Thy Wanton Hair
THY WANTON HAIR
Thy wanton hair
Thy dimpling cheek
How humble is the mien
Of the meek
To question me, thee and others
Well, nature is rich
In all its hue
Dainty. doubling mumbling and fair
Not the stuff that time outwears.
(karnailsingh Heranwale)
poem by Karnail Singh Heirwale
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Related quotes
Menaphon: Sephesta's Song to her Child
-
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
-
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
-
Mother's wag, pretty boy,
-
Father's sorrow, father's joy;
-
When thy father first did see
-
Such a boy by him and me,
-
He was glad, I was woe,
-
Fortune changed made him so,
-
When he left his pretty boy
-
Last his sorrow, first his joy.
-
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
-
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
-
Streaming tears that never stint,
-
Like pearl-drops from a flint,
-
Fell by course from his eyes,
-
That one another's place supplies;
-
Thus he griev'd in every part,
-
Tears of blood fell from his heart,
-
When he left his pretty boy,
-
Father's sorrow, father's joy.
-
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
-
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
-
The wanton smil'd, father wept,
-
Mother cried, baby leapt;
-
More he crow'd, more he cried,
-
Nature could not sorrow hide:
-
He must go, he must kiss
-
Child and mother, baby bless,
-
For he left his pretty boy,
-
Father's sorrow, father's joy.
-
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
-
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
poem by Robert Greene
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Weep Not, My Wanton
WEEP not, my wanton, smile upon my knee:
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
Mother's wag, pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.
When thy father first did see
Such a boy by him and me,
He was glad, I was woe:
Fortune changèd made him so,
When he left his pretty boy,
Last his sorrow, first his joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee:
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
Streaming tears that never stint,
Like pearl drops from a flint,
Fell by course from his eyes,
That one another's place supplies:
Thus he grieved in every part,Tears of blood fell from his heart,
When he left his pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee:
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
The wanton smiled, father wept;
Mother cried, baby lept;
More he crowed, more we cried;
Nature could not sorrow hide.
He must go, he must kiss
Child and mother, baby bliss;
For he left his pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee:
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
poem by Robert Greene
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Sonnet 103: Oh Happy Thames
Oh happy Thames, that didst my Stella bear,
I saw thyself with many a smiling line
Upon thy cheerful face, Joy's livery wear,
While those fair planets on thy streams did shine.
The boat for joy could not to dance forbear,
While wanton winds with beauties so divine
Ravish'd, stay'd not, till in her golden hair
They did themselves (oh sweetest prison) twine.
And fain those Aeol's youth there would their stay
Have mde, but, forc'd by Nature still to fly,
First did with puffing kiss those locks display:
She so dishevel'd, blush'd; from window I
With sight thereof cried out; oh fair disgrace,
Let Honor self to thee grant highest place.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Culture And Nature
CULTURE AND NATURE
Culture and nature
Are poles apart
The war torn sky
Unhinges the individual
To look up and look down
Always on the way
Happy or dismayed
Flattering himself
Or the other
Cry for indulgence
To his mother.
(karnailsingh Heranwale)
poem by Karnail Singh Heirwale
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The Conclusion
Sleep not too much; nor longer than asleep
Within thy bed thy lazy body keep;
For when thou, warm awake, shall feel it soft,
Fond cogitations will assail thee oft:
Then start up early, study, work, or write,
Let labour, others' toil, be thy delight.
Eat not to much, or if thou much dost eat,
Let it not be dainty or stirring meat;
Abstain from wine, although thou think it good,
It sets thy meat on fire, and stirs thy blood;
Use thyself much to bathe thy wanton limbs,
In coolest streams which o'er the gravel swims:
Be still in gravest company, and fly
The wanton rabble of the younger fry,
Whose lustful tricks will lead thee to delight
To think on love, where thou shalt perish quite;
Come not at all where many women are,
But, like a bird that lately 'scaped the snare,
Avoid their garish beauty fly with speed,
And learn by her that lately made thee bleed;
Be not too much alone, but if alone,
Get thee some modest book to look upon;
But do not read the lines of wanton men,
Poetry sets thy mind on fire again:
Abstain from songs and verses, and take heed
That not a line of love thou ever read.
poem by Francis Beaumont
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Want More Hair?
