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If you humble yourself too much, you will get trampled on.

Serbian proverbs
Added by Lucian Velea
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Tale XIX

THE CONVERT.

Some to our Hero have a hero's name
Denied, because no father's he could claim;
Nor could his mother with precision state
A full fair claim to her certificate;
On her own word the marriage must depend -
A point she was not eager to defend:
But who, without a father's name, can raise
His own so high, deserves the greater praise;
The less advantage to the strife he brought,
The greater wonders has his prowess wrought;
He who depends upon his wind and limbs,
Needs neither cork nor bladder when he swims;
Nor will by empty breath be puff'd along,
As not himself--but in his helpers--strong.
Suffice it then, our Hero's name was clear,
For call John Dighton, and he answer'd 'Here!'
But who that name in early life assign'd
He never found, he never tried to find:
Whether his kindred were to John disgrace,
Or John to them, is a disputed case;
His infant state owed nothing to their care -
His mind neglected, and his body bare;
All his success must on himself depend,
He had no money, counsel, guide, or friend;
But in a market-town an active boy
Appear'd, and sought in various ways employ;
Who soon, thus cast upon the world, began
To show the talents of a thriving man.
With spirit high John learn'd the world to

brave,
And in both senses was a ready knave;
Knave as of old obedient, keen, and quick,
Knave as of present, skill'd to shift and trick;
Some humble part of many trades he caught,
He for the builder and the painter wrought;
For serving-maids on secret errands ran,
The waiter's helper, and the ostler's man;
And when he chanced (oft chanced he) place to lose,
His varying genius shone in blacking shoes:
A midnight fisher by the pond he stood,
Assistant poacher, he o'erlook'd the wood;
At an election John's impartial mind
Was to no cause nor candidate confined;
To all in turn he full allegiance swore,
And in his hat the various badges bore:
His liberal soul with every sect agreed,
Unheard their reasons, he received their creed:

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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Humble People

Humble people
We both are
We are humble people
We are happy
We have someone that is watching out for us
Humble people
Are much happier than those who have too much
Humble people have little but they are happy
Humble people are rich in spirit
Humble people have more friends
Than those that are rich
We are not so materialistic either
Humble people
Like to enjoy other humble people also
That is the kind of people they mix with
Humble people don’t wear any expensive clothes
Humble people are good Christians
Humble people are hungry for the word of the Lord

poem by Aldo Kraas
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Above All

Verse 1
Above all powers above all kings
Above all kingdoms
Above all nature and all created things
Above all thrones
Above all wisdom and all the ways of man
Above all wonders
You were here before the world began
The world has ever known
Above all wealth
Above all kingdoms above all thrones
And treasures of the earth
Above all wonders the world has ever known
There's no way to measure
Above all wealth and treasures of the earth
What You're worth
There's no way to measure what You're worth
Verse 2
Crucified laid behind the stone
Above all powers
You lived to die rejected and alone
Above all kings
Like a Rose trampled on the ground
Above all nature
You took the fall and thought of me
And all created things
Above all
Above all wisdom
And all the ways of man
Above all powers above all kings
You were here
Above all nature and all created things
Before the world began
Above all wisdom and all the ways of man
You were here before the world began
CHORUS
Crucified
Above all kingdoms above all thrones
Laid behind the stone
Above all wonders the world has ever known
You lived to die
Above all wealth and treasures of the earth
Rejected and alone
There's no way to measure what You're worth
Like a rose
Trampled on the ground
Crucified laid behind the stone
You took the fall
You lived to die rejected and alone
And thought of me

[...] Read more

song performed by Michael W. Smith
Added by Lucian Velea
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Humdrum & Humble

