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Have You Ever Seen The Rain?

(john fogerty)
Producer for bonnie: jim steinman
Someone told me long ago
Theres a calm before the storm
I know, and its been coming for sometime
When its over so they say
Itll bring a sunny day
I know, shining down like water
I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain
I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain
Coming down on a sunny day
Yesterday and days before
Sun is cold and rain is hot
I know, been that way for all my time
Till forever on it goes
Fill the circle fast and slow
I know, and I cant stop my wonder
I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain
I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain
Coming down on a sunny day
Instrumental
I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain
I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain
Coming down on a sunny day
Have you ever seen the rain...repeat and fade

song performed by Bonnie Tyler
Added by Lucian Velea
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Sweet Bonnie Brown

Sweet bonnie brown, looking like a baby
Coming down all over me
She looked real good, like a real nice lady
Coming down all over me
Sweet bonnie brown (sweet bonnie brown)
Sweet bonnie brown (sweet bonnie brown)
Sweet bonnie brown (sweet bonnie brown)
Oh, roll me over, like Im coming home
Well, she looked really like another ...
Coming down all over me
She looked real good, like a real low lady
Coming down all over me, yeah
Sweet bonnie brown (sweet bonnie brown)
Sweet bonnie brown (sweet bonnie brown)
Sweet bonnie brown (sweet bonnie brown)
She looked real good, like I know she would
Ive been loving mary-ann so long
Do-do-do-do, do-do-do-do
And every time I see her, you know, I go too long
Do-do-do-do, do-do-do-do
Well, I aint lying, baby, I aint crying
Ive been this way for a long, long time, wow, wow ...
Sweet bonnie brown, looking like a baby
Coming down all over me
She looked real good, just like a real low lady
Coming down all over me
Sweet bonnie brown (sweet bonnie brown)
Sweet bonnie brown (sweet bonnie brown)
Sweet bonnie brown (sweet bonnie brown)
She looked real good, like I know she would
Oh, wow, Im up on a pony, spending all my money
Dont you come on after me
Oh, she looked real good, just like a real low lady
Coming down all over me, oh
Sweet bonnie brown
Oh, sweet bonnie brown
Oh, sweet bonnie brown
She looked real good, like I know she would, oh, oh
Oh, Ive been loving mary-lou, but so long
Do-do-do-do, do-do-do-do
Everytime I know her I ....
Do-do-do-do, do-do-do-do
Well I like baby, I aint crying
Ive been this way for a long, long, long this time, oh
Wow, wow, oh, baby ...

song performed by Velvet Underground
Added by Lucian Velea
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Sweet Bonnie Brown

Sweet bonnie brown, looking like a baby
Coming down all over me
She looked real good, like a real nice lady
Coming down all over me
Sweet bonnie brown (sweet bonnie brown)
Sweet bonnie brown (sweet bonnie brown)
Sweet bonnie brown (sweet bonnie brown)
Oh, roll me over, like Im coming home
Well, she looked really like another ...
Coming down all over me
She looked real good, like a real low lady
Coming down all over me, yeah
Sweet bonnie brown (sweet bonnie brown)
Sweet bonnie brown (sweet bonnie brown)
Sweet bonnie brown (sweet bonnie brown)
She looked real good, like I know she would
Ive been loving mary-ann so long
Do-do-do-do, do-do-do-do
And every time I see her, you know, I go too long
Do-do-do-do, do-do-do-do
Well, I aint lying, baby, I aint crying
Ive been this way for a long, long time, wow, wow ...
Sweet bonnie brown, looking like a baby
Coming down all over me
She looked real good, just like a real low lady
Coming down all over me
Sweet bonnie brown (sweet bonnie brown)
Sweet bonnie brown (sweet bonnie brown)
Sweet bonnie brown (sweet bonnie brown)
She looked real good, like I know she would
Oh, wow, Im up on a pony, spending all my money
Dont you come on after me
Oh, she looked real good, just like a real low lady
Coming down all over me, oh
Sweet bonnie brown
Oh, sweet bonnie brown
Oh, sweet bonnie brown
She looked real good, like I know she would, oh, oh
Oh, Ive been loving mary-lou, but so long
Do-do-do-do, do-do-do-do
Everytime I know her I ....
Do-do-do-do, do-do-do-do
Well I like baby, I aint crying
Ive been this way for a long, long, long this time, oh
Wow, wow, oh, baby ...

