On Westwell Downes
When Westwell Downes I gan to tread,
Where cleanely wynds the greene did sweepe,
Methought a landskipp there was spread,
Here a bush and there a sheepe:
The pleated wrinkles of the face
Of wave-swolne earth did lend such grace,
As shadowings in Imag'ry
Which both deceive and please the eye.
The sheepe sometymes did tread the maze
By often wynding in and in,
And sometymes round about they trace
Which milkmayds call a Fairie ring:
Such semicircles have they runne,
Such lynes acrosse so trymly spunne
That sheppeards learne whenere they please
A new Geometry with ease.
The slender food upon the downe
Is allwayes even, allwayes bare,
Which neither spring nor winter's frowne
Can ought improve or ought impayre:
Such is the barren Eunuches chynne,
Which thus doth evermore begynne
With tender downe to be orecast
Which never comes to haire at last.
Here and there twoe hilly crests
Amiddst them hugg a pleasant greene,
And these are like twoe swelling breasts
That close a tender fall betweene.
Here would I sleepe, or read, or pray
From early morne till flight of day:
But harke! a sheepe-bell calls mee upp,
Like Oxford colledge bells, to supp.
poem by William Strode
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
From 'Daphnaida
SHE fell away in her first ages spring,
Whil'st yet her leafe was greene, and fresh her rinde,
And whil'st her braunch faire blossomes foorth did bring,
She fell away against all course of kinde.
For age to dye is right, but youth is wrong;
She fel away like fruit blowne downe with winde.
Weepe, Shepheard! weepe, to make my undersong.
Yet fell she not as one enforst to dye,
Ne dyde with dread and grudging discontent,
But as one toyld with travaile downe doth lye,
So lay she downe, as if to sleepe she went,
And closde her eyes with carelesse quietnesse;
The whiles soft death away her spirit hent,
And soule assoyld from sinfull fleshlinesse.
How happie was I when I saw her leade
The Shepheards daughters dauncing in a rownd!
How trimly would she trace and softly tread
The tender grasse, with rosie garland crownd!
And when she list advance her heavenly voyce,
Both Nymphes and Muses nigh she made astownd,
And flocks and shepheards caused to rejoyce.
But now, ye Shepheard lasses! who shall lead
Your wandring troupes, or sing your virelayes?
Or who shall dight your bowres, sith she is dead
That was the Lady of your holy-dayes?
Let now your blisse be turned into bale,
And into plaints convert your joyous playes,
And with the same fill every hill and dale.
For I will walke this wandring pilgrimage,
Throughout the world from one to other end,
And in affliction wast my better age:
My bread shall be the anguish of my mind,
My drink the teares which fro mine eyed do raine,
My bed the ground that hardest I may finde;
So will I wilfully increase my paine.
Ne sleepe (the harbenger of wearie wights)
Shall ever lodge upon mine ey-lids more;
Ne shall with rest refresh my fainting sprights,
Nor failing force to former strength restore:
But I will wake and sorrow all the night
With Philumene, my fortune to deplore;
With Philumene, the partner of my plight.
And ever as I see the starres to fall,
And under ground to goe to give them light
Which dwell in darknes, I to minde will call
How my fair Starre (that shinde on me so bright)
Fell sodainly and faded under ground;
Since whose departure, day is turnd to night,
And night without a Venus starre is found.
And she, my love that was, my Saint that is,
When she beholds from her celestiall throne
(In which shee joyeth in eternall blis)
My bitter penance, will my case bemone,
And pitie me that living thus doo die;
For heavenly spirits have compassion
On mortall men, and rue their miserie.
So when I have with sorowe satisfide
Th' importune fates, which vengeance on me seeke,
And th' heavens with long languor pacifide,
She, for pure pitie of my sufferance meeke,
Will send for me; for which I daylie long:
And will till then my painful penance eeke.
Weep, Shepheard! weep, to make my undersong!
poem by Edmund Spenser
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Three Ravens
There were three ravens sat on a tree,
They were as black as they might be.
The one of them said to his mate,
'Where shall we our breakefast take?'
'Downe in yonder greene field,
There lies a knight slain under his shield.
'His hounds they lie downe at his feete,
So well they can their master keepe.
'His haukes they flie so eagerly,
There's no fowle dare come him nie.'
Downe there comes a fallow doe,
As great with yong as she might goe.
She lift up his bloudy hed,
And kist his wounds that were so red.
She got him up upon her backe,
And carried him to earthen lake.
She buried him before the prime,
She was dead herselfe ere even-song time.
