Soul of the Crown
On my road
to Damascus
and his, a Lazarus;
albeit
in his pyrrhic victory.
Like David and Goliath,
whose laugh, loose-limbed.
Loaded, thus
sure and right
in nods to states of mine_ leonine.
Hither and yon, gilded.
Sharing souls
as taking up the gaunlet
by the spirits
girded up and out;
whence upon this,
not alone wanting.
Thus
honeyed and silvery
in a protean politesse
in thrall to sway.
(smiles)
Thence
stood in,
in a gallant puissance
aglow in the front, alfresco
_ I opted the world, vie.
Hence
come tossing lots.
Kismet so fair,
the throne arising.
Thus
in the penultimate inch nigh,
nigh a potentate (smiles)
So,
if my throb thuds to fracture,
let
hence I'd romp home.
Gordon Bennett!
This Cinderella!
Put to rout my shade.
Thus heartsick,
lidded and tremulous,
in a singular waterloo
beyond compare.
_felled second to him
_piteous
and waxen wayfarer,
weary.
Betook me bruised,
bleeding in bonds;
Thus sullied.
Hence
my paeans and revel
misnamed
and my elan, starcrossed.
Could madding,
Demi-urge?
How doth deus-ex-machina?
But of law, Gods.
That sentenced me inglorious
letting this prevalence
laden empty and low,
atop me.
Paying in no caesars to his'
nor doth fruitions fairly borne.
E'en puckish and negligent
on the Bough of the peoples' bower
_measureless balm of the manhood.
Like freighting Jacob
the flower,
in Esau's stead
ringing from the dumb
and through the sightless,
sees.
Let my denial ricochet just
and traded, my betrayal.
Wipe my screen
and my palms, dust.
Thence my wings
perfume in flying hue.
poem by Faeo 'Lyre' Clive
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Related quotes
His' Africa
Live your rooms and betake to this hour, Africa!
Forsake, if star-crossed tracks; thy ailling canker.
Bathe your visage and comport to your puissance.
Alas! You were those, past. So, bare thy luminescense.
Through that of whom you are, enfeeble thy languor.
Tow your chicks along, whom hatched to your
savour.
Not ever again, shake through foresaken nods;
that to, flowered your forebears upon their seconds.
Either blithe or woeful, betake your brow to flaw.
Take your bath, those are your toils and labour.
With ménage in chorus, throng through your prove
and stand your biles. Die not even, upon this move.
Neither your semi-sweats they aids, even alone mould
to your freshest breath withering sotto-voce untold.
Array through the shadows athwart their rumours
that you are, hither to not, could only your celestial toss.
Last unborn anymore and mourn thy yesternights.
Essay your hood vie his fellow 'til your bower alights.
Oh Africa! You had it unfruitful, die so your hero.
Rather, mighty but veilled Iroko_the heavy Tyro.
Interred alive your children's paean for plaints
to sing their Epics through Elergies across firmaments.
Aargh Africa! Through my all, Goodness I urge
A crown you are and spied had I unto the Demi-urge.
Trail beside alchemy, unthoughtful to whom you are.
That were you, Africa! You can, through that you were.
Ah Africa! Oh could you, within bucolic Hearth
by which your myths and Ballads were your natural bath.
poem by Faeo 'Lyre' Clive
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Doth Then The World Go Thus?
Doth then the world go thus? doth all thus move?
Is this the justice which on earth we find?
Is this that firm decree which all doth bind?
Are these your influences, Powers above?
Those souls, which vice's moody mists most blind,
Blind Fortune, blindly, most their friend doth prove;
And they who thee, poor idol Virtue! love,
Ply like a feather tossed by storm and wind.
Ah! if a Providence doth sway this all,
Why should best minds groan under most distress?
Or why should pride humility make thrall,
And injuries the innocent oppress?
Heavens! hinder, stop this fate; or grant a time
When good may have, as well as bad, their prime!
poem by William Henry Drummond
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A Cradle Song
Sleep, Sleep, beauty bright,
Dreaming o'er the joys of night;
Sleep, Sleep; in thy sleep
Little sorrows sit & weep.
