The Surpris’d Nymph
The four and twentieth day of May,
Of all days in the year;
A Virgin Lady fresh and gay,
Did privately appear:
Hard by a River side got she,
And did sing loud the rather;
Cause she was sure, she was secure,
And had intent to bathe her.
With glittering, glancing, jealous Eyes,
She slyly looks about;
To see if any lurking Spies
Were hid to find her out:
And being well resolved that none,
Could see her Nakedness,
She pulled her Robes off one by one,
And did her self undress.
Her purple Mantle fring’d with Gold,
Her Ivory Hands unpinned;
It would have made a Coward bold,
Or tempted a Saint to ’a sinned:
She turned about and looked around,
Quoth she, I hope I’m safe;
Then her rosie Petticoat,
She presently put off.
The snow white Smock which she had on,
Transparently to deck her,
Look’d like Cambric or Lawn,
Upon an Alabaster Picture:
Thro’ which Array I did faintly spy
Her Belly and her Back;
Her Limbs were straight, and all was white,
But that which should be Black.
Into a fluent Stream she leapt,
She looked like Venus Glass;
The Fishes from all Quarters crept,
To see what Angel ’twas:
She did so like a Vision look,
Or Fancy in a Dream;
’Twas thought the Sun the Skies forsook,
And dropt into the Stream.
Each Fish did wish himself a Man,
About her all was drawn,
And at the Sight of her began
To spread abroad their Spawn:
She turned to swim upon her Back,
And so display’d her Banner;
If Jove had then in Heaven been,
He would have dropt upon her.
A Lad that long her Love had been,
And could obtain no Grace,
For all her prying lay unseen,
Hid in a secret place:
Who had often been repuls’d,
When he did come to Woo her;
Pulled off his clothes, and furiously
Did run and leap into her.
She squeaked, she cried, and down she dived,
He brought her up again;
He brought o’er upon the Shore,
And then—and then—and then—
As Adam did Old Eve enjoy,
You may guess what I mean;
Because she all uncovered lay,
He covered her again.
With watered Eyes she pants and cries,
I’m utterly undone;
If you will not be wed to me,
E’er the next Morning Sun:
He answered her he ne’er would stir,
Out of her Sight till then;
We’ll both clap Hands in Wedlock Bands,
Marry, and to’t again.
poem by from Pills to Purge Melancholy (1707)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Related quotes
Snow
Early in the morning, I stood at at my window
In my flat in a Chicago suburb,
And was delighted to see the snow
Gracefully descending on earth.
Fascinated I looked on,
As a carpet of powder white
Noiselessly spread on the ground.
Trees with outstretched arms, a pretty sight.
The memories of Christmas back home
Flashed across my mind,
How we went of to sleep in the hope,
That Santa Claus would come at night.
I snapped out of my reverie,
And pulled out my muffler and coat.
Excited like a child, in a hurry
Put on my gloves and boots.
As I rushed out
Of the warmth of my room,
To feel the snow in my hair
Chill crept down to my bones.
I made a Snow man
And aimed snowballs at no one.
For sometime I think then
I felt I was not alone.
In an alien land,
Thousands of miles away from home,
I didn’t feel sad,
It was cold but I felt warm.
The view was straight out of a picture book.
My boots had sunk into the snow.
I couldn’t take my eyes off and just looked,
And marvelled at nature’s show.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dream Some Little Dream
…afterwards I laid back down
and spread my palms down on the ground
it wasn’t long before I found
myself inside a little dream
I heard a sound and looked around
and saw them swimming in the stream
a horrid sight I turned my head
and let loose a silent scream
the fish you see were busy there
eating a piece of me
I shook it of and brushed my head
I watched a leaf fall to the ground
as busy brownie moved around
and called me names but made no sound
I felt a pressure push me down
like a magnet to the ground
the fish they splashed in their little stream
as I began to dream some little dream
poem by Maynard Hartman
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The Cold Drive And A Warm Night-Chapter Two
He watched her take the drink
still warm and she cupped it
with two hands, warming them up.
The hands were thin.
She was not a farm girl
and she averted her eyes when
she looked at him.
The face was small with delicate
features
yet they were strong in their own way.
He wondered how what kind of lover she would be..
He wondered too how she could have
made a wrong turn and gotten here.
There were signs that clearly stated
'no public road'. 'dead end road.'
She noticed his stare and pulled at
her comforter, pulled it up more
around her shoulders.
She looked at him as she did so
noticing if he was noticing, if he was looking.
He noticed her noticing.