God send every gentleman,
Such haukes, such hounds, and such a leman.
The Three Ravens
There were three ravens sat on a tree,
They were as black as they might be.
The one of them said to his mate,
'Where shall we our breakefast take?'
' Downe in yonder greene field,
There lies a knight slain under his shield.
'His hounds they lie downe at his feete,
So well they can their master keepe.
' His haukes they flie so eagerly,
There's no fowle dare come him nie.'
Downe there comes a fallow doe,
As great with yong as she might goe.
She lift up his bloudy hed,
And kist his wounds that were so red.
She got him up upon her backe,
And carried him to earthen lake.
She buried him before the prime,
She was dead herselfe ere even-song time.
God send every gentleman,
Such haukes, such hounds, and such a leman.
poem by Anonymous Americas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Shepheardes Calender: March
March: Ægloga Tertia. Willye & Thomalin.
Willye.
THomalin, why sytten we soe,
As weren ouerwent with woe,
Vpon so fayre a morow?
The ioyous time now nighest fast,
That shall alegge this bitter blast,
And slake the winters sorowe.
Thomalin.
Sicker Willye, thou warnest well:
For Winters wrath beginnes to quell,
And pleasant spring appeareth.
The grasse now ginnes to be refresht,
The Swallow peepes out of her nest,
And clowdie Welkin cleareth.
Willye.
Seest not thilke same Hawthorne studde,
How bragly it beginnes to budde,
And vtter his tender head?
Flora now calleth forth eche flower,
And bids make ready Maias bowre,
That newe is vpryst from bedde.
Tho shall we sporten in delight,
And learne with Lettice to wexe light,
That scornefully lookes askaunce,
Tho will we little Loue awake,
That nowe sleepeth in Lethe lake,
And pray him leaden our daunce.
Thomalin.
Willye, I wene thou bee assott:
For lustie Loue still sleepeth not,
But is abroad at his game.
Willye.
How kenst thou, that he is awoke?
Or hast thy selfe his slomber broke?
Or made preuie to the same?
Thomalin.
No, but happely I hym spyde,
Where in a bush he did him hide,
With winges of purple and blewe.
And were not, that my sheepe would stray,
The preuie marks I would bewray,
Whereby by chaunce I him knewe.
Willye.
Thomalin, haue no care for thy,
My selfe will haue a double eye,
Ylike to my flocke and thine:
For als at home I haue a syre,
A stepdame eke as whott as fyre,
That dewly adayes counts mine.
Thomalin.
Nay, but thy seeing will not serue,
My sheepe for that may chaunce to swerue,
And fall into some mischiefe.
For sithens is but the third morowe,
That I chaunst to fall a sleepe with sorowe,
And waked againe with griefe:
The while thilke same vnhappye Ewe,
Whose clouted legge her hurt doth shewe,
Fell headlong into a dell.
And there vnioynted both her bones:
Mought her necke bene ioynted attones,
She shoulde haue neede no more spell.
Thelf was so wanton and so wood,
(But now I trowe can better good)
She mought ne gang on the greene,
Willye.
Let be, as may be, that is past:
That is to come, let be forecast.
Now tell vs, what thou hast seene.
Thomalin.
It was vpon a holiday,
When shepheardes groomes han leaue to playe,
I cast to goe a shooting.
Long wandring vp and downe the land,
With bowe and bolts in either hand,
For birds in bushes tooting:
At length within an Yuie todde
(There shrouded was the little God)
I heard a busie bustling.
I bent my bow against the bush,
Listening if any thing did rushe,
But then heard no more rustling.
Tho peeping close into the thicke,
Might see the mouing of some quicke.
Whose shape appeared not:
But were it faerie, feend, or snake,
My courage earnd it to awake,
And manfully thereat shotte.
With that sprong forth a naked swayne,
With spotted winges like Peacocks trayne,
And laughing lope to a tree.
His gylden quiuer at his backe,
And silver bowe, which was but slacke,
Which lightly he bent at me.
That seeing, I leuelde againe,
And shott at him with might and maine,
As thicke, as it had hayled.
So long I shott, that al was spent:
Tho pumie stones I hastly hent,
And threwe: but nought availed:
He was so wimble, and so wight,
From bough to bough he lepped light,
And oft the pumies latched.
Therewith affrayd I ranne away:
But he, that earst seemd but to playe,
A shaft in earnest snatched,
And hit me running in the heele:
For then I little smart did feele:
But soone it sore encreased.
And now it ranckleth more and more,
And inwardly it festreth sore,
Ne wote I, how to cease it.
