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I like the aesthetics of the Church.

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Mary of the Church

Mary of the church
The only human I believe
In is you
At both end is my faith
Like almighty God the creator
You never lied
And did I sin against you?
Only then like the prodigal son
Of the holy book
I will come to you
And say: My dear Mary of the church: I have sinned
Please forgive and
Take me back into your arm
For in you I Find
My fortitude.

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At The Church Mass....

there they go again
(i within)
hearing mass in
the church,

it is Saturday
evening,

it is a show of
music and poetry
of song and
choreography

uniformed ladies and
gentlemen
white and gray and
carrying candle lights
for accent

i like this show
as i perspire a lot
in this multitude

what i do not like
is this
what do i understand
by all these
mixes?

i sit on one of those
chairs
thinking about
nothing.

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I did go to the church today

I did go to the church today
and the minister
and elders and deacons
were there
and even young guys and girls
and older people too
and it felt like a huge gathering
and I was told to pray.

My voice was too unmelodic
to sing a song,
and I was afraid to pray
and did not really
know the right words to say.

Yet the words came
and flowed fluent and strong
and that prayer was great
and the people felt blessed,
but did the Lord
hear a word that I said?

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The Church bell tolls beyond the Colliery

The colour is black when he comes home
But he is not a Negro who sweats in a coal mine.
His fiancée is a Negress who grinds to a flour milling factory
Walks home like an Englishwoman floury.
They live together under a one roof and breathe the same colourless air.
The destiny is little fair to them so far and she delivered twins a (Christmas) par with a black girl and a white boy.
Oh! A Christmas for them it’s really it seems.
He goes alone in the midnight Mass
And she heard beyond the colliery the church bell tolls.
The infants were baptized as Jesus and Mary
And it’s a once upon a time story.

* A Christmas gift to all my poet friends.

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The Church-Bell

As I was lying in my bed
I heard the church-bell ring;
Before one solemn word was said
A bird began to sing.

I heard a dog begin to bark
And a bold crowing cock;
The bell, between the cold and dark,
Tolled. It was five o'clock.

The church-bell tolled, and the bird sang,
A clear true voice he had;
The cock crew, and the church-bell rang,
I knew it had gone mad.

A hand reached down from the dark skies,
It took the bell-rope thong,
The bell cried "Look! Lift up your eyes!"
The clapper shook to song.

The iron clapper laughed aloud,
Like clashing wind and wave;
The bell cried out "Be strong and proud!"
Then, with a shout, "Be brave!"

The rumbling of the market-carts,
The pounding of men's feet
Were drowned in song; "Lift up your hearts!"
The song was loud and sweet.

Slow and slow the great bell swung,
It hung in the steeple mute;
And people tore its living tongue
Out by the very root.

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The Church-Porches

I
(To M.F.R.)
SISTER, first shake we off the dust we have
Upon our feet, lest it defile the stones
Inscriptured, covering their sacred bones
Who lie i' the aisles which keep the names they gave,
Their trust abiding round them in the grave;
Whom painters paint for visible orisons,
And to whom sculptors pray in stone and bronze;
Their voices echo still like a spent wave.
Without here, the church-bells are but a tune,
And on the carven church-door this hot noon
Lays all its heavy sunshine here without:
But having entered in, we shall find there
Silence, and sudden dimness, and deep prayer,
And faces of crowned angels all about.
II
(To C.G.R.)

SISTER, arise: We have no more to sing
Or say. The priest abideth as is meet
To minister. Rise up out of thy seat,
Though peradventure 'tis an irksome thing
To cross again the threshold of our King
Where His doors stand against the evil street,
And let each step increase upon our feet
The dust we shook from them at entering.
Must we of very sooth go home? The air,
Whose heat outside makes mist that can be seen,
Is very clear and cool where we have been.
The priest abideth ministering. Lo!
As he for service, why not we for prayer?
It is so bidden, sister, let us go.

