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Disgraces are like cherries, one draws another.

Romanian proverbs
Added by Lucian Velea
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It's Gonna Rain

It's gonna rain, (it's gonna rain)
It's gonna rain, (it's gonna rain)
It's gonna rain like you've never seen before.
(it's gonna rain, it's gonna rain)
It's like the heaven packed out, the sky fell out,
It's gonna rain, it's gonna rain.
You say life is a bowl of cherries,
You give me a bowl of pits.
The pits will grow into trees one day,
I'm getting my cherries anyway. (maybe so, maybe so)
I'm just living on tiptoe, (tiptoe)
Feeling like so-so, (so-so)
Trying not to step on your eggs.
'cause i know, it's gonna rain, it's gonna rain.
You say life is a bowl of cherries,
While trying to hide your bowl of pits.
Don't tip my bowl, don't crush my cherries,
One day you'll get your trees and all. (yes, i know, yes i know))
I'm just living on tiptoe, (tiptoe)
Feeling like so-so, (so-so)
Trying not to step on your eggs.
'cause i know, it's gonna rain, it's gonna rain.
Shake your vessels, break your pretzels,
It's gonna rain.
Shake your vessels, break your pretzels,
It's gonna rain.
Shake your vessels, break your pretzels,
It's gonna rain, it's gonna rain.
Shake your vessels, break your pretzels,
It's gonna rain, it's gonna rain.
Shake your vessels, break your pretzels,
It's gonna rain, it's gonna rain.
Shake your vessels, break your pretzels,
It's gonna rain, it's gonna rain.

song performed by Yoko Ono
Added by Lucian Velea
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It's Gonna Rain

It's gonna rain, (it's gonna rain)
It's gonna rain, (it's gonna rain)
It's gonna rain like you've never seen before.
(it's gonna rain, it's gonna rain)
It's like the heaven packed out, the sky fell out,
It's gonna rain, it's gonna rain.
You say life is a bowl of cherries,
You give me a bowl of pits.
The pits will grow into trees one day,
I'm getting my cherries anyway. (maybe so, maybe so)
I'm just living on tiptoe, (tiptoe)
Feeling like so-so, (so-so)
Trying not to step on your eggs.
'cause i know, it's gonna rain, it's gonna rain.
You say life is a bowl of cherries,
While trying to hide your bowl of pits.
Don't tip my bowl, don't crush my cherries,
One day you'll get your trees and all. (yes, i know, yes i know))
I'm just living on tiptoe, (tiptoe)
Feeling like so-so, (so-so)
Trying not to step on your eggs.
'cause i know, it's gonna rain, it's gonna rain.
Shake your vessels, break your pretzels,
It's gonna rain.
Shake your vessels, break your pretzels,
It's gonna rain.
Shake your vessels, break your pretzels,
It's gonna rain, it's gonna rain.
Shake your vessels, break your pretzels,
It's gonna rain, it's gonna rain.
Shake your vessels, break your pretzels,
It's gonna rain, it's gonna rain.
Shake your vessels, break your pretzels,
It's gonna rain, it's gonna rain.

song performed by Yoko Ono
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Cherry Tree

The Cherry Tree

There was a Cherry Tree,
In our house at Number Three;
‘T was a variety from Singapore,
Presented by a friend, now no more.

On the western side of our house,
To be away from the straying cows;
It was planted—a sapling, rare,
And nurtured with ample care.

Soon with shoots it grew tall,
And was high above the compound wall;
Pride in us did surely swell,
To behold the tree growing so well,

Its branches now did spread and sprawl,
And to the next house too it did crawl;
Its shade permeated through to the hall,
And ushered in cool breeze to us all.

The white blossoms of the cherry,
Drew swarms of bees—so merry,
Raw green cherries then popped,
Which turned bright red and dropped.

The green tree with cherries so red,
Was like an ornament with rubies studded;
It was sure a splendid sight,
Even in the glow of the moon-lit night.

The cherry fruits tasted very sweet,
Though for some it wasn't a treat;
To crush a fruit ‘twixt your teeth'
A current of joy ran underneath.!

Many were the children of the street,
Who vied for the cherries so sweet;
They'd climb the tree, up to pick,
And fill their pockets till there were sick.

