In my late teenage years, I developed a real passion for it, and wrote a lot of poetry.
quote by Danielle Steel
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Related quotes
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is in the beginning of new life,
Poetry is in the tears of a child,
Poetry is in the warmth of mother's kiss,
Poetry is in the child's bliss,
Poetry is in the hug of a father,
Poetry is in the love of a dear,
Poetry is in the happiness of affection,
Poetry is in the pain of separation,
Poetry is in someone's loss,
Poetry is in missing someone very close.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is in the first rain,
Poetry is in the cultivation of first grain,
Poetry is in the first light of dawn,
Poetry is in the drops of dew o the grass of lawn,
Poetry is in the blowing of cool wind,
Poetry is in the beauty of green,
Poetry is in the twinkling star,
Poetry is in the aroma of a flower,
Poetry is in thunder and lightning,
Poetry is in the heat scorching.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is something more sweeter than sweet,
Poetry is something more closer to heart beat,
Poetry is something more than the most beautiful creation,
Poetry is something more than the depth of an ocean,
Poetry is something more higher than the blue,
Poetry is something more true,
Poetry is something more enjoyable than wine,
Poetry is something more shiner than sunshine,
Poetry is something more pure than air,
Poetry is something which is present everywhere.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poet ry is not just rhyme,
Poetry is but the voice Divine,
Poetry is not just Poetry,
Poetry frames History,
After so many lines,
Poetry still remains undefined.
Poetry...Poetry...
poem by Akash Agrawal
Added by Poetry Lover
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An act of poetry
Ruin is what we need –
Despair is what we feed
Upon in poetry
A shock resets the nerves –
Helps remould the curves
Of written art
Catharsis helps portray –
Acting out a play
On expurgation
Tears or hidden fears
Release the bottled years
To ink a page:
The pen be our salvation.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
[...] Read more
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Teenage Love
(robert segarini)
Published by robertunes/slalom publishing co. - bmi
I dont want no older woman, who really doesnt dig my scene
And I dont want no spaced out groupie, who wants to be a gypsy queen
And I dont want no nasty lady, who doesnt dig rock n roll
Cause I just want the dew eyed daughter of a father that lost control
Gimme some teenage love, ooh gimme some teenage love
Come on baby, youre drivin me crazy, gimme some teenage love
I dont want no modern lover, who really doesnt dig my sound
And I dont want no boozed out floozy, who needs to lose a few more pounds
And I dont want no nasty lady, who doesnt dig rhythm and blues
Cause I just want the dew eyed daughter of a father that was born to lose
So gimme some teenage love, ooh gimme some teenage love
Come on baby, youre drivin me crazy, gimme some teenage love
I dont want no sophisticated lady, who really doesnt dig my scene
And I dont want no funky chickie, who used to be a country queen
And I dont want no rich bitch sugar, who doesnt dig rhythm and blues
Cause I just want the dew eyed daughter of a father that was born to lose
So gimme some teenage love, ooh gimme some teenage love
So come on baby, youre drivin me crazy, and gimme some teenage love
Gimme some teenage love, gimme some teenage love
Gimme some teenage love, gimme some teenage love
Come on baby, youre drivin me crazy, gimme some teenage love
Come on baby, youre drivin me crazy, gimme some teenage love
song performed by April Wine
Added by Lucian Velea
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The things I love with a passion
I rock and roll with passion
I talk out my soul with a passion
I eat good food with passion
I defeat bad mood with a passion
I sleep well with passion
I weep hell with a passion
I dream endlessly with passion
I gleam ceaselessly with a passion
I aim for money with passion
I do the same for honey with a passion
I listen carefully with passion
I glisten dutifully with a passion
I search for fame with passion
I research to blame with a passion
I walk everyday with passion
I talk and play with a passion
I embrace life with passion
I face nightlife with a passion
I laugh out with passion
I chaffe about with a passion
I cook with others with passion
I look at mothers with a passion
I touch gently with passion
I clutch tightly with a passion
I work hard with a passion
I rock mad with a passion
I gear up goals with passion
I stir up roles with a passion
I make friends with passion
I take weekends with a passion
I love kissing with passion
I love teasing with a passion
I make love with passion
I take from above with a passion
[...] Read more
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Passion
(rod stewart / chen, savigar, cregan, grainger)
Somebody somewhere
In the heat of the night
Looking pretty dangerous