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Thomas Hardy

The Church-Builder

The church flings forth a battled shade
Over the moon-blanched sward:
The church; my gift; whereto I paid
My all in hand and hoard;
Lavished my gains
With stintless pains
To glorify the Lord.

I squared the broad foundations in
Of ashlared masonry;
I moulded mullions thick and thin,
Hewed fillet and ogee;
I circleted
Each sculptured head
With nimb and canopy.

I called in many a craftsmaster
To fix emblazoned glass,
To figure Cross and Sepulchure
On dossal, boss, and brass.
My gold all spent,
My jewels went
To gem the cups of Mass.

I borrowed deep to carve the screen
And raise the ivoried Rood;
I parted with my small demesne
To make my owings good.
Heir-looms unpriced
I sacrificed,
Until debt-free I stood.

So closed the task. "Deathless the Creed
Here substanced!" said my soul:
"I heard me bidden to this deed,
And straight obeyed the call.
Illume this fane,
That not in vain
I build it, Lord of all!"

But, as it chanced me, then and there
Did dire misfortunes burst;
My home went waste for lack of care,
My sons rebelled and curst;
Till I confessed
That aims the best
Were looking like the worst.

Enkindled by my votive work
No burnng faith I find;
The deeper thinkers sneer and smirk,
And give my toil no mind;
From nod and wink
I read they think
That I am fool and blind.

My gift to God seems futile, quite;
The world moves as erstwhile;
And powerful Wrong on feeble Right
Tramples in olden style.
My faith burns down,
I see no crown;
But Cares, and Griefs, and Guile.

So now, the remedy? Yea, this:
I gently swing the door
Here, of my fane--no soul to wis--
And cross the patterned floor
To the rood-screen
That stands between
The nave and inner chore.

The rich red windows dim the moon,
But little light need I;
I mount the prie-dieu, lately hewn
From woods of rarest dye;
Then from below
My garment, so,
I draw this cord, and tie

One end thereof around the beam
Midway 'twixt Cross and truss:
I noose the nethermost extreme,
And in ten seconds thus
I journey hence--
To that land whence
No rumour reaches us.

Well: Here at morn they'll light on one
Dangling in mockery
Of what he spent his substance on
Blindly and uselessly!...
"He might," they'll say,
"Have built, some way,
A cheaper gallows-tree!"

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The Church of Wenslow Haze

The sea that batters the eastern coast
Has often subdued the land,
Five hundred years have seen the retreat
Of a mile of cliffs and sand,
When tides are low in the summertime
From beneath the distant swell,
The villagers lying abed at night
Hear the tolling of a bell.

The bell resounds up the village street
And rattles the cobblestones,
As the villagers close the shutters tight
And lock the doors of their homes,
They hear the thump of a wooden stump
As it echoes along the street,
The wooden leg of the mate, John Clegg
From Drake's Armada Fleet!

The thump is steady and purposeful
As it heads towards the sea,
Where the bell still rings for matins
As in 1563,
When priests were burned for popery
In the England of those days,
They used the little singing cakes
In the Church of Wenslow Haze!

John Clegg was a surly protestant
In the service of the Queen,
So the use of the cakes for massing bread -
He thought it was quite obscene!
The vicar had leant to the Roman Church,
The Reverend Walter Raise,
And Clegg had stood and harangued him there
In the Church of Wenslow Haze.

‘You'll bring your Popish habits here
At the risk of mortal pain,
I fought for the Queen Elizabeth
To see off the King of Spain,
If you don't revert to the massing bread
And the Book of Common Prayer,
I'll see to the piling of faggots
When they burn you in the square! '

But Walter Raise would never be stayed
By the threats of an ignorant tar,
He said: ‘I only answer to God
For the what and the where we are!
The form is not as important as
The salving of the soul,
You'd better look to your own before
The Devil takes you all! '

But Clegg had waited for matins, he
Returned with a burning brand,
Set fire to the ancient tapestries
The pews and the altar stand,
He raised his cutlass and brought it down
On the Romish vicar's head,
And he cursed the Church of Wenslow Haze
As the vicar lay there, dead!