Mistress of the mind
Take me where the air is clean
Ignorance is kind
Emerald and evergreen
30 days september, year of miracle and grief
Through the haze, remember
Youre an animal, not a mineral
And we won the war, lost the battle
Lost the war, won the battle
Won the war, lost the battle
Lost the war
All for the love of the humdrum and humble
Colour for the colourblind
All for the love of the humdrum and humble
Through the human eye
Nature a soul extreme
Nothing seems to die
Pictures in a magazine
Through the maze, precisely
Through the myriad of schemes
With your gaze, entice me
Like an animal, not a mineral
And we won the war, lost the battle
Lost the war, won the battle
Won the war, lost the battle
Lost the war
All for the love of the humdrum and humble
Colour for the colourblind
All for the love of the humdrum and humble
Through the maze, precisely
Through the myriad of schemes
With your gaze, entice me
Like an animal, not a mineral
And we won the war, lost the battle
Lost the war, won the battle
Won the war, lost the battle
Lost the war
All for the love of the humdrum and humble
Colour for the colourblind
All for the love of the humdrum and humble
Rubishing the phillistines
All for the love of the humdrum and humble

song performed by Tears For Fears
Added by Lucian Velea
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Humility And Pride

Two emotions deep down inside, are those of humility and pride,
They produce what men may see, in the life of both you and me.
A haughty spirit can sure reside, in a heart that’s filled with pride.
A humble spirit is in you and me, when you’re filled with humility.

You can lift yourself up with pride, but God’s Word is not denied,
And God’s Word is clear and loud, God will humble all the proud.
Men may believe that they are wise; but that is only in their eyes.
For all of pride, my dear friend, by The Lord shall be condemned.

Men who are humble and meek, by proud men considered weak,
By The Lord are never despised, but truly favored in God’s eyes.
The Lord will exalt humble men; for this is in His Word my friend,
They will be lifted up by The Lord, as by God they’re not ignored.

On the cross there was no pride, as Jesus Christ our Savior died.
Christ had displayed for us humility, as The Savior of all humanity.
The Eternal God, far from weak, was to all men humble and meek.
God’s example is for all to behold, and His Word will not grow old.

Friend pride can be a hindrance, to the life Christ has given to us,
Pride will never be used by God, but it shall be judged by His rod.
Allow Christ’s humble spirit within, then you shall be used by Him,
As only a meek and humble life, truly displays the power of Christ.

(Copyright ©05/2006)

poem by Bob Gotti
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Adam: A Sacred Drama. Act 1.

CHORUS OF ANGELS, Singing the Glory of God.

To Heaven's bright lyre let Iris be the bow,
Adapt the spheres for chords, for notes the stars;
Let new-born gales discriminate the bars,
Nor let old Time to measure times be slow.
Hence to new Music of the eternal Lyre
Add richer harmony and praise to praise;
For him who now his wondrous might displays,
And shows the Universe its awful Sire.
O Thou who ere the World or Heaven was made,
Didst in thyself, that World, that Heaven enjoy,
How does thy bounty all its powers employ;
What inexpressive good hast thou displayed!
O Thou of sovereign love almighty source,
Who knowest to make thy works thy love express,
Let pure devotion's fire the soul possess,
And give the heart and hand a kindred force.
Then shalt thou hear how, when the world began,
Thy life-producing voice gave myriads birth,
Called forth from nothing all in Heaven and Earth
Blessed in thy light Eagles in the Sun.

ACT I.
Scene I. -- God The Father. -- Chorus of Angels.

Raise from this dark abyss thy horrid visage,
O Lucifer! aggrieved by light so potent,
Shrink from the blaze of these refulgent planets
And pant beneath the rays of no fierce sun;
Read in the sacred volumes of the sky,
The mighty wonders of a hand divine.
Behold, thou frantic rebel,
How easy is the task,
To the great Sire of Worlds,
To raise his his empyrean seat sublime:
Lifting humility
Thither whence pride hath fallen.
From thence with bitter grief,
Inhabitant of fire, and mole of darkness,
Let the perverse behold,
Despairing his escape and my compassion,
His own perdition in another's good,
And Heaven now closed to him, to others opened;
And sighing from the bottom of his heart,
Let him in homage to my power exclaim,
Ah, this creative Sire,
(Wretch as I am) I see,
Hath need of nothing but himself alone
To re-establish all.