But he did not stop looking and she
to his surprize, didn't avert her eyes.
She looked right back, examing his face.
He looked down a bit to see what the comforter
was concealing, what shape her breasts were.
She noticed this too, and blushed.
He grunted, his grunt, satisfied that he had
a good look at her and got up.
He still didn't know what she was doing there
and he would feel uneasy until he find out.
He stood, walked by her and took his coat
from the coat stand, her eyes following him.
He turned pulling the heavy coat on saying.
'I'll be back.'
Have to check and push your car
back onto the road. Otherwise, the wind
will kick up, and by morning it will be buried
and tough to get out.
Another storm coming in.
It'll be cold tonite.'
Her eyes diverted again and she said, 'You will be back?
How long will it take? '
'You'll be ok. You can call me on the spare cell phone
over there. Look up my name, Lonnie.'
She nodded.
He closed the door still disturbed about her sudden arrival.
It was not an accident. He would check her glove compartment
in her rental car, maybe some info there, he thought to himself.
Meantime, Jenny sat up drinking her tea thinking:
'Damn he will find the rental agreement. What else was in the car? '
He'll start to wonder why she was really there. She could see that
he didn't believe her 'lost' story. 'Damn her cell phone was in the car too.
Everything was in the car. Damn her purse too! He had everything.
He wasn't what she expected, younger, sort of bold in the way he
looked at you. He really looked at you. Made her a bit uneasy
but it was different to have someone look at you. I mean he looked
at everything, your eyes, your hair, your body. The man looked.
But flirting aside she knew he'd be back and she would have to explain
why she was really there.
She was safe but it might not be comfortable when he found out.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Janice and You and the Spider
You stood
in the playground
of St Jude's school
which was really
the basement
of a bombed out house
which had been gutted
and the basement tarmaced
and the walls
were still there
where kids climbed up
and around
the thin ledge
when Janice
put her hands
over your eyes
and said
guess who?
and you put
your hands
into the pockets
of your short trousers
and said
Miss Murphy
or Miss Ashdown?
no
Janice said
it's me
and she removed
her hands
from over your eyes
and you turned around
and looked at her
and she had
her red beret on
and a pink scarf
around her neck
to keep out
the cold
you must
have known
it was me
she said
who else
would put their hands
over your eyes?
her eyes were bright
and you thought
you could see yourself
in them
as if they were small mirrors
Jupp might do
or maybe Carmody
you said smiling
she didn't smile back
but pulled her lips
tight in a line
then she took your hand
and pulled you
along the path
that led
to the school toilets
and pushed you
inside a cubicle
and shut the door
behind you both
and said
don't you love me?
there was a large spider
hanging from
the cistern chain
close to
her red beret
and it hung there
suspended
swaying back
and forth
and you said
of course I do
right down
to your white socks
but there's a spider
above your head
and she looked up
and screamed
and a voice
outside the door
asked
are you all right
in there?
Janice's eyes widened
and she watched
as the spider
moved up the chain
and she said
yes it's all right
Miss Murphy
just a small spider
and you stood there
next to Janice
wondering what
Miss Murphy
would say
if she saw you
and Janice
in the lavatory
together
and the voice said
ok as long
as you
are all right
and the footsteps
moved away
and Janice took
your hand in hers
and you sensed
how cold it was
slightly blue
and it was just
9 year old Janice
and the big spider
and 9 year old you.
poem by Terry Collett
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White Knuckles
Smack dab flat on my back
The solid ground began to crack
I pulled her down and down and down
I lost my breath
I thought I'd drown
Fistfuls of you
Fistfuls of you
You pulled me through with white knuckles
Fistfuls of you
Fistfuls of you
You pulled me through with white knuckles
Her leg, my hand, a smoldering brand
Sticking to her wet body like sand
Her place, distaste, we fell from grace
Red smears across her face
Fistfuls of you
Fistfuls of you
You pulled me through with white knuckles
Fistfuls of you
Fistfuls of you
You pulled me through with white knuckles
White knuckles!
White knuckles!
White knuckles!
White knuckles
song performed by by Marilyn Manson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Swan Song
Her hair was as black as a starling's tail,
Her cheeks as pale as a swan,
Her eyes, like two slim moonstones, glowed
And her mouth was the Holy Grail.
She'd played in the dirt of the village street
So long ago, so long...
She'd swum in the pools of the mountain stream,
But now, that girl had gone.
While I still rise with the early bird
To tend to my father's fields,
As the only son of an only son
I watched the woman leave.