The crows would claim the tree their own,
And feed the nestlings with cherries grown,
Dawn would hail the cuckoo's spree,
With its sonorous call from atop the tree.

Under the shade of the cherry tree,
On the landing of stairs, with glee,
I've oft with it mute communion held,

[...] Read more

poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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Disgraces are like cherries: one draws another.

English proverbs
Added by Micheleflowerbomb
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Life Is Just A Bowl Of Cherries

People are queer, theyre always crowing, scrambling and rushing about;
Why dont they stop someday, address themselves this way?
Why are we here? where are we going? its time that we found out.
Were not here to stay; were on a short holiday.
Life is just a bowl of cherries.
Dont take it serious; its too mysterious.
You work, you save, you worry so,
But you cant take your dough when you go, go, go.
So keep repeating its the berries,
The strongest oak must fall,
The sweet things in life, to you were just loaned
So how can you lose what youve never owned?
Life is just a bowl of cherries,
So live and laugh at it all.
Life is just a bowl of cherries.
Dont take it serious; its too mysterious.
At eight each morning I have got a date,
To take my plunge round the empire state.
Youll admit its not the berries,
In a building thats so tall;
Theres a guy in the show, the girls love to kiss;
Get thousands a week just for crooning like this:
Life is just a bowl of . . . aw, nuts!
So live and laugh at it all!

song performed by Joe Jackson
Added by Lucian Velea
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Summer Wine

I walked town on silver spurs that jingled too
A song that I had only sang to just a few
Ahe saw my silver spurs and set let pass the time and
I will give to you summer wine
Ohh-oh-oh summer wine
Strawberries cherries and angels kiss in spring
My summer wine is realy made from all this things
Take off your silver spurs and help me pass the time
And I will give to you summer wine
Ohh-oh-oh summer wine
My eyes grew heavy and my lips they could not spek
I tried to get up but I couldnt find my feet
She reassutred me with an unfamilliar line
And thene she gives to me more summer wine
Ohh-oh-oh summer wine
Strawberries cherries and angels kiss in spring
My summer wine is realy made from all this things
Take off your silver spurs and help me pass the time
And I will give to you summer wine
When I woke up the sun was shining in my eyes
My silver spurs were gone my head felt twice it size
And left me cravin for more summer wine
Ohh-oh-oh summer wine
Strawberries cherries and angels kiss in spring
My summer wine is realy made from all this things
Take off your silver spurs and help me pass the time
And I will give to you summer wine

song performed by Scooter
Added by Lucian Velea
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Huckleberry

Just off of the two-lane where the school bus used to stop
Was a little wooden a-frame with a yellow tin roof top
One day it was raining on this world
She said have you ever really, really ever kissed a girl?
Baby Ill be your huckleberry, you dont have to double dare me
If the storm gets wild and scary count on me to be right there
Youre so extra ordinary sweet like maraschino cherries
Well grow up and well get married
Im gonna be your huckleberry
Later on that summer we went to the county fair
They had a brand new roller coaster and everyone was scared
It was two bucks to experience the thrill
She said come on boy lets get in line Ill ride it if you will
Baby Ill be your huckleberry, you dont have to double dare me
If the ride gets wild and scary count on me to be right there
Youre so extra ordinary sweet like maraschino cherries
Well grow up and well get married
Im gonna be your huckleberry
Snuck off on a slow dance at the junior/senior prom
Went lookin for some romance before I had to get her home
Steamin up the windows of my car
She said until I get my wedding ring boy we cant go that far
Baby Ill be your huckleberry, you dont have to double dare me
If the world gets wild and scary count on me to be right there
Youre so extra ordinary sweet like maraschino cherries
We grew up and we got married
Now look at those three little huckleberries

song performed by Toby Keith
Added by Lucian Velea
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There is a Garden in Her Face

There is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies grow;
A heav'nly paradise is that place
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow.
There cherries grow which none may buy
Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds filled with snow;
Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy,
Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still;
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that attempt, with eye or hand
Those sacred cherries to come nigh
Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.

poem by Thomas Champion (1619)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Goblin Market