Willye.
Thomalin, I pittie thy plight.
Perdie with loue thou diddest fight:
I know him by a token.
For once I heard my father say,
How he him caught vpon a day,
(Whereof he wilbe wroken)
Entangled in a fowling net,
Which he for carrion Crowes had set,
That in our Peeretree haunted.
Tho sayd, he was a winged lad,
But bowe and shafts as then none had:
Els had he sore be daunted.
But see the Welkin thicks apace,
And stouping Phebus steepes his face:
Yts time to hast vs homeward.
Willyes Embleme.
To be wise and eke to loue,
Is graunted scarce to God aboue.
Thomalins Embleme.
Of Hony and of Gaule in loue there is store:
The Honye is much, but the Gaule is more.
poem by Edmund Spenser
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sonnet XX
IN vaine I seeke and sew to her for grace,
and doe myne humbled hart before her poure:
the whiles her foot she in my necke doth place,
and tread my life downe in the lowly floure.
And yet the Lyon that is Lord of power,
and reigneth ouer euery beast in field:
in his most pride disdeigneth to deuoure
the silly lambe that to his might doth yield.
But she more cruell and more saluage wylde,
then either Lyon or the Lyonesse:
shames not to be with guiltlesse bloud defylde,
but taketh glory in her cruelnesse.
Fayrer then fayrest let none euer say,
that ye were blooded in a yeelded pray.
poem by Edmund Spenser
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sonnet 15
A fairest Ganymede, disdaine me not,
Though silly Sheepeheard I, presume to loue thee,
Though my harsh songs and Sonnets cannot moue thee,
Yet to thy beauty is my loue no blot.
Apollo, Ioue, and many Gods beside,
S' daind not the name of cuntry shepheards swains,
Nor want we pleasure, though we take some pains,
We liue contentedly: a thing call'd pride,
Which so corrupts the Court and euery place,
(Each place I meane where learning is neglected,
And yet of late, euen learnings selfe's infected)
I know not what it meanes, in any case:
Wee onely (when Molorchus gins to peepe)
Learne for to folde, and to vnfold our sheepe.
poem by Richard Barnfield
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Though men determine, the gods doo dispose: and oft times many things fall out betweene the cup and the lip.
quote by Robert Greene
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Winter Dreams
In the winter of our lives
We meet the storm head on
In shivering strength we tread
To seek what lies beyond
Now when winterkill stings our face,
Turn our heads down to the ground...
There is no cause to look up again
Till spring comes back around.
No reason to look up again
Till spring comes back around.
When skies soon clear and bud doth peek
From branch so bare and bleak
Our hearts awake to find Suns warmth
Full circle of a Life complete
We nudge each other to the drifts,
Fog the bitter air with laughter,
There'll be no surrender to the gloom,
We know what's coming after.
poem by Lynne FincherSpringarden
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Holy Sonnet II: As Due by Many Titles
As due by many titles I resigne
My selfe to thee, O God, first I was made
By thee, and for thee, and when I was decay'd
Thy blood bought that, the which before was thine;
I am thy sonne, made with thy selfe to shine,
Thy servant, whose paines thou hast still repaid,
Thy sheepe, thine Image, and, till I betray'd
My selfe, a temple of thy Spirit divine;
Why doth the devill then usurpe on mee?
Why doth he steale, nay ravish that's thy right?
Except thou rise and for thine own worke fight,
Oh I shall soone despaire, when I doe see
That thou lov'st mankind well, yet wilt'not chuse me,
And Satan hates mee, yet is loth to lose me.
poem by John Donne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Tread Softly Soldier Boy
The chapel bells ring solemnly
for the young man in uniform
who has to fight on foreign soil.
His love on her knees prays
that he will return
to her arms safely one day.
No war is ever kind,
a senseless business some say
for the lives that are robbed
from loved ones each day.
Tread softly young men in uniform
in case on battlefields you fall.
Tread softly soldier boy
the enemy waits to hear
your footsteps fall.
Tread softly soldier boy
or in the morning,
you will miss the bugle call.
7 August 2010
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Barbara Allen's Cruelty
In Scarlet towne, where I was borne,
There was a faire maid dwellin,
Made every youth crye, wel-awaye!
Her name was Barbara Allen.
All in the merrye month of May,
When greene buds they were swellin,
Yong Jemmye Grove on his death-bed lay,
For love of Barbara Allen.
He sent his man unto her then,
To the town, where shee was dwellin;
You must come to my master deare,
Giff your name be Barbara Allen.
