I took my lyre
I took my lyre and said:
Come now, my heavenly
tortoise shell: become
a speaking instrument
Sappho
tr. Barnard
Related quotes
Sappho to Phaon (Ovid Heroid XV)
Say, lovely youth, that dost my heart command,
Can Phaon's eyes forget his Sappho's hand?
Must then her name the wretched writer prove,
To thy remembrance lost, as to thy love?
Ask not the cause that I new numbers choose,
The Lute neglected, and the Lyric muse;
Love taught my tears in adder notes to flow,
And tun'd my heart to Elegies of woe,
I burn, I burn, as when thro' ripen'd corn
By driving winds the spreading flames are borne!
Phaon to Aetna's scorching fields retires,
While I consume with more than Aetna's fires!
No more my soul a charm in music finds,
Music has charms alone for peaceful minds.
Soft scenes of solitude no more can please,
Love enters there, and I'm my own disease.
No more the Lesbian dames my passion move,
Once the dear objects of my guilty love;
All other loves are lost in only thine,
Ah youth ungrateful to a flame like mine!
Whom would not all those blooming charms surprize,
Those heav'nly looks, and dear deluding eyes?
The harp and bow would you like Phoebus bear,
A brighter Phoebus Phaon might appear;
Would you with ivy wreath your flowing hair,
Not Bacchus' self with Phaon could compare:
Yet Phoebus lov'd, and Bacchus felt the flame,
One Daphne warm'd, and one the Cretan dame,
Nymphs that in verse no more could rival me,
That ev'n those Gods contend in charms with thee.
The Muses teach me all their softest lays,
And the wide world resounds with Sappho's praise.
Tho' great Alcaeus more sublimely sings,
And strikes with bolder rage the sounding strings,
No less renown attends the moving lyre,
Which Venus tunes, and all her loves inspire;
To me what nature has in charms deny'd,
Is well by wit's more lasting flames supply'd.
Tho' short my stature, yet my name extends
To heav'n itself, and earth's remotest ends.
Brown as I am, an Ethiopian dame
Inspir'd young Perseus with a gen'rous flame;
Turtles and doves of diff'ring hues unite,
And glossy jet is pair'd with shining white.
If to no charms thou wilt thy heart resign,
But such as merit, such as equal thine,
By none, alas! by none thou canst be mov'd,
Phaon alone by Phaon must be lov'd!
Yet once thy Sappho could thy cares employ,
Once in her arms you center'd all your joy:
[...] Read more
poem by Alexander Pope
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Old Barnard -- A Monkish Tale
OLD BARNARD was still a lusty hind,
Though his age was full fourscore;
And he us'd to go
Thro' hail and snow,
To a neighb'ring town,
With his old coat brown,
To beg, at his GRANDSON'S door!
OLD BARNARD briskly jogg'd along,
When the hail and snow did fall;
And, whatever the day,
He was always gay,
Did the broad Sun glow,
Or the keen wind blow,
While he begg'd in his GRANDSON'S Hall.
His GRANDSON was a Squire, and he
Had houses, and lands, and gold;
And a coach beside,
And horses to ride,
And a downy bed
To repose his head,
And he felt not the winter's cold.
Old BARNARD had neither house nor lands,
Nor gold to buy warm array;
Nor a coach to carry,
His old bones weary
Nor beds of feather
In freezing weather,
To sleep the long nights away.
But BARNARD a quiet conscience had,
No guile did his bosom know;
And when Ev'ning clos'd,
His old bones repos'd,
Tho' the wintry blast
O'er his hovel past,
And he slept, while the winds did blow!
But his GRANDSON, he could never sleep
'Till the Sun began to rise;
For a fev'rish pain
Oppress'd his brain,
And he fear'd some evil
And dream'd of the Devil,
Whenever he clos'd his eyes!
And whenever he feasted the rich and gay,
The Devil still had his joke;
[...] Read more
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Orpheus
ORPHEUS.