The sea rose up in a sudden storm
And it swept across the land,
Engulfed the Church of Wenslow Haze
As if raised by God's own hand,
The land had tilted beneath the sea
And the church, it settled deep,
With the bodies of Clegg and Walter Raise
And the bell-tower, and the keep!

So now when the tide repents and drops
To a fathom, over the bell,
The toll rings out from the surly deep
Like a call to the fiends from hell,
And a stump sounds over the cobblestones
As Clegg, for his soul's sake pays,
He carries a burning fire brand
To the Church of Wenslow Haze.

29 July,2012

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Patrick White

Looking For Silence Like The Other Wing

Looking for silence like the other wing
of what I've got to say, landscaping with meteors,
or the planet having a face lift, some of the words
have echoes and some of them proper names,
and a few still homesick for their prison cells,
I keep painting on the white noise of the world.
I keep writing like a wolf in the fleece
of a shepherd moon with a secret life of water.
Scofflaw, a poet, driven into the wilderness
to listen to the voices of disembodied messiahs,
kings of the waxing year, flesh stripped from their bones
like desert shipwrecks waiting for
the providential tide of their tears to return.
God particles that got in their eyes like sand.
I hear them gnawing on their bones like calendars at night.

And I've said it in a flash of demonic indifference
trying to pretend they were listening immaculately
and I was compassionate, as soon as you give
your fulsome assent to a few simple things
you turn into a test of what you refuse to let go of,
as if you were always faith-wrestling with rattlesnakes
you establish a church of denial that will stone you to death.
You save your soul but you render your flesh expendable.
This for That. Betelgeuse for Aldebaran.
How to read a starmap like the Wall Street Journal.
The optical illusion of a bifurcated consciousness,
loss and gain, but the viper can swim across quicksand
as if it were all one wavelength, the Egyptian glyph
for intelligence that hasn't been wounded by the heart
and spiritually materialized into a path to follow.

Do as the wind does with your mind and eyes. Let go.
Blow the stars off your windowsills, treat all holy books
as if they were trees and let go of their leaves in the fall.
There's always a few jewels of insight in a gossip column
but most of it's rut, rant, and judgement, dream gossip
and slaughter, history with an expiry date.
There's always going to be some demi-god somewhere
asking you for your fingerprints like a paranoid magician.
Kick the skulls off your stairs like last Halloween's pumpkins
and start acting like you're in the world and of it.
Break the neck of the hourglass of heaven and hell
and let time pour out of your cells like exorcised mirages.

Illusions are like rats and seagulls and insects. They thrive.
No more than the night, is life a reward. Water
doesn't live its whole life fearing the indelible
like a wavelength of its own immutable mindstream.
There's no big sky blueprint behind why you're alive.
No circus tent covers your foolishness.
And you're not here to answer for everything else.

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Patrick White

I Like The Feel

I like the feel of the new heels on my cowboy boots.
I like the feel of breathing in joy like oxygen,
of moving from one small joy to another
without pomp or pageantry
like the constellation of a black swan
on a midnight mindstream
drifting through the small torches of the stars
that won't go out in any kind of water.

And I don't know why I'm wounded
deeper than tears by joy
whenever I witness any undoubted example
of human excellence
and penumbrally share in the triumph
remembering how truly astonishing
a human being can be
when compassion and insight
are the fruit and roots of the tree.

So much in the world I abhor,
horrors and sorrows and atrocities
that violate the elemental dignity of life
as it expresses itself in a human so deeply
even the silence cuts out its tongue
as an offence against
the unspeakable decency of the darkest abyss
when it stands before evil.

Like a golden fish in a polluted stream
slurried by a nuclear reactor
into a cancerous elixir
I have ingested every toxic meme
of a sick society in a feverish dream
and I cannot help but think and feel and live
whatever's written on the water
to soil the stars
that thought they were out of reach
and make manic depressives
of the waves that spoil the beach.