For death is printed on his face,
And ore his hart is stealin:
Then haste away to comfort him,
O lovelye Barbara Allen.
Though death be printed on his face,
And ore his harte is stealin,
Yet little better shall he bee,
For bonny Barbara Allen.
So slowly, slowly, she came up,
And slowly she came nye him;
And all she sayd, when there she came,
Yong man, I think y'are dying.
He turnd his face unto her strait,
With deadlye sorrow sighing;
O lovely maid, come pity mee,
Ime on my death-bed lying.
If on your death-bed you doe lye,
What needs the tale you are tellin:
I cannot keep you from your death;
Farewell, sayd Barbara Allen.
He turnd his face unto the wall,
As deadlye pangs he fell in:
Adieu! adieu! adieu to you all,
Adieu to Barbara Allen.
As she was walking ore the fields,
She heard the bell a knellin;
And every stroke did seem to saye,
Unworthy Barbara Allen.
She turnd her bodye round about,
And spied the corps a coming:
Laye downe, laye downe the corps, she sayd,
That I may look upon him.
With scornful eye she looked downe,
Her cheeke with laughter swellin;
That all her friends cryd out amaine,
Unworthye Barbara Allen.
When he was dead, and laid in grave,
Her harte was struck with sorrowe,
O mother, mother, make my bed,
For I shall dye to morrowe.
Hard harted creature him to slight,
Who loved me so dearlye:
O that I had beene more kind to him,
When he was live and neare me!
She, on her death-bed as she laye,
Beg'd to be buried by him;
And sore repented of the daye,
That she did ere denye him.
Farewell, she sayd, ye virgins all,
And shun the fault I fell in:
Henceforth take warning by the fall
Of cruel Barbara Allen.
poem by Thomas Percy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Tender Only To One
Tender only to one
Tender and true
The petals swing
To my fingering
Is it you, or you, or you?
Tender only to one
I do not know his name
And the friends who fall
To the petals’ call
May think my love to blame.
Tender only to one
This petal holds a clue
The face it shows
But too well knows
Who I am tender to.
Tender only to one,
Last petal’s latest breath
Cries out aloud
From the icy shroud
His name, his name is Death.
poem by Stevie Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Tychbornes Elegie, written with his owne hand in the Tower before his execution
My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of paine,
My Crop of corne is but a field of tares,
And al my good is but vaine hope of gaine.
The day is past, and yet I saw no sunne,
And now I live, and now my life is done.
My tale was heard, and yet it was not told,
My fruite is falne, and yet my leaves are greene:
My youth is spent, and yet I am not old,
I saw the world, and yet I was not seene.
My thred is cut, and yet it is not spunne,
And now I live, and now my life is done.
I sought my death, and found it in my wombe,
I lookt for life, and saw it was a shade:
I trod the earth, and knew it was my Tombe,
And now I die, and now I was but made.
My glasse is full, and now my glasse is runne,
And now I live, and now my life is done.
poem by Chidiock Tichborne (1586)
Submitted by anonym
Vote! | Copy!
In A College Garden
Senex. Saye, cushat, callynge from the brake,
What ayles thee soe to pyne?
Thy carefulle heart shall cease to ake
When dayes be fyne
And greene thynges twyne:
Saye, cushat, what thy griefe to myne?
Turtur. Naye, gossyp, loyterynge soe late,
What ayles thee thus to chyde?
My love is fled by garden-gate;
Since Lammas-tyde
I wayte my bryde.
Saye, gossyp, whom dost thou abyde?
Senex. Loe! I am he, the 'Lonelie Manne,'
Of Time forgotten quite,
That no remembered face may scanne—
Sadde eremyte,
I wayte tonyghte
Pale Death, nor any other wyghte.
O cushat, cushat, callynge lowe,
Goe waken Time from sleepe:
Goe whysper in his ear, that soe
His besom sweepe
Me to that heape
Where all my recollections keepe.
Hath he forgott? Or did I viewe
A ghostlye companye
This even, by the dismalle yewe,
Of faces three
That beckoned mee
To land where no repynynges bee?
O Harrye, Harrye, Tom and Dicke,
Each lost companion!
Why loyter I among the quicke,
When ye are gonne?
Shalle I alone
Delayinge crye 'Anon, Anon'?
Naye, let the spyder have my gowne,
To brayde therein her veste.
My cappe shal serve, now I 'goe downe,'
For mouse's neste.
Loe! this is best.
I care not, soe I gayne my reste.
poem by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To Amarantha; That She Would Dishevell Her Haire
TO AMARANTHA; THAT SHE WOULD DISHEVELL HER HAIRE.
