He that commends me to mine own content commends me to the thing I cannot get.
William Shakespeare in A Comedy of Errors
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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The dog commends himself to our favor by affording play to our propensity for mastery.
quote by Thorstein Veblen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Cruel Maid
--AND, cruel maid, because I see
You scornful of my love, and me,
I'll trouble you no more, but go
My way, where you shall never know
What is become of me; there I
Will find me out a path to die,
Or learn some way how to forget
You and your name for ever;--yet
Ere I go hence, know this from me,
What will in time your fortune be;
This to your coyness I will tell;
And having spoke it once, Farewell.
--The lily will not long endure,
Nor the snow continue pure;
The rose, the violet, one day
See both these lady-flowers decay;
And you must fade as well as they.
And it may chance that love may turn,
And, like to mine, make your heart burn
And weep to see't; yet this thing do,
That my last vow commends to you;
When you shall see that I am dead,
For pity let a tear be shed;
And, with your mantle o'er me cast,
Give my cold lips a kiss at last;
If twice you kiss, you need not fear
That I shall stir or live more here.
Next hollow out a tomb to cover
Me, me, the most despised lover;
And write thereon, THIS, READER, KNOW;
LOVE KILL'D THIS MAN. No more, but so.
poem by Robert Herrick
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The Plaudite, Or End Of Life
If after rude and boisterous seas
My wearied pinnace here finds ease;
If so it be I've gain'd the shore,
With safety of a faithful oar;
If having run my barque on ground,
Ye see the aged vessel crown'd;
What's to be done? but on the sands
Ye dance and sing, and now clap hands.
--The first act's doubtful, but (we say)
It is the last commends the Play.
poem by Robert Herrick
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The Measure of Beauty
Give Beauty all her right,
She's not to one form tied;
Each shape yields fair delight,
Where her perfections bide:
Helen, I grant, might pleasing be,
And Ros'mond was as sweet as she.
Some the quick eye commends,
Some swelling lips and red;
Pale looks have many friends,
Through sacred sweetness bred:
Meadows have flowers that pleasure move,
Though roses are the flowers of love.
Free beauty is not bound
To one unmoved clime;
She visits every ground
And favours every time.
Let the old loves with mine compare,
My sovereign is as sweet as fair.
poem by Thomas Campion
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His Way
In His way you must strive, to undo the changes
Of your life, that mingle with flames and abundance.
I have an ear that constructs war and carnage,
For my lesson is achieved and my pressure is less.
To see an eye and another eye commends the thought
Of a bigger age, of increases and demonstrations.
I discover pugnacious attitudes in the souls,
They fought for longevity, but where is display?
I have to matter to the wholeness,
I mattered and you did hurt over matters
That may utter praises for the Lord.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Occasioned By Some Verses of His Grace the Duke of Buckingham
Muse, 'tis enough: at length thy labour ends,
And thou shalt live, for Buckingham commends.
Let Crowds and Critics now my verse assail,
Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail:
This more than pays whole years of thankless pain;
Time, health, and fortune are not lost in vain.
Sheffield approves, consenting Phoebus bends,
And I and Malice from this hour are friends.
poem by Alexander Pope
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Leading the Men
They praise the orders of a man who leads,
Yes, a prize awaits the worthy deeds;
Foraging for trustworthy components
The community is working opponents,
For the life and generation of men
Commends women to be ten
Fingers and
Toes.
The feet of a man are like the children
Who work for their spouses, and then
We work for more, nevertheless,
Striving adventurously in this mess.
Who leads now?
The adulthood of people shall conquer
Any person who is child or with honour.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Your Hands
Dip your hands into the stream!
The whole sky unwinds throughout,
With tethered horses grazing.
The grass inches across the rocks
Of the whole snow-stream,
The whole town commends me!
The calling of a note
Alarms and dismays the scene,
Horses stepping out of their ranks.
Snow that means forests.
Grass meaning jungles.