Running out of patience
Tonight in the city
You wont find any pity
Hearts are being twisted
Another lover cheated, cheated
In the bars and the cafes, passion
In the streets and the alleys, passion
A lot of pretending, passion
Everybody searching, passion
Once in love youre never out of danger
One hot night spent with a stranger
All you wanted was somebody to hold on to yeah
Passion, passion
Passion, passion
New york, moscow, passion
Hong kong, tokyo, passion
Paris and bangkok, passion
A lotta people aint got, passion
Hear it in the radio, passion
Read it in the papers, passion
Hear it in the churches, passion
See it in the school yards, passion
Once in love youre never out of danger
One hot night spent with a stranger
All you wanted was somebody to hold on to yeah
Once in love youre never out of danger
One hot night spent with a stranger
All you wanted was somebody to hold on to yeah
Alone in your bed at night, passion
Its half past midnight, passion
As you turn out your sidelight, passion
Something aint right, passion
Theres no passion, theres no passion
Theres no passion, I need passion
You need passion, we need passion
Cant live without passion
Wont live without passion
Even the president needs passion
Everybody I know needs some passion
Some people die and kill for passion
Nobody admits they need passion
Some people are scared of passion
Yeah passion
song performed by Rod Stewart
Added by Lucian Velea
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Its Too Late To Change The Time
[intro]
Too late
Too late
Too late
[verse 1]
In this automatic age
We shop through the yellow page
Gone is the corner store
There is a supermarket there for you
People give way to change
But feelings remain the same
[chorus]
And its too late, too late to change the time
Well its too late, too late to change the time
And its too late, too late to change the time
But its not too late (too late) to change your mind
[verse 2]
Its a new day, a new age
A photograph just taken, is ready one minute later
Cars are bigger and better
But the manufacturers sastified never
In a world full of crime
I cant let you think thats right
[chorus]
And its too late, too late to change the time
And its too late, too late to change the time
And its too late, too late to change the time
But its not too late (too late) to change your mind
No, no
[bridge 1]
So you wanna be a star (so you wanna be a star)
You are who you think you are (ah think you are)
You dont have to go further
Than my loving arms
[chorus half]
And its too late, too late to change the time
But its not too late (too late) to change your mind
[bridge 2]
Are you sure you wanna go to new york city (new york city)
Where girls make it big if theyre pretty (if they pretty)
Let say you get that penthouse view
But whos gonna love you the way I do (just the way I do)
[chorus]
Its too late, too late to change the time
And its too late, too late to change the time, no
Too late, too late to change the time
But its not too late (too late) to change your mind
Yeah, yeah, yeah
[chorus]
Its too late, too late to change the time
[...] Read more
song performed by Michael Jackson
Added by Lucian Velea
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Poetry On The Chin
You gouged my mind's eye,
Tantalised all inner thought,
Shocked from unknown angles;
Sold me, told me cold,
Unfolded, moulded;
Shouldered any harbouring
Of empty morals.
You spun me round; undressed -
Pestered me with background riddle -
Piffle came to gleaning meaning.
And you stripped out prejudice - for none
Must exist in poetry,
Lest you close up an open mind
And f**k up as reader;
Lest your heart is not a bleeder -
It has to be - let it flush out
Upon your sleeve.
You lay apart my thinking brain
And let in the literary pickings of a
Great poetic phallus.
Yes, poetry can be callous.
Copyright © Mark Raymond Slaughter 2010
[...] Read more
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Virginia's Story
Elizabeth Gates-Wooten is my Grand mom.
She was born in Canada with her father and brothers.
They owned a Barber Shoppe.
I don't remember exactly where in Canada.
I believe it was right over the border like Windsor or Toronto.
I never knew exactly where it was.
When she was old enough she got married.
First, she married a man by the name of Frank Gates.
He was from Madagascar.
He fathered my mom and her brother and sister.
The boy's name was Frank Gates, Jr.
Two girls name were Anna and Agnes.
Agnes was my mother.
Frank Gates went crazy after the war
He drank a lot and died
Then grandma Elizabeth married a man by the name of Mr. Wooten.
He had a German name, but I don't think he was German.
She took his last name after they got married.
Then they moved to West Virginia in the United States.
Their son, Frank Gates Jr. Became a delegate in the democratic party.
He use to get into a lot of trouble because he liked to fight.
He was a delegate from the 1940's to 1970's.
He died of gout in the 1970's.
Anna was a maid and cook.
She baked cakes and stuff for people as a side line.
She had a hump on her back (scoliosis) .