song performed by Velvet Underground
Added by Lucian Velea
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Producer/fall From The Grace Of The People

Earth shares what earth receives
And now only blood brings life
A tiller bring life, producer bring life
Protector bring life, soiled hands bring life
The tree of democracy shall be watered by the blood of revolution
So go plant a seed, go plant a seed for harvest
Go plant a seed for harvest producer
Producer, producer, producer, producer
Producer, producer, producer, producer
Producer, producer, producer, producer
Producer, producer, producer, producer
Producer, producer, producer, producer
Producer, producer
And it all shall fall by the grace of the people and
It all shall fall by the grace of the people and
It all shall fall by the grace of the people and
It all shall fall by the grace of the people and
It all shall fall
It all shall fall
I first met you and the ideas you uphold while incarserated
A victim of a social experiment
Eventually addicted to your eight hour injections of hypocracy and
Arrogance and greed
Forced to sit with coplicity in front of my executioners
As they blugeoned me with their so called superior values and demanded my submission
I bacame an indentured servant in a factory
Where I myself was the product
Whos useful quality was to protect their palaces
Every word uttered from their mouths strangeled me
So that every thought I express
Shall sow the seed for the noose around their necks
And set fire to their homes
And every word uttered from their mouths strangeled me
So that every thought I express
Shall sow the seed for the noose around their necks
And set fire to their homes
And set fire to their homes
And set fire to their homes
And set fire to their homes
And set fire to their homes
And it all shall fall by the grace of the people and
It all shall fall by the grace of the people and
It all shall fall by the grace of the people and
It all shall fall by the grace of the people and
It all shall fall by the grace of the people and
It all shall fall
Fall
Fall
Fall
Fall

[...] Read more

song performed by Rage Against The Machine
Added by Lucian Velea
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The White Cliffs

I
I have loved England, dearly and deeply,
Since that first morning, shining and pure,
The white cliffs of Dover I saw rising steeply
Out of the sea that once made her secure.
I had no thought then of husband or lover,
I was a traveller, the guest of a week;
Yet when they pointed 'the white cliffs of Dover',
Startled I found there were tears on my cheek.
I have loved England, and still as a stranger,
Here is my home and I still am alone.
Now in her hour of trial and danger,
Only the English are really her own.

II
It happened the first evening I was there.
Some one was giving a ball in Belgrave Square.
At Belgrave Square, that most Victorian spot.—
Lives there a novel-reader who has not
At some time wept for those delightful girls,
Daughters of dukes, prime ministers and earls,
In bonnets, berthas, bustles, buttoned basques,
Hiding behind their pure Victorian masks
Hearts just as hot - hotter perhaps than those
Whose owners now abandon hats and hose?
Who has not wept for Lady Joan or Jill
Loving against her noble parent's will
A handsome guardsman, who to her alarm
Feels her hand kissed behind a potted palm
At Lady Ivry's ball the dreadful night
Before his regiment goes off to fight;
And see him the next morning, in the park,
Complete in busbee, marching to embark.
I had read freely, even as a child,
Not only Meredith and Oscar Wilde
But many novels of an earlier day—
Ravenshoe, Can You Forgive Her?, Vivien Grey,
Ouida, The Duchess, Broughton's Red As a Rose,
Guy Livingstone, Whyte-Melville— Heaven knows
What others. Now, I thought, I was to see
Their habitat, though like the Miller of Dee,
I cared for none and no one cared for me.

