Squirrels in Play
Below the beckoning Beech Nut tree
The squirrels in pleasure play;
Each a member of that kinship
Gathering forage while they may.
Gregarious in their pleasure
As they patter here and there
Filling cheeks with beech nuts
With a squirrelish flair.
Up and down the Beech Nut tree
They chase in shadowy delight
For pleasure or picking rights
They engage in playful fights.
They scold and chatter as they play
As warning or from fright;
One can never humor them
They will chase away from sight.
Sit and watch them by the hour
With their acts all on display;
They surely then will humor you
In their uninhibited way.
poem by Justin P. Malady
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Related quotes
Pitter Patter
It looks like rain and its been comin on for hours
It looks like rain I hear the rumble of thunder showers
Pretty soon the rain will play its sweet refrain
While we listen from inside
And until it stops, well hear the drips and drops
From beside the fireside
So let it rain (pitter patter, pitter patter of the rain) (goin drip
Drop drip drop)
Yeah and well be happy when it stops (pitter patter, pitter patter of
The rain) (goin drip drop drip drop)
cause when it rains (pitter patter, pitter patter of the rain) (goin
Drip drop drip drop)
The ways of love rise in my heart (pitter patter, pitter patter of the
Rain) (goin drip drop drip drop)
We wont be sad when there is a storm (ooooo)
And we can be glad (ooooo)
cause we can keep warm, yeah, yeah
Listen to the rain
Pitter patter, pitter patter of the rain (goin drip drop drip drop)
Pitter patter, pitter patter, pitter patter (goin drip drop drip drop)
Pitter patter oooo
A rain swept plain
Soon after springtime rains blow over
Will sprout new grain
And miles of fresh green fields of clover
Winter and its cold soon will lose its hold
With the changes spring will bring
Sun comes pourin down warmin up the ground
Bringin new life with the spring
So let it rain (pitter patter, pitter patter of the rain) (goin drip
Drop drip drop)
Yeah and well be happy when it stops (pitter patter, pitter patter of
The rain) (goin drip drop drip drop)
cause when it rains (pitter patter, pitter patter of the rain) (goin
Drip drop drip drop)
The ways of love rise in my heart (pitter patter, pitter patter of the
Rain) (goin drip drop drip drop)
And like the risin tides love is growin stronger (ooooo)
Lets ride out the storm just a little bit longer yeah (ooooo)
Listen to the rain
Pitter patter, pitter patter of the rain (goin drip drop drip drop)
Pitter patter, pitter patter, pitter patter (goin drip drop drip drop)
Pitter patter oooo
Listen to the rain
Pitter patter, pitter patter of the rain (goin drip drop drip drop)
Pitter patter, pitter patter, pitter patter (goin drip drop drip drop)
Pitter patter oooo
Listen to the rain
Pitter patter, pitter patter of the rain (goin drip drop drip drop)
Pitter patter, pitter patter, pitter patter (goin drip drop drip drop)
[...] Read more
song performed by Beach Boys
Added by Lucian Velea
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Rain On The Window
(hicks / clarke / nash)
When I hear pitter-patter the rain on the window
Reminds of her
When I hear pitter-patter the rain on the window
It was raining hard
The trees looked bare the night I met her
She was wet her hands were cold
The wind blew through her hair
Though Id known her quite a long time
We were just good friends
So it didnt seem so strange
Inviting her back home
We sat by the fire
The flames brought out something in her
Melting all the cold
Projecting warmth I never knew
As the rain beat on my window
Did she understand
That in the glow of dying embers
Everything was planned
Pitter-patter pitter-patter pitter-patter pitter-patter
Pitter-patter pitter-patter pitter-patter pitter-patter
Pitter-patter pitter-patter pitter-patter pitter-patter
Pitter-patter pitter-patter pitter-patter pitter-patter
We made love later on that night
While the rain beat on my window
I cant forget the things that happened
While the rain beat down on my window
Next time I saw her
I knew she didnt want to know me
If I disappointed her
I think she should have told me
Cant she understand
I only tried to be a man
She made me feel so ashamed
Of everything I am
When I hear pitter-patter
The rain on the window
Reminds of her
song performed by Hollies
Added by Lucian Velea
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Picking It Up
Picking it up.