A child of my times, the Zeitgeist, the Holy Ghost,
and the jinn at every well
like the forbidden fires of holy explosives
wrapped in folds of smoke,
I see through the glass darkly
like everyone else
who paints the eye of their telescope
with the shepherd moons
of despair and hope
and reports their observations as the truth
to whomever might be listening.

I can humble the night with my darkness
when the light goes out
and I have fought for years
with the child that I am
not to feel guilty or vulnerable
whenever I was taken unawares
by some happiness
that spilled over the rim of the black hole
that indelibly kept my cup full.

Now I rejoice in the emptiness of things
as useless as rocks and people
and feel a great tenderness for anyone
who needs to feel anything more.

I like the way your gate is hanging by a hinge.
I like the dead bee on the pyre
of the late-blooming fire
that consumes it like a last kiss.
I like the way my portrait's turned toward the wall
like a delinquent outside the principal's office
listening for footsteps down the long, empty hall.

Lightning in the lighthouse
or fireflies on the moon
I like the way my Zippo snaps shut
like the beak of a turtle at the feather of the flame
it rose like an ancient moon from the muddy depths
to pull under.

I find joy in the slightest,
in the cast away and the spurned,
in the tiny birds that have learned
to glean the dragonflies
off the car radiators
and the way people like to be found
like hubcaps at the side of the road
holding up a mirror to the beauty
of the wild irises
like a new logo
they hope will catch on.

When you haven't been saved from anything
there isn't much left to save you from
or any point in trying
to save the ashes from the fire
after everything's gone up in smoke
so why ox yourself
to the unbearable yoke of a cross
trying to grind bread out of starwheat
when the children you labour to save like seed
have already died for the night
with nothing to eat?

Who needs to turn themselves into a broom
when they've drunk their mirages dry
to sweep the deserts off the stairs
of an afterlife in an empty asylum
that talks to itself like the moon?

I don't care what kind of bars
silver, gold, iron or bone,
spiritual or corruptly marrowed
by the tainted terrestrial
you want to put on the window
to keep the stars out like thieves at the gate,
I'm already in.
And you're way too late.

I like to live my life
as if I were getting away with something.
I like being weeded out like a key
to a door that time forgot to close
like the coffin lid of the nightwatchman
who kept an eye on things like a flashlight
looking for his flashlight,
his mind for his mind.

I like being less and less of me
like a rogue sunset that sheds its roses
like a watercolour of its eyes in the void
to see more clearly into the emptiness
there's nothing to be in this nothingness
that isn't a last lifeboat without oars
and no one in it to rescue
jumping ship in a turbulent dream.

Illusory cures for illusory diseases.
And once you're restored to clarity
does it really matter
what the medicine means?

I like the tear in my wounded blue jeans.
I like the autumn dyes that set your hair on fire
like the Gatineau Hills
risking everything
as you squander your leaves like rain-cheques
in the overly salubrious poker-faced casinos of Quebec.
I like the day I was let out of school
with eternity for a recess.

Why spend your life
panning your own mindstream
for the fool's gold of the iron pyrite rule:
Do unto others before they do unto you,
when you know as well as Wall Street
things aren't what they seem?

Look how an apple tree lives.
It gives. And it thrives
by just expressing itself
like a bouquet in the hand of a bride
that walks like a bridge to the altar
and marries herself in her own eyes
to the earth she's rooted in
holding her green arms up
to the orchards of the Hesperides
that blossom among the stars
like holy ancestors.

I like the way the comets stray
like hair across her face
and the way she twists her mouth
like driftwood in the sun
to blow them away.
And I like the blaze
of the supernovae of enlightenment
who give it all back to the night
like a blood transfusion,
a hemorrhage of light,
and even more,
these small illuminations
that arrive through the night and day
like anonymous stars and flowers
beside a death bed in a private room
where only the dying know what to say.