MORNING and evening
Maids heard the goblins cry:
"Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy:
Apples and quinces,
Lemons and oranges,
Plump unpecked cherries-
Melons and raspberries,
Bloom-down-cheeked peaches,
Swart-headed mulberries,
Wild free-born cranberries,
Crab-apples, dewberries,
Pine-apples, blackberries,
Apricots, strawberries--
All ripe together
In summer weather--
Morns that pass by,
Fair eves that fly;
Come buy, come buy;
Our grapes fresh from the vine,
Pomegranates full and fine,
Dates and sharp bullaces,
Rare pears and greengages,
Damsons and bilberries,
Taste them and try:
Currants and gooseberries,
Bright-fire-like barberries,
Figs to fill your mouth,
Citrons from the South,
Sweet to tongue and sound to eye,
Come buy, come buy."

Evening by evening
Among the brookside rushes,
Laura bowed her head to hear,
Lizzie veiled her blushes:
Crouching close together
In the cooling weather,
With clasping arms and cautioning lips,
With tingling cheeks and finger-tips.
"Lie close," Laura said,
Pricking up her golden head:
We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?"
"Come buy," call the goblins
Hobbling down the glen.
"O! cried Lizzie, Laura, Laura,
You should not peep at goblin men."

[...] Read more

poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Lullaby

Rock-a-by baby, woolly and brown…
(There's a shout at the door an' a big red light…)
Lil' coon baby, mammy is down…
Han's that hold yuh are steady an' white…

Look piccaninny - such a gran' blaze
Lickin' up the roof an' the sticks of home -
Ever see the like in all yo' days!
- Cain't yuh sleep, mah bit-of-honey-comb?

Rock-a-by baby, up to the sky!
Look at the cherries driftin' by -
Bright red cherries spilled on the groun' -
Piping-hot cherries at nuthin' a poun'!

Hush, mah lil' black-bug - doan yuh weep.
Daddy's run away an' mammy's in a heap
By her own fron' door in the blazin' heat
Outah the shacks like warts on the street…

An' the singin' flame an' the gleeful crowd
Circlin' aroun'… won't mammy be proud!
With a stone at her hade an' a stone on her heart,
An' her mouth like a red plum, broken apart…

See where the blue an' khaki prance,
Adding brave colors to the dance
About the big bonfire white folks make -
Such gran' doin's fo' a lil' coon's sake!

Hear all the eagah feet runnin' in town -
See all the willin' han's reach outah night -
Han's that are wonderful, steady an' white!
To toss up a lil' babe, blinkin' an' brown…

Rock-a-by baby - higher an' higher!
Mammy is sleepin' an' daddy's run lame…
(Soun' may yuh sleep in yo' cradle o' fire!)
Rock-a-by baby, hushed in the flame…

(An incident of the East St. Louis Race Riots, when some white women flung
a living colored baby into the heart of a blazing fire.)

poem by Lola Ridge
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Cherry-Time

Cherries of the night are riper
Than the cherries pluckt at noon
Gather to your fairy piper
When he pipes his magic tune:
        Merry, merry,
        Take a cherry;
        Mine are sounder,
        Mine are rounder,
        Mine are sweeter
        For the eater
        Under the moon.
And you’ll be fairies soon.

In the cherry pluckt at night,
With the dew of summer swelling,
There’s a juice of pure delight,
Cool, dark, sweet, divinely smelling.
        Merry, merry,
        Take a cherry;
        Mine are sounder,
        Mine are rounder,
        Mine are sweeter
        For the eater
        In the moonlight.
And you’ll be fairies quite.

When I sound the fairy call,
Gather here in silent meeting,
Chin to knee on the orchard wall,
Cooled with dew and cherries eating.
        Merry, merry,
        Take a cherry;
        Mine are sounder,
        Mine are rounder,
        Mine are sweeter.
        For the eater
        When the dews fall.
And you’ll be fairies all.

poem by Robert Graves
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Cherry-Time

Cherries of the night are riper
Than the cherries pluckt at noon
Gather to your fairy piper
When he pipes his magic tune:
        Merry, merry,
        Take a cherry;
        Mine are sounder,
        Mine are rounder,
        Mine are sweeter
        For the eater
        Under the moon.
And you’ll be fairies soon.

