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Talbot: My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel; I know not where I am, nor what I do.

line from Henry VI, Act I, Scene 5, script by William Shakespeare (1590)
Added by Dan Costinaş
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Robin Hood and the Potter

Fitt I.
In schomer, when the leves spryng,
The bloschoms on every bowe,
So merey doyt the berdys syng
Yn wodys merey now.

Herkens, god yemen,
Comley, corteys, and god,
On of the best that yever bare bowe,
Hes name was Roben Hode.

Roben Hood was the yemans name,
That was boyt corteys and fre;
For the loffe of owre ladey,
All wemen werschepyd he.

Bot as the god yeman stod on a day,
Among hes mery maney,
He was ware of a prowd potter,
Cam dryfyng owyr the leye.

'Yonder comet a prod potter,' seyde Roben,
'That long hayt hantyd this wey;
He was never so corteys a man
On peney of pawage to pay.'

'Y met hem bot at Wentbreg,' seyde Lytyll John,
'And therefore yeffell mot he the!
Seche thre strokes he me gafe,
Yet by my seydys cleffe they.

Y ley forty shillings,' seyde Lytyll John,
'To pay het thes same day,
Ther ys nat a man among hus all
A wed schall make hem leye.'

'Here ys forty shillings,' seyde Roben,
'More, and thow dar say,
That Y schall make that prowde potter,
A wed to me schall he ley.'

There thes money they leyde,
They toke het a yeman to kepe;
Roben beffore the potter he breyde,
And bad hem stond stell.

Handys apon hes hors he leyde,
And bad the potter stonde foll stell;
The potter schorteley to hem seyde,
'Felow, what ys they well?'

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Robin Hood And The Potter

In schomer, when the leves spryng,
The bloschems on every bowe,
So merey doyt the berdys syng
Yn wodys merey now.

Herkens, god yemen,
Comley, corteysse, and god,
On of the best that yever bar bou,
Hes name was Roben Hode.

Roben Hood was the yemans name,
That was boyt corteys and fre;
For the loffe of owr ladey,
All wemen werschep he.

Bot as the god yemen stod on a day,
Among hes mery maney,
He was war of a prowd potter,
Cam dryfyng owyr the ley.

'Yonder comet a prod potter,' seyde Roben,
'That long hayt hantyd this wey;
He was never so corteys a man
On peney of pawage to pay.'

'Y met hem bot at Wentbreg,' seyde Lytyll John,
'And therfor yeffell mot he the,
Seche thre strokes he me gafe,
Yet they cleffe by my seydys.

'Y ley forty shillings,' seyde Lytyll John,
'To pay het thes same day,
Ther ys nat a man arnong hus all
A wed schall make hem ley.'

'Her ys forty shillings,' seyde Roben,
'Mor, and thow dar say,
That y schall make that prowde potter,
A wed to me schall he ley.'

Ther thes money they leyde,
They toke bot a yeman to kepe;
Roben befor the potter he breyde,
And bad hem stond stell.

Handys apon hes horse he leyde,
And bad the potter stonde foll stell;
The potter schorteley to hem seyde,
'Felow, what ys they well?'

[...] Read more

poem by Andrew Lang
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To The Memory Of The Right Honourable Lord Talbot, Late Chancellor Of Great Britain. Addressed To His Son.