Stars above the mountain.
Flowers in the valley.
I like the way the moon's punked out in the alley
between the church and the funeral home.
I like the way I refuse to assume I know where I'm going
like a newly-hatched garden snake in the spring
or a stream setting out on its own
with nothing for a creekbed
but its own flowing
and how I always catch myself like a fish
rising to the hook and allure of a new direction
as if that were the truth north of not having one.

But let the goldfish nibble at the moon as they will
and swim through the tops of the trees
even as these fire-birds are flying through my roots.
I like the feel of the new heels on my cowboy boots.
I like playing the fool with my own molecules
as if I were madder than plutonium
at having to break my balls like a kick in the nuts
with my own pool cue
everytime I give the game away
hoping somehow that will make me
as sane as lead in the table of things.

I see hell. I live in hell. I breathe hell.
And this pillar of I enshrines and embodies it
like the corpse of a murdered river
flowing through darkness
without any recourse or redemption
for its suffering.

No elixir. No grail. No lapis philosophorum.
No celestial gold to climb the ladders of fire
out of the dungeons of hydrogen
or missing link that breaks the chains
of the slaves in the hold
that labour in vain to endure.

Life isn't fair or unfair.
Pure or compounded.
Civilized or savage.
Eternal or brief.
Loving or hateful
nor all of these together.
The sky isn't just
the daily news of the weather
and the sea isn't just
the tragic rage of co-conspirators
doing their worst to fall on their own swords
as if they could be turned
like waves against one another
and though it is immaculately kind of us to say so
the earth really isn't our mother
if you go back far enough.

The earth is more of a nurse these days
trying to suckle
a hydra-headed wound
in a nightshift emergency ward
at the full moon
with plastic udders of blood
hanging from a cruclfix on wheels.

For every demon that jumps from heaven
an angel rises from hell
and I like the way
I'm learning to fall toward paradise
without a parachute
like a one-winged samara trying to angel on
with these seeds of loaded dice
riding the luck of the wind
like a wounded albatross
looking for new ground
at the foot of an empty cross.
As much has been gained as was lost.

I like the way time weaves the manes
of the sheepish dandelions
into the emergency ghosts
of a thousand scattered parachutes.
I like the way every conclusion about life
rights itself with its opposite
like a compass or a keel
and there are addictions
so intensely beyond the obvious dark mirrors
and shared needles of true north
trying to snort the stars
to light up the room like a legend
on a neon movie marquee,
unschooled states of mind
so powerfully clear and whole
your being is shot up like a tree in the lightning
that God wants to use for a voice-box
so that the tree is known by its fruits,
the taste of its words,
the joy of its birds,
the blossom of the moon on the dead branch
the butterfly on the green
like the whole notes and stops on the flute
of a snake-charmer
collaborating with the muse of a cobra
on a new song
two minutes long with a hook.

I like the way life goes on in the dark
beyond the painted eyelids of the billboards
running for re-election as a theme park
to improve the fibre-optics of their umbilical cords.

Even as the truth turns out
to be more of a lock than a key
that can be turned in your mouth like a word
to set you free of yourself
like a long thought-chain
that plugs the world into your navel;
and beauty is a pimped-out carnival
of surgical exaggerations and defects
that wear the look of lost luggage
under the sagging circus tents
that taxi down the runways of the rejects;
and the evil that is done in the world
cloaks the oceanic eye of awareness
with the cataract of an oilslick
that giftwraps everyone like water
in the same starless snake-skin
they tattoo their corporate logos on
like a new translation of the Rosetta Stone
in the demotic tongues
of the illiterate mobs of PsychoBabylon.

Even in this deepest eclipse of hell
that swallows us whole
like the eggs of the moon in a nest
and is running out of eyes to darken,
even here there are still small lighthouses of joy
that shine through the cracked skulls of these coasts
and haloes of fireflies
that still iris the eyes of the black holes
that are too deep for anyone to put down roots
or go witching for water with lightning
screwed into the eyesockets
of their spineless lightbulbs
playing peek-a-boo
in their see-through birthday suits.