She had to walk with a cane.
She could cook good though.
She did this kind of work all of her life, just like her mom, Elizabeth
They were both good cooks
They had a lot of money because they had these skills
Especially when people had parties.
Because they would make all of this food and then they would have left-overs.
We got to eat a lot of stuff we normally wouldn't get because of that.
When they cooked, they didn't use no measuring stuff, they would just use there hand.
My moms name was Agnes Barrie Gates.
She married James Wright and moved to Cleveland.
[...] Read more
poem by Talile Ali
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VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi
Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then … nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
"Well, he can say no other than what he says.
"We have been young, too,—come, there's greater guilt!
"Let him but decently disembroil himself,
"Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—
"We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast
As if I were a phantom: now 't is—"Friend,
"Collect yourself!"—no laughing matter more—
"Counsel the Court in this extremity,
"Tell us again!"—tell that, for telling which,
I got the jocular piece of punishment,
Was sent to lounge a little in the place
Whence now of a sudden here you summon me
To take the intelligence from just—your lips!
You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—
That she I helped eight months since to escape
Her husband, was retaken by the same,
Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,—
(I being disallowed to interfere,
Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,
For you and law were guardians quite enough
O' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)—
And that he has butchered her accordingly,
As she foretold and as myself believed,—
And, so foretelling and believing so,
We were punished, both of us, the merry way:
Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?
Pompilia is only dying while I speak!
Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?
My masters, there's an old book, you should con
For strange adventures, applicable yet,
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Poetry: What Is Poetry?
Poetry pleases my ears
that words sound in harmony,
but not to a foreign tongue.
Poetry draws a picture
to invite my eyes,
but still puzzles my mind.
Poetry blows with wind,
in water He flows,
shouts in thunders,
and bounces as rock in roll.
Poetry preserves His truth,
in secret codes, simple words,
only reveals to the worthy.
Poetry sings in my ears,
dances in front my eyes,
kisses my lips,
brings fragrance,
that fills my mind
and imprints my soul.
Poetry does not like as I like
as whenever I use as like wrongly,
and it is unfair He uses
correctly all times He does,
but I make Him to like
as I do like anyway.
Poetry tells stories
to company my journey,
writes jokes
to convert my tragedy
into a comedy,
and builds a rainbow bridge
where my dream
and reality meet.
Poetry blinded Homer
with Helen and war,
afflicted Catullus
with his love and hate,
taught Beowulf
how to fight!
Poetry made Li Bai drunk
in magical words,
brought sorrows to Du Fu,
[...] Read more
poem by Laijon Liu
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Station To Station
The return of the thin white duke
Throwing darts in lovers eyes
Here are we, one magical moment, such is the stuff
From where dreams are woven
Bending sound, dredging the ocean, lost in my circle
Here am i, flashing no colour
Tall in this room overlooking the ocean
Here are we, one magical movement from kether to malkuth
There are you, drive like a demon from station to station
The return of the thin white duke, throwing darts in lovers eyes
The return of the thin white duke, throwing darts in lovers eyes
The return of the thin white duke, making sure white stays
Once there were mountains on mountains
And once there were sunbirds to soar with
And once I could never be down
Got to keep searching and searching
Oh, what will I be believing and who will connect me with love?
Wonderful, wonderful, wonder when
Have you sought fortune, evasive and shy?
Drink to the men who protect you and i
Drink, drink, drain your glass, raise your glass high
Its not the side-effects of the cocaine
Im thinking that it must be love
Its too late - to be grateful
Its too late - to be late again
Its too late - to be hateful
The european cannon is here
I must be only one in a million
I wont let the day pass without her
Its too late - to be grateful
Its too late - to be late again
Its too late - to be hateful
The european cannon is here
Should I believe that Ive been stricken?
Does my face show some kind of glow?
Its too late - to be grateful
Its too late - to be late again
Its too late - to be hateful
The european cannon is here, yes its here
Its too late
Its too late, its too late, its too late, its too late
The european cannon is here
Its not the side-effects of the cocaine
Im thinking that it must be love
Its too late - to be grateful
Its too late - to be late again
Its too late - to be hateful
The european cannon is here
I must be only one in a million
I wont let the day pass without her
[...] Read more
song performed by David Bowie
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Screams Of Passion
Performed by the family
{from the family (1985)}
Woah, no. woah, yeah.