Picking it up.
Picking it up,
From the middle can be critical.
Picking it up.
Picking it up.
Picking it up...
Like that does not ensure,
Self assurance to occur.
Picking it up.
Picking it up.
Picking it up,
From the middle can be critical.
Picking it up.
Picking it up.
Picking it up...
Like that does not ensure,
Self assurance to occur.
It is a strategy that one should seek.
With satisfaction first examined.
To make sure that one increases harmony!
With a proactive way,
Of life to live.
Picking it up.
Picking it up.
Picking it up,
From the middle can be critical.
It is the heat that one releases.
When nothing satisfies to analyzing eyes...
Only seeing with a vision that's fixed.
As if in a tunnel,
To rip through quick.
It's not a riddle when one plays it second fiddle,
Oh...
Picking it up.
Picking it up.
Picking it up,
From the middle can be critical.
Picking it up.
Picking it up.
Picking it up,
With proactive actions to prevent blurs.
And...
Don't be vague!
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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An ever-relished chase
It has been a long chase
For something or the other
Over these years
As a kid it was a chase
For toys and play things
As a student it was a chase
For marks and ranks
As a youth it was a chase
After career and growth
And later it was chase
For getting the right life partner
The chase continued
For off-springs’ upbring
It was later to chase
For helping children settle
Ageing made me chase
For cure from illnesses
And other physical malfunctions
Yes,
It was a long chase for
Something or the others all these days
One understanding dawned in me
That
You will not get that
Which you have not chased
And
You will not get every thing
Which you have chased
Even if you get the object of your chase
It is not going to be in that form
In which it was when you started the chase
Unfruitful chase proves frustrating
Fruitful chase exciting
Wisdom will tell you that
The pleasure is more with the act of chase
Than getting hold of the object of chase
Holding of the object of chase
And sustaining its charm
Are essential after the end of chase
[...] Read more
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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Picking From A Grab Bag
Pick one.
Go ahead and pick one.
Just only pick one...
And pull it from the grab bag.
Pick one.
Why don't you pick one.
Just pick up any one,
And...
Pull it from the grab bag.
Do the children learn their ABC's,
Picking from a grab bag.
Is this the best that it can be,
To...
Pick from a grab bag.
What's learn by,
Picking from a grab bag.
What's earned by,
Picking from a grab bag.
Who teaches,
Picking from a grab bag.
Who preaches,
Picking from a grab bag.
And what lessons are really learned?
Who,
Teaches...
Picking from a grab bag.
Who preaches,
Picking from a grab bag.
What's learn by,
Picking from a grab bag.
What's earned by,
Picking from a grab bag.
And...
What lessons are really learned,
Picking from a grab bag.
Picking from a grab bag.
Picking from a grab bag.
Picking from a grab bag.
Who teaches,
Picking from a grab bag.
Who preaches,
Picking from a grab bag.
And...
What lessons are really learned,
Picking from a grab bag.
And...
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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Picking Teachers For Their Leader
Strangers!
Come before the darkness of night,
Crawls.
As twilight escorts the rising moon!
Strangers...
Known in dreams.
Whisper of their presence unseen.
But felt...
By a familiar comfort embraced.
My steps cease to seek a quickened pace.
There is no wish for leaving.
I am told in my mind I should stay.
Soft voices dance within rainbowed light!
Sparkling to convince...
I should pray with faith.
And they would make my life right!
Picking teachers for their Leader.
For the One never shown.
The One who through scriptures...
Repeated to make appear,
But left still for them to go unknown.
Picking teachers for their Leader.
How they do it like it's done...
When they come,
Nobody knows.
Their picking teachers for their Leader.
They say He's number One.
Like none other like He,
Upon me with gifts bestowed!
Strangers!
Come before the darkness of night,
Crawls.