Let evil offend or amend its own statutes.
I like the feel of the new heels on my cowboy boots.

PATRICK WHITE

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The Borough. Letter II: The Church

'WHAT is a Church?'--Let Truth and Reason speak,
They would reply, 'The faithful, pure, and meek;
From Christian folds, the one selected race,
Of all professions, and in every place.'
'What is a Church?'--'A flock,' our Vicar cries,
'Whom bishops govern and whom priests advise;
Wherein are various states and due degrees,
The Bench for honour, and the Stall for ease;
That ease be mine, which, after all his cares,
The pious, peaceful prebendary shares.'
'What is a Church?'--Our honest Sexton tells,
''Tis a tall building, with a tower and bells;
Where priest and clerk with joint exertion strive
To keep the ardour af their flock alive;
That, by its periods eloquent and grave;
This, by responses, and a well-set stave:
These for the living; but when life be fled,
I toll myself the requiem for the dead.'
'Tis to this Church I call thee, and that place
Where slept our fathers when they'd run their race:
We too shall rest, and then our children keep
Their road in life, and then, forgotten, sleep;
Meanwhile the building slowly falls away,
And, like the builders, will in time decay.
The old Foundation--but it is not clear
When it was laid--you care not for the year;
On this, as parts decayed by time and storms,
Arose these various disproportion'd forms;
Yet Gothic all--the learn'd who visit us
(And our small wonders) have decided thus:-
'Yon noble Gothic arch,' 'That Gothic door;'
So have they said; of proof you'll need no more.
Here large plain columns rise in solemn style,
You'd love the gloom they make in either aisle;
When the sun's rays, enfeebled as they pass
(And shorn of splendour) through the storied glass,
Faintly display the figures on the floor,
Which pleased distinctly in their place before.
But ere you enter, yon bold tower survey,
Tall and entire, and venerably gray,
For time has soften'd what was harsh when new,
And now the stains are all of sober hue;
The living stains which Nature's hand alone,
Profuse of life, pours forth upon the stone:
For ever growing; where the common eye
Can but the bare and rocky bed descry;
There Science loves to trace her tribes minute,
The juiceless foliage, and the tasteless fruit;
There she perceives them round the surface creep,
And while they meet their due distinction keep;
Mix'd but not blended; each its name retains,
And these are Nature's ever-during stains.
And wouldst thou, Artist! with thy tints and brush,
Form shades like these? Pretender, where thy blush?
In three short hours shall thy presuming hand
Th' effect of three slow centuries command?
Thou may'st thy various greens and grays contrive;
They are not Lichens, nor like ought alive;-
But yet proceed, and when thy tints are lost,
Fled in the shower, or crumbled by the frost;
When all thy work is done away as clean
As if thou never spread'st thy gray and green;
Then may'st thou see how Nature's work is done,
How slowly true she lays her colours on;
When her least speck upon the hardest flint
Has mark and form, and is a living tint;
And so embodied with the rock, that few
Can the small germ upon the substance view.
Seeds, to our eyes invisible, will find
On the rude rock the bed that fits their kind;
There, in the rugged soil, they safely dwell,
Till showers and snows the subtle atoms swell,
And spread th' enduring foliage;--then we trace
The freckled flower upon the flinty base;
These all increase, till in unnoticed years
The stony tower as gray with age appears;
With coats of vegetation, thinly spread,
Coat above coat, the living on the dead;
These then dissolve to dust, and make a way
For bolder foliage, nursed by their decay:
The long-enduring Ferns in time will all
Die and depose their dust upon the wall;
Where the wing'd seed may rest, till many a flower
Show Flora's triumph o'er the falling tower.
But ours yet stands, and has its Bells renown'd
For size magnificent and solemn sound;
Each has its motto: some contrived to tell,
In monkish rhyme, the uses of a bell;
Such wond'rous good, as few conceive could spring
From ten loud coppers when their clampers swing.
Enter'd the Church--we to a tomb proceed,
Whose names and titles few attempt to read;
Old English letters, and those half pick'd out,
Leave us, unskilful readers, much in doubt;
Our sons shall see its more degraded state;
The tomb of grandeur hastens to its fate;
That marble arch, our sexton's favourite show,
With all those ruff'd and painted pairs below;
The noble Lady and the Lord who rest
Supine, as courtly dame and warrior drest;
All are departed from their state sublime,