She cried sweet tears as she said farewell
And vowed to come back, and soon,
But the village streets of a western town
Hold nothing for Ling Xiaodan.
The weeks went by, then the months and years
And I heard of her now and then,
She was dressed in expensive clothes, I heard,
She was driving a shiny car;
She was seen at the Beijing Opera
By a man who worked at the door,
'She glided by like a Queen, ' he said,
'As her dress trailed long on the floor.'
And her wai po, down in the village square
Would brag of her daughter's girl,
'She will snare some man with a million yuan, '
She said, 'not a farmer's son.
Go home to your fields and forget her now,
She's not for an also-ran! '
And laughed, as the tears sprang into my eyes
For the love of Ling Xiaodan.
She came back once to the village street
To her home, as ever we must,
But carefully held her dress up high
To avoid the rubbish and dust,
I stood at the side and she looked at me,
Then turned, looked quickly away,
For Ling Xiaodan and a farmer's son
Had nothing at all to say.
But I saw her once before she left,
Alone by the mountain stream,
Her eyes were sorrowful, in remorse,
Remembering how we'd been.
'I loved you once, as a child, ' she said
'But the world is harsh, and grey...
We do what our fathers want us to,
And my father sent me away.'
I sat by her then, and held her hand,
Stroking her neck, and hair,
And kissed the cheek, so pale and wan,
And I cried in a deep despair.
'You must get on with your life, ' she said,
'Get a wife and a baby son;
I leave tomorrow to see the man
That my father has met in town.'
I heard that she'd wed a businessman,
And cried in the quiet gloom,
My dream had died by the mountain stream,
On that day, in the afternoon.
She worked in a shop her husband owned,
So they said, but I never heard
'Til the body was brought back home again,
That the love of my life was dead.
It seemed that she'd sold her favours there
In the rear of a grimy store,
To any man with the change to spare
While her husband played Mah Jongg.
He'd gambled his fortune, and lost it all
While his wife kept the fool from jail
With what she earned with her hands and hair,
And a mouth like the Holy Grail.
But then, a man who was ill or mad
Put his grimy hands at her throat,
And squeezed the life from the darling neck
That I'd once both loved, and stroked.
They buried her up on the mountainside
By the stream, in sight of her home,
And from where I stand in the paddy fields
I can see her pale white stone.
She'd played in the dirt of the village street
So long ago, so long...
She'd swum in the pools of the mountain stream,
But now, that girl had gone.
I married a woman I barely knew
And she bore me a black-haired girl,
With eyes like two slim moonstones, and...
A mouth like the Holy Grail.
10 March 2006
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poetess...the woods...the mist Pt 2
The poet looked all about her,
in the moon glow so dim
Felt a slight tug…
as something pulled her… further within
First, , , hesitant steps…
with a look oe’r her shoulder
Back at the house
with it’s lights slowly dimming
The tenous pull
on her hands growing bolder
Her eyes torn away,
in tears… deeply brimming
Sepulchral black limbs
Spider close overhead
Vision shimmers and swims
In fear… and in dread
Is this poetic justice?
And if so…for what deed?
Was she being taken in malice
The pull Quickened…paying no heed!
faint, distant voices, calling her name
Made her try to stop…made her resist
But the unseen fantasm, tugged all the same
And pulled the Poet, yet deeper into the mist
poem by David Whalen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Mirror of Madmen
I dreamed a dream of heaven, white as frost,
The splendid stillness of a living host;
Vast choirs of upturned faces, line o'er line.
Then my blood froze; for every face was mine.
Spirits with sunset plumage throng and pass,
Glassed darkly in the sea of gold and glass.
But still on every side, in every spot,
I saw a million selves, who saw me not.
I fled to quiet wastes, where on a stone,
Perchance, I found a saint, who sat alone;
I came behind: he turned with slow, sweet grace,
And faced me with my happy, hateful face.
I cowered like one that in a tower doth bide,
Shut in by mirrors upon every side;
Then I saw, islanded in skies alone
And silent, one that sat upon a throne.
His robe was bordered with rich rose and gold,
Green, purple, silver out of sunsets old;
But o'er his face a great cloud edged with fire,
Because it covereth the world's desire.
But as I gazed, a silent worshipper,
Methought the cloud began to faintly stir;
Then I fell flat, and screamed with grovelling head,
'If thou hast any lightning, strike me dead!
'But spare a brow where the clean sunlight fell,
The crown of a new sin that sickens hell.
Let me not look aloft and see mine own
Feature and form upon the Judgment-throne.'