[...] Read more

poem by William Cowper
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Above All

Above all kingdoms
Above all thrones
Above all wonders
The world has ever known
Above all wealth
And treasures of the earth
There's no way to measure
What You're worth.
Above all powers
Above all kings
Above all nature
And all created things
Above all wisdom
And all the ways of man
You were here
Before the world began.
Crucified
Laid behind the stone
You lived to die
Rejected and alone
Like a rose
Trampled on the ground
You took the fall
And thought of me
Above all.
Crucified
Laid behind the stone
You lived to die
Rejected and alone
Like a rose
Trampled on the ground
You took the fall
And thought of me
Above all.
Crucified
Laid behind the stone
You lived to die
Rejected and alone
Like a rose
Trampled on the ground
You took the fall
And thought of me
Above all.
Like the rose
Trampled on the ground
You took the fall
And thought of me
Above all.

song performed by Randy Travis
Added by Lucian Velea
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Rosalind and Helen: a Modern Eclogue

ROSALIND, HELEN, and her Child.

SCENE. The Shore of the Lake of Como.

HELEN
Come hither, my sweet Rosalind.
'T is long since thou and I have met;
And yet methinks it were unkind
Those moments to forget.
Come, sit by me. I see thee stand
By this lone lake, in this far land,
Thy loose hair in the light wind flying,
Thy sweet voice to each tone of even
United, and thine eyes replying
To the hues of yon fair heaven.
Come, gentle friend! wilt sit by me?
And be as thou wert wont to be
Ere we were disunited?
None doth behold us now; the power
That led us forth at this lone hour
Will be but ill requited
If thou depart in scorn. Oh, come,
And talk of our abandoned home!
Remember, this is Italy,
And we are exiles. Talk with me
Of that our land, whose wilds and floods,
Barren and dark although they be,
Were dearer than these chestnut woods;
Those heathy paths, that inland stream,
And the blue mountains, shapes which seem
Like wrecks of childhood's sunny dream;
Which that we have abandoned now,
Weighs on the heart like that remorse
Which altered friendship leaves. I seek
No more our youthful intercourse.
That cannot be! Rosalind, speak,
Speak to me! Leave me not! When morn did come,
When evening fell upon our common home,
When for one hour we parted,--do not frown;
I would not chide thee, though thy faith is broken;
But turn to me. Oh! by this cherished token
Of woven hair, which thou wilt not disown,
Turn, as 't were but the memory of me,
And not my scornèd self who prayed to thee!

ROSALIND
Is it a dream, or do I see
And hear frail Helen? I would flee
Thy tainting touch; but former years
Arise, and bring forbidden tears;

[...] Read more

poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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The Field of Waterloo

I.
Fair Brussels, thou art far behind,
Though, lingering on the morning wind,
We yet may hear the hour
Pealed over orchard and canal,
With voice prolonged and measured fall,
From proud St. Michael's tower;
Thy wood, dark Soignies, holds us now,
Where the tall beeches' glossy bough
For many a league around,
With birch and darksome oak between,
Spreads deep and far a pathless screen,
Of tangled forest ground.
Stems planted close by stems defy
The adventurous foot-the curious eye
For access seeks in vain;
And the brown tapestry of leaves,
Strewed on the blighted ground, receives
Nor sun, nor air, nor rain.
No opening glade dawns on our way,
No streamlet, glancing to the ray,
Our woodland path has crossed;
And the straight causeway which we tread
Prolongs a line of dull arcade,
Unvarying through the unvaried shade
Until in distance lost.

II.
A brighter, livelier scene succeeds;
In groups the scattering wood recedes,
Hedge-rows, and huts, and sunny meads,
And corn-fields glance between;
The peasant, at his labour blithe,
Plies the hooked staff and shortened scythe:-
But when these ears were green,
Placed close within destruction's scope,
Full little was that rustic's hope
Their ripening to have seen!
And, lo, a hamlet and its fane:-
Let not the gazer with disdain
Their architecture view;
For yonder rude ungraceful shrine,
And disproportioned spire, are thine,
Immortal WATERLOO!