Woah, no, woah no, yeah, yeah
Theres a gentle autumn breeze
That blows whenever we be lyin
Lyin in my bed
The moon appears and disappears
U look at me, my clothes I quickly
I quickly shed
The curtains dance a minuet
Autumn plays the music baby
Come on hold my hand
Leaves are fallin velvet splash
Only u and I can under
Only u can understand
The sunlight draws a picture
Through the silky lace that hangs above your
Hangs above your door
A picture that is waving
That is seems to be with every thrust
U make me beg for more
A robin sings a masterpiece
That lives and dies unheard
For screams of passion
A sound produced by two in love (oh, two in love)
Curtains dance and autumn plays on (and on and on)
The screams of passion
All I hear in my [head/hair]
Echoing like a volcano baby
The screams of passion
Back and forth the raging seas of lust
I want u madly
Cant u tell, cant u tell
Cant u tell, cant u tell, ow!
Take me in your arms, oh baby
The crime is done
Id rather die here in your
Screams of passion (woah, hold me now, baby)
Tell me that u [want/love] me (tell me that u [want/love] me)
Is it sunday or is it passion?
The screams of passion (the screams of passion, yeah)
The screams of... the screams of...
The screams of passion (passion)
Yeah! (shhh, not so loud, baby)
Yeah! (shhh, shhh)
The screams of passion
The screams of passion
The screams of passion
The screams of... the screams of...
[...] Read more
song performed by Prince
Added by Lucian Velea
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Something that pours from the heart
Poetry is something as mystical as the mountains;
shimmering majestically on the rivers in diffused
beams of brilliant sunshine,
Poetry is something as astonishing as the glittering
gold biscuits entrenched deep beneath earth; emanating
a profound glow that blended poignantly with the
atmosphere,
Poetry is something as ingratiating as the hissing
serpent; deluging the morbid ambience around with
overwhelming exhilaration,
Poetry is something as ravishing as the blossoming
petals of rubicund rose; wafting its essence
ubiquitously through all continents of this colossal
Universe,
Poetry is something as grandiloquent as the
incredulously embellished castle; offering an abode to
anyone afflicted by inexplicable distress,
Poetry is something as vivacious as the magnificently
swirling ocean; with each of its tangy waves
fulminating into a blanket of pungent froth,
Poetry is something as magnanimous as the clouds;
which bless the parched soil and ground with
torrential showers of mesmerizing rain,
Poetry is something as resplendent as the fathomless
rainbow; dissipating into vibrant shades of
magnificently animated color,
Poetry is something as exuberant as the cheekily
dancing peacock; incarcerating millions in its
stupendously enamoring swirl,
Poetry is something as innocuous as the new born
infant; touching the hearts of even the most
diabolical with irrefutable ardor,
Poetry is something as soft as voluptuously woven pure
silk; exquisitely binding every religion prevalent on
this planet,
Poetry is something as ingenious as the bubbling buds
of mushroom; evolving into celestial sprouts of
wonderful white,
[...] Read more
poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Guinevere
Queen Guinevere had fled the court, and sat
There in the holy house at Almesbury
Weeping, none with her save a little maid,
A novice: one low light betwixt them burned
Blurred by the creeping mist, for all abroad,
Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full,
The white mist, like a face-cloth to the face,
Clung to the dead earth, and the land was still.
For hither had she fled, her cause of flight
Sir Modred; he that like a subtle beast
Lay couchant with his eyes upon the throne,
Ready to spring, waiting a chance: for this
He chilled the popular praises of the King
With silent smiles of slow disparagement;
And tampered with the Lords of the White Horse,
Heathen, the brood by Hengist left; and sought
To make disruption in the Table Round
Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds
Serving his traitorous end; and all his aims
Were sharpened by strong hate for Lancelot.
For thus it chanced one morn when all the court,
Green-suited, but with plumes that mocked the may,
Had been, their wont, a-maying and returned,
That Modred still in green, all ear and eye,
Climbed to the high top of the garden-wall
To spy some secret scandal if he might,
And saw the Queen who sat betwixt her best
Enid, and lissome Vivien, of her court
The wiliest and the worst; and more than this
He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing by
Spied where he couched, and as the gardener's hand
Picks from the colewort a green caterpillar,
So from the high wall and the flowering grove
Of grasses Lancelot plucked him by the heel,
And cast him as a worm upon the way;
But when he knew the Prince though marred with dust,
He, reverencing king's blood in a bad man,
Made such excuses as he might, and these
Full knightly without scorn; for in those days
No knight of Arthur's noblest dealt in scorn;
But, if a man were halt or hunched, in him
By those whom God had made full-limbed and tall,
Scorn was allowed as part of his defect,
And he was answered softly by the King
And all his Table. So Sir Lancelot holp
To raise the Prince, who rising twice or thrice
Full sharply smote his knees, and smiled, and went:
But, ever after, the small violence done
[...] Read more
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Too Late
See the stop-light turn-in red,
Dont you listen to what its said.