I'd love
I think
more hair
more hair
like a big
old grizzly bear
more hair makes
you manly
more hair
makes you tough
more hair feels
like carpet
more hair keeps
you rough
more hair
for pretty ladies
to rub their faces on
more hair for
guys to jealous of
and more locks that can
be flung
I think more hair would be awesome
but I wouldn't wanna overdo it
because too much hair would make
me like a little furry blanket
and I couldn't cover both of us
just you and that ain't fair
more hair!
poem by John W. McEwers
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Flowers
I will not have the mad Clytie,
Whose head is turned by the sun;
The tulip is a courtly queen,
Whom, therefore, I will shun;
The cowslip is a country wench,
The violet is a nun; -
But I will woo the dainty rose,
The queen of everyone.
The pea is but a wanton witch,
In too much haste to wed,
And clasps her rings on every hand
The wolfsbane I should dread; -
Nor will I dreary rosemary
That always mourns the dead; -
But I will woo the dainty rose,
With her cheeks of tender red.
The lily is all in white, like a saint,
And so is no mate for me -
And the daisy's cheek is tipped with blush,
She is of such low degree;
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,
And the broom's betrothed to the bee; -
But I will plight with the dainty rose,
For fairest of all is she.
poem by Thomas Hood
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The Snake And the Dove
The Snake And the Dove
The snake
And the dove
Go their way
Biting ungrudgingly
Soaring unpledgingly.
The sunken cheek
The damaged liver
Can go
Neither
But
Providentially.
(karnailsingh Heranwale)
poem by Karnail Singh Heirwale
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Sephestia's Lullaby
WEEP not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old there 's grief enough for thee.
Mother's wag, pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy;
When thy father first did see
Such a boy by him and me,
He was glad, I was woe;
Fortune changed made him so,
When he left his pretty boy,
Last his sorrow, first his joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old there 's grief enough for thee.
Streaming tears that never stint,
Like pearl-drops from a flint,
Fell by course from his eyes,
That one another's place supplies;
Thus he grieved in every part,
Tears of blood fell from his heart,
When he left his pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old there 's grief enough for thee.
The wanton smiled, father wept,
Mother cried, baby leapt;
More he crow'd, more we cried,
Nature could not sorrow hide:
He must go, he must kiss
Child and mother, baby bliss,
For he left his pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
When thou art old there 's grief enough for thee.
poem by Robert Greene
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The Real Her...I Love
I love to see you after a storm
With your hair in a mess
Mumbling under your breath
Wild kicking off of wellingtons
Screaming and cursing
Quick glances in hall mirror
More muttered mumbling
Pulling of hair oh and lip pursing
You see it's the opposite men love
It's seeing the real you the lovely you
As if God say's 'Look this is what she really looks like'
We don't see it all the time but when we do.
But it's later when she's staid
Clothes pressed not a curl out of place
Welcoming guests round for a drink
Her eyes screaming 'Don't even think of it! '
poem by Craig Anderson
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Better lose hair than head
Better ‘tis to lose hair than thine head,
As is between butter and bare bread;
If not a thing comes fair
Today, how can be hair?
So hail heads that bare are— bald, not dead!
____________________________________________
There is one thing worse, they say, than having a
bald pate— to be defensive, curse your fate. I was
not yet thirty when my hair began to be grey though
not thin. This was perhaps Nature's way of balancing
things as my face had badly tanned by the time I was
in my ‘teens. As the years added themselves to my
age the contrast only widened. But it was much
after I retired from paid work, the hairline began to
recede a bit. After all, a balance must be maintained.
This little ditty sums up my philosophy on hair.
________________________________________ ____________
-Tongue-in-cheek | 01.04.12 |
poem by Aniruddha Pathak
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To Amarantha, that she would dishevel her Hair
AMARANTHA sweet and fair,
Ah, braid no more that shining hair!
As my curious hand or eye
Hovering round thee, let it fly!
Let it fly as unconfined
As its calm ravisher the wind,
Who hath left his darling, th' East,
To wanton o'er that spicy nest.
Every tress must be confest,
But neatly tangled at the best;
Like a clew of golden thread
Most excellently ravelled.