While with the public, you, my Lord, lament
A friend and father lost; permit the muse,
The muse assigned of old a double theme,
To praise the dead worth and humble living pride,
Whose generous task begins where interest ends;
Permit her on a Talbot's tomb to lay
This cordial verse sincere, by truth inspired,
Which means not to bestow but borrow fame.
Yes, she may sing his matchless virtues now -
Unhappy that she may. - But where begin?
How from the diamond single out each ray,
Where all, though trembling with ten thousand hues,
Effuse one dazzling undivided light?
Let the low-minded of these narrow days
No more presume to deem the lofty tale
Of ancient times, in pity to their own,
Romance. In Talbot we united saw
The piercing eye, the quick enlightened soul,
The graceful ease, the flowing tongue of Greece,
Joined to the virtues and the force of Rome.
Eternal wisdom, that all-quickening sun,
Whence every life, in just proportion, draws
Directing light and actuating flame,
Ne'er with a larger portion of its beams
Awakened mortal clay. Hence steady, calm,
Diffusive, deep, and clear, his reason saw,
With instantaneous view, the truth of things;
Chief what to human life and human bliss
Pertains, that noblest science, fit for man:
And hence, responsive to his knowledge, glowed
His ardent virtue. Ignorance and vice,
In consort foul, agree; each heightening each;
While virtue draws from knowledge brighter fire.
What grand, what comely, or what tender sense,
What talent, or what virtue was not his;
What that can render man or great, or good,
Give useful worth, or amiable grace?
Nor could he brook in studious shade to lie,
In soft retirement, indolently pleased
With selfish peace. The syren of the wise,
(Who steals the Aonian song, and, in the shape
Of Virtue, woos them from a worthless world)
Though deep he felt her charms, could never melt
His strenuous spirit, recollected, calm,
As silent night, yet active as the day.
The more the bold, the bustling, and the bad,
Press to usurp the reins of power, the more
Behoves it virtue, with indignant zeal,
To check their combination. Shall low views
Of sneaking interest or luxurious vice,

[...] Read more

poem by James Thomson
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An Invitation To Tea (A Dark Comedy) Part 3

(It is advisable you read parts 1 and 2 first)

Grace watched him for a few minutes, and then moved to the back of the shop. “He is going to come around at six tonight. I do hop Mr Potter like him.”

“I’m sure he will. Grace.”

“I can’t help feeling bit concerned after Mr Armad.”

“It was the curry Mr Armad insisted on making. Revolting stuff. I felt queasy as Mr Potter afterwards. Anyway Mr Potter always prefers Englishmen, even when Aunty had him staying with her.”

Charles checked his watch, and then knocked the door. The lights appeared in the shop and the silhouette of one of the sisters grew large in the glass panel of the door. Charlotte smiled.

“Do come in Mr Latimer.”

Charles entered and followed Charlotte through to the back of the shop. As they entered the room, Grace turned from the oven with a tray of freshly baked scones. She smiled.

“Please have a seat, Mr Latimer. Tea is ready.”

“Call me Charles, Mr Latimer seems so formal.” he replied as he sat where Charlotte directed. “I hope you don’t mind me asking but where is Mr Potter going to sit? ”

“Unfortunately, Mr Potter prefers to eat alone. You will meet him later. I have told him you are coming and h I looking forward to meeting you.” Grace replied and brought forward the tray if scones. “Please help yourself Charles.”

Charles waited until the sisters were seated before starting.

“I think these are your best scones, Grace.”

“Thank you Charlotte.”

“I will second that. These are best scones I’ve ever tasted. I hope that Mr Potter will appreciate them.”

“I’m sure he will.” Grace replied and watched with satisfaction as the scones disappeared from the plate.

“Another cup of tea Charles? ” Charlotte asked holding the teapot poised.
“Thank you.”
As Charlotte poured out the tea, Grace collected the dishes from the table. “While Charlotte and I do the washing up you sit and enjoy your tea.”
“What about Mr Potter? ”
“We’ll collect his dishes later.”
“Charles drank his tea slowly. He wondered how he could thank the two women. He would have to think of a way later.
Grace and Charlotte smiled and nodded to one another. Mr Potter would enjoy Charles. They dried their hands and placed the dishes into the cupboard.
“I see you have almost drunk your tea. I presume you would like to see Mr Potter now? ”
“Yes please.”
“If you will follow us.”
Charles followed the sisters out of the room and into the garden.
“Unfortunately we have only one pair of stairs leading to the basement.”
“Basement? ”
“Yes, Mr Potter is not one for coming into the house. He is a bit eccentric.”
“Oh.”
2Grace dear, would you put the light on? You will have to watch the bottom step Charles. It can be a bit slippery at times.”
“Aren’t you ladies coming down? ”

[...] Read more

poem by David Harris
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Kéramos

Turn, turn, my wheel? Turn round and round
Without a pause, without a sound:
So spins the flying world away!
This clay, well mixed with marl and sand,
Follows the motion of my hand;
Far some must follow, and some command,
Though all are made of clay!