LAUGHTER and dance, and sounds of harp and lyre,
Piping of flutes, singing of festal songs,
Ribbons of flame from flaunting torches, dulled
By the broad summer sunshine, these had filled
Since the high noon the pillared vestibules,
The peristyles and porches, in the house
Of the bride's father. Maidens, garlanded
With rose and myrtle dedicate to Love,
Adorned with chaplets fresh the bride, and veiled
The shining head and wistful, girlish face,
Ineffable sweetness of divided lips,
Large light of clear, gray eyes, low, lucid brows,
White as a cloud, beneath pale, clustering gold.
When sunless skies uncertain twilight cast,
That makes a friend's face as an alien's strange,
Investing with a foreign mystery
The dear green fields about our very home.
Then waiting stood the gilded chariot
Before the porch, and from the vine-wreathed door,
Issued the white-veiled bride, while jocund youths
And mænads followed her with dance and song.
She came with double glory; for her lord,
Son of Apollo and Calliope,
Towered beside her, beautiful in limb
And feature, as though formed to magic strains,
Like the Bœotian city, that arose
In airy structures to Amphion's lute.
The light serene shone from his brow and eyes,
Of one whose lofty thoughts keep consonance
With the celestial music of the spheres.
His smile was fluent, and his speech outsang
The cadences of soft-stringed instruments.
He to the chariot led Eurydice,
And these twain, mounting with their paranymph,
Drove onward through the dusky twilit fields,
Preceded by the nymphs and singing youths,
And boys diffusing light and odors warm,
With flaming brands of aromatic woods,
And matrons bearing symbols of the life
Of careful wives, the distaff and the sieve;
And followed by the echoes of their songs,
The fragrance crushed from moist and trodden grass,
The blessing of the ever-present gods,
Whom they invoked with earnest hymns and prayer.
From Orpheus' portico, festooned with vines,
Issued a flood of rare, ambrosial light,
As though Olympian portals stood ajar,
And Hymen, radiant by his torch's flame,
Mystic with saffron vest and purple, stood
[...] Read more
poem by Emma Lazarus
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Little Musgrave and Lady Barnard
As it fell out on a highe holye daye,
As many bee in the yeare,
When young men and maides together do goe,
Their masses and matins to heare,
Little Musgrave came to the church door,
The priest was at the mass;
But he had more mind of the fine women,
Then he had of our Ladyes grace.
And some of them were clad in greene,
And others were clad in pall;
And then came in my Lord Barnardes wife,
The fairest among them all.
Shee cast an eye on little Musgrave
As bright as the summer sunne:
O then bethought him little Musgrave,
'This ladyes heart I have wonne.'
Quoth she, 'I have loved thee, little Musgrave,
Fulle long and manye a daye:'
'So have I loved you, ladye faire,
Yet word I never durst saye.'
'I have a bower at Bucklesford-Bury,
Full daintilye bedight;
If thoult wend thither, my little Musgrave,
Thoust lig in mine armes all night.'
Quoth hee, 'I thanke yee, ladye faire,
This kindness yee shew to mee;
And whether it be to my weale or woe,
This night will I lig with thee.'
All this beheard a litle foot-page,
By his ladyes coach as he ranne:
Quoth he, 'Thoughe I am my ladyes page,
Yet Ime my Lord Barnardes manne.
'My Lord Barnard shall knowe of this,
Although I lose a limbe.'
And ever whereas the bridges were broke,
He layd him downe to swimme.
'Asleep or awake, thou Lord Barnard,
As thou art a man of life;
Lo! this same night at Bucklesford-Bury
Little Musgrave's abed with thy wife.'
[...] Read more
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Tannhauser
The Landgrave Hermann held a gathering
Of minstrels, minnesingers, troubadours,
At Wartburg in his palace, and the knight,
Sir Tannhauser of France, the greatest bard,
Inspired with heavenly visions, and endowed
With apprehension and rare utterance
Of noble music, fared in thoughtful wise
Across the Horsel meadows. Full of light,
And large repose, the peaceful valley lay,
In the late splendor of the afternoon,
And level sunbeams lit the serious face
Of the young knight, who journeyed to the west,
Towards the precipitous and rugged cliffs,
Scarred, grim, and torn with savage rifts and chasms,
That in the distance loomed as soft and fair
And purple as their shadows on the grass.