Then my dream snapped: and with a heart that leapt
I saw across the tavern where I slept,
The sight of all my life most full of grace,
A gin-damned drunkard's wan half-witted face.
poem by G.K. Chesterton from The Wild Knight and Other Poems (1900)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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My Snow White
There once was a girl and if I remember right,
She went by the name of Snow White,
Skin white as the snow, hair black as the night,
She lived with seven men of very short height.
She washed their clothes and prepared their food,
And that’s not all, I’m afraid it gets rude,
Each one she loved and each one she screwed,
Snow white kept the dwarfs in a very good mood.
One day an old hag jealous of what she had,
Fed her an apple which had gone bad,
Then out popped a maggot, Snow White was mad,
Another little man all shrivelled and sad.
All this for a roof above her head,
Now another man to please and take to bed,
She looked at the dwarfs and angrily said,
“I’m moving to the house made of gingerbread.”
Off she went following a path of crumbs,
Sniffing the air and licking her gums,
Pushing Hansel and Grettle into the slums,
Deep into the forest with their two gay mums.
She ran to the house made of biscuit and vanilla,
Excited to see her gorgeous dream fella,
Who she found on the floor with Cinderella,
What the hell was she doing out of the cellar?
Snow White shouted and screamed at the pair,
How could he be shagging her,
She stinks of shit and is covered in hair,
Snow White felt sick just standing there.
Too sad and weak to put up a fight,
She cried herself to sleep that night,
From then on she stayed low and out of sight,
That’s the last I heard of good old Snow White.
poem by Lindsey Ashton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lady in White
Lady in White
By: Adam M. Snow
She stares at me benevolently with her baby blue eyes.
How beautiful she looks, that lady in white.
I try to go on my way, but I hear her gentle cries.
I reached out to help her, but she simply vanished in the night.
Who is this that they call 'Ghost? ' my lovely Lady in White;
and do you know? Could you tell me why does my Lady cry?
Where upon nightfall approaches;
returned to the splintered bridge, where portraits my Lady in White;
only to find her crying, waiting for her lost love.
Truly this is an undesirable sight;
tears fall as she gaze essentially at stars above.
I only wish I could help her, my lovely Lady in White;
to lead her home into the light;
truly it can only be by her might.
I must go on my way and leave my Lady behind.
She's there to stay crying; waiting for her love to return.
Though my heart, I feel her tears fall upon.
From my Lady, there's so much that I learn;
that love never dies, it just lives on.
poem by Adam M. Snow
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Derelict
In younger days, of idleness grown sick,
On this low bank I saw, as in a dream,
The fingers of the leaning willows prick
Long dimples in the slow, reluctant stream.
Watching the pilgrim leaves forsake the stem,
Impatient of the dull familiar cove,
And idle down the tide, I longed like them,
Untrammelled, homeless, free of heart, to rove.
I mind me that of these I noted one
That at the bend a wayward eddy turned
And drifted back, its journey just begun,
The secret of the wider stream unlearned.
It seemed a poor reward for one so bold,
Checked at the start, and beaten back, to find
So stale a death. I did not know, of old,
What seemed so hard could be in truth so kind!
I little thought that on a larger stream
I, too, one day should drift away at will
Toward the distant reaches of my dream
From the safe shelter where I lived so still.
I little thought that I should one day grow
Weary of endless pictures filing past,
Of idle life and idler love, and so
Come gladly to some little cove at last.
Kind eddy that has caught me from the tide,
Of drifting weary, tempest-torn and tost,
To find, from the swift current turned aside,
The simpler things I thought that I had lost!
What have they brought me, all the wasted years,
The river’s turns that opened with a smile
And ended in the bitterness of tears?
Kind God! How little were they worth the while!
Yet, here and there, around the sudden bends,
The opening reaches held some sweet surprise:—
My arm has linked and lingered in a friend’s,
My eyes have seen love swim in lovely eyes!
I have kissed pleasure—walked alone with pain;
And, if to life I was apprentice made,
My years of toil have brought the toiler’s gain—
By life equipped, of life I know the trade!
I have made foes, and so can keep a friend;
Learned of a friend how gently foes may score;
Played fast and loose with love, and in the end
Lost it, and, losing, learned to love the more!
Seeking for gifts, I found ’t is joy to give,
Searching for truth, was taught to know a lie;
Pursuing death, I learned ’t is good to live,
In quest of life, I learned it safe to die!
What were it better that the past should be
Than like that leaf, turned helplessly aside,
That drifted back beneath its mother-tree,
And at its root to purer purpose died?