Thus sang the Potter at his task
Beneath the blossoming hawthorn-tree,
While o'er his features, like a mask,
The quilted sunshine and leaf-shade
Moved, as the boughs above him swayed,
And clothed him, till he seemed to be
A figure woven in tapestry,
So sumptuously was he arrayed
In that magnificent attire
Of sable tissue flaked with fire.
Like a magician he appeared,
A conjurer without book or beard;
And while he plied his magic art--
For it was magical to me--
I stood in silence and apart,
And wondered more and more to see
That shapeless, lifeless mass of clay
Rise up to meet the master's hand,
And now contract and now expand,
And even his slightest touch obey;
While ever in a thoughtful mood
He sang his ditty, and at times
Whistled a tune between the rhymes,
As a melodious interlude.

Turn, turn, my wheel! All things must change
To something new, to something strange;
Nothing that is can pause or stay;
The moon will wax, the moon will wane,
The mist and cloud will turn to rain,
The rain to mist and cloud again,
To-morrow be to-day.

Thus still the Potter sang, and still,
By some unconscious act of will,
The melody and even the words
Were intermingled with my thought
As bits of colored thread are caught
And woven into nests of birds.

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Let It Happen

Let it happen
Honey dont you live on the edge of your life
Let it happen
Honey dont you live on the edge of a sigh
Let it happen
Honey dont you live on the edge of a smile
Let it happen
Honey dont you live on the edge of your time
Baby all you got to do
Is let the rythm get to you
Baby all you got to do
Is let the rythm get to you
Let it happen
Honey take a ride on the wheel of life
Let it happen
Open up your heart to the wheel of life
Let it happen
You can put your trust to the wheel of life
Let it happen
Throw away your fear on the wheel of life
Baby all you got to do
Is let the rythm get to you
Baby all you got to do
Is let the rythm get to you
[interlude]
Let it happen
All you need is love on the wheel of life let it happen
All you need is love on the wheel of life
Let it happen
All you need is love on the wheel of life
Let it happen
All you need is love on the wheel of life
Baby all you got to do
Is let the rythm get to you
Baby all you got to do
Is let the rythm get to you
Let it happen
All you need is love on the wheel of life
Let it happen
All you need is love on the wheel of life
All you need is love on the wheel of life
All you need is love on the wheel of life
All you need is love on the wheel of life
All you need is love on the wheel of life
All you need is love on the wheel of life

song performed by Vangelis
Added by Lucian Velea
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Sing on, Spinning Wheel

(PaaDavE RaaTnamaa)

(With the clarion call given by Gandhiji many intellectuals and poets plunged into Indian freedom struggle. As part of strategy to discourage the use of foreign goods, Gandhiji encouraged Indians to wear the home spun cotton (Khadi) . This song was a popular song written by Kavikokila Duvvuri Rami Reddy, glorifying the khadi and spinning wheel)

Telugu original: KavikOkila Duvvuri Raami Reddy(1895-1947)
Telugu translation: Ch J Satyananda Kumar

poddu poDupoo chukka poDichindi raaTnamaa
gooLLalO pakshulu koosEnu raaTnamaa
aruNakiraNaalatO aaTalaaDEnoolu
tammikaaDalalOni tantulanTEnoolu
manciniiLLallOna maRagipoyyEnoolu
saaliiDupOgutO sarasamaaDEnoolu
gaalitaragalalOna tElipoyyEnoolu
vaDakavE raaTnamaa vajraaladoodi
naDapavE raaTnamaa nakshatraviidhi,

poddu poDupoo cukka poDicindi raaTnamaa
gooLLalO pakshulu koosEnu raaTnamaa

muddulolkE paaTa mutyaalapaaTa
paruvunilpEpaaTa bangaarupaaTa
mattumaapEpaaTa madhurampupaaTa
nidralEpE paaTa niddampu paaTa
kaDupu nimpEpaaTa kanikarapupaaTa
paaDavE raaTnamaa Baavi Baaratamu
aaDavEraaTnamaa aandhra naaTakamu

poddu poDupoo cukka poDicindi raaTnamaa
gooLLalO pakshulu koosEnu raaTnamaa

kaTTa guDDaalEka kaTakaTaa paDucu
kuDuva kooDoo lEka gODu gODanunu
daasya vaaraaSilO darigaana lEka
bedari bedarii coocu pirikipandalanu
aatmanindala tODa naDalu bElalanu
purikolpa SanKambu poorinci lEpi
tippavE raaTnamaa dESa cakrambu
vippavE raaTnamaa vijaya kEtanamu-