III.
Fear not the heat, though full and high
The sun has scorched the autumn sky,
And scarce a forest straggler now
To shade us spreads a greenwood bough;

[...] Read more

poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Get Out

(olivia newton-john/randy goodrum)
Someones in the kitchen
Trying to cook me up some trouble
Someones in the kitchen
Trying to stir me up inside
Hes been itching to try and burst my bubble
All this friction is killing my appetite
Get out--if you cant take it
Get out--if you cant take the heat
Throw your dirty looks out with the garbage
Humble pie is one thing I wont eat
Just because youre laid off at the office
Just because its now all up to me
Youre forgetting all the things you promised
Its the age of equal opportunity
Get out--if you cant take it
Get out--if you cant take the heat
Throw your dirty looks out with the garbage
Humble pie is one thing I wont eat
Oh--the kids are fine
We should use this time
To make some plans
Oh--i know it hurts
With our roles reversed
But darling youll be a better man
Yes I know its hard to do the laundry
Yes I know its hard to mind the kids
It doesnt matter who does what, were family
Im just working to keep us off the skids
Get out--if you cant take it
Get out--if you cant take the heat
Throw your dirty looks out with the garbage
Humble pie is one thing I wont eat
Get out--if you cant take it
Get out--if you cant take the heat
Throw your dirty looks out with the garbage
Humble pie is one thing I wont eat
Humble pie is one thing I wont eat
Humble pie is one thing I wont eat... no

song performed by Olivia Newton-John
Added by Lucian Velea
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Tale XII

'SQUIRE THOMAS; OR THE PRECIPITATE CHOICE.

'Squire Thomas flatter'd long a wealthy Aunt,
Who left him all that she could give or grant;
Ten years he tried, with all his craft and skill,
To fix the sovereign lady's varying will;
Ten years enduring at her board to sit,
He meekly listen'd to her tales and wit:
He took the meanest office man can take,
And his aunt's vices for her money's sake:
By many a threat'ning hint she waked his fear,
And he was pain'd to see a rival near:
Yet all the taunts of her contemptuous pride
He bore, nor found his grov'ling spirit tried:
Nay, when she wish'd his parents to traduce,
Fawning he smiled, and justice call'd th' abuse:
'They taught you nothing: are you not at best,'
Said the proud Dame, 'a trifler, and a jest?
Confess you are a fool!'--he bow'd and he

confess'd.
This vex'd him much, but could not always last:
The dame is buried, and the trial past.
There was a female, who had courted long
Her cousin's gifts, and deeply felt the wrong;
By a vain boy forbidden to attend
The private councils of her wealthy friend,
She vow'd revenge, nor should that crafty boy
In triumph undisturb'd his spoils enjoy:
He heard, he smiled, and when the Will was read,
Kindly dismiss'd the Kindred of the dead;
'The dear deceased' he call'd her, and the crowd
Moved off with curses deep and threat'nings loud.
The youth retired, and, with a mind at ease,
Found he was rich, and fancied he must please:
He might have pleased, and to his comfort found
The wife he wish'd, if he had sought around,
For there were lasses of his own degree,
With no more hatred to the state than he;
But he had courted spleen and age so long,
His heart refused to woo the fair and young;
So long attended on caprice and whim,
He thought attention now was due to him;
And as his flattery pleased the wealthy Dame,
Heir to the wealth, he might the flattery claim:
But this the fair, with one accord, denied,
Nor waived for man's caprice the sex's pride.
There is a season when to them is due
Worship and awe, and they will claim it too:
'Fathers,' they cry, 'long hold us in their chain,

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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Tophat, Cape and Evening Gloves

Please keep me humble.
Don't let me stumble on my arrogance.
Don't let my ego leave fumes of stench!
Please keep me humble.
And when I have risen to heights,
To pay much more than my rent.
Help me remember,
My talents have been to me God sent.
And He can remove all of my pretensions.
Especially those I flaunt...
Seeking attention I necessarily do not want!
Please keep me humble.
At least...
Until I have arrived to see the eyes of Oprah!
And only then will I pretend not to know you!
But as for now...
Keep me humble,
With my feet planted on the ground.

'I hope you are kidding? '

Me?
Of course.
Now toss me my tophat,
Cape and evening gloves.
I feel like taking a stroll,
Around the neighborhood!
Leaving those a glimpse...
And a taste of what's to come.