The tinkling chimes ran out athwart the air,
Proclaiming sunset, ushering evening in,
Although the sky yet glowed with yellow light.
The ploughboy, ere he led his cattle home,
In the near meadow, reverently knelt,
And doffed his cap, and duly crossed his breast,
Whispering his 'Ave Mary,' as he heard
The pealing vesper-bell. But still the knight,
Unmindful of the sacred hour announced,
Disdainful or unconscious, held his course.
'Would that I also, like yon stupid wight,
Could kneel and hail the Virgin and believe!'
He murmured bitterly beneath his breath.
'Were I a pagan, riding to contend
For the Olympic wreath, O with what zeal,
What fire of inspiration, would I sing
The praises of the gods! How may my lyre
Glorify these whose very life I doubt?
The world is governed by one cruel God,
Who brings a sword, not peace. A pallid Christ,
Unnatural, perfect, and a virgin cold,
They give us for a heaven of living gods,
Beautiful, loving, whose mere names were song;
A creed of suffering and despair, walled in
On every side by brazen boundaries,
That limit the soul's vision and her hope
To a red hell or and unpeopled heaven.
Yea, I am lost already,-even now
Am doomed to flaming torture for my thoughts.
O gods! O gods! where shall my soul find peace?'
He raised his wan face to the faded skies,
Now shadowing into twilight; no response
Came from their sunless heights; no miracle,
As in the ancient days of answering gods.
[...] Read more
poem by Emma Lazarus
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Rokeby: Canto II.
I.
Far in the chambers of the west,
The gale had sigh'd itself to rest;
The moon was cloudless now and clear,
But pale, and soon to disappear.
The thin grey clouds wax dimly light
On Brusleton and Houghton height;
And the rich dale, that eastward lay,
Waited the wakening touch of day,
To give its woods and cultured plain,
And towers and spires, to light again.
But, westward, Stanmore's shapeless swell,
And Lunedale wild, and Kelton-fell,
And rock-begirdled Gilmanscar,
And Arkingarth, lay dark afar;
While, as a livelier twilight falls,
Emerge proud Barnard's banner'd walls
High crown'd he sits, in dawning pale,
The sovereign of the lovely vale.
II.
What prospects, from his watch-tower high,
Gleam gradual on the warder's eye!
Far sweeping to the east, he sees
Down his deep woods the course of Tees,
And tracks his wanderings by the steam
Of summer vapours from the stream;
And ere he pace his destined hour
By Brackenbury's dungeon-tower,
These silver mists shall melt away,
And dew the woods with glittering spray.
Then in broad luster shall be shown
That mighty trench of living stone,
And each huge trunk that, from the side,
Reclines him o'er the darksome tide,
Where Tees, full many a fathom low,
Wears with his rage no common foe;
For pebbly bank, nor sand-bed here,
Nor clay-mound, checks his fierce career,
Condemn'd to mine a channell'd way,
O'er solid sheets of marble gray.
III.
Nor Tees alone, in dawning bright,
Shall rush upon the ravish'd sight;
But many a tributary stream
Each from its own dark dell shall gleam:
Staindrop, who, from her sylvan bowers,
Salutes proud Raby's battled towers;
The rural brook of Egliston,
[...] Read more
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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To Ulla
Ulla, mine Ulla, tell me, may I hand thee
Reddest of strawberries in milk or wine?
Or from the pond a lively fish? Command me!
Or, from the well, a bowl of water fine?
Doors are blown open, the wind gets the blaming.
Perfumes exhale from flower and tree.
Clouds fleck the sky and the sun rises flaming,
As you see!
Isn't it heavenly--the fish market? So?
'Heavenly, oh heavenly!'
'See the stately trees there, standing row on row,--
Fresh, green leaves show!
And that pretty bay
Sparkling there?' 'Ah yes!'
'And, seen where sunbeams play,
The meadows' loveliness?
Are they not heavenly--those bright fields?--Confess!'--
Heavenly!
Heavenly!
Skal and good-noon, fair one in window leaning,
Hark how the city bells their peals prolong!
See how the dust the verdant turf is screening,
Where the calashes and the wagons throng!