Translation:

morning star appeared, Oh spinning wheel
birds in nests chirped, Oh spinning wheel
the cotton thread that plays with the rays of dawn
the cotton thread which looks like the fiber of floral stem
the cotton thread that gets boiled in water
the cotton thread that caresses the spider’s web strand

[...] Read more

poem by Ch J Satyananda Kumar
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song of Father Gabriele Amorth

The Daily Mail, UK and Herald Sun (Australia) report on how
Father Gabriele Amroth of the Vatican teaches that yoga and
Harry Potter and the ‘oriental religions’ are
the works of the Devil...the following poem expresses my outrage
at such stupidity and parochialism that still exists
amongst some groups of Europeans even today in their relations
with the East

O yoga yoga
baby baby
sings Father Gabriele Amorth
in the Italian town of Terni
O yoga yoga
no go no go
to yoga yoga
baby baby
all you innocents
and pure
all blessed
and destined for Heaven
no go to yoga yoga
yoga yoga
yogurt is fine
sugar in your yogurt is fine
strawberry and apple
in your yogurt is fine
so eat eat your
yogurt yogurt yogurt
but yoga yoga
O yoga yoga
no go no go no go baby
baby baby
sings Father Gabriele Amorth
in the Italian town of Terni
and also no go to Harry Potter
baby baby baby
no go no go
no go to yoga no to yoga
and no go no go
to Harry Potter
baby baby baby
now say after me:
“yoga yoga yoga
baa baa baa
bad bad bad”

[...] Read more

poem by Raj Arumugam
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Sitting At The Wheel

I can hear the music playing
I can hear the word that youre saying
I can see the lovelife in your eyes
Whats the use in looking for an answer
I might find out
It could be a disaster
Hold on to your own time
Dont let go
Dont let go
Im sitting at the wheel
Watching the river roll roll on by
Sitting at the wheel
Dont let the river run dry
I can see your face on a piece of tomorrow
Ill hang my dream on a road I can follow
I gotta touch the warmth of your love
Not gonna take a chance a
Change of direction
Gonna keep on rolling till I find the connection
Hold on to your lifeline
Dont let
Dont let go
Sitting at the wheel
Watching the river roll roll on by
Sitting at the wheel
Dont let the river run dry
Im sitting at
Im sitting at the wheel
Like a voyeur standing at the edge of time
Looking for a reason
Thats got no rhyme
Love took a corner
Shot off for a mile
Rock on --- rocker
I can hear the music playing
I can hear the word that youre saying
I can see the lovelife in your eyes
Aint no use in looking for an answer
I might find out
It could be a disaster
Hold on to your own time
Dont let go
Dont let go
Im sitting at the wheel
Watching the river rock and roll on by
Sitting at the wheel
I am just sitting
Im just sitting at the wheel
Im just sitting at the wheel
Watching the river roll by

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song performed by Moody Blues
Added by Lucian Velea
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Home, Wounded

Wheel me into the sunshine,
Wheel me into the shadow,
There must be leaves on the woodbine,
Is the king-cup crowned in the meadow?

Wheel me down to the meadow,
Down to the little river,
In sun or in shadow
I shall not dazzle or shiver,
I shall be happy anywhere,
Every breath of the morning air
Makes me throb and quiver.

Stay wherever you will,
By the mount or under the hill,
Or down by the little river:
Stay as long as you please,
Give me only a bud from the trees,
Or a blade of grass in morning dew,
Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue,
I could look on it for ever.

Wheel, wheel thro' the sunshine,
Wheel, wheel thro' the shadow;
There must be odours round the pine,
There must be balm of breathing kine.
Somewhere down in the meadow.
Must I choose? Then anchor me there
Beyond the beckoning poplars, where
The larch is snooding her flowery hair
With wreaths of morning shadow.