Another year yet other leaves there sprung,
Fed by the mould of which it formed a part,
That subtly heard, mayhap, that voiceless tongue
And laid its lesson silently to heart.
From soil of pride the plant of meekness grows,
From labor’s mine comes gold of sweet surcease;
By sorrow’s showers is fed contentment’s rose,
And passion’s vultures build the nest of peace:
So from past weakness future strength I gain,
As poise of knowledge to my doubt succeeds,
And faith’s fresh flower, that long I sought in vain,
Blooms on the rubbish of my mouldered creeds.
Now at the end I see that it was well
To drain the cup down to the bitter lees;
To foretaste heaven—thread the paths of hell,
Else empty words and meaningless were these:
Else might I stand, as once I stood outside
My fast-locked heart, its best and worst unknown,
Till life’s firm hand flung the barred portals wide
And led me in, a stranger, to my own!
poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1900)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Marley Purt Drive
Sunday morning, woke up yawning; filled the pool for a swim.
Pulled down the head and looked in the glass just to see if I was in.
Went up the stairs and kissed my women to make her come alive.
'Cause with fifteen kids and a fam'ly on the skids,
I got to go for a Sunday drive.
Fifteen kids and a fam'ly on the skids ,
I got to go for a Sunday drive.
That's how they are, so I grabbed out the car;convertible fifty-nine.
Headed for the freeway; tried to find the Pasadena sign.
Ten miles and three quarters more I wasn't feeling any more alive.
'Cause with fifteen kids and a fam'ly on the skids,
I got to go for a Sunday drive.
Fifteen kids and a fam'ly on the skids,
I got to go for a Sunday drive.
I used to be a minstrel free with a whole lot of bread in my bag.
I used to feel that my life was real, but the good Lord threw me a snag.
Now I'm gonna be the same as me ,no matter how I try.
'Cause with fifteen kids and a fam'ly on the skids,
I got to go for a Sunday drive.
Fifteen kids and a fam'ly on the skids,
I got to go for a Sunday drive.
Turned 'round the car and headed for home; I guess I realized my fate.
Ten miles and three quarters more I pulled up outside the gate.
Twenty more kids were stood inside and that made thirty-five.
'Cause with an orphanage full of thirty-five kids,
I got to go for a Sunday drive.
An orphanage full of thirty-five kids ,
I got to go for a Sunday drive.
Sunday morning woke up yawning; filled the pool for a swim.
Pulled down the glass and looked in the mirror just to see if I was in .
Went up the stairs and kissed my women to make her come alive.
'Cause with an orphanage full of thirty-five kids ,
I got to go for a Sunday
song performed by by Bee Gees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wattle & Daub
She lived right next to the forest
In a cottage of wattle and daub,
A roof of bark and a floor of dirt
With a whisk of milk, absorbed,
Her man had died of a heart attack
For over a year, he'd gone,
Had left her to fend for herself out there
In the shade of a ghostly gum.
He lay right under a stringy bark,
She'd dug the grave herself,
Had made a cross with her loving hands
Deep planted at his head,
On lonely nights she would sit out there
And whisper him under the stars,
'Oh Jim, where now are your strong, brown hands,
Where now are your loving arms? '
She didn't cry, for she couldn't cry
For her heart had turned to stone,
Her love was buried and six feet down
With crumbling flesh and bone,
Her eyes were hard as the hardest flint,
Her lips a fine white line,
And when the stars came out at night
She would look for the slightest sign.
She looked for a heaven beyond the stars,
She looked for the eyes of God,
She knew that he watched her as she slept,
He watched where her steps had trod,
She prayed for her days to end in peace
And soon, for she was alone,
She carved a notch in the mantelpiece
Each day, since her love had flown.
She bucketed water from the creek
That trickled on past her door,
It once was a raging river bed
But that had been back, before...
Before a neighboring farmer dammed,
And quelled the flowing stream,
Had turned her husband's protests down
With a sneer, and words obscene.
Her Jim had worked then twice as hard
To irrigate his feed,
The cattle had died in the summer months
On the parched ground of their need,
He worked from the time the sun came up
To the time that the stars came out,
And in the end, collapsed and died
From the toil of a man-made drought.
The farmer up by the dam had said
That he'd take her land for free,
She'd never be able to stay out there
Alone, she would turn and flee,
Then he would double his pasture
And would open the dam to flood,
And let his cattle to roam abroad
By the cottage of wattle and daub.