This horse all-tethered is again.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Sonnet XLII: Some Men There Be
Some men there be which like my method well
And much commend the strangeness of my vein;
Some say I have a passing pleasing strain;
Some say that im my humor I excel;
Some, who not kindly relish my conceit,
They say, as poets do, I use to feign,
And in bare words paint out my passion's pain.
Thus sundry men their sundry words repeat;
I pass not, I, how men affected be,
Nor who commends or discommends my verse;
It pleaseth me, if I my woes rehearse,
And in my lines if she my love may see.
Only my comfort still consists in this,
Writing her praise I cannot write amiss.
poem by Michael Drayton
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A Question
O God! You pulsate my heart:
An engine of the breathing machine,
That causes rhythm in the flow of red oil,
That circulates into the network of the tubes,
You strengthen my legs that push the body ahead,
To perform the tasks that commends my lust;
You supply the contents to grind, and strength to chew,
The belly digests and consumes with your consent,
You direct the waves of thoughts,
That stroll and sway like breeze in the mind,
The same waves also bring along a question,
“Why do I turn my back to the call,
That summons to Your ever unbolted door? ”
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Portent
Horace, BK. V. Ode 20.
Oh, late withdrawn from human-kind
And following dreams we never knew!
Varus, what dream has Fate assigned
To trouble you?
Such virtue as commends of law
Of Virtue to the vulgar horde
Suffices not. You needs must draw
A righteous sword;
And, flagrant in well-doing, smite
The priests of Bacchus at their fane,
Lest any worshipper invite
The God again.
Whence public strife and naked crime
And-deadlier than the cup you shun--
A people schooled to mock, in time,
All law--not one.
Cease, then, to fashion State-made sin,
Nor give thy children cause to doubt
That Virtue springs from Iron within--
Not lead without.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Hidden Life
To tell the Saviour all my wants,
How pleasing is the task!
Nor less to praise Him when He grants
Beyond what I can ask.
My laboring spirit vainly seeks
To tell but half the joy,
With how much tenderness He speaks,
And helps me to reply.
Nor were it wise, nor should I choose,
Such secrets to declare;
Like precious wines their taste they lose,
Exposed to open air.
But this with boldness I proclaim,
Nor care if thousands hear,
Sweet is the ointment of His name,
Not life is half so dear.
And can you frown, my former friends,
Who knew what once I was,
And blame the song that thus commends
The Man who bore the cross?
Trust me, I draw the likeness true,
And not as fancy paints;
Such honor may He give to you,
For such have all His saints.
poem by William Cowper
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Olney Hymn 47: The Hidden Life
To tell the Saviour all my wants,
How pleasing is the task!
Nor less to praise Him when He grants
Beyond what I can ask.
My laboring spirit vainly seeks
To tell but half the joy,
With how much tenderness He speaks,
And helps me to reply.
Nor were it wise, nor should I choose,
Such secrets to declare;
Like precious wines their taste they lose,
Exposed to open air.
But this with boldness I proclaim,
Nor care if thousands hear,
Sweet is the ointment of His name,
Not life is half so dear.
And can you frown, my former friends,
Who knew what once I was,
And blame the song that thus commends
The Man who bore the cross?
Trust me, I draw the likeness true,
And not as fancy paints;
Such honor may He give to you,
For such have all His saints.
poem by William Cowper
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Along Life's Journey
Along life's journey God's decreed
Are always stops and starts
And yet good people meet each need
Because they have good hearts.
They may have twinkles in their eyes,
Or smiles to share each day,
With faith more than you realise,
To help you on your way...
If not for good friends here and there
And strangers who assist,
This world would be so full of care,
Good times could not exist...
And yet, we, too, respond sometimes,
As if instinctively,
With action, not just writing rhymes
For those with eyes to see...
If God commends each sacred soul,
Then He must share His love
With those who maintain self-control
And pray to Him above...
To think, that every life on Earth
Can choose the right and good
And seek to prove our lives have worth,
When we do what we should...
poem by Denis Martindale
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The Dark Star And The Fair
A sonnet to Joe McElderry
There are two stars in my benighted sky
One fair, one dark, and both entitled J.