As twilight escorts the rising moon!
Strangers...
Known in dreams.
Whisper of their presence unseen.
But felt...
By a familiar comfort embraced.
Their picking teachers for their Leader.
As God demands.
Their picking teachers for their Leader.
As God Commands.
Their picking teachers for their Leader.
And I understand...
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Venus and Adonis
Even as the sun with purple-colour'd face
Had ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheek'd Adonis tried him to the chase;
Hunting he lov'd, but love he laugh'd to scorn;
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
And like a bold-fac'd suitor 'gins to woo him.
'Thrice fairer than myself,' thus she began,
'The field's chief flower, sweet above compare,
Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,
More white and red than doves or roses are;
Nature that made thee, with herself at strife,
Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.
'Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,
And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow;
If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed
A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know:
Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses;
And being set, I'll smother thee with kisses:
'And yet not cloy thy lips with loath'd satiety,
But rather famish them amid their plenty,
Making them red and pale with fresh variety;
Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty:
A summer's day will seem an hour but short,
Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.'
With this she seizeth on his sweating palm,
The precedent of pith and livelihood,
And, trembling in her passion, calls it balm,
Earth's sovereign salve to do a goddess good:
Being so enrag'd, desire doth lend her force
Courageously to pluck him from his horse.
Over one arm the lusty courser's rein
Under her other was the tender boy,
Who blush'd and pouted in a dull disdain,
With leaden appetite, unapt to toy;
She red and hot as coals of glowing fire
He red for shame, but frosty in desire.
The studded bridle on a ragged bough
Nimbly she fastens;--O! how quick is love:--
The steed is stalled up, and even now
To tie the rider she begins to prove:
Backward she push'd him, as she would be thrust,
And govern'd him in strength, though not in lust.
So soon was she along, as he was down,
Each leaning on their elbows and their hips:
Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown,
And 'gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips;
And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken,
'If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.'
He burns with bashful shame; she with her tears
Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks;
[...] Read more
poem by William Shakespeare (1593)
Added by Dan Costinaş
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Henry And Emma. A Poem.
Upon the Model of The Nut-Brown Maid. To Cloe.
Thou, to whose eyes I bend, at whose command
(Though low my voice, though artless be my hand.
I take the sprightly reed, and sing and play,
Careless of what the censuring world may say;
Bright Cloe! object of my constant vow,
Wilt thou a while unbend thy serious brow?
Wilt thou with pleasure hear thy lover's strains,
And with one heavenly smile o'erpay his pains?
No longer shall the Nut-brown Maid be old,
Though since her youth three hundred years have roll'd:
At thy desire she shall again be raised,
And her reviving charms in lasting verse be praised.
No longer man of woman shall complain,
That he may love and not be loved again;
That we in vain the fickle sex pursue,
Who change the constant lover for the new.
Whatever has been writ, whatever said
Henceforth shall in my verse refuted stand,
Be said to winds, or writ upon the sand:
And while my notes to future times proclaim
Unconquer'd love and ever-during flame,
O, fairest of the sex, be thou my muse;
Deign on my work thy influence to diffuse:
Let me partake the blessings I rehearse,
And grant me love, the just reward of verse.
As beauty's potent queen with every grace
That once was Emma's has adorn'd thy face,
And as her son has to my bosom dealt
That constant flame which faithful Henry felt,
O let the story with thy life agree,
Let men once more the bright example see;
What Emma was to him be thou to me:
Nor send me by thy frown from her I love,
Distant and sad, a banish'd man to rove:
But, oh! with pity long entreated crown
My pains and hopes: and when thou say'st that one
Of all mankind thou lovest, oh! think on me alone.
Where beauteous Isis and her husband Thame
With mingled waves for ever flow the same,
In times of yore an ancient baron lived,
Great gifts bestowed, and great respect received.
When dreadful Edward, with successful care
Led his free Britons to the Gallic war,
[...] Read more
poem by Matthew Prior
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Venus and Adonis
'Vilia miretur vulgus; mihi flavus Apollo
Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua.'