III
A light blue carpet on the stair
And tall young footmen everywhere,
Tall young men with English faces
Standing rigidly in their places,
Rows and rows of them stiff and staid

[...] Read more

poem by Alice Duer Miller
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Bonnie Cat

Bonnie cat o!
Bonnie cat... don't go away
Bonnie cat look! you make funny bunny crying,
Bonnie cat see it is cold and will not you
come and have me sleep in your warmth
Bonnie cat will not we play the strings of a piano together
one which made the days of summer like a swallow bird
humming into the chilly wintry nights in the command of a nightingale
Bonnie cat o!

Bonnie cat o!
Bonnie cat look i have carrot soup for you
Shall not we chase and try to fly like those duffy ducks
they now bully me bonnie cat
Bunny is so scored without you
Shall not we play in the sunshine meadows
and steal milk from the chocolate hut
Shall not you tell me again to run and get you the rainbow past you
Shall not we see the fountains emerge again and quench our thirst
Bonnie cat o!

Bonnie cat o!
Bonnie cat see our life lacks subtlety
without our sinewy power of bonding
Bonnie cat o bonnie cat!
Don't leave me for a panjandrum center
in your heart...cavort back dear!
See the bunny too have fish and chips for you
Flesh for your heart and not syringes made of bones
And heart for your flesh never ever in the mesh of bandages
Bonnie cat will not you come as Latin song
in satin clothes for my prayer's christmas gift
Bonnie cat o!

Bonnie cat o!
Bonnie cat look you made funny bunny no more irascible
In your zany droplets of fear which in i grew up
Bonnie cat without you i am lost in the turbine
where noxious gases take my breath away
It now stings like an urchin and groans like a swine
Is not it you testing my patience bonnie cat
Tell me bonnie cat don't walk away
Word does make an image of fascination
but pain does not when i convey am really in
Bonnie cat...
my sweet bonnie cat
Bonnie cat o!

poem by Amit Ray
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Robin Hood and the Monk

In somer, when the shawes be sheyne,
And leves be large and long,
Hit is full mery in feyre foreste
To here the foulys song,

To se the dere draw to the dale,
And leve the hilles hee,
And shadow hem in the leves grene,
Under the grene wode tre.

Hit befel on Whitson
Erly in a May mornyng,
The son up feyre can shyne,
And the briddis mery can syng.

'This is a mery mornyng,' seid Litull John,
'Be Hym that dyed on tre;
A more mery man then I am one
Lyves not in Cristianté.

'Pluk up thi hert, my dere mayster,'
Litull John can sey,
'And thynk hit is a full fayre tyme
In a mornyng of May.'

'Ye, on thyng greves me,' seid Robyn,
'And does my hert mych woo:
That I may not no solem day
To mas nor matyns goo.

'Hit is a fourtnet and more,' seid he,
'Syn I my Savyour see;
To day wil I to Notyngham,' seid Robyn,
'With the myght of mylde Marye.'

Than spake Moche, the mylner sun,
Ever more wel hym betyde!
'Take twelve of thi wyght yemen,
Well weppynd, be thi side.
Such on wolde thi selfe slon,
That twelve dar not abyde.'

'Of all my mery men,' seid Robyn,
'Be my feith I wil non have,
But Litull John shall beyre my bow,
Til that me list to drawe.'

'Thou shall beyre thin own,' seid Litull Jon,
'Maister, and I wyl beyre myne,
And we well shete a peny,' seid Litull Jon,

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Sir Peter Harpdon's End

In an English Castle in Poictou. Sir Peter Harpdon, a Gascon knight in the English service, and John Curzon, his lieutenant.

John Curzon

Of those three prisoners, that before you came
We took down at St. John's hard by the mill,
Two are good masons; we have tools enough,
And you have skill to set them working.

Sir Peter

So-
What are their names?

John Curzon

Why, Jacques Aquadent,
And Peter Plombiere, but-

Sir Peter

What colour'd hair
Has Peter now? has Jacques got bow legs?

John Curzon

Why, sir, you jest: what matters Jacques' hair,
Or Peter's legs to us?

Sir Peter

O! John, John, John!
Throw all your mason's tools down the deep well,
Hang Peter up and Jacques; they're no good,
We shall not build, man.