The fair commends and praises me on high,
The dark despises me, to my dismay.
The fair exalts me to the very heights
And gladly holds me to, like him, be fair;
The dark delights to hold me in despite
And cares not that I fall into despair.
Fair star, you are to me my knight, my knight,
You rescue me from grief on wings of song;
Dark star, you sing, but damn me to the night
And careless, see not when you do me wrong.
I rage if dark usurps the fair above,
Yet when - so sweet – he sings, am filled with love.
poem by Christopher McInnes
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Joy Of My Life While Left Me Here!
Joy of my life while left me here!
And still my love!
How in thy absence thou dost steer
Me from above!
A life well led
This truth commends,
With quick or dead
It never ends.
Stars are of mighty use; the night
Is dark, and long;
The road foul; and where one goes right,
Six may go wrong.
One twinkling ray,
Shot o'er some cloud,
May clear much away,
And guide a crowd.
God's saints are shining lights: who stays
Here long must pass
O'er dark hills, swift streams, and steep ways
As smooth as glass;
But these all night,
Like candles, shed
Their beams, and light
Us into bed.
They are, indeed, our pillar-fires,
Seen as we go;
They are that city's shining spires
We travel to:
A swordlike gleam
Kept man for sin
First
out
; this beam
Will guide them
in.
poem by Henry Vaughan
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Creativity Creates (The "C" Fever)
Creating ceaseless comforts
Creatively created creation,
Concisely clear content,
Clueless cementing composition,
Caressing crafty craft,
Congrats clubbed commendable creation,
Commanding ceaseless circles,
Creating cloudy colors,
Crawling calmly,
Counting countless counts,
Cool celebrations convicts
Cremating conventional classes
Costing clueless camouflage
Cruelty camping carcasses
Champions cuddle compositions,
Commenting courageously,
Converting classical cases,
Crap claps contingently,
Clamping coarse comments,
Continents commends creativity,
Cloning creations costs,
Cream-less celebrations,
Creed cries copiously,
Counting complications,
Creativity clears census,
Courting cobra courage,
Cognitive cellular copyright,
Combating conventional cage,
Censoring commutation,
Copied crap communication
Crimson crowd creeds
Course-less cupid citation
Closing comment comments,
Care cannot cease,
Charming charm charms,
Creativity creates crease.
poem by Diwakar Pokhriyal
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Sonnet XXXII: Our Flood's-Queen Thames
Our flood's-queen Thames for ships and swans is crown'd,
And stately Severn for her shore is prais'd,
The crystal Trent for fords and fish renown'd,
And Avon's fame to Albion's cliffs is rais'd;
Carlegion Chester vaunts her holy Dee,
York many wonders of her Ouse can tell,
The Peak her Dove, whose banks so fertile be,
And Kent will say her Medway doth excell;
Cotswold commends her Isis to the Thame,
Our Northern borders boast of Tweed's fair flood,
Our Western parts extol their Wylye's fame,
And the old Lea brags of the Danish blood.
Arden's sweet Anker, let thy glory be,
That fair Idea only lives by thee.
poem by Michael Drayton
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I believe that the brain has evolved over millions of years to be responsive to different kinds of content in the world. Language content, musical content, spatial content, numerical content, etc.
quote by Howard Gardner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Emma's Dell
A poet roamed by rushing brook
Early springtime morning. The sound
Seemed softer than it should,
Tempered by, tempering,
Eager buds, new greens all around.
Still bare trees, they tempered too.
Contrast breeds content.
Then round a turn mad rushing brook
Maddened beast and bird.
Sound seemed of the air-
Like air, would never cease.
Green seemed of the rocks.
Content is content.
A cottage overlooked the brook.
'My thoughts at least are mine.
I've told them to the shepherds.
How contrast can contain content.
How content is content.
Pondering perhaps my words
Years after we are spent
They'll call the dell not what I call it,
They'll call it WILL'S DELL EMMA.'
poem by Douglas Scotney
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