In the cherry pluckt at night,
With the dew of summer swelling,
There’s a juice of pure delight,
Cool, dark, sweet, divinely smelling.
        Merry, merry,
        Take a cherry;
        Mine are sounder,
        Mine are rounder,
        Mine are sweeter
        For the eater
        In the moonlight.
And you’ll be fairies quite.

When I sound the fairy call,
Gather here in silent meeting,
Chin to knee on the orchard wall,
Cooled with dew and cherries eating.
        Merry, merry,
        Take a cherry;
        Mine are sounder,
        Mine are rounder,
        Mine are sweeter.
        For the eater
        When the dews fall.
And you’ll be fairies all.

poem by Robert Graves
Added by Poetry Lover
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Cherry-Ripe

THERE is a garden in her face
   Where roses and white lilies blow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
   Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow:
   There cherries grow which none may buy
   Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose
   Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
   They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow;
   Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy
   Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still;
   Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
   All that attempt with eye or hand
   Those sacred cherries to come nigh,
   Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.

poem by Thomas Campion
Added by Poetry Lover
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There Is A Garden In Her Face

There is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies grow;
A heav'nly paradise is that place
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow.
There cherries grow which none may buy,
Till 'Cherry ripe' themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow;
Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy,
Till 'Cherry ripe' themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still,
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that attempt with eye or hand
Those sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till 'Cherry ripe' themselves do cry.

poem by Thomas Campion
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Upon Appleton House, to My Lord Fairfax

Within this sober Frame expect
Work of no Forrain Architect;
That unto Caves the Quarries drew,
And Forrests did to Pastures hew;
Who of his great Design in pain
Did for a Model vault his Brain,
Whose Columnes should so high be rais'd
To arch the Brows that on them gaz'd.

Why should of all things Man unrul'd
Such unproportion'd dwellings build?
The Beasts are by their Denns exprest:
And Birds contrive an equal Nest;
The low roof'd Tortoises do dwell
In cases fit of Tortoise-shell:
No Creature loves an empty space;
Their Bodies measure out their Place.

But He, superfluously spread,
Demands more room alive then dead.
And in his hollow Palace goes
Where Winds as he themselves may lose.
What need of all this Marble Crust
T'impark the wanton Mose of Dust,
That thinks by Breadth the World t'unite
Though the first Builders fail'd in Height?

But all things are composed here
Like Nature, orderly and near:
In which we the Dimensions find
Of that more sober Age and Mind,
When larger sized Men did stoop
To enter at a narrow loop;
As practising, in doors so strait,
To strain themselves through Heavens Gate.

And surely when the after Age
Shall hither come in Pilgrimage,
These sacred Places to adore,
By Vere and Fairfax trod before,
Men will dispute how their Extent
Within such dwarfish Confines went:
And some will smile at this, as well
As Romulus his Bee-like Cell.

Humility alone designs
Those short but admirable Lines,
By which, ungirt and unconstrain'd,
Things greater are in less contain'd.
Let others vainly strive t'immure

[...] Read more

poem by Andrew Marvell
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Bob Roberts Society Band

[transcribed by linda h]
Bob roberts society band
By: jimmy buffett
1996
Well, youve heard about the alligators sleepin in the shade
Youve heard heard about the sugar barons screwin up the glades,
Its a melting pot existance
That is hard to contemplate
And a never ending battle in the sunshine state.
But far, far away from the front page news,
Far, far away from the headline blues,
Down a secondary road that severely shows its age
The forties comes to life on a make-shift stage.
Its the bob roberts society band.
Playing every sunday at the orange grove stand.
They dont play grunge and they dont play loud.
Its the magic of the music that still draws a crowd.
Well, the word goes out
From melbourne to the keys.
The faithful get the message
Like its written on the breeze.
Young folks, old folks,
bout to cut a rug
Fox trot, bunny hop,
Do the jitterbug,
To the bob roberts society band.
Playing every sunday at the orange grove stand.
They dont play grunge and they dont play loud.
Its the magic of the music that still draws a crowd.
I saw mini vans from boca,
Buses from perrine.
There were people speaking hindu
In the bar-b-que line.
A couple on their honeymoon
Looked a bit confused.
But the boys in the band put em right in the mood.
They played.....
A lady dressed in purple started dancing all alone
Then she sauntered oh so gently to the vacant microphone.
She sounded like shes someone and never missed a beat.
By the time the number ended they were dancin in the street.
Theyd died and gone to heaven,
That lively little crowd,
Trombones and saxophones
Sent em through the clouds.
It could have gone all night
But the party had to stop.
When they blew the circuit breaker
In the souvenir shop.
Its the bob roberts society band