Among the thicket hazels of the brake
Perchance some nightingale doth shake
His feathers, and the air is full of song;
In those old days when I was young and strong,
He used to sing on yonder garden tree,
Beside the nursery.
Ah. I remember how I loved to wake,
And find him singing on the self-same bough
(I know it even now)
Where, since the flit of bat,
In ceaseless voice he sat,
Trying the spring night over, like a tune,
Beneath the vernal moon;
And while I listed long,

[...] Read more

poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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The Sorceress

Where are the bay-leaves, Thestylis, and the charms?
Fetch all; with fiery wool the caldron crown;
Let glamour win me back my false lord's heart!
Twelve days the wretch hath not come nigh to me,
Nor made enquiry if I die or live,
Nor clamoured (oh unkindness!) at my door.
Sure his swift fancy wanders otherwhere,
The slave of Aphrodite and of Love.
I'll off to Timagetus' wrestling-school
At dawn, that I may see him and denounce
His doings; but I'll charm him now with charms.
So shine out fair, O moon! To thee I sing
My soft low song: to thee and Hecate
The dweller in the shades, at whose approach
E'en the dogs quake, as on she moves through blood
And darkness and the barrows of the slain.
All hail, dread Hecate: companion me
Unto the end, and work me witcheries
Potent as Circe or Medea wrought,
Or Perimede of the golden hair!
Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love.
First we ignite the grain. Nay, pile it on:
Where are thy wits flown, timorous Thestylis?
Shall I be flouted, I, by such as thou?
Pile, and still say, 'This pile is of his bones.'
Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love.
Delphis racks me: I burn him in these bays.
As, flame-enkindled, they lift up their voice,
Blaze once, and not a trace is left behind:
So waste his flesh to powder in yon fire!
Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love.
E'en as I melt, not uninspired, the wax,
May Mindian Delphis melt this hour with love:
And, swiftly as this brazen wheel whirls round,
May Aphrodite whirl him to my door.
Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love.
Next burn the husks. Hell's adamantine floor
And aught that else stands firm can Artemis move.
Thestylis, the hounds bay up and down the town:
The goddess stands i' the crossroads: sound the gongs.
Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love.
Hushed are the voices of the winds and seas;
But O not hushed the voice of my despair.
He burns my being up, who left me here
No wife, no maiden, in my misery.
Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love.
Thrice I pour out; speak thrice, sweet mistress, thus:
'What face soe'er hangs o'er him be forgot
Clean as, in Dia, Theseus (legends say)
Forgat his Ariadne's locks of love.'

[...] Read more

poem by Theocritus
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The Marriage Of Geraint

The brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur's court,
A tributary prince of Devon, one
Of that great Order of the Table Round,
Had married Enid, Yniol's only child,
And loved her, as he loved the light of Heaven.
And as the light of Heaven varies, now
At sunrise, now at sunset, now by night
With moon and trembling stars, so loved Geraint
To make her beauty vary day by day,
In crimsons and in purples and in gems.
And Enid, but to please her husband's eye,
Who first had found and loved her in a state
Of broken fortunes, daily fronted him
In some fresh splendour; and the Queen herself,
Grateful to Prince Geraint for service done,
Loved her, and often with her own white hands
Arrayed and decked her, as the loveliest,
Next after her own self, in all the court.
And Enid loved the Queen, and with true heart
Adored her, as the stateliest and the best
And loveliest of all women upon earth.
And seeing them so tender and so close,
Long in their common love rejoiced Geraint.
But when a rumour rose about the Queen,
Touching her guilty love for Lancelot,
Though yet there lived no proof, nor yet was heard
The world's loud whisper breaking into storm,
Not less Geraint believed it; and there fell
A horror on him, lest his gentle wife,
Through that great tenderness for Guinevere,
Had suffered, or should suffer any taint
In nature: wherefore going to the King,
He made this pretext, that his princedom lay
Close on the borders of a territory,
Wherein were bandit earls, and caitiff knights,
Assassins, and all flyers from the hand
Of Justice, and whatever loathes a law:
And therefore, till the King himself should please
To cleanse this common sewer of all his realm,
He craved a fair permission to depart,
And there defend his marches; and the King
Mused for a little on his plea, but, last,
Allowing it, the Prince and Enid rode,
And fifty knights rode with them, to the shores
Of Severn, and they past to their own land;
Where, thinking, that if ever yet was wife
True to her lord, mine shall be so to me,
He compassed her with sweet observances
And worship, never leaving her, and grew
Forgetful of his promise to the King,

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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My Thoughts

Thought in the eyes,
The ears.
Thought in mind,
The brain,
Thought in heart,
The soul.