Hand from the window--he's drowsy, the speaker,
In my saddle I nod, cousin mine--
Primo a crust, and secundo a beaker,
Hochlaender wine!
Isn't it heavenly--the fish-market? So?
'Heavenly, oh heavenly!'
'See the stately trees there, standing row on row,--
Fresh, green leaves show!
And that pretty bay
Sparkling there?' 'Ah yes!'
'And, seen where sunbeams play,
The meadows' loveliness?
Are they not heavenly--those bright fields?--Confess!'--
Heavenly!
Heavenly!
Look, Ulla dear! To the stable they're taking
Whinnying, prancing, my good steed, I see.
Still in his stall-door he lifts his head, making
Efforts to look up to thee: just to thee!
Nature itself into flames will be bursting;
Keep those bright eyes in control!
Klang! at your casement my heart, too, is thirsting.
Klang! Your Skal!
Isn't it heavenly--the fish-market? So?
'Heavenly, oh heavenly!'
[...] Read more
poem by Carl Michael Bellman
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I Wish I Was A Heavenly Angel
I wish I was a heavenly angel
For I would watch and protect mankind
But I am no heavenly angel
Hence must play in my own kind
I wish I was a heavenly angel
For I would pray for those in sorrow
But I am no heavenly angel
Hence must suffer the torment of borrow
I wish I was a heavenly angel
For I would worship my god day and night
But I am no heavenly angel
Hence must fight for my own right
I wish I was a heavenly angel
For I would always cling to my sword
But I am no heavenly angel
Hence must fight the pain of my fault
I wish I was a heavenly angel
For I would never no tiredness
But I am no heavenly angel
Hence must till the land to grow in abundance
I wish I was a heavenly angel
For I would weep when man sin
But I am no heavenly angel
Hence must pray for my own sin so dire
I wish I was a heavenly angel
For I would shore endlessly in space
But I am no heavenly angel
Hence must check as I walk in pace
I wish I was a heavenly angel
For I would wonder around this world free
But I am no heavenly angel
Hence must stand still as a tree
I wish I was a heavenly angel
For my heart shall always be in joy
But I am no heavenly angel
Hence must behave just like a boy
poem by Samuel Donkor
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English Bards and Scotch Reviewers: A Satire
'I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew!
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers'~Shakespeare
'Such shameless bards we have; and yet 'tis true,
There are as mad, abandon'd critics too,'~Pope.
Still must I hear? -- shall hoarse Fitzgerald bawl
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch reviews
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my muse?
Prepare for rhyme -- I'll publish, right or wrong:
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.
O nature's noblest gift -- my grey goose-quill!
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men!
The pen! foredoom'd to aid the mental throes
Of brains that labour, big with verse or prose,
Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride,
The lover's solace, and the author's pride.
What wits, what poets dost thou daily raise!
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise!
Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite,
With all the pages which 'twas thine to write.
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen!
Once laid aside, but now assumed again,
Our task complete, like Hamet's shall be free;
Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me:
Then let us soar today, no common theme,
No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream
Inspires -- our path, though full of thorns, is plain;
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.
When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway,
Obey'd by all who nought beside obey;
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
Bedecks her cap with bells of every clime;
When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail,
And weigh their justice in a golden scale;
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers,
Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears,
More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe,
And shrink from ridicule, though not from law.
Such is the force of wit! but not belong
To me the arrows of satiric song;
The royal vices of our age demand
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand.
[...] Read more
Dont Believe Her
Music :rudolf schenker, jim vallance
Lyrics:herman rarebell, klaus meine, jim vallance
Out for a thrill
Got time to kill
Just livin up my dreams
For heavens sake
Shes on the make
A twisted vicars queen
And then one night we took a ride
She was all over me
Outrageous
Just aint real
I was too wasted to see
Before you get in too deep
And you get burned by the heat
Oh yeah
Shell take you there
You know it happened to me
Shell make your heart break
Shell give you fever
Shell tell you everything but dont believe her
A perfect stranger
She knows the game
Shell promise heaven on earth
But dont believe her
Out on the street of broken dreams
Where no one ever wins
Just when you thought youd made a start
Youre back where you begin
Before you get in too deep
And you get burned by the heat
Oh yeah
Shell take you there
I think you know what I mean
Shell make you crazy
Shes such a teaser
Says youre the only one but dont believe her
She deals in danger
The girls insane
Shell promise heaven on earth
But dont believe her
Before you get in too deep
And you get burned by the heat
Oh yeah
Shell take you there
You know it happened to me
Dont believe her (dont believe her)
Dont believe her (dont believe her)
Dont believe her (dont believe her)
I cant believe her (dont believe her)
[...] Read more
song performed by Scorpions
Added by Lucian Velea
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Tortoise Shout
I thought he was dumb,
I said he was dumb,
Yet I've heard him cry.