All the things you try to hide,
They keep you runnin hard inside.
Oh, you got to leave this town before its...
Too late, too late, too late, too late, too late,
Too late to make the change.
Oo, yes, my friend, youre fadin fast, if you stay here you wont last.
Before your time has run astray, youve got to try to get away.
Oh, you got to leave this place before its...
Too late, too late, too late, too late, too late,
Too late to make the change.
Too late, too late to make the change
Too late to make the change
Yes, its time to make the change, yes, its time to rearrange,
So, my friend, I join the fight for the things you know are right.
Oh, you got to leave this town before its...
Too late, too late, too late, too late, too late,
Too late to make the change.
Too late, too late to make the change
Too late, too late, to make the change
Too late to make the change
Too late, before its too late.
song performed by Journey
Added by Lucian Velea
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Poetry is the reason I live
Poetry is the air that I breathe in every minute;
granting me the tenacity to propel exuberantly
forward; each mundane instant of monotonous life,
Poetry is the rhapsodic wind I trespass through on my
way; engendering me to fantasize to infinite
kilometers beyond the sky,
Poetry is the most proudest possession I have ever
acquired; making me feel more privileged than the
gloriously majestic kings,
Poetry is the smile that perennially encapsulated my
lips; granting me the magical prowess of evolving a
mystical paradise; out of sheer nothingness and
bizarre wilderness,
Poetry is my reason to contentedly sleep; blissfully
conceiving the entire beauty of this fathomless planet
in each of my dreams,
Poetry is the royally grandiloquent dwelling which I
inhabit; harboring me like a divinely angel against
the most acrimonious of storm,
Poetry is the perpetual conglomerate of roses which
blossomed in my garden; blending my aboriginal
rudiments more emphatically with the soil; as their
spell binding fragrance tickled my nose,
Poetry is the tantalizing rain that fell with untamed
charisma on my naked skin; igniting the most
obliviously dormant infernos in my body; the highest
point in the sky,
Poetry is the stupendously silken fabric which I wear
to envelop my body; acting as my compassionately
amicable mate for times immemorial,
Poetry is every song I uttered from my throat;
inundating my drearily diminishing soul; with
unsurpassable happiness,
Poetry is the benevolent seed in my mind; which
proliferated at astounding speeds into the tree
called; friendship and solidarity,
Poetry is the blazing volcano of my innermost senses;
which makes me indefatigably feel that I was
euphorically bouncing and always alive,
Poetry is the enigmatic cloud that incessantly hovered
in my eyes; reinstating in me a romantic lovebird;
even as I galloped my last footstep towards my grave,
Poetry is the blood that turbulently drifted through
my labyrinth of intricate veins; instilling in me a
new found ardor as each minute unfurled,
Poetry is the pea***** which always perched on my
window at the crack of vespered dawn; culminating its
vivacious festoon of feathers full bloom; to cast its
impregnable spell upon the languid atmosphere,
Poetry is all the wealth that I could ever assimilate;
[...] Read more
poem by Nikhil Parekh
Added by Poetry Lover
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When I wasn't breathing
When I wasn’t blissfully snoring; I was still inexhaustibly writing a
cistern of stupendously rhapsodic and gloriously majestic Immortal Love
Poetry,
When I wasn’t unsurpassably fantasizing; I was still inexhaustibly
writing a
garden of ingeniously magical and miraculously mitigating Immortal Love
Poetry,
When I wasn’t superbly adventuring; I was still inexhaustibly writing
an
ocean of bountifully resplendent and timelessly undefeated Immortal
Love
Poetry,
When I wasn’t scrumptiously relishing; I was still inexhaustibly
writing a
playground of optimistically enlightening and unbelievably royal
Immortal
Love Poetry,
When I wasn’t limitlessly triumphing; I was still inexhaustibly writing
a
cascade of beautifully panoramic and effulgently liberating Immortal
Love
Poetry,
When I wasn’t pricelessly smiling; I was still inexhaustibly writing a
lantern of unendingly vibrant and inscrutably tantalizing Immortal Love
Poetry,
When I wasn’t gloriously partying; I was still inexhaustibly writing a
paradise of eternally vivacious and pristinely redolent Immortal Love
Poetry,
When I wasn’t unassailably inspiring; I was still inexhaustibly writing
a
festoon of incredulously ameliorating and perpetually compassionate
Immortal
Love Poetry,
When I wasn’t magnanimously feasting; I was still inexhaustibly writing
a
cocoon of symbiotically philanthropic and ubiquitously coalescing
Immortal
Love Poetry,
When I wasn’t ebulliently fornicating; I was still inexhaustibly
writing a
mist of wonderfully reinvigorating and blessedly burgeoning Immortal
[...] Read more
poem by Nikhil Parekh
Added by Poetry Lover
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Canto the First
I
I want a hero: an uncommon want,
When every year and month sends forth a new one,
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,
The age discovers he is not the true one;
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,
I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan—
We all have seen him, in the pantomime,
Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time.