John Curzon

going.

Shall I call the guard
To hang them, sir? and yet, sir, for the tools,
We'd better keep them still; sir, fare you well.

[...] Read more

poem by William Morris
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Big Jilm

Rollin and wheelin, stealin and dealin - big jim
Bol weevil, its a pleasel, its a pleasel, my weasel - big jim
Dreamin and schemin, screamin and bleedin - big jim
Froggy in the meadow under the log - big jim
Rollin and wheelin, stealin and dealin - big jim
Bol weevil, its a pleasel, its a pleasel, my weasel - big jim
Big jim
Whats the biggest thing you ever did done see?
Big jim
I mean, whats the biggest, biggest thing you ever did done see?
Big jim
Rollin and wheelin, stealin and dealin - big jim (big jim! big jim!)
(doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo doo)
Bol weevil, its a pleasel, its a pleasel, my weasel - big jim (big jim!)
Dreamin and schemin, screamin and bleedin - big jim (big jim! big jim!)
Froggy in the meadow under the log - big jim (big jim!)
Big jim
I mean, biggest thing you ever did done see?
Big jim (big jim)
Biggest thing you ever did done see - big jim (big jim! big jim!)
Doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo doo (big jim)
Doo doo doo

song performed by Ween
Added by Lucian Velea
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My Bonnie

My bonnie lies over the ocean,
My bonnie lies over the sea.
My bonnie lies over the ocean.
Oh bring back my bonnie to me.
My bonnie lies over the ocean,
My bonnie lies over the sea.
Well my bonnie lies over the ocean.
Yeah bring back my bonnie to me.
Yeah bring back, ah bring back,
Oh bring back my bonnie to me to me.
Oh bring back, oh bring back,
Oh bring back my bonnie to me.
Well my bonnie lies over the ocean,
My bonnie lies over the sea.
Yeah my bonnie lies over the ocean.
Oh i said bring back my bonnie to me.
Yeah bring back, ah bring back,
Oh bring back my bonnie to me to me.
Oh bring back, ah bring back,
Oh bring back my bonnie to me.

song performed by Beatles
Added by Lucian Velea
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Wat Tyler - Act III

ACT III.

SCENE—SMITHFIELD.

PIERS (meeting JOHN BALL.)

You look disturb'd, my father?

JOHN BALL.

Piers, I am so.
Jack Straw has forced the Tower: seized the Archbishop,
And beheaded him.

PIERS.

The curse of insurrection!

JOHN BALL.

Aye, Piers! our nobles level down their vassals—
Keep them at endless labour like their brutes,
Degrading every faculty by servitude:
Repressing all the energy of the mind.
We must not wonder then, that like wild beasts,
When they have burst their chains, with brutal rage
They revenge them on their tyrants.

PIERS.

This Archbishop!
He was oppressive to his humble vassals:
Proud, haughty, avaricious.—

JOHN BALL.

A true high-priest!
Preaching humility with his mitre on!
Praising up alms and Christian charity
Even whilst his unforgiving hand distress'd
His honest tenants.

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Southey
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Roan Stallion