Sweet Babe, in thy face
Soft desires I can trace,
Secret joys and secret smiles,
Little pretty infant wiles.
As thy softest limbs I feel,
Smiles as of the morning steal
O’er thy cheek & o’er thy breast
Where thy little heart doth rest.
O, the cunning wiles that creep
In thy little heart asleep.
When thy little heart doth wake,
Then the dreadful lightnings break.
From thy cheek & from thy eye
O'er the youthful harvests nigh
Infant wiles & infant smiles
Heaven & Earth of peace beguiles.
poem by William Blake (1794)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Upon The Skilfull Player Of An Instrument
He that can play well on an instrument,
Will take the ear, and captivate the mind
With mirth or sadness; for that it is bent
Thereto, as music in it place doth find.
But if one hears that hath therein no skill,
(As often music lights of such a chance)
Of its brave notes they soon be weary will:
And there are some can neither sing nor dance.
Comparison.
Unto him that thus skilfully doth play,
God doth compare a gospel-minister,
That rightly preacheth, and doth godly pray,
Applying truly what doth thence infer.
This man, whether of wrath or grace he preach,
So skilfully doth handle every word;
And by his saying doth the heart so reach,
That it doth joy or sigh before the Lord.
But some there be, which, as the brute, doth lie
Under the Word, without the least advance
Godward; such do despise the ministry;
They weep not at it, neither to it dance.
poem by John Bunyan
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Sonnet LXXXI
Fayre is my loue, when her fayre golden heares,
with the loose wynd ye wauing chance to marke:
fayre when the rose in her red cheekes appeares,
or in her eyes the fyre of loue does sparke.
Fayre when her brest lyke a rich laden barke,
with pretious merchandize she forth doth lay:
fayre whe[n] that cloud of pryde, which oft doth dark
her goodly light with smiles she driues away.
But fayrest she, when so she doth display,
the gate with pearles and rubyes richly dight:
throgh which her words so wise do make their way
to beare the message of her gentle spright,
The rest be works of natures wonderment,
but this the worke of harts astonishment.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Sonnet. On A Picture Of Leander
Come hither all sweet Maidens soberly
Down looking aye, and with a chasten'd light
Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white,
And meekly let your fair hands joined be,
As if so gentle that ye could not see,
Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright,
Sinking away to his young spirit's night,
Sinking bewilder'd 'mid the dreary sea.
'Tis young Leander toiling to his death.
Nigh swooning he doth purse his weary lips
For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her smile.
O horrid dream! see how his body dips
Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam awhile;
He's gone; up bubbles all his amorous breath!
poem by John Keats
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Licia Sonnets 25
Seven are the lights that wander in the skies,
And at these seven, I wonder in my love.
So see the moon, how pale she doth arise,
Standing amazed, as though she durst not move;
So is my sweet much paler than the snow,
Constant her looks, these looks that cannot change.
Mercury the next, a god sweet-tongued we know,
But her sweet voice doth wonders speak more strange.
The rising Sun doth boast him of his pride,
And yet my love is far more fair than he.
The warlike Mars can wieldless weapons guide,
But yet that god is far more weak than she.
The lovely Venus seemeth to be fair,
But at her best my love is far more bright.
Saturn for age with groans doth dim the air,
Whereas my love with smiles doth give it light.
Gaze at her brows, where heaven ingrafted is;
Then sigh, and swear, there is no heaven but this
poem by Giles Fletcher The Elder
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The Grave and The Rose
The Grave said to the Rose,
"What of the dews of dawn,
Love's flower, what end is theirs?"
"And what of spirits flown,
The souls whereon doth close
The tomb's mouth unawares?"
The Rose said to the Grave.
The Rose said, "In the shade
From the dawn's tears is made
A perfume faint and strange,
Amber and honey sweet."