Now during the long drawn evenings
And deep in the forest's shade,
She could hear strange noises, threatening,
As they howled across the glade,
She loaded the shotgun Jim had left,
And kept it inside the door,
She'd not be driven from off the land
Where her husband lay, forlorn.
One night a shadowy figure came
Strode out of the darkening wood,
Crossed the creek in the evening mist
In a cape with a long black hood,
It howled and jittered like one possessed
She opened the cottage door,
Then blanched as she saw it light a torch
And the flames begin to roar.
She went to reach for the shotgun then
But a hand caught fast her wrist,
Lifted the gun and pointed it,
She stood with her hand on her breast,
Her heart was pounding, her legs were weak
As she watched the phantom stand,
He shrieked in fear as he saw the gun
In a strong, brown pair of hands.
The blast took one of his legs clean off,
The phantom fell with a scream,
The shotgun dropped to the earthen porch
She thought it a crazy dream,
She turned to look for the strong brown hands
That she knew as well as her own,
But the porch was clear, and she felt no fear
For her husband had come home.
The dam was breached in a minute or so,
The torrent then flooded down,
Washed the remains of the farmer to
The lowlands, where he drowned,
She went out back and buried the gun
With a smile in her eyes, like stars
Looked up to the skies, and saw God's eyes
And round her, two loving arms!
4 June 2009
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Wedding of Jenny McGill
There were red roses, and white roses
At the wedding of Jenny McGill,
For she was a Roman Catholic,
And he of the other ilk,
But the priest had refused the Catholic Church
In the way that it was, back then,
For she was a Roman Catholic,
And he Presbyterian.
But her love had bloomed like a red, red rose
And his love had bloomed as well,
For love is the great uniting force
Of the Lord, this side of hell.
So she baked the bread with her loving hands
And he broke the bread with his,
The love shone out of his Protestant eyes
At the thought of wedded bliss.
Now she'd been raised in West Belfast
And he on the Shankill Road,
They were never supposed to fall in love
Like this, so they'd been told,
For the Orange Lord is an English Lord
And shunned, in the Irish way,
While the Lord of the Green is an Irish Lord,
So said the I.R.A.
They warned her once, they warned her twice
This wedding could never be,
For he was a Presbyterian
This John McGonachy,
And children had to be brought up right,
Believe in the Catholic scene,
And fight to unite dear Ireland
For St. Patrick and the Green.
McGonachy was told as well,
No good would come of this,
For he was a Presbyterian
And Jenny a Catholic.
His parents threatened to cut him off,
His friends just said: 'We'll see! '
He even got a visit at work
From the uniformed R.U.C.
But love should break down barriers,
And love should reign supreme,
They looked for a church to wed them both,
The Presbyterian.
She looked a picture when down the aisle
She walked, like an Angel queen,
He wore an Orange buttonhole,
And she a spray of Green.
The vicar read the service as
They gazed in each other's eyes,
Her love had bloomed as a red, red rose,
And his as a white surprise,
They made their vows so tenderly
Her dress, so white, so pale,
And then 'twas time to kiss the bride,
She lifted up her veil.
The stained glass window by the nave
That showed our Lord in grace,
Had lost some of the coloured glass
Around the Saviour's face,
Two shots rang out, and then two more,
The air was very still,
When red, red roses bloomed once more
On the dress of Jenny McGill.
The lovers died in each other's arms
And love died too, that day,
They carried them out of the chapel door
As some others turned to pray,
And some prayed to the Orange Lord
And some to the Green Lord still,
The Lord in the stained glass window wept
At the wedding of Jenny McGill.
They buried her down in a Catholic row,
And him by the Shankill Road,
Even in death they'd be kept apart
By the Green and the Orange code.
But the Lord is love, and he lifted them up
To a dwelling all white and cream,
Where the roses bloom in the wintertime,
And there's neither Orange nor Green.
27 July 2008
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Upon the Lawn - 0088 - Current Version
Upon our powder lawn tonight
bright crystal carpet, cotton white,
soon morn may dawn, spawn golden ray
to spirit sprinkled snow away.
.
Yet with a little luck we might
enjoy the sight and share delight,
until snow thaws in April, May,
with Jack Frost lost to glass display.