First faint scream,
Out of life's unfathomable dawn,
Far off, so far, like a madness, under the horizon's dawning rim,
Far, far off, far scream.
Tortoise in extremis.
Why were we crucified into sex?
Why were we not left rounded off, and finished in ourselves,
As we began,
As he certainly began, so perfectly alone?
A far, was-it-audible scream,
Or did it sound on the plasm direct?
Worse than the cry of the new-born,
A scream,
A yell,
A shout,
A pæan,
A death-agony,
A birth-cry,
A submission,
All tiny, tiny, far away, reptile under the first dawn.
War-cry, triumph, acute-delight, death-scream reptilian,
Why was the veil torn?
The silken shriek of the soul's torn membrane?
The male soul's membrane
Torn with a shriek half music, half horror.
Crucifixion.
Male tortoise, cleaving behind the hovel-wall of that dense female,
Mounted and tense, spread-eagle, out-reaching out of the shell
In tortoise-nakedness,
Long neck, and long vulnerable limbs extruded, spread-eagle over her house-roof,
And the deep, secret, all-penetrating tail curved beneath her walls,
Reaching and gripping tense, more reaching anguish in uttermost tension
Till suddenly, in the spasm of coition, tupping like a jerking leap, and oh!
Opening its clenched face from his outstretched neck
And giving that fragile yell, that scream,
Super-audible,
From his pink, cleft, old-man's mouth,
Giving up the ghost,
Or screaming in Pentecost, receiving the ghost.
[...] Read more
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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Tortoise Shell
The Cross, the Cross
Goes deeper in than we know,
Deeper into life;
Right into the marrow
And through the bone.
Along the back of the baby tortoise
The scales are locked in an arch like a bridge,
Scale-lapping, like a lobster's sections
Or a bee's.
Then crossways down his sides
Tiger-stripes and wasp-bands.
Five, and five again, and five again,
And round the edges twenty-five little ones,
The sections of the baby tortoise shell.
Four, and a keystone;
Four, and a keystone;
Four, and a keystone;
Then twenty-four, and a tiny little keystone.
It needed Pythagoras to see life playing with counters on the living back
Of the baby tortoise;
Life establishing the first eternal mathematical tablet,
Not in stone, like the Judean Lord, or bronze, but in life-clouded, life-rosy tortoise shell.
The first little mathematical gentleman
Stepping, wee mite, in his loose trousers
Under all the eternal dome of mathematical law.
Fives, and tens,
Threes and fours and twelves,
All the volte face of decimals,
The whirligig of dozens and the pinnacle of seven.
Turn him on his back,
The kicking little beetle,
And there again, on his shell-tender, earth-touching belly,
The long cleavage of division, upright of the eternal cross
And on either side count five,
On each side, two above, on each side, two below
The dark bar horizontal.
The Cross!
It goes right through him, the sprottling insect,
Through his cross-wise cloven psyche,
Through his five-fold complex-nature.