"And all the spirits fleet
Do suffer a sky-change,
More strangely than the dew,
To God's own angels new,"
The Grave said to the Rose.
poem by Victor Hugo
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A Pastoral Of Phyllis And Corydon
On a hill there grows a flower,
Fair befall the dainty sweet!
By that flower there is a bower,
Where the heavenly Muses meet.
In that bower there is a chair,
Fringèd all about with gold,
Where doth sit the fairest fair
That did ever eye behold.
It is Phyllis, fair and bright,
She that is the shepherds' joy,
She that Venus did despite,
And did blind her little boy.
This is she, the wise, the rich,
That the world desires to see:
This is _ipsa quæ_, the which
There is none but only she.
Who would not this face admire?
Who would not this saint adore?
Who would not this sight desire,
Though he thought to see no more?
O, fair eyes, yet let me see,
One good look, and I am gone:
Look on me, for I am he,
Thy poor silly Corydon.
Thou that art the shepherds' queen,
Look upon thy silly swain;
By thy comfort have been seen
Dead men brought to life again.
poem by Nicholas Breton
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A Serenade
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh
The sun has left the lea,
The orange-flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.
The lark, his lay who trill’d all day,
Sits hush’d his partner nigh;
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?
The village maid steals through the shade
Her shepherd’s suit to hear;
To Beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above,
Now reigns o’er earth and sky,
And high and low the influence know—
But where is County Guy?
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Country Guy
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,
The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.
The lark his lay who thrill'd all day
Sits hush'd his partner nigh:
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?
The village maid steals through the shade,
Her shepherd's suit to hear;
To beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above
Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
And high and low the influence know--
But where is County Guy?
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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County Guy
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,
The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.
The lark his lay who thrill'd all day
Sits hush'd his partner nigh:
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?
The village maid steals through the shade,
Her shepherd's suit to hear;
To beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above
Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
And high and low the influence know--
But where is County Guy?
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Song -- County Guy
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,
The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.
The lark his lay who thrill'd all day
Sits hush'd his partner nigh:
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?
The village maid steals through the shade,
Her shepherd's suit to hear;
To beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above
Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
And high and low the influence know-
But where is County Guy?
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Glory' fount
Split-second, thence those tempest veilled
shroud 'til cease recall betoken hours ailled
thatwith then, considered flairs as failed
Thus, you shed in toils through incubation
that alone, saw tomorrow your revelation
comburst, glowing epic fro equal destination
Uncertainly, shudders pessimists' blame
that to, toped sweats to riches fro fame
albeit, focusing further draw, beyond aim
Sightless to 'you are hitherto you are not'
breathing 'til you last beneathe fought
neither beneath toss, glow towards worth
To success story, scud you neither at ease
vague beyond them, e'en no mile amiss
sprung ala sown fro controversial genesis
poem by Faeo 'Lyre' Clive
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Kismet
(words & music by sid tepper - roy c. bennett)
When you meet by chance, its not by chance
Its kismet
When two hearts stand still, its destinys will
Its kismet
The wheel of fortune spins, round and around it goes
Who will the arrow point to, only kismet knows
Until you came by, kismet and i, were strangers
But now that youre here, its suddenly clear weve met
This is my lucky day, loves in the cards Id say
Thanks to kismet, kismet, kismet
Until you came by, kismet and I were strangers
But now that youre here, its suddenly clear weve met
This is my lucky day, loves in the cards Id say
Thanks to kismet, kismet, kismet
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Thule, the Period of Cosmography
Thule, the period of cosmography,
Doth vaunt of Hecla, whose sulphureous fire
Doth melt the frozen clime and thaw the sky;
Trinacrian Etna's flames ascend not higher:
These things seem wondrous, yet more wondrous I,
Whose heart with fear doth freeze, with love doth fry.