Mangled and wounded in their war with Time,
Colleagued with mischief: here a leg is fled,
And lo! the Baron with but half a head:
Midway is cleft the arch; the very base
Is batter'd round and shifted from its place.
Wonder not, Mortal, at thy quick decay -
See! men of marble piecemeal melt away;
When whose the image we no longer read,
But monuments themselves memorials need.
With few such stately proofs of grief or pride,
By wealth erected, is our Church supplied;
But we have mural tablets, every size,
That woe could wish, or vanity devise.
Death levels man--the wicked and the just,
The wise, the weak, lie blended in the dust;
And by the honours dealt to every name,
The King of Terrors seems to level fame.
- See! here lamented wives, and every wife
The pride and comfort of her husband's life;
Here, to her spouse, with every virtue graced,
His mournful widow has a trophy placed;
And here 'tis doubtful if the duteous son,
Or the good father, be in praise outdone.
This may be Nature: when our friends we lose,
Our alter'd feelings alter too our views;
What in their tempers teased us or distress'd,
Is, with our anger and the dead, at rest;
And much we grieve, no longer trial made,
For that impatience which we then display'd;
Now to their love and worth of every kind
A soft compunction turns th' afflicted mind;
Virtues neglected then, adored become,
And graces slighted, blossom on the tomb.
'Tis well; but let not love nor grief believe
That we assent (who neither loved nor grieve)
To all that praise which on the tomb is read,
To all that passion dictates for the dead;
But more indignant, we the tomb deride,
Whose bold inscription flattery sells to pride.
Read of this Burgess--on the stone appear
How worthy he! how virtuous! and how dear!
What wailing was there when his spirit fled,
How mourned his lady for her lord when dead,
And tears abundant through the town were shed;
See! he was liberal, kind, religious, wise,
And free from all disgrace and all disguise;
His sterling worth, which words cannot express,
Lives with his friends, their pride and their distress.
All this of Jacob Holmes? for his the name:
He thus kind, liberal, just, religious?--Shame!
What is the truth? Old Jacob married thrice;
He dealt in coals, and av'rice was his vice;
He ruled the Borough when his year came on,
And some forget, and some are glad he's gone;
For never yet with shilling could he part,
But when it left his hand it struck his heart.
Yet, here will Love its last attentions pay,
And place memorials on these beds of clay;
Large level stones lie flat upon the grave,
And half a century's sun and tempest brave;
But many an honest tear and heartfelt sigh
Have follow'd those who now unnoticed lie;
Of these what numbers rest on every side!
Without one token left by grief or pride;
Their graves soon levell'd to the earth, and then
Will other hillocks rise o'er other men;
Daily the dead on the decay'd are thrust,
And generations follow, 'dust to dust.'
Yes! there are real Mourners--I have seen
A fair, sad Girl, mild, suffering, and serene;
Attention (through the day) her duties claim'd,
And to be useful as resign'd she aim'd:
Neatly she dress'd, nor vainly seem'd t'expect
Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect;
But when her wearied parents sunk to sleep,
She sought her place to meditate and weep:
Then to her mind was all the past display'd,
That faithful Memory brings to Sorrow's aid;
For then she thought on one regretted Youth,
Her tender trust, and his unquestioned truth;
In ev'ry place she wander'd, where they'd been,
And sadly sacred held the parting scene;
Where last for sea he took his leave--that place
With double interest would she nightly trace;
For long the courtship was, and he would say,
Each time he sail'd,--'This once, and then the day:
Yet prudence tarried, but when last he went,
He drew from pitying love a full consent.
Happy he sail'd, and great the care she took
That he should softly sleep and smartly look;
White was his better linen, and his check
Was made more trim than any on the deck;
And every comfort men at sea can know
Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow?
For he to Greenland sail'd, and much she told
How he should guard against the climate's cold;
Yet saw not danger; dangers he'd withstood,
Nor could she trace the fever in his blood:
His messmates smiled at flushings in his cheek,
And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak;
For now he found the danger, felt the pain,
With grievous symptoms he could not explain;
Hope was awaken'd, as for home he sail'd,
But quickly sank, and never more prevail'd.
He call'd his friend, and prefaced with a sigh
A lover's message--'Thomas, I must die:
Would I could see my Sally, and could rest
My throbbing temples on her faithful breast,
And gazing go!--if not, this trifle take,
And say, till death I wore it for her sake:
Yes! I must die--blow on, sweet breeze, blow on!
Give me one look before my life be gone,
Oh! give me that, and let me not despair,
One last fond look--and now repeat the prayer.'
He had his wish, had more: I will not paint
The Lovers' meeting: she beheld him faint, -
With tender fears, she took a nearer view,
Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;
He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said,
'Yes! I must die;' and hope for ever fled.
Still long she nursed him: tender thoughts meantime
Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime:
To her he came to die, and every day
She took some portion of the dread away;
With him she pray'd, to him his Bible read,
Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head:
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer:
Apart she sigh'd; alone, she shed the tear:
Then as if breaking from a cloud, she gave
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.
One day he lighter seemed, and they forgot
The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot;
They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think,
Yet said not so--'Perhaps he will not sink:'
A sudden brightness in his look appear'd,
A sudden vigour in his voice was heard, -
She had been reading in the Book of Prayer,
And led him forth, and placed him in his chair;
Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew,
The friendly many, and the favourite few;
Nor one that day did he to mind recall
But she has treasured, and she loves them all:
When in her way she meets them, they appear
Peculiar people--death has made them dear.
He named his Friend, but then his hand she press'd,
And fondly whisper'd, 'Thou must go to rest;'
'I go,' he said: but as he spoke, she found
His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound!
Then gazed affrighten'd; but she caught a last,
A dying look of love,--and all was past!
She placed a decent stone his grave above,
Neatly engraved--an offering of her love;
For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed,
Awake alike to duty and the dead;
She would have grieved, had friends presum'd to spare
The least assistance--'twas her proper care.
Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,
Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;
But if observer pass, will take her round,
And careless seem, for she would not be found;
Then go again, and thus her hour employ,
While visions please her, and while woes destroy.
Forbear, sweet Maid! nor be by Fancy led,
To hold mysterious converse with the dead;
For sure at length thy thoughts, thy spirit's pain,
In this sad conflict will disturb thy brain;
All have their tasks and trials; thine are hard,
But short the time, and glorious the reward;
Thy patient spirit to thy duties give,
Regard the dead, but to the living live.

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You are like the moon II

You are like the moon
My eyes are like telescope
To see your beauty

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Like The Noisy Bees

Like the noisy bees
loud talking behind the walls
women in hot spring.

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You Are Like The Moon

You are like the moon
Your tender light touches me
But I can't touch you

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The Green Green Grass Of The Church

The green green grass
Of the church
Is always green
I never saw it yellow once
And that is great

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Like The Water From The Mountain Spring

If you speak
To me
Your parting
Words
Let it be
Tasteless
Like
The water
From the
Mountain
Spring.

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It Is Like The Whole World is Opening Up Again

It is like
The whole world is opening up again
The birth of a grandchild
A grandfather is born too.

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Like the Muse of Your Love

Oh, i never send it there! !
But i thought i had;
And like the muse of your love,
But it is time for me to say, bye-bye!

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Just Be Like The Grass

summer or rain
be like the grass
spread your being
like your thoughts
your spirit always
reminding the body
that it is not his.

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Like The Devil

The person on the phone sounds like the devil!
And i am listening very patiently;
Because, silence is the best answer to the fool! !

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