To the right honorable Henry Wriothesly, Earl of Southampton, and Baron of Tichfield.
Right honorable.
I know not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolished lines to your lordship, nor how the world will censure me for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a burden only, if your honour seem but pleased, I account myself highly praised, and vow to take advantage of all idle hours, till I have honoured you with some graver labour. But if the first heir of my invention prove deformed, I shall be sorry it had so noble a god-father, and never after ear so barren a land, for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest. I leave it to your honourable survey, and your honour to your heart's content; which I wish may always answer your own wish and the world's hopeful expectation.
Your honour's in all duty.
Even as the sun with purple-colour'd face
Had ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheek'd Adonis hied him to the chase;
Hunting he loved, but love he laugh'd to scorn;
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
And like a bold-faced suitor 'gins to woo him.
'Thrice-fairer than myself,' thus she began,
'The field's chief flower, sweet above compare,
Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,
More white and red than doves or roses are;
Nature that made thee, with herself at strife,
Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.
'Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,
And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow;
If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed
A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know:
Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses,
And being set, I'll smother thee with kisses;
'And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety,
But rather famish them amid their plenty,
Making them red and pale with fresh variety,
Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty:
A summer's day will seem an hour but short,
Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.'
With this she seizeth on his sweating palm,
The precedent of pith and livelihood,
And trembling in her passion, calls it balm,
Earth's sovereign salve to do a goddess good:
Being so enraged, desire doth lend her force
Courageously to pluck him from his horse.
Over one arm the lusty courser's rein,
Under her other was the tender boy,
Who blush'd and pouted in a dull disdain,
With leaden appetite, unapt to toy;
She red and hot as coals of glowing fire,
He red for shame, but frosty in desire.
The studded bridle on a ragged bough
Nimbly she fastens:--O, how quick is love!--
The steed is stalled up, and even now
To tie the rider she begins to prove:
[...] Read more
poem by William Shakespeare
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Filling Up With Heaven
Once there was a vision
Once there was a glow
Once there was a certainty
No chance could overthrow
Hope was scorched by summer
Crushed and beaten down
Once there was a winner
Now there was a clown
Without you life had seemed so
But now im
Filling up with heaven
Without you life had
Seemed so hostile
Filling up with heaven
But maybe with you its all worthwhile
Now Im filling up with heaven
No baby no baby no baby no
Filling up
No baby no baby baby baby no
Filling up
No baby no baby no baby no
No baby no baby baby baby no
All the fortune that my
Luck had brought
It couldnt even make me smile
Without you life had seemed so
A lonely hideaway my last resort
All achievement infantile
Now im
Filling up with heaven
Without you life had
Seemed so hostile
Filling up with heaven
But maybe with you its all worthwhile
Hey hey hey
As the years had passed by
I became more cynical
All the magic had died
My existence clinical
Ow ow ow ow
But now im
Filling up with heaven
Down down
Down down
Filling up
Without you life had
Seemed so hostile
Down down
Down down
Hey hey hey hey
[...] Read more
song performed by Human League
Added by Lucian Velea
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XI. Guido
You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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With A Picking Up Of Pieces
Betting to get even,
When the odds are not for all.
Makes not a bit of sense,
As many tears fall.
People wish to leap,
When sometimes it's best to crawl.
And a learning to make peace,
With a picking up of pieces.
People wish to win,
To go shopping at a mall.
Without a learning to make peace.
Or a picking up of pieces.
People want to make their rules,
And break every law.
And not learn a single thing,
About the picking up of pieces.
Losers choose to keep their status as big fools.
With disturbing of the peace,
And a dropping of their pieces.
Losers choose to keep their status as big fools.
With disturbing of the peace,
And a dropping of their pieces.
With a boo hooing done,
Or a booing who they choose.
With a leaving of no peace.
Or a picking up of pieces.
With a boo hooing done,
And loudly done too!
With no peace released,
Or a picking up of pieces.
Boooo...
Boo hooing is what they do.
With no peace.
Or a picking up of pieces.