The Andalusian merchant, that returns
Laden with cochineal and china dishes,
Reports in Spain how strangely Fogo burns
Amidst an ocean full of flying fishes:
These things seem wondrous, yet more wondrous I,
Whose heart with fear doth freeze, with love doth fry.
poem by Thomas Weelkes
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Rosalind: Like to the Clear in Highest Sphere
1 Like to the clear in highest sphere
2 Where all imperial glory shines,
3 Of selfsame colour is her hair,
4 Whether unfolded or in twines:
5 Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
6 Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
7 Refining heaven by every wink;
8 The gods do fear whenas they glow,
9 And I do tremble when I think:
10 Heigh ho, would she were mine.
11 Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
12 That beautifies Aurora's face,
13 Or like the silver crimson shroud
14 That Ph{oe}bus' smiling looks doth grace:
15 Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
16 Her lips are like two budded roses,
17 Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
18 Within which bounds she balm encloses,
19 Apt to entice a deity:
20 Heigh ho, would she were mine.
21 Her neck, like to a stately tower
22 Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
23 To watch for glances every hour
24 From her divine and sacred eyes:
25 Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
26 Her paps are centres of delight,
27 Her paps are orbs of heavenly frame,
28 Where Nature moulds the dew of light,
29 To feed perfection with the same:
30 Heigh ho, would she were mine.
31 With orient pearl, with ruby red,
32 With marble white, with sapphire blue,
33 Her body every way is fed,
34 Yet soft in touch, and sweet in view:
35 Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
36 Nature herself her shape admires,
37 The gods are wounded in her sight,
38 And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
39 And at her eyes his brand doth light:
40 Heigh ho, would she were mine.
41 Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
42 The absence of fair Rosalind,
43 Since for her fair there is fairer none,
44 Nor for her virtues so divine:
45 Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
46 Heigh ho, my heart, would God that she were mine!
poem by Thomas Lodge
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Like to the Clear in Highest Sphere
Like to the clear in highest sphere
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of selfsame colour is her hair,
Whether unfolded or in twines:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Refining heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear whenas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think:
Heigh ho, would she were mine.
Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face,
Or like the silver crimson shroud
That Ph{oe}bus' smiling looks doth grace:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
Her lips are like two budded roses,
Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
Within which bounds she balm encloses,
Apt to entice a deity:
Heigh ho, would she were mine.
Her neck, like to a stately tower
Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
Her paps are centres of delight,
Her paps are orbs of heavenly frame,
Where Nature moulds the dew of light,
To feed perfection with the same:
Heigh ho, would she were mine.
With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,
Yet soft in touch, and sweet in view:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
Nature herself her shape admires,
The gods are wounded in her sight,
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
And at her eyes his brand doth light:
Heigh ho, would she were mine.
Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence of fair Rosalind,
Since for her fair there is fairer none,
Nor for her virtues so divine:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
Heigh ho, my heart, would God that she were mine!
poem by Thomas Lodge
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Love's Abiding Power
Nary doth exist sentiment nor singular symbology
To proffer riposte to ardor, nor draw an analogy!
Should there be a means by which to capture its essence,
Or might the same extenuate love's very pleasance! ? !
The rose: perchance, most lovely amongst all flowers-
Yet, its glory doth fade to surly wither, within mere hours!
An amorous epistolary finds too soon, its desition's immenence,
Which doth seem to belie true love's unceasing permanence!
Gilded giftings garner gracious gratitude, to be certain-
Its very transiency tolls falsely as though, love's curtain!
The diamond: ever-revered, as love's perfect portend-
Yet still, even the most permanent natural wonders have an end!
Love's abiding power is only ever rivaled by itself, contrariwise-
Yet, is but for the time until love sees fit to aggrandize!
Maurice Harris,19 March 2010
poem by Maurice Harris
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When A Baby Smiles
When a baby smiles, it puts the world on pause,
We forget all our troubles, we feel at ease,
For that brief moment, when a baby smiles
How magical, the smile of pure innocence,
Messenger of joy, that sparkles our tired souls,
Free from the complications of life,
For that brief moment, when a baby smiles
Completely detached from madness and chaos,
Our hearts soar, our spirits high,
We float around in bliss,
For that brief moment, when a baby smiles...
poem by Tricia D'cruz
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