I.
Amarantha sweet and faire,
Ah brade no more that shining haire!
As my curious hand or eye,
Hovering round thee, let it flye.
II.
Let it flye as unconfin'd
As it's calme ravisher, the winde,
Who hath left his darling, th' East,
To wanton o're that spicie neast.
III.
Ev'ry tresse must be confest:
But neatly tangled at the best;
Like a clue of golden thread,
Most excellently ravelled.
IV.
Doe not then winde up that light
In ribands, and o'er-cloud in night,
Like the sun in's early ray;
But shake your head, and scatter day.
V.
See, 'tis broke! within this grove,
The bower and the walkes of love,
Weary lye we downe and rest,
And fanne each other's panting breast.
VI.
Heere wee'll strippe and coole our fire,
In creame below, in milk-baths higher:
And when all wells are drawne dry,
I'll drink a teare out of thine eye.
VII.
Which our very joys shall leave,
That sorrowes thus we can deceive;
Or our very sorrowes weepe,
That joyes so ripe so little keepe.
poem by Richard Lovelace
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Spring
In spring
The tender leaves spring
And release the coiled mind to spring
And fling
The thing
That till then did wring.
In spring
The little birds sing
And sling the depressed mind to swing
And bring
Bells of joy
To ring and cling.
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The First Bluebirds
THE poor earth was so winter-marred,
Harried by storm so long,
It seemed no spring could mend her,
No tardy sunshine render
Atonement for such wrong.
Snow after snow, and gale and hail,
Gaunt trees encased in icy mail,
The glittering drifts so hard
They took no trace
Of scared, wild feet,
No print of fox and hare
Driven by dearth
To forage for their meat
Even in dooryard bare
And frosty lawn
Under the peril of the human race;
And then one primrose dawn,
Sweet, sweet, O sweet,
And tender, tender,
The bluebirds woke the happy earth
With song.
poem by Katharine Lee Bates
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Dwellings Of Our Dead
They lie unwatched, in waste and vacant places,
In sombre bush or wind-swept tussock spaces,
Where seldom human tread
And never human trace is—
The dwellings of our dead!
No insolence of stone is o'er them builded;
By mockery of monuments unshielded,
Far on the unfenced plain
Forgotten graves have yielded
Earth to free earth again.
Above their crypts no air with incense reeling,
No chant of choir or sob of organ pealing;
But ever over them
The evening breezes kneeling
Whisper a requiem.
For some the margeless plain where no one passes,
Save when at morning far in misty masses
The drifting flock appears.
Lo, here the greener grasses
Glint like a stain of tears!
For some the quiet bush, shade-strewn and saddened,
Whereo'er the herald tui, morning-gladdened,
Lone on his chosen tree,
With his new rapture maddened,
Shouts incoherently.
For some the gully where, in whispers tender,
The flax-blades mourn and murmur, and the slender
White ranks of toi go,
With drooping plumes of splendour,
In pageantry of woe.
For some the common trench where, not all fameless,
They fighting fell who thought to tame the tameless,
And won their barren crown;
Where one grave holds them nameless—
Brave white and braver brown.
But in their sleep, like troubled children turning,
A dream of mother-country in them burning,
They whisper their despair,
And one vague, voiceless yearning
Burdens the pausing air …
“ Unchanging here the drab year onward presses;
No Spring comes trysting here with new-loosed tresses ,
And never may the years
Win Autumn's sweet caresses —
Her leaves that fall like tears .
And we would lie 'neath old-remembered beeches ,
Where we could hear the voice of him who preaches
And the deep organ's call ,
While close about us reaches
The cool, grey, lichened wall .”
But they are ours, and jealously we hold them;
Within our children's ranks we have enrolled them,
And till all Time shall cease
Our brooding bush shall fold them
In her broad-bosomed peace.
They came as lovers come, all else forsaking,
The bonds of home and kindred proudly breaking;
They lie in splendour lone—
The nation of their making
Their everlasting throne!
poem by Arthur Henry Adams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
London Bells
Two sticks and an apple,
Ring the bells at Whitechapel.
Old Father Bald Pate,
Ring the bells Aldgate.
Maids in white aprons,
Ring the bells at St. Catherine`s.
Oranges and Lemons,
Ring the bells at St. Clement`s.
When will you pay me?
Ring the bells at the Old Bailey.
When I am rich,
Ring the bells at Fleetditch.
When will that be?
Ring the bells of Stepney.
When I am old,
Ring the great bell at Paul`s.