Great thought is great
when it becomes great deeds.
With my thoughts within
Building my world within

Learning with thought;
Is great learning wisdom.
Learning without thought,
Is opportunity lost.

Thought for others
Thought for God
Thought for good
Thought for God’s blessing

Thoughts teach me,
Thoughts educate me,
Thoughts clarify me,
Thoughts enlighten me.

Thoughts make me wise
Thoughts make me patience
Thoughts make me trust others
Thoughts make me clam.

Thoughts before act
Is smart and wise
Act before thoughts
Is stupid and foolish

That’s my thoughts
They make thinking clear
They make belief deepen
They make confidence high.

In thoughts, my world
In my world, make my thoughts.
In thoughts, my words
In my words, make my speech

It’s my thoughts count
Counting my thoughts
To endless counting thoughts

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence Hiung
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My Lost Youth

Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch, in sudden gleams,
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the black wharves and the ships,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
And the fort upon the hill;
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er,
And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the sea-fight far away,
How it thundered o'er the tide!
And the dead captains, as they lay
In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay
Where they in battle died.
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Sestina: A bird in the bamboo

The potter carried home a broken plate
and passing through a grove of tall bamboo,
some thing within disturbed the verdant sheen.
Intrigued, he stopped awhile to rest and wait.
A bird shot skyward, straight as arrow true,
turned somersaults and plunged back into green.

The bird had left the safety of the green,
to see from high the land as coloured plate.
An overview, to give perspective true.
Imprint in mind a map of home's bamboo
and then to hide and rest in patient wait,
before an insect hunt by thin moon's sheen.

The potter's wife delighted in the sheen,
of jagged shards of crackle-glazed jade green.
With supper not quite ready, while he wait,
he set about to mend the shattered plate.
When laid beside their wares of plain bamboo,
it's beauty shone and both declared this true.

The potter was perfectionist, it's true,
who long had strived to replicate the sheen,
of leafy shades of celadon bamboo.
One day, the kiln revealed translucent green.
The pottery's proud owner chose a plate,
as gift to Empress, hopeful then to wait.

Official staff with retinue in wait,
by Emperor's decree paid tribute true.
A portered chair arrived of fine gold-plate,
to honour maker of such lovely sheen.
Asway, the potter turned a sickly green
and gripped the shouldered poles of stout bamboo.

In city, thoughts returned to tall bamboo
and how it seemed the bird could hardly wait,
to fly back home within the dappled green.
The potter's mind was strong, his heart was true.
He learned of commerce, trade and coin's sheen,
but dreamt of home and wife and mended plate.

Back home, at last, amongst the green bamboo,
rich plate collectors, clothed in silken sheen,
confirmed that true rewards are worth the wait.

poem by Diane Hine
Added by Poetry Lover
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Heart Like A Wheel

Calling up the promised land. johnny sevens coming over
The sea. hes taking your time. when you want to be free.
Holding out a helping hand. are you ready for a real
Career? will you be so cool. when its happening here?
It dont say nothing that I havent heard. if what I hear is
True. you wont keep the law with a broken word. so what
Are you going to do?
Heart like a wheel. turning away from anything thats real.
Heart like a wheel. changing in time. beating colder steel.
Pass the message around the world. the medium is in
Retreat. the power is here. and packing some heat.
Sell your soul to a holy war. set the captive free. we make
No promises anymore. but it isnt fooling me
Heart like a wheel. turning away from anything thats real.
Heart like a wheel. changing in time beating colder steel.
You cant keep the wheels turning anymore. with anger,
Blood and fear. or make any friends with an m16. when
You blast your way through here.
Heart like a wheel. turning away from anything thats real.
Heart like a wheel. changing in time beating colder steel.
Heart like a wheel. turning away from anything thats real.
Heart like a wheel. changing in time beating colder steel.
Heart like a wheel. turning away from anything thats real.
Heart like a wheel. driving the world is going to be a steal.