'And you believe that is being humble? '

Of course not!
I said 'Please keep me humble.'
Do you think I have any intentions,
To stay that way?
If I have to fall from a climb...
I am going to make sure I leave visuals!
I know what I want.
But I also know folks love to be entertained!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Gettysburg

Though the winds be strong that lash along the steeds of the charging sea,
With lunge and urge of assaulting surge yet seeking a further goal,
God in His pleasure hath set a measure, the bound of their boast to be,
Where, pile upon pile, and mile on mile, are the cliffs of calm control.
But the Lord of Hosts who guardeth the coasts yet loveth each sieging swell,
And He who is Brother to surge and smother is Brother to cliff as well:
He giveth the word if the shore be stirred, He biddeth the sea subside,
And this is our trust, that His will is just, however He turn the tide!

As night went gray at the touch of day and the slow dawn mounted higher,
On the Federal right the third day’s fight was born in a sheet of fire:
Gun upon gun to the front was run, and each in its turn spoke forth
From fevered mouth to the waiting South the word of the watching North:
And the wraith of Death with withering breath o’er the wide arena played,
As across the large swept on the charge of the old Stonewall brigade;
But the first great wave on a sudden gave, retreating across the slain—
Gave and broke, as the rifles spoke from the long blue line of Kane!

Then silence sank on the double rank deployed on the sullen hill,
And, across the plain of the early slain, the hosts of the South were still,
Waiting, each, till further speech from the guns should dart and din—
Sign to the brave that the final wave of the tide was rolling in.
Adown the line like a draught of wine the presence of Hancock came,
And eyes grew bright in the steadfast light of his own that blazed to flame;
For the Federals knew, where his banner blew—and they saw their leader ride,
That a righteous God on that sea of sod had decreed a turn of tide!

So came one, when a signal gun awoke on the Southern side,
And Hunt’s brigade with a cannonade to the challenge of Lee replied,
Like arrows sent from a bow well bent to the heart of a distant targe,
Virginia’s hope rode down the slope, with Pickett leading the charge!
Steady and slow, as soldiers go in some serried dress parade,
With flags a-dance in their cool advance came the gallant gray brigade,
And steady and slow, as if no foe on the frowning heights abode,
To the cannon’s breath, to the scythe of Death, Pickett, their leader, rode.

God! what a mile he led them! From the slope they sought to scale,
Sullen and hot, the swingeing shot was hurling its awful hail:
Where a long ravine ploughed through the green they halted, anew to form,
And then, with a cheer, to the ridge’s sheer they swept like a summer storm.
Hand to hand at the guns they manned, the Federals fought and fell,
Where Armistead his regiment led up the cannister-harrowed swell,
He touched a gun—for a breath he won the crest of the Union’s pride—
Then over the hill Jehovah’s will decreed the turn of the tide!

Taken in flank each gallant rank of Pickett’s battalions gave,
Trampled and tossed, since hope was lost, there was left but life to save;
Beaten back on the travelled track, they faltered, and broke, and fled,
And, swinging his scythe, Death claimed his tithe in the pale and patient dead!
For the arm of the Lord had raised the sword that man may not gainsay,

[...] Read more

poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1898)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Witch of Hebron

A Rabbinical Legend

Part I.
From morn until the setting of the sun
The rabbi Joseph on his knees had prayed,
And, as he rose with spirit meek and strong,
An Indian page his presence sought, and bowed
Before him, saying that a lady lay
Sick unto death, tormented grievously,
Who begged the comfort of his holy prayers.
The rabbi, ever to the call of grief
Open as day, arose; and girding straight
His robe about him, with the page went forth;
Who swiftly led him deep into the woods
That hung, heap over heap, like broken clouds
On Hebron’s southern terraces; when lo!
Across a glade a stately pile he saw,
With gleaming front, and many-pillared porch
Fretted with sculptured vinage, flowers and fruit,
And carven figures wrought with wondrous art
As by some Phidian hand.

But interposed
For a wide space in front, and belting all
The splendid structure with a finer grace,
A glowing garden smiled; its breezes bore
Airs as from paradise, so rich the scent
That breathed from shrubs and flowers; and fair the growths
Of higher verdure, gemm’d with silver blooms,
Which glassed themselves in fountains gleaming light
Each like a shield of pearl.