The dog barked; then the woman stood in the doorway, and hearing
iron strike stone down the steep road
Covered her head with a black shawl and entered the light rain;
she stood at the turn of the road.
A nobly formed woman; erect and strong as a new tower; the
features stolid and dark
But sculptured into a strong grace; straight nose with a high bridge,
firm and wide eyes, full chin,
Red lips; she was only a fourth part Indian; a Scottish sailor had
planted her in young native earth,
Spanish and Indian, twenty-one years before. He had named her
California when she was born;
That was her name; and had gone north.
She heard the hooves and
wheels come nearer, up the steep road.
The buckskin mare, leaning against the breastpiece, plodded into
sight round the wet bank.
The pale face of the driver followed; the burnt-out eyes; they had
fortune in them. He sat twisted
On the seat of the old buggy, leading a second horse by a long
halter, a roan, a big one,
That stepped daintily; by the swell of the neck, a stallion. 'What
have you got, Johnny?' 'Maskerel's stallion.
Mine now. I won him last night, I had very good luck.' He was
quite drunk, 'They bring their mares up here now.
I keep this fellow. I got money besides, but I'll not show you.'
'Did you buy something, Johnny,
For our Christine? Christmas comes in two days, Johnny.' 'By
God, forgot,' he answered laughing.
'Don't tell Christine it's Christmas; after while I get her something,
maybe.' But California:
'I shared your luck when you lost: you lost me once, Johnny, remember?
Tom Dell had me two nights
Here in the house: other times we've gone hungry: now that
you've won, Christine will have her Christmas.
We share your luck, Johnny. You give me money, I go down to
Monterey to-morrow,
Buy presents for Christine, come back in the evening. Next day
Christmas.' 'You have wet ride,' he answered
Giggling. 'Here money. Five dollar; ten; twelve dollar. You
buy two bottles of rye whiskey for Johnny.'
A11 right. I go to-morrow.'
He was an outcast Hollander; not
old, but shriveled with bad living.
The child Christine inherited from his race blue eyes, from his
life a wizened forehead; she watched
From the house-door her father lurch out of the buggy and lead
with due respect the stallion
To the new corral, the strong one; leaving the wearily breathing
buckskin mare to his wife to unharness.

[...] Read more

poem by Robinson Jeffers
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The House Of Dust: Complete

I.

The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.
The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:
And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.
A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.
Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.

And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams,
The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street,
And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain.
The purple lights leap down the hill before him.
The gorgeous night has begun again.

'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams,
I will hold my light above them and seek their faces.
I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .'
The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness,
Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest,
Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains.

We hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music,
Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard;
We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight,
We pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair,
With laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word;
We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer
Moves among us like light, like evening air . . .

Good-night! Good-night! Good-night! We go our ways,
The rain runs over the pavement before our feet,
The cold rain falls, the rain sings.
We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces
To what the eternal evening brings.

Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid,
We have built a tower of stone high into the sky,
We have built a city of towers.

Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness.
Our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . .
What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . .
Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . .
And after a while they will fall to dust and rain;
Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands;
And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again.

II.

[...] Read more

poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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James Holladay (Demo)

James Holladay was a working man
He made his living on the land
But living alone was too much to stand
So Jim found a woman to understand
Two years passed living in joy
When out of the blue came a baby boy
Just to keep up the family name
Mister Holladay said we'll call him little James
So you better run, run, run, run (Jim you gotta get away)
Jim, you gotta get away
You better better run, run, run, run (Jim you gotta get away)
Jim, you gotta get away
You better better run, run, run, run (Jim you gotta get away)
Jim, you gotta get away (Jim you gotta get away)
Little James became a working man
He followed his pa right across the land
At the end of the day when his work was done
He'd sit and watch the setting southern sun
Nineteen years had come and gone
Little Jimmy had grown up big and strong
He didn't know that his time had come
When they handed him a shiny black gun
So his pa said, run, run, run, run, run, run (Jim you gotta get away)
Jim, you gotta getaway
So you better run, run, run, run, run, run, run (Jim you gotta get away)
Jim, you gotta get away
So you better run, run, run, run, run (Jim you gotta get away)
Jim, you gotta get away (Jim you gotta get away)
Run, run, run, run, run, run (Jim you gotta get away)
Jim, you gotta getaway
You better better run, run, run, run, run, run (Jim you gotta get away)
Jim, you gotta get away
You better better run, run, run, run, run, run (Jim you gotta get away)
Jim, you gotta get away
(fade)

song performed by America
Added by Lucian Velea
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Canto the Second

I
Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,
Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain,
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions,
It mends their morals, never mind the pain:
The best of mothers and of educations
In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain,
Since, in a way that's rather of the oddest, he
Became divested of his native modesty.

II
Had he but been placed at a public school,
In the third form, or even in the fourth,
His daily task had kept his fancy cool,
At least, had he been nurtured in the north;
Spain may prove an exception to the rule,
But then exceptions always prove its worth -—
A lad of sixteen causing a divorce
Puzzled his tutors very much, of course.