[...] Read more

song performed by Jimmy Buffett
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Ocean To Cynthia

But stay, my thoughts, make end, give fortune way ;
Harsh is the voice of woe and sorrow's sound ;
Complaints cure not, and tears do but allay
Griefs for a time, which after more abound.

To seek for moisture in the Arabian sand
Is but a loss of labor and of rest ;
The links which time did break of hearty bands

Words cannot knit, or wailings make anew.
Seek not the sun in clouds when it is set.
On highest mountains, where those cedars grew,
Against whose banks the troubled ocean beat,

And were the marks to find thy hopëd port,
Into a soil far off themselves remove ;
On Sestos' shore, Leander's late resort,
Hero hath left no lamp to guide her love.

Thou lookest for light in vain, and storms arise;
She sleeps thy death that erst thy danger sighed;
Strive then no more, bow down thy weary eyes,
Eyes which to all these woes thy heart have guided.

She is gone, she is lost, she is found, she is ever fair;
Sorrow draws weakly where love draws not too;
Woe's cries sound nothing, but only in love's ear.
Do then by dying what life cannot do.
Unfold thy flocks and leave them to the fields,
To feed on hills or dales, where likes them best,
Of what the summer or the springtime yields,
For love and time hath given thee leave to rest.

Thy heart which was their fold, now in decay
By often storms and winter's many blasts,
All torn and rent becomes misfortune's prey;
False hope, my shepherd's staff, now age hath brast.

My pipe, which love's own hand gave my desire
To sing her praises and my woe upon,
Despair hath often threatened to the fire,
As vain to keep now all the rest are gone.

Thus home I draw, as death's long night draws on;
Yet every foot, old thoughts turn back mine eyes;
Constraint me guides, as old age draws a stone
Against the hill, which over-weighty lies

For feeble arms or wasted strength to move:
My steps are backward, gazing on my loss,

[...] Read more

poem by Sir Walter Raleigh
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On the Prospect of Peace

______ Sacerdos
Fronde super mitram, & felici comptus oliva.
Virg.

To the Lord Privy Seal

Contending kings, and fields of death, too long
Have been the subject of the British song.
Who hath not read of fam'd Ramillia's plain,
Bavaria's fall, and Danube choak'd with slain!
Exhausted themes! a gentler note I raise,
And sing returning peace in softer lays.
Their fury quell'd, and martial rage allay'd,
I wait our heroes in the sylvan shade:
Disbanding hosts are imag'd to my mind,
And warring powers in friendly leagues combin'd,
While ease and pleasure make the nations smile,
And Heaven and Anna bless Britannia's isle.
Well sends our queen her mitred Bristol forth,
For early counsels fam'd, and long-try'd worth;
Who, thirty rolling years, had oft withheld
The Swede and Saxon from the dusty field;
Completely form'd to heal the Christian wounds,
To name the kings, and give each kingdom bounds;
The face of ravag'd Nature to repair,
By leagues to soften Earth, and Heaven by prayer,

To gain by love, where rage and slaughter fail,
And make the crosier o'er the sword prevail.
So when great Moses, with Jehovah's wand,
Had scatter'd plagues o'er stubborn Pharaoh's land,
Now spread an host of locusts round the shore,
Now turn'd Nile's fattening streams to putrid gore;
Plenty and gladness mark'd the priest of God,
And sudden almonds shot from Aaron's rod.