So turn him over on his toes again;
[...] Read more
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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Heavenly Arms
Heavenly arms reach out to hold me
Heavenly arms entice you to dance
In a world of ill will, the dancers are still
Heavenly arms reach out to me
Heavenly arms soft as a love song
Heavenly arms bring a kiss to your ear
In a world that seems mad, all the dancers seem sad
Heavenly arms reach out to me
Sylvia
Sylvia
Sylvia
Sylvia
Heavenly arms come to my rescue
Only a woman can love a man
In a world full of hate, love should never wait
Heavenly arms reach out to me
Heavenly arms strong as a sunset
Heavenly arms pure as the rain
Lovers stand warned of the worlds impending storm
Heavenly arms reach out to me
Sylvia
Sylvia
Sylvia
Sylvia
Ohhh-wohhh, oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
Ooohhh-ooohhh-ooohhh-ooohhh-ooohhh, oh-woh-woh
Ooohhh-ooohhh-ooohhh-ooohhh, ohh-woh-woh
(heavenly arms reach out to hold me)
(sylvia, you mean so much to me)
(heavenly arms reach out to hold me)
(sylvia, you mean so much to me)
(heavenly arms reach out to hold me)
(sylvia, you mean so much to me)
(heavenly arms reach out to hold me)
song performed by Lou Reed
Added by Lucian Velea
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In a Manner of Speaking
In a manner of speaking, I want to kill you,
said the drunk redneck to his wife,
In a manner of speaking, I don't love you,
said my ex (turned vegan) to me,
as I returned from a psych ward, hoping for
some sort of reconciliation,
And in a manner of speaking, the whole
world has gone to shit, that no mentally
unbalanced poet can improve upon,
In a manner of speaking, I was just a haiku
before I birthed an epic poem in 2008
and it went something like:
In a manner of speaking…
In a manner of speaking, there is plenty of
beer and loose women,
In a manner of speaking, there is plenty of
internet journals with useless information,
In a manner of speaking, there are plenty of
assholes writing about getting laid and anal sex
on MySpace,
In a manner of speaking, my friend got raped
a few years ago and now has occasional herpes
outbreaks, which are quite disturbing
to her husband,
In a manner of speaking, I'm losing faith in humanity
and love at times,
In a manner of speaking, we just go through the motions,
hoping for something to change or something
spectacular to happen.
But I don't really know any more,
trying to make sense of it all, screaming for some sort of
sanity that eludes me,
In a manner of speaking, I feel alone here,
unable to connect to what's around me-
I just told some guy at a bar that I was a Dallas Cowboys
fan and I don't even watch football,
and he told me to come in my 'gear' on Sunday,
In a manner of speaking, I feel somewhat liberated
because I have no clue as to what I'm doing,
knowing that there is really no escape.
January 8,2008
-Alexander Shaumyan
poem by Alexander Shaumyan
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Ode XIII: On Lyric Poetry
I. 1.
Once more I join the Thespian choir,
And taste the inspiring fount again:
O parent of the Grecian lyre,
Admit me to thy powerful strain—
And lo, with ease my step invades
The pathless vale and opening shades,
Till now I spy her verdant seat;
And now at large i drink the sound,
While these her offspring, listening round,
By turns her melody repeat.
I. 2.
I see Anacreon smile and sing,
His silver tresses breathe perfume;
His cheek displays a second spring
Of roses taught by wine to bloom.
Away, deceitful cares, away,
And let me listen to his lay;
Let me the wanton pomp injoy,
While in smooth dance the light-wing'd Hours
Lead round his lyre it's patron powers,
Kind laughter and convivial joy.
I. 3.
Broke from the fetters of his native land,
Devoting shame and vengeance to her lords,
With louder impulse and a threatening hand
The Lesbian patriot smites the sounding chords:
Ye wretches, ye perfidious train,
Ye curs'd of gods and freeborn men,
Ye murderers of the laws,
Though now ye glory in your lust,
Though now ye tread the feeble neck in dust,
Yet Time and righteous Jove will judge your dreadful cause.
II. 1.
But lo, to Sappho's melting airs
Descends the radiant queen of love:
She smiles, and asks what fonder cares
Her suppliant's plaintive measures move:
Why is my faithful maid distress'd?
Who, Sappho, wounds thy tender breast?
Say, flies he?—Soon he shall pursue:
Shuns he thy gifts—He soon shall give:
Slights he thy sorrows?—He shall grieve,
And soon to all thy wishes bow.