Within the halls
Strange splendour met the rabbi’s careless eyes,
Halls wonderful in their magnificance,
With pictured walls, and columns gleaming white
Like Carmel’s snow, or blue-veined as with life;
Through corridors he passed with tissues hung
Inwrought with threaded gold by Sidon’s art,
Or rich as sunset clouds with Tyrian dye;
Past lofty chambers, where the gorgeous gleam
Of jewels, and the stainèd radiance

Of golden lamps, showed many a treasure rare
Of Indian and Armenian workmanship
Which might have seemed a wonder of the world:
And trains of servitors of every clime,
Greeks, Persians, Indians, Ethiopians,
In richest raiment thronged the spacious halls.

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Harpur
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A Matter Of Privacy

Ben Bowyang spluttered with rage suppressed, 'Hi, there!' And his brow was black,
As two by two and three by three the tourists left the track,
Climbing the fence to his 'tater' patch, and down thro' his orchard land,
Flannelled or fashioned in strides and shorts - a saucy suburban band -
Giggling gambolling into his yard calling inane 'Cooees'
While Bowyang frothed at the mouth and fumed. But his voice was a futile wheeze,
And, heading the horde, in a blazer bright, monarch of all he surveyed,
Strode little Fitzmickle, the martinet, a Don in the drapery trade.

'You've trampled me taters,' Bowyang roared. 'Pinched bloom from me orchard bough!
You've pelted me poddies an' dished me fence! Look at that nettin' now!
Ain't you no respeck for a privit home, you towerist coots from town?'
But Mr Fitzmickle, he turned on his heel with a very superior frown.
'Come, ladies,' he said, 'come, gentlemen. Unmannerly rustic brute!
My card, with name and address, my man, if you wish to prosecute.'
Then back they trampled thro' the 'tater' patch, back o'er the orchard land,
While Bowyang gaped like a stranded fish, with the pasteboard cluthed in his hand.

Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet, sat in his smug retreat -
A very respectable villa set in a very respectable street.
For Mr Fitzmickle found harbor here when the contry boors came down
To dawdle about for their Show-week spree and clutter the streets in town.
Then in to him rushed his terrified wife, eyes wide, and breathing hard.
'Come quick!' she gasped. 'There's a mob of roughs gone crazy in our back yard!
They've trampled herbaceous borders down, they've kicked the canary's cage -'
'Enough!' cried Fitzmickle, all pink with wrath; and his rage was a ratepayer's rage.

Poker in hand, he rushed without; but paused by the scullery door
For there, on his seedlings, trodden and tossed, stood one whom he'd seen before.
And, gathered about in the burgeoning beds, were strangely silent men;
Till one with a beard spoke up and said, 'Explain to the gentleman, Ben.'
Ben Bowyang smiled, and his voice was bland as he said, 'Aw, well; we're 'ere
Jist sorta returnin' yer social call as you made on us last year.
My card!' And he bounced a clod from the face of the proud Fitzmicklian cat
But Mr Fitzmickle oblivious lay. He was having a fit on the mat.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Peterloo Massacre

The people marched to St. Peter's Field
On a fair and a sunny day,
They'd gone to listen to Henry Hunt
A radical, in his way,
For Manchester was a ruin then,
The people could beg or starve,
For the looms were sitting in silence there
With the wages more than halved.

The government passed the Corn Laws
To protect the growers at home,
But the British corn was inferior,
And the price quite overblown,
The people, faced with a famine sought
To reform the parliament,
A million folk in Manchester,
With just two to represent.

And only a hundred and fifty were
Electors, here I quote,
Not like the rotten boroughs that
Survived on a single vote,
The people marched on St. Peter's Field
While the government sent Hussars,
Fearing the spread of dissidence,
After Napoleon's wars.

The police were there and the yeomanry
As they came from near and far,
And William Hulton, magistrate,
The head of the Northern Bar,
His name was writ on a plaque of blood
In the nether depths of hell,
When he signed the letters to start the charge
On a people that just meant well.