(17 December 2008)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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White Angel the Easter Rabbit
Out of a lovely fantasy…..,
She appeared one Springtime day…..,
And made our world……,
So happy in every way……,
It was a vision so wondrous……,
As we colored our eggs…..,
For the Easter Holiday
White Angel, The Easter Rabbit…..,
Brought sunshine to our lives…..,
When it came to joy we had it…..,
White Angel, The Easter Rabbit…..,
She’d hop, hop, hop….,
All day long…..,
Be dancin’ around……,
And singin’ a song…..,
As Easter came so merrily…..,
She was so much fun for us to see……,
White Angel, The Easter Rabbit…..,
Brought sunshine to our lives…..,
Lovin’ her was a tireless habit……,
White Angel, The Easter Rabbit…..,
But poof just like each night and day……,
Her visit soon had to end …..,
So she hop, hop, hopped on her way……,
Off to visit her fairytale friends……,
As we sadly bid farewell to her…….,
She said, “Come on now, don’t cry…..,
I’ll be back again some Easter Day”…..,
White Angel, The Easter Rabbit…..,
Brought sunshine to our lives…..,
When it came to joy we had it…..,
White Angel, The Easter Rabbit…..,
Pure white gold in 24 karat…..,
White Angel, The Easter Rabbit….! ! !
(2011)
poem by Trade Martin
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A Servian Legend
Long, long ago, ere yet our race began,
When earth was empty, waiting still for man,
Before the breath of life to him was given
The angels fell into a strife in heaven.
At length one furious demon grasped the sun
And sped away as fast as he could run,
And with a ringing laugh of fiendish mirth,
He leaped the battlements and fell to earth.
Dark was it then in heaven, but light below;
For there the demon wandered to and fro,
Tilting aloft upon a slender pole
The orb of day-the pilfering old soul.
The angels wept and wailed; but through the dark
The Great Creator's voice cried sternly: sternly: 'Hark!
Who will restore to me the orb of Light,
Him will I honor in all heaven's sight.'
Then over the battlements there dropped another.
(A shrewder angel well there could not be.)
Quoth he: 'Behold my love for thee, my brother,
For I have left all heaven to stay with thee.
'Thy loneliness and wanderings I will share,
Thy heavy burden I will help thee bear.'
'Well said,' the demon answered, 'and well done,
But I'll not tax you with this heavy sun.
'Your company will cheer me, it is true,
And I could never think of burdening you.'
Idly they wandered onward, side by side,
Till, by and by, they neared a silvery tide.
'Let's bathe,' the angel suddenly suggested.
'Agreed,' the demon answered. 'I'll go last,
Because I needs must leave quite unmolested
This tiresome sun, which I will now make fast.'
He set the pole well in the sandy turf,
And called a jackdaw near to watch the place.
Meanwhile the angel paddled in the surf,
And playfully dared his brother to a race.
They swam around together for awhile,
The demon always keeping near his prize,
Till presently the angel, with a smile,
Proposed a healthful diving exercise.
The demon hesitated. 'But,' thought he,
'The jackdaw will inform me with a cry
If this good brother tries deceiving me;
I will not be outdone by him-not I!'
Down, down they went. The angel in a trice
Rose up again, and swift to shore he sped.
The jackdaw shrieked, but lo! a mile of ice
The demon found had frozen o'er his head.
He swore an oath, and gathered all his force,
And broke the ice, to see the sun, of course,
Held firmly in the radiant angel's hand,
Who sailed away toward the heavenly land.
He gave pursuit. Wrath lent speed to his chase;
All heaven leaned down to watch the exciting race.
On, on they came, and still the Evil One
Gained on the angel burdened with the sun.
With bated breath and faces white as ghosts,
Over the walls leaned heaven's affrighted hosts.
Up, up, still up, the angel almost spent,
Threw one foot forward o'er the battlement.
The demon seized the other with a shout;
So fierce his clutch he pulled the bottom out,
As the good angel, fainting, laid the sun
Down by the throne of God, who cried: 'Well done!
Thy great misfortune shall be made divine:
Man will I create with a foot like thine!'
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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My Heart Stealing Student
“ I will break your limbs
if you dare go out of the school”,
I bellowed and gave the boy in first standard,
a prod with the stick.
The little Saran wasn’t a bit quailed.
Wearing a loose shirt
and moving his tongue from left to right,
“ I stole only a half-pant
and keep it safe in the hostel”,
the prowler said and looked at the ceiling fan.
“ You egg-lifter (from the shop) , I’ll throw you out”
I yelled and lightly slapped at his cheek.
He turned his face to the left.
“What’s your father? ”, when I shouted,
“He is dead”, he said with ease
and turned his back to me.
When his teacher told me
the boy was kidnapped from the hostel
and taught to steal and beg in trains by a blind rogue,
pointing to some cigarette burns on his hands
for disobeying the orders of that wretch,
“My God, then how he was brought back? ”,
I asked her caressing him.