II. 2.
But, o Melpomene, for whom
[...] Read more
poem by Mark Akenside
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Kittens Got Claws
(coverdale/vandenberg)
Walking down the street
Youre the center of my universe
You got the world in your pocket,
My manhood in your purse
You aint a bad girl, honey,
No matter what the neighbours say,
Its just that you were those skin-tight dresses
With your g-string tuned to a
Sweet, sweet, child of the street
Heaven sent, youre an angel dressed in black,
Cool, stiletto strut, youre a drop jaw cardiac
Youre the genuine, feline, prettiest girl Ive ever seen,
With your thief of hearts smile
Youre a certified pleasure machine
Sweet, sweet, child of the street
Dressed to kill in diamonds and fur,
You get what you want
With your pussy cat purr
But, the kittens got claws,
Shell tear your heart out
The kittens got claws,
Shell scratch your back
The kittens got claws
Shell tease an please you
The kittens got claws,
Shes a heart attack
You treat me good,
Sometimes you treat me bad,
But, keep it up, honey,
Youre the best time Ive ever had
No matter what you put me through I must confess,
Oh, you got more style than a brand new xjs
Sweet, sweet, child of the street
Dressed to kill in diamonds and fur,
You get what you want
With your pussy cat purr
But, the kittens got claws,
Shell tear your heart out
The kittens got claws,
Shell scratch your back
The kittens got claws,
Shell tease an please you
The kittens got claws,
Shes a heart attack...
Walking down the street
Youre the center of my universe
You got the world in your pocket,
My manhood in your purse
I know you aint a bad girl, honey,
[...] Read more
song performed by Whitesnake
Added by Lucian Velea
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Gil Morrice. A Scottish Ballad
Gil Morrice was an erles son,
His name it waxed wide:
It was nae for his great riches,
Nor zet was mickle pride;
Bot it was for a lady gay,
That livd on Carron side.
'Quhair sall I get a bonny boy,
That will win hose and shoen;
That will gae to Lord Barnard's ha',
And bid his lady cum?
And ze maun rin my errand, Willie,
And ze may rin wi' pride;
Quhen other boys gae on their foot,
On horse-back ze sall ride.'
'O no! O no! my master dear!
I dare nae for my life;
I'll no gae to the bauld barons,
For to triest furth his wife.'
'My bird Willie, my boy Willie,
My dear Willie,' he sayd:
'How can ze strive against the stream?
For I shall be obeyd.'
'Bot, O my master dear!' he cry'd,
'In grene wod ze're zour lain;
Gi owre sic thochts, I walde ze rede,
For fear ze should be tain.'
'Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha',
Bid hir cum here wi speid:
If ze refuse my heigh command,
Ill gar zour body bleid.
'Gae bid hir take this gay mantel,
'Tis a gowd bot the hem;
Bid hir cum to the gude grene wode,
And bring nane bot hir lain:
And there it is, a silken sarke,
Hir ain hand sewd the sleive;
And bid hir cum to Gill Morice,
Speir nae bauld barons leave.'
'Yes, I will gae zour blacke errand,
Though it be to zour cost;
Sen ze by me well nae be warn'd,
In it ze sall find frost.
The baron he is a man of might,
He neir could bide to taunt;
As ze will see before it's nicht,
[...] Read more
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Pleasures of Hope
Part I.
At summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow
Spans with bright arch the glittering bills below,
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye,
Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky ?
Why do those clifts of shadowy tint appear
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near ?—
'T is distance lends enchantment to the view,
And robes the mountain in its azure hue.
Thus, with delight, we linger to survey
The promised joys of life's unmeasured way;
Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene
More pleasing seems than all the past hath been,
And every form, that Fancy can repair
From dark oblivion, glows divinely there.
What potent spirit guides the raptured eye
To pierce the shades of dim futurity ?
Can Wisdom lend, with all her heavenly power,
The pledge of Joy's anticipated hour ?
Ah, no! she darkly sees the fate of man—
Her dim horizon bounded to a span;
Or, if she hold an image to the view,
'T is Nature pictured too severely true.
With thee, sweet Hope! resides the heavenly light,
That pours remotest rapture on the sight:
Thine is the charm of life's bewildered way,
That calls each slumbering passion into play.
Waked by thy touch, I see the sister band,
On tiptoe watching, staft at thy command
And fly where'er thy mandate bids them steer,
To Pleasure's path or Glory's bright career.