Do not then wind up that light
In ribbands, and o'ercloud in night,
Like the Sun in 's early ray;
But shake your head, and scatter day!
poem by Richard Lovelace
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They Know Not My Heart
They know not my heart, who believe there can be
One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee;
Who think, while I see thee in beauty's young hour,
As pure as the morning's first dew on the flower,
I could harm what I love, -- as the sun's wanton ray
But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away.
No -- beaming with light as those young features are,
There's a light round thy heart which is lovelier far:
It is not that cheek -- 'tis the soul dawning clear
Through its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear:
As the sky we look up to, though glorious and fair,
Is look'd up to the more, because Heaven lies there!
poem by Thomas Moore
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Villanelle of His Lady’s Treasures
I took her dainty eyes, as well
As silken tendrils of her hair:
And so I made a Villanelle!
I took her voice, a silver bell,
As clear as song, as soft as prayer;
I took her dainty eyes as well.
It may be, said I, who can tell,
These things shall be my less despair?
And so I made a Villanelle!
I took her whiteness virginal
And from her cheek two roses rare:
I took her dainty eyes as well.
I said: “It may be possible
Her image from my heart to tear!”
And so I made a Villanelle.
I stole her laugh, most musical:
I wrought it in with artful care;
I took her dainty eyes as well;
And so I made a Villanelle.
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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Renunciation
Chloe's hair, no doubt, was brighter;
Lydia's mouth more sweetly sad;
Hebe's arms were rather whiter;
Languorous-lidded Helen had
Eyes more blue than e'er the sky was;
Lalage's was subtler stuff;
Still, you used to think that I was
Fair enough.
Now you're casting yearning glances
At the pale Penelope;
Cutting in on Claudia's dances;
Taking Iris out to tea.
Iole you find warm-hearted;
Zoe's cheek is far from rough-
Don't you think it's time we parted? . . .
Fair enough!
poem by Dorothy Parker
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Sonnet VIII: There's Nothing Grieves Me
There's nothing grieves me, but that Age should haste,
That in my days I may not see thee old,
That where those two clear sparkling eyes are plac'd
Only two loop-holes then I might behold;
That lovely, arched, ivory, polish'd brow
Defac'd with wrinkles that I might but see;
Thy dainty hair, so curl'd and crisped now,
Like grizzled moss upon some aged tree;
Thy cheek, now flush with roses, sunk and lean;
Thy lips with age as any wafer thin;
Thy pearly teeth out of thy head so clean
That, when thou feed'st, thy nose shall touch thy chin.
These lines that now thou scorn'st, which should delight thee,
Then would I make thee read but to despite thee.
poem by Michael Drayton
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I shall not die for thee
FOR thee, I shall not die,
Woman of high fame and name;
Foolish men thou mayest slay
I and they are not the same.
Why should I expire
For the fire of an eye,
Slender waist or swan-like limb,
Is't for them that I should die?
The round breasts, the fresh skin,
Cheeks crimson, hair so long and rich;
Indeed, indeed, I shall not die,
Please God, not I, for any such.
The golden hair, the forehead thin,
The chaste mien, the gracious ease,
The rounded heel, the languid tone,—
Fools alone find death from these.
Thy sharp wit, thy perfect calm,
Thy thin palm like foam o' the sea;
Thy white neck, thy blue eye,
I shall not die for thee.
Woman, graceful as the swan,
A wise man did nurture me.
Little palm, white neck, bright eye,
I shall not die for ye.
poem by Douglas Hyde
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To the Western Wind
SWEET western wind, whose luck it is,
Made rival with the air,
To give Perenna's lip a kiss,
And fan her wanton hair:
Bring me but one, I'll promise thee,
Instead of common showers,
Thy wings shall be embalm'd by me,
And all beset with flowers.
poem by Robert Herrick
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Of Wanton
Of wanton passion
to have but not possess
to hold but not caress
to tell but not confess.
Like gifts not gotten
or hopes forgotten
or even like the love you've got in.
It was there but lost then.
of wanton
passion! !
poem by S.W. Clark
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The Dog Cries
THE DOG CRIES
The dog cries horarse
Apply some glycerine
Okay
It will lick
Your feet
But bite your leg.
Adog is a dog.
(karnailsingh HERANWALE)
poem by Karnail Singh Heirwale
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