Boooo...
Boo hooing is what they choose.
With no peace.
Or a picking up of pieces.
People want to make their rules,
And break every law.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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The Four Seasons : Autumn
Crown'd with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf,
While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain,
Comes jovial on; the Doric reed once more,
Well pleased, I tune. Whate'er the wintry frost
Nitrous prepared; the various blossom'd Spring
Put in white promise forth; and Summer-suns
Concocted strong, rush boundless now to view,
Full, perfect all, and swell my glorious theme.
Onslow! the Muse, ambitious of thy name,
To grace, inspire, and dignify her song,
Would from the public voice thy gentle ear
A while engage. Thy noble cares she knows,
The patriot virtues that distend thy thought,
Spread on thy front, and in thy bosom glow;
While listening senates hang upon thy tongue,
Devolving through the maze of eloquence
A roll of periods, sweeter than her song.
But she too pants for public virtue, she,
Though weak of power, yet strong in ardent will,
Whene'er her country rushes on her heart,
Assumes a bolder note, and fondly tries
To mix the patriot's with the poet's flame.
When the bright Virgin gives the beauteous days,
And Libra weighs in equal scales the year;
From Heaven's high cope the fierce effulgence shook
Of parting Summer, a serener blue,
With golden light enliven'd, wide invests
The happy world. Attemper'd suns arise,
Sweet-beam'd, and shedding oft through lucid clouds
A pleasing calm; while broad, and brown, below
Extensive harvests hang the heavy head.
Rich, silent, deep, they stand; for not a gale
Rolls its light billows o'er the bending plain:
A calm of plenty! till the ruffled air
Falls from its poise, and gives the breeze to blow.
Rent is the fleecy mantle of the sky;
The clouds fly different; and the sudden sun
By fits effulgent gilds the illumined field,
And black by fits the shadows sweep along.
A gaily chequer'd heart-expanding view,
Far as the circling eye can shoot around,
Unbounded tossing in a flood of corn.
These are thy blessings, Industry! rough power!
Whom labour still attends, and sweat, and pain;
Yet the kind source of every gentle art,
And all the soft civility of life:
Raiser of human kind! by Nature cast,
Naked, and helpless, out amid the woods
And wilds, to rude inclement elements;
With various seeds of art deep in the mind
[...] Read more
poem by James Thomson
Added by Poetry Lover
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You're Not From Brighton
Funk as we used to play
Funk as we used to play
Funk as we used to play
Funk as we used to play
Funk as we used to play
Funk as we used to play
Funk as we used to play
Funk as we used to
Funk as we used to play
Funk as we used to play
Funk as we used to play
Funk as we used to play
Funk as we used to play
Funk as we used to play
Funk as we used to play
Funk as we used, funk as we used to
You're not from Brighton
You're not from Brighton
You're not from Brighton
You're, you're, you're, you're
Funk as we used to play
Funk as we used to play
Funk as we used to play
Funk as we used to play
Said check baby, check baby
Check baby, check said
Check baby, check baby
Check one two
Check baby, check baby
Check baby, check said
Check check baby
Check check one two
Check baby, check baby
Check baby, check said
Check baby, check baby
Check one two, ha
Check baby, check baby
Check baby, check said
Check baby, check baby
Check one two, ha
Check baby, check baby
Check baby, check said
Check baby, check baby
Check one two, ha
Check baby, check baby
Check baby, check said
Check baby, check baby
Check one two
Said check one two, check one two
Check one two, check one two
[...] Read more
song performed by Fatboy Slim
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Ballad of the White Horse
DEDICATION
Of great limbs gone to chaos,
A great face turned to night--
Why bend above a shapeless shroud
Seeking in such archaic cloud
Sight of strong lords and light?
Where seven sunken Englands
Lie buried one by one,
Why should one idle spade, I wonder,
Shake up the dust of thanes like thunder
To smoke and choke the sun?
In cloud of clay so cast to heaven
What shape shall man discern?
These lords may light the mystery
Of mastery or victory,
And these ride high in history,
But these shall not return.