II
Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke,
Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe,
Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk,
And fill'd their sign posts then, like Wellesley now;
Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk,
Followers of fame, "nine farrow" of that sow:
France, too, had Buonaparté and Dumourier
Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier.
III
Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau,
Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette,
Were French, and famous people, as we know:
And there were others, scarce forgotten yet,
Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau,
With many of the military set,
Exceedingly remarkable at times,
But not at all adapted to my rhymes.
IV
Nelson was once Britannia's god of war,
And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd;
There's no more to be said of Trafalgar,
'T is with our hero quietly inurn'd;
Because the army's grown more popular,
At which the naval people are concern'd;
Besides, the prince is all for the land-service,
Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis.
V
Brave men were living before Agamemnon
And since, exceeding valorous and sage,
A good deal like him too, though quite the same none;
But then they shone not on the poet's page,
And so have been forgotten:—I condemn none,
But can't find any in the present age
Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one);
So, as I said, I'll take my friend Don Juan.
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poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Three Women
My love is young, so young;
Young is her cheek, and her throat,
And life is a song to be sung
With love the word for each note.
Young is her cheek and her throat;
Her eyes have the smile o' May.
And love is the word for each note
In the song of my life to-day.
Her eyes have the smile o' May;
Her heart is the heart of a dove,
And the song of my life to-day
Is love, beautiful love.
Her heart is the heart of a dove,
Ah, would it but fly to my breast
Where love, beautiful love,
Has made it a downy nest.
Ah, would she but fly to my breast,
My love who is young, so young;
I have made her a downy nest
And life is a song to be sung.
1
I.
A dull little station, a man with the eye
Of a dreamer; a bevy of girls moving by;
A swift moving train and a hot Summer sun,
The curtain goes up, and our play is begun.
The drama of passion, of sorrow, of strife,
Which always is billed for the theatre Life.
It runs on forever, from year unto year,
With scarcely a change when new actors appear.
It is old as the world is-far older in truth,
For the world is a crude little planet of youth.
And back in the eras before it was formed,
The passions of hearts through the Universe stormed.
Maurice Somerville passed the cluster of girls
Who twisted their ribbons and fluttered their curls
In vain to attract him; his mind it was plain
Was wholly intent on the incoming train.
That great one eyed monster puffed out its black breath,
Shrieked, snorted and hissed, like a thing bent on death,
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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Canto the Third
I.
Is thy face like thy mother’s, my fair child!
Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart?
When last I saw thy young blue eyes, they smiled,
And then we parted, - not as now we part,
But with a hope. -
Awaking with a start,
The waters heave around me; and on high
The winds lift up their voices: I depart,
Whither I know not; but the hour’s gone by,
When Albion’s lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
II.
Once more upon the waters! yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar!
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe’er it lead!
Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed,
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale,
Still must I on; for I am as a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean’s foam, to sail
Where’er the surge may sweep, the tempest’s breath prevail.
III.
In my youth’s summer I did sing of One,
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind;
Again I seize the theme, then but begun,
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind
Bears the cloud onwards: in that tale I find
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears,
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind,
O’er which all heavily the journeying years
Plod the last sands of life - where not a flower appears.
IV.
Since my young days of passion - joy, or pain,
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string,
And both may jar: it may be, that in vain
I would essay as I have sung to sing.
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling,
So that it wean me from the weary dream
Of selfish grief or gladness - so it fling
Forgetfulness around me - it shall seem
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme.
V.
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poem by Byron from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1818)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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