Primeval Hope, the Aonian Muses say,
When Man and Nature mourned their first decay;
When every form of death, and every woe,
Shot from malignant stars to earth below ;
When Murder bared her arm, and rampant War
Yoked the red dragons of her iron car ;
When Peace and Mercy, banished from the plain,
Sprung on the viewless winds to Heaven again ;
All, all forsook the friendless, guilty mind,
But Hope, the charmer, lingered still behind.
Thus, while Elijah's burning wheels prepare
From Carmel's heights to sweep the fields of air,
The prophet's mantle, ere his fight began,
Dropt on the world—a sacred gift to man.
Auspicious Hope ! in thy sweet garden grow
Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe ;
Won by their sweets, in Nature's languid hour,
The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower ;
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Campbell
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Tale
(_Epilogue to 'The Two Poets of Croisic.'_)
What a pretty tale you told me
Once upon a time
--Said you found it somewhere (scold me!)
Was it prose or was it rhyme,
Greek or Latin? Greek, you said,
While your shoulder propped my head.
Anyhow there's no forgetting
This much if no more,
That a poet (pray, no petting!)
Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore,
Went where suchlike used to go,
Singing for a prize, you know.
Well, he had to sing, nor merely
Sing but play the lyre;
Playing was important clearly
Quite as singing: I desire,
Sir, you keep the fact in mind
For a purpose that's behind.
There stood he, while deep attention
Held the judges round,
--Judges able, I should mention,
To detect the slightest sound
Sung or played amiss: such ears
Had old judges, it appears!
None the less he sang out boldly,
Played in time and tune,
Till the judges, weighing coldly
Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon,
Sure to smile 'In vain one tries
Picking faults out: take the prize!'
When, a mischief! Were they seven
Strings the lyre possessed?
Oh, and afterwards eleven,
Thank you! Well, sir,--who had guessed
Such ill luck in store?--it happed
One of those same seven strings snapped.
All was lost, then! No! a cricket
(What 'cicada'? Pooh!)
--Some mad thing that left its thicket
For mere love of music--flew
With its little heart on fire,
Lighted on the crippled lyre.
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning
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Sappho - A Monodrama
Argument.
To leap from the promontory of LEUCADIA was believed by the Greeks to be
a remedy for hopeless love, if the self-devoted victim escaped with
life. Artemisia lost her life in the dangerous experiment: and Sappho is
said thus to have perished, in attempting to cure her passion for Phaon.
SAPPHO
(Scene the promontory of Leucadia.)
This is the spot:--'tis here Tradition says
That hopeless Love from this high towering rock
Leaps headlong to Oblivion or to Death.
Oh 'tis a giddy height! my dizzy head
Swims at the precipice--'tis death to fall!
Lie still, thou coward heart! this is no time
To shake with thy strong throbs the frame convuls'd.
To die,--to be at rest--oh pleasant thought!
Perchance to leap and live; the soul all still,
And the wild tempest of the passions husht
In one deep calm; the heart, no more diseas'd
By the quick ague fits of hope and fear,
Quietly cold!
Presiding Powers look down!
In vain to you I pour'd my earnest prayers,
In vain I sung your praises: chiefly thou
VENUS! ungrateful Goddess, whom my lyre
Hymn'd with such full devotion! Lesbian groves,
Witness how often at the languid hour
Of summer twilight, to the melting song
Ye gave your choral echoes! Grecian Maids
Who hear with downcast look and flushing cheek
That lay of love bear witness! and ye Youths,
Who hang enraptur'd on the empassion'd strain
Gazing with eloquent eye, even till the heart
Sinks in the deep delirium! and ye too
Shall witness, unborn Ages! to that song
Of warmest zeal; ah witness ye, how hard,
Her fate who hymn'd the votive hymn in vain!
Ungrateful Goddess! I have hung my lute
In yonder holy pile: my hand no more
Shall wake the melodies that fail'd to move
The heart of Phaon--yet when Rumour tells
How from Leucadia Sappho hurl'd her down
A self-devoted victim--he may melt
Too late in pity, obstinate to love.
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Southey
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