Gored on the Norman gonfalon
The Golden Dragon died:
We shall not wake with ballad strings
The good time of the smaller things,
We shall not see the holy kings
Ride down by Severn side.
Stiff, strange, and quaintly coloured
As the broidery of Bayeux
The England of that dawn remains,
And this of Alfred and the Danes
Seems like the tales a whole tribe feigns
Too English to be true.
Of a good king on an island
That ruled once on a time;
And as he walked by an apple tree
There came green devils out of the sea
With sea-plants trailing heavily
And tracks of opal slime.
Yet Alfred is no fairy tale;
His days as our days ran,
He also looked forth for an hour
On peopled plains and skies that lower,
From those few windows in the tower
That is the head of a man.
But who shall look from Alfred's hood
[...] Read more
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
Added by Poetry Lover
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Paradise Lost: Book 09
No more of talk where God or Angel guest
With Man, as with his friend, familiar us'd,
To sit indulgent, and with him partake
Rural repast; permitting him the while
Venial discourse unblam'd. I now must change
Those notes to tragick; foul distrust, and breach
Disloyal on the part of Man, revolt,
And disobedience: on the part of Heaven
Now alienated, distance and distaste,
Anger and just rebuke, and judgement given,
That brought into this world a world of woe,
Sin and her shadow Death, and Misery
Death's harbinger: Sad talk!yet argument
Not less but more heroick than the wrath
Of stern Achilles on his foe pursued
Thrice fugitive about Troy wall; or rage
Of Turnus for Lavinia disespous'd;
Or Neptune's ire, or Juno's, that so long
Perplexed the Greek, and Cytherea's son:
If answerable style I can obtain
Of my celestial patroness, who deigns
Her nightly visitation unimplor'd,
And dictates to me slumbering; or inspires
Easy my unpremeditated verse:
Since first this subject for heroick song
Pleas'd me long choosing, and beginning late;
Not sedulous by nature to indite
Wars, hitherto the only argument
Heroick deem'd chief mastery to dissect
With long and tedious havock fabled knights
In battles feign'd; the better fortitude
Of patience and heroick martyrdom
Unsung; or to describe races and games,
Or tilting furniture, imblazon'd shields,
Impresses quaint, caparisons and steeds,
Bases and tinsel trappings, gorgeous knights
At joust and tournament; then marshall'd feast
Serv'd up in hall with sewers and seneshals;
The skill of artifice or office mean,
Not that which justly gives heroick name
To person, or to poem. Me, of these
Nor skill'd nor studious, higher argument
Remains; sufficient of itself to raise
That name, unless an age too late, or cold
Climate, or years, damp my intended wing
Depress'd; and much they may, if all be mine,
Not hers, who brings it nightly to my ear.
The sun was sunk, and after him the star
Of Hesperus, whose office is to bring
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poem by John Milton
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I Can Play (Lyrics) :
He didn't give himself up to fear.
And his voice had a life of its own.
He didn't give himself up for broke.
Just a man who played his guitar.
He said 'I can play the guitar', 'I can play it clear'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play'.
'I can play the songs that you want to hear'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play it clear'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play'.
'I can play the songs that you want to hear'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play'.
He didn't give himself up to drinking beer.
His voice still had a life of its own.
And he didn't give himself up for smoke.
Just a man who played his guitar.
He said 'I can play the guitar'.'I can play it clear'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play'.
'I can play the songs that you want to hear'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play it clear'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play'.
'I can play the songs that you want to hear'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play'.
He didn't give himself up to curcumstance.
Always tried to make it alone.
He didn't give himself up to telling lies.
His honesty was already shown.
Always kept himself up to par.
Just a man who played his guitar.
He said 'I can play the guitar'.'I can play it clear'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play'.
'I can play the songs that you want to hear'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play it clear'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play'.
'I can play the songs that you want to hear'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play'...
Rock Lyric By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 1987,2009..