O thou, from whom these bounteous blessings flow,
To whom, as chief, the hopes of peace we owe,

(For next to thee, the man whom kings contend
To style companion, and to make their friend,
Great Strafford, rich in every courtly grace,
With joyful pride accepts the second place)
From Britain's isle, and Isis' sacred spring,
One hour, oh! listen while the Muses sing.
Though ministers of mighty monarchs wait,
With beating hearts to learn their masters' fate,
One hour forbear to speak thy queen's commands,
Nor think the world, thy charge, neglected stands;

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Tickell
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Empty-handed I Come

Empty-handed I come; empty-handed I go.
The road has no name.
The destination doesn't exist yet.
By my side, no one. Little bird, you want to drink
from the dragon's chalice, but faces from now
I will not know you; the mirror
will not breathe. Unlovable, strange, some
warrior mystic under an expanding sky
where the stars move further and further apart
I hammer swords of light out
on the igneous anvil of my heart
folding the metal
like the first edition of a holy book until the edge
draws blood from space
with a slash of lethal intelligence.
The clowns of God are rehearsing for a play like this
and you have your lives, your disgraces to live;
your clock of lies that says
it's always a lonely time to forgive. Now and here, never
anyone or anything, all objects turned to thought;
ahead, the eerie seduction of living for nothing
and all behind, the auroral dispensation of delusion.
Did you do well? Did you do poorly?
Are you clad in the rags or robes of life?
Is your mind wired to lightning
or are you just another flake of heat in the desert;
a gesture of extremes, hallucinating?
I've never liked people much; they
bruise the eye of the wine
and keep the flowers of night in a straitjacket.
They don't know how to take themselves seriously,
mistaking maggots for magi. Their diamonds
don't flow; across the streams of their being
they build dams out of crutches, houses of God
out of the bones of the ethnically cleansed.
Their children sit at the feet of eggs
giving lectures on the perils of flight. Offered wings
they cling to their fear of heights
and dread death like a crack in the sky.
I'll take the hawk over the barnyard every time;
the wolf over the house-broken dog, I will not
masticate shadows in a well-trained field.
I may be only a dropp of blood
hanging from the horn of the moon, a nail
of salamander gold regenerated in the fire
to plank a leper's coffin, all my work, the invention of the wheel
for birds, a leader that follows, always a needle off north.
I would rather see what the widow sees
in the petty eyes of her beloved
when he's laid out in the living-room

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick White
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The Georgics

GEORGIC I

What makes the cornfield smile; beneath what star
Maecenas, it is meet to turn the sod
Or marry elm with vine; how tend the steer;
What pains for cattle-keeping, or what proof
Of patient trial serves for thrifty bees;-
Such are my themes.
O universal lights
Most glorious! ye that lead the gliding year
Along the sky, Liber and Ceres mild,
If by your bounty holpen earth once changed
Chaonian acorn for the plump wheat-ear,
And mingled with the grape, your new-found gift,
The draughts of Achelous; and ye Fauns
To rustics ever kind, come foot it, Fauns
And Dryad-maids together; your gifts I sing.
And thou, for whose delight the war-horse first
Sprang from earth's womb at thy great trident's stroke,
Neptune; and haunter of the groves, for whom
Three hundred snow-white heifers browse the brakes,
The fertile brakes of Ceos; and clothed in power,
Thy native forest and Lycean lawns,
Pan, shepherd-god, forsaking, as the love
Of thine own Maenalus constrains thee, hear
And help, O lord of Tegea! And thou, too,
Minerva, from whose hand the olive sprung;
And boy-discoverer of the curved plough;
And, bearing a young cypress root-uptorn,
Silvanus, and Gods all and Goddesses,
Who make the fields your care, both ye who nurse
The tender unsown increase, and from heaven
Shed on man's sowing the riches of your rain:
And thou, even thou, of whom we know not yet
What mansion of the skies shall hold thee soon,
Whether to watch o'er cities be thy will,
Great Caesar, and to take the earth in charge,
That so the mighty world may welcome thee
Lord of her increase, master of her times,
Binding thy mother's myrtle round thy brow,
Or as the boundless ocean's God thou come,
Sole dread of seamen, till far Thule bow
Before thee, and Tethys win thee to her son
With all her waves for dower; or as a star
Lend thy fresh beams our lagging months to cheer,
Where 'twixt the Maid and those pursuing Claws
A space is opening; see! red Scorpio's self
His arms draws in, yea, and hath left thee more
Than thy full meed of heaven: be what thou wilt-
For neither Tartarus hopes to call thee king,

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poem by Virgil
Added by Poetry Lover
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