There was no honour or glory there
But a cry of endless shame,
When Lieutenant Colonel Guy L'Estrange
Blackened his soldiers name,
For the horses trampled the people
And the sabres flashed in the air,
While many a woman was trampled to death
By the horses hooves out there.

Margaret Downes was sabred, Mary
Heys was trampled and crushed,
William Bradshaw shot in the head,
They died, it was so unjust,
Martha Partington died on the spot,

[...] Read more

poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Fields Of Flanders

Last year the fields were all glad and gay
With silver daisies and silver may;
There were kingcups gold by the river's edge
And primrose stars under every hedge.

This year the fields are trampled and brown,
The hedges are broken and beaten down,
And where the primroses used to grow
Are little black crosses set in a row.

And the flower of hopes, and the flowers of dreams,
The noble, fruitful, beautiful schemes,
The tree of life with its fruit and bud,
Are trampled down in the mud and the blood.

The changing seasons will bring again
The magic of Spring to our wood and plain;
Though the Spring be so green as never was seen
The crosses will still be black in the green.

The God of battles shall judge the foe
Who trampled our country and laid her low. . . .
God! hold our hands on the reckoning day,
Lest all we owe them we should repay

poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Troubadour. Canto 2

THE first, the very first; oh! none
Can feel again as they have done;
In love, in war, in pride, in all
The planets of life's coronal,
However beautiful or bright,--
What can be like their first sweet light?

When will the youth feel as he felt,
When first at beauty's feet he knelt?

As if her least smile could confer
A kingdom on its worshipper;
Or ever care, or ever fear
Had cross'd love's morning hemisphere.
And the young bard, the first time praise
Sheds its spring sunlight o'er his lays,
Though loftier laurel, higher name,
May crown the minstrel's noontide fame,
They will not bring the deep content
Of his lure's first encouragement.
And where the glory that will yield
The flush and glow of his first field
To the young chief? Will RAYMOND ever
Feel as he now is feeling?--Never.

The sun wept down or ere they gain'd
The glen where the chief band remain'd.

It was a lone and secret shade,
As nature form'd an ambuscade
For the bird's nest and the deer's lair,
Though now less quiet guests were there.
On one side like a fortress stood
A mingled pine and chesnut wood;
Autumn was falling, but the pine
Seem'd as it mock'd all change; no sign
Of season on its leaf was seen,
The same dark gloom of changeless green.
But like the gorgeous Persian bands
'Mid the stern race of northern lands,
The chesnut boughs were bright with all
That gilds and mocks the autumn's fall.

Like stragglers from an army's rear
Gradual they grew, near and less near,
Till ample space was left to raise,
Amid the trees, the watch-fire's blaze;
And there, wrapt in their cloaks around,
The soldiers scatter'd o'er the ground.

[...] Read more

poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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Humble Daisy

Humble daisy
Form a chain to hold all battleships in check
Humble daisy
Knit a ladder down to natures sunken wreck
Ragged rug unbound
Tangle trip the lovers
Royal barge aground
Brighter than all of the others on the window sill
Ill sing about you if nobody else will
Humble daisy
Cast the milk and coins of mornings cash about
Humble daisy
I fell down to heaven as you picked me out
Well look up together
Browsing through some old sky
Sipping in the weather
Youve got me dizzy, the fly that climbed the sugar hill
Ill lay upon you till somebody else will
Humble daisy
Well look up together

song performed by Xtc
Added by Lucian Velea
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Humble Daisy

Humble daisy
Form a chain to hold all battleships in check
Humble daisy
Knit a ladder down to natures sunken wreck
Ragged rug unbound
Tangle trip the lovers
Royal barge aground
Brighter than all of the others on the window sill
Ill sing about you if nobody else will
Humble daisy
Cast the milk and coins of mornings cash about
Humble daisy
I fell down to heaven as you picked me out
Well look up together
Browsing through some old sky
Sipping in the weather
Youve got me dizzy, the fly that climbed the sugar hill
Ill lay upon you till somebody else will
Humble daisy
Well look up together

song performed by Xtc
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!