“While the sot was crossing the rail track,
leading the boy from behind,
the thief was hit by a train
but the boy escaped and turned up here”.
I looked at him with wonder
as he got God’s grace as a child.
“O my Saran! ”, I cried and scooped him
and put him on a branch of a Punga Tree.
I told his teacher to dote on him
and looked up to advise him.
But he has gone!
Interesting incidents intervene
to show the thrills of human strife.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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A Dream
I had a dream--a strange, wild dream--
Said a dear voice at early light;
And even yet its shadows seem
To linger in my waking sight.
Earth, green with spring, and fresh with dew,
And bright with morn, before me stood;
And airs just wakened softly blew
On the young blossoms of the wood.
Birds sang within the sprouting shade,
Bees hummed amid the whispering grass,
And children prattled as they played
Beside the rivulet's dimpling glass
Fast climbed the sun: the flowers were flown,
There played no children in the glen;
For some were gone, and some were grown
To blooming dames and bearded men.
'Twas noon, 'twas summer: I beheld
Woods darkening in the flush of day,
And that bright rivulet spread and swelled,
A mighty stream, with creek and bay.
And here was love, and there was strife,
And mirthful shouts, and wrathful cries,
And strong men, struggling as for life,
With knotted limbs and angry eyes.
Now stooped the sun--the shades grew thin;
The rustling paths were piled with leaves;
And sunburnt groups were gathering in,
From the shorn field, its fruits and sheaves.
The river heaved with sullen sounds;
The chilly wind was sad with moans;
Black hearses passed, and burial-grounds
Grew thick with monumental stones.
Still waned the day; the wind that chased
The jagged clouds blew chillier yet;
The woods were stripped, the fields were waste,
The wintry sun was near its set.
And of the young, and strong, and fair,
A lonely remnant, gray and weak,
Lingered, and shivered to the air
Of that bleak shore and water bleak.
Ah! age is drear, and death is cold!
I turned to thee, for thou wert near,
And saw thee withered, bowed, and old,
And woke all faint with sudden fear.
'Twas thus I heard the dreamer say,
And bade her clear her clouded brow;
'For thou and I, since childhood's day,
Have walked in such a dream till now.
'Watch we in calmness, as they rise,
The changes of that rapid dream,
And note its lessons, till our eyes
Shall open in the morning beam.'
poem by William Cullen Bryant
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Lady Maggie
You must not call me Maggie, you must not call me Dear,
For I'm Lady of the Manor now stately to see;
And if there comes a babe, as there may some happy year,
'Twill be little lord or lady at my knee.
Oh, but what ails you, my sailor cousin Phil,
That you shake and turn white like a cockcrow ghost?
You're as white as I turned once down by the mill,
When one told me you and ship and crew were lost:
Philip my playfellow, when we were boy and girl
(It was the Miller's Nancy told it to me),
Philip with the merry life in lip and curl,
Philip my playfellow drowned in the sea!
I thought I should have fainted, but I did not faint;
I stood stunned at the moment, scarcely sad,
Till I raised my wail of desolate complaint
For you, my cousin, brother, all I had.
They said I looked so pale—some say so fair—
My lord stopped in passing to soothe me back to life:
I know I missed a ringlet from my hair
Next morning; and now I am his wife.
Look at my gown, Philip, and look at my ring,
I'm all crimson and gold from top to toe:
All day long I sit in the sun and sing,
Where in the sun red roses blush and blow.
And I'm the rose of roses says my lord;
And to him I'm more than the sun in the sky,
While I hold him fast with the golden cord
Of a curl, with the eyelash of an eye.
His mother said 'fie,' and his sisters cried 'shame,'
His highborn ladies cried 'shame' from their place:
They said 'fie' when they only heard my name,
But fell silent when they saw my face.
Am I so fair, Philip? Philip, did you think
I was so fair when we played boy and girl,
Where blue forget-me-nots bloomed on the brink
Of our stream which the mill-wheel sent a whirl?
If I was fair then sure I'm fairer now,
Sitting where a score of servants stand,
With a coronet on high days for my brow
And almost a sceptre for my hand.
You're but a sailor, Philip, weatherbeaten brown,
A stranger on land and at home on the sea,
Coasting as best you may from town to town:
Coasting along do you often think of me?
I'm a great lady in a sheltered bower,
With hands grown white through having nought to do:
Yet sometimes I think of you hour after hour
Till I nigh wish myself a child with you.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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