ALL rights reserved..
poem by Kim Robin Edwards
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Delight
Anytime that you fall asleep
I'm wide awake
Anytime that you leave your house
I'm waiting at the gate
I'm not angry anymore
Come on and show your soul
I'd love to hang it on the wall
Framed for me
Anytime that you smile
I know that's really you
Anytime that you laugh you know that
I'll be laughing too
But it's not funny anymore
Come on now where's your soul
Is that it crumpled on the floor
Is this blame on me
Delight Delight Delight Delight
Delight at least we know its name
Delight Delight Delight
Wouldn't it be nice to feel again
Delight Delight Delight
It's locked outside it won't be coming in
Anytime now you'll talk at least I hope you will
Anytime now you'll speak and you know
I'll be listening still
But we don't say much anymore
Come on tell it from your soul
Delight Delight Delight Delight
Delight at least we know its name
Delight Delight Delight
Wouldn't it be nice to feel again
Delight Delight Delight
It's locked outside it won't be coming in
Won't be coming in
Delight Delight
song performed by Bic Runga from Drive
Added by Lucian Velea
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Lord Thomas And Fair Annet
Lord Thomas and Fair Annet
Sate a' day on a hill;
Whan night was cum, and sun was sett,
They had not talkt their fill.
Lord Thomas said a word in jest,
Fair Annet took it ill:
'A, I will nevir wed a wife
Against my ain friend's will.'
'Gif ye wull nevir wed a wife,
A wife wull neir wed yee;'
Sae he is hame to tell his mither,
And knelt upon his knee.
'O rede, O rede, mither,' he says,
'A gude rede gie to mee;
O sall I tak the nut-browne bride,
And let Faire Annet bee?'
'The nut-browne bride haes gowd and gear,
Fair Annet she has gat nane;
And the little beauty Fair Annet haes
O it wull soon be gane.'
And he has till his brother gane:
'Now, brother, rede ye mee;
A, sall I marrie the nut-browne bride,
And let Fair Annet bee?'
'The nut-browne bride has oxen, brother,
The nut-browne bride has kye;
I wad hae ye marrie the nut-browne bride,
And cast Fair Annet bye.'
'Her oxen may dye i' the house, billie,
And her kye into the byre;
And I sall hae nothing to mysell
Bot a fat fadge by the fyre.'
And he has till his sister gane:
'Now, sister, rede ye mee;
O sall I marrie the nut-browne bride,
And set Fair Annet free?'
'I'se rede ye tak Fair Annet, Thomas,
And let the browne bride alane;
Lest ye sould sigh, and say, Alace,
What is this we brought hame!'
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poem by Andrew Lang
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The Castle Of Indolence
The castle hight of Indolence,
And its false luxury;
Where for a little time, alas!
We lived right jollily.
O mortal man, who livest here by toil,
Do not complain of this thy hard estate;
That like an emmet thou must ever moil,
Is a sad sentence of an ancient date:
And, certes, there is for it reason great;
For, though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail,
And curse thy star, and early drudge and late;
Withouten that would come a heavier bale,
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale.
In lowly dale, fast by a river's side,
With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round,
A most enchanting wizard did abide,
Than whom a fiend more fell is no where found.
It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground;
And there a season atween June and May,
Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrown'd,
A listless climate made, where, sooth to say,
No living wight could work, ne cared even for play.
Was nought around but images of rest:
Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between;
And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kest,
From poppies breathed; and beds of pleasant green,
Where never yet was creeping creature seen.
Meantime, unnumber'd glittering streamlets play'd,
And hurled every where their waters sheen;
That, as they bicker'd through the sunny glade,
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.
Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale,
And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills,
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale:
And, now and then, sweet Philomel would wail,
Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep,
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale;
And still a coil the grasshopper did keep;
Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep.
Full in the passage of the vale, above,
A sable, silent, solemn forest stood;
Where nought but shadowy forms was seen to move,
As Idless fancied in her dreaming mood:
And up the hills, on either side, a wood
Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro,
Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood;
And where this valley winded out, below,
The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow.
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poem by James Thomson
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