song performed by Human League
Added by Lucian Velea
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Perfect Adultery

Nature’s game awarded the clay
To the potter’s neighbour
Who desires it not.
The potter finds his clay perchance
And longed to possess it whole, malleable and wet,
And when he does, it will become
A perfect adultery,

To the potter’s house she
Will go, to be molded whole and happy,
The potter is a good man they will say
But, good men though gentle and civil,
In things of love and romance, sometimes,
The animal in man takes over
And when it does, the potter’s act to claim his clay
Will become a perfect adultery,

When a woman young and inexperienced
Is lured into a marriage of baby making
By a man above his prime and manipulative,
When she’s abandoned in a romance of half moon
Per twelve circle,
She will yearn for love young and adventurous like hers’
To escape the boredom and loneliness of a single mother married,
When she abandon herself in a romance of young-full
Lover,
It will become a perfect adultery.

When a man gentle and pure
Falls into the hands of a woman that nags
In a matrimony of distrust,
When he stays away and befriends alcohol
And in his lighter brain finds a woman easy
And seductive,
He will submit to her bareback rough ride,
He will long for this escape at will
And when he does,
It will become a perfect adultery.

When adult-try relationship
Become a game of deceit and suspicion,
When couples seek an escape with another
Seen as compatible and trustful
And religion preaches sin of the flesh,
And nature thinks otherwise,
And the couples do their thing
Because separation is hard to get
And hypertension knocks at the door,
When they close their eyes in a romance
Of anything goes, it will be termed a

[...] Read more

poem by Akachukwu Chukwuemeka
Added by Poetry Lover
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Rabbi Ben Ezra

"Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life for which the first was made."

"Rabbi Ben Ezra" is a plea for each period in life. Aspiration is the keynote.

" ... Trust God; see all, nor be afraid!"

Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand
Who saith, "A whole I plann'd,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all nor be afraid!"

Not that, amassing flowers,
Youth sigh'd, "Which rose make ours,
Which lily leave and then as best recall?"
Not that, admiring stars,
It yearn'd, "Nor Jove, nor Mars;
Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!"

Not for such hopes and fears
Annulling youth's brief years,
Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark!
Rather I prize the doubt
Low kinds exist without,
Finish'd and finite clods, untroubled by a spark.

Poor vaunt of life indeed,
Were man but formed to feed
On joy, to solely seek and find and feast:
Such feasting ended, then
As sure an end to men;
Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-cramm'd beast?

Rejoice we are allied
To That which doth provide
And not partake, effect and not receive!
A spark disturbs our clod;
Nearer we hold of God
Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe.

Then, welcome each rebuff
That turns earth's smoothness rough,
Each sting, that bids nor sit nor stand, but go!
Be our joys three parts pain!
Strive, and hold cheap the strain;
Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from Dramatis Personae (1864)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Courtship of Miles Standish, The

I
MILES STANDISH

In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims
To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,
Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather,
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.
Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing
Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare,
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, --
Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus,
Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence,
While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock.
Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,
Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron;
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already
Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.
Near him was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion,
Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window:
Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion,
Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives
Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, "Not Angles, but Angels."
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower.

Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting,
Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth.
"Look at these arms," he said, "the war-like weapons that hang here
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!
This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate,
Well I remember the day! once save my life in a skirmish;
Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet
Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero.
Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish
Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses."
Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:
"Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet;
He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!"
Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling:
"See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging;
That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.
Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage;
So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.
Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army,
Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock,
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage,
And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!"
This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams
Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment.
Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued:
"Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Added by Poetry Lover
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The Courtship of Miles Standish

I
MILES STANDISH

In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims
To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,
Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather,
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.
Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing
Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare,
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, --
Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus,
Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence,
While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock.
Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,
Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron;
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already
Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.
Near him was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion,
Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window:
Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion,
Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives
Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, "Not Angles, but Angels."
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower.

Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting,
Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth.
"Look at these arms," he said, "the war-like weapons that hang here
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!
This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate,
Well I remember the day! once save my life in a skirmish;
Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet
Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero.
Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish
Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses."
Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:
"Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet;
He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!"
Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling:
"See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging;
That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.
Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage;
So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.
Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army,
Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock,
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage,
And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!"
This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams
Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment.
Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued:
"Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Added by Poetry Lover
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