it yet imparts one joy,
Methinks your breath has filled the gale,
My faithful love, my prattling boy!

My prattling boy, my beauteous wife!
Say, do you still my name repeat,
And only bear the load of life
In hopes that we once more may meet!

My love! in dreams thou still art nigh,
But changed and pale thou seemest to be;
Yet still the more thou charmest my eye,
I think thee changed by love for me:....

While oft, to fond remembrance true,
I see thee seek the sparkling sand,
In hopes the little bark to view
That bears me to my native land.

But never more shall Zama's eye
Her loved returning husband see,
Nor more her locks of ebon dye
Shall Zama fondly braid for me.

Yet still, with hope chastised by fear,
Watch for my bark from yonder shore,
And still, my Zama, think me near,
When this torn bosom throbs no more.

Yet surely hope, each day deceived,
At length to daring deeds will fire;
The Spaniard's tale no more believed,
My fate will fearful doubts inspire.

And then, blest thought! across the main
Thou'lt haste, thy injured love to find,
All danger scorn, all fears disdain,
And gladly trust the waves and wind.

Ha! even now the distant sky
Seems by one spot of darkness crost;
Yes, yes, a vessel meets my eye!.....
Or else I gaze in phrensy lost!

It hither steers!........No....beating breast,
Too well I see what bade thee glow;
The sea-bird hastening to its nest,
To taste a joy I ne'er shall know.

Moment of hope, too bright to last,
Thou hast but deepened my despair;
But woe's severest pangs are past,
For life's last closing hours are near.

'T was morn when first this beach I sought,
Now evening's shadows fill the plain;
Yet here I've stood entranced in thought,
Unheeding thirst, fatigue, or pain.

'T is past....I faint...my throbbing brow
Cold clammy drops I feel bedew;
Dear native shore! where art thou now?....
Some Spaniard shuts thee from my view.

Monster, away! and let me taste
That joy in death, in life denied!
Still let me o'er the watery waste
Behold the hills which Zama hide!

Alas! I rave! no foe is near;
'T is death's thick mist obscures my sight;
Those precious hills, to memory dear,
No more shall these fond eyes delight!

But sent from thee, my native shore,
Again that precious breeze is nigh....
Zama, I feel thy breath once more,
And now content, transported, die!

poem by Amelia Opie
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Space Between

You cannot quit me so quickly
Is no hope in you for me
No corner you could squeeze me
But Ive got all the time for you love
The space between
The tears we cry is the laughter that keeps us coming back for more
The space between
The wicked lies we tell to keep us safe from the pain
Will I hold you again
These fickle fuddled words confuse me
Like will it rain today
We waste the hours with talking talking
These twisted games were playing
Were strange allies
With warring hearts
What a wild eyed beast you be
The space between
The wicked lies we tell that hope to keep us safe from the pain
Look at us spinning out in the madness of a rollercoaster
You know you went off like the devil in the church
In the middle of a crowded room
All we can do my love
Is hope we dont take this ship down
The space between
Where you smile and hide
Thats where youll find me if I get to go
The space between
The bullets in our fire fight
Is where Ill be hiding waiting for you
The rain that falls
Splashed in your heart
Ran like sadness down the window into your room
The space between
Our wicked lies is
The hope to keep safe from pain
Take my hand
Cause were walking out of here
Right out of here
Is all we need dear
The space between
Whats wrong and right
Is where youll find me hiding
Waiting for you
The space between
Your heart and mind
Is the space well fill with time
The space between
The tears we cry is the laughter keeps us coming back for more
The space between
Our wicked lies where we hope to keep safe from pain
The space between
The space between

song performed by by Dave Matthews Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On The Edge Of The Wilderness

Puellae.

Whence comest thou, and whither goest thou?
Abide! abide! longer the shadows grow;
What hopest thou the dark to thee will show?