III
I can't say that it puzzles me at all,
If all things be consider'd: first, there was
His lady-mother, mathematical,
A—never mind; his tutor, an old ass;
A pretty woman (that's quite natural,
Or else the thing had hardly come to pass);
A husband rather old, not much in unity
With his young wife—a time, and opportunity.

IV
Well—well, the world must turn upon its axis,
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails,
And live and die, make love and pay our taxes,
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails;
The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us,
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales,
A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame,
Fighting, devotion, dust,—perhaps a name.

V
I said that Juan had been sent to Cadiz -—
A pretty town, I recollect it well -—
'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is
(Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel),
And such sweet girls—I mean, such graceful ladies,
Their very walk would make your bosom swell;
I can't describe it, though so much it strike,
Nor liken it—I never saw the like:

[...] Read more

poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Undying One- Canto III

'THERE is a sound the autumn wind doth make
Howling and moaning, listlessly and low:
Methinks that to a heart that ought to break
All the earth's voices seem to murmur so.
The visions that crost
Our path in light--
The things that we lost
In the dim dark night--
The faces for which we vainly yearn--
The voices whose tones will not return--
That low sad wailing breeze doth bring
Borne on its swift and rushing wing.
Have ye sat alone when that wind was loud,
And the moon shone dim from the wintry cloud?
When the fire was quench'd on your lonely hearth,
And the voices were still which spoke of mirth?

If such an evening, tho' but one,
It hath been yours to spend alone--
Never,--though years may roll along
Cheer'd by the merry dance and song;
Though you mark'd not that bleak wind's sound before,
When louder perchance it used to roar--
Never shall sound of that wintry gale
Be aught to you but a voice of wail!
So o'er the careless heart and eye
The storms of the world go sweeping by;
But oh! when once we have learn'd to weep,
Well doth sorrow his stern watch keep.
Let one of our airy joys decay--
Let one of our blossoms fade away--
And all the griefs that others share
Seem ours, as well as theirs, to bear:
And the sound of wail, like that rushing wind
Shall bring all our own deep woe to mind!

'I went through the world, but I paused not now
At the gladsome heart and the joyous brow:
I went through the world, and I stay'd to mark
Where the heart was sore, and the spirit dark:
And the grief of others, though sad to see,
Was fraught with a demon's joy to me!

'I saw the inconstant lover come to take
Farewell of her he loved in better days,
And, coldly careless, watch the heart-strings break--
Which beat so fondly at his words of praise.
She was a faded, painted, guilt-bow'd thing,
Seeking to mock the hues of early spring,
When misery and years had done their worst

[...] Read more

poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Pearl

Pearl of delight that a prince doth please
To grace in gold enclosed so clear,
I vow that from over orient seas
Never proved I any in price her peer.
So round, so radiant ranged by these,
So fine, so smooth did her sides appear
That ever in judging gems that please
Her only alone I deemed as dear.
Alas! I lost her in garden near:
Through grass to the ground from me it shot;
I pine now oppressed by love-wound drear
For that pearl, mine own, without a spot.

2
Since in that spot it sped from me,
I have looked and longed for that precious thing
That me once was wont from woe to free,
To uplift my lot and healing bring,
But my heart doth hurt now cruelly,
My breast with burning torment sting.
Yet in secret hour came soft to me
The sweetest song I e'er heard sing;
Yea, many a thought in mind did spring
To think that her radiance in clay should rot.
O mould! Thou marrest a lovely thing,
My pearl, mine own, without a spot.

3
In that spot must needs be spices spread
Where away such wealth to waste hath run;
Blossoms pale and blue and red
There shimmer shining in the sun;
No flower nor fruit their hue may shed
Where it down into darkling earth was done,
For all grass must grow from grains that are dead,
No wheat would else to barn be won.
From good all good is ever begun,
And fail so fair a seed could not,
So that sprang and sprouted spices none
From that precious pearl without a spot.

4
That spot whereof I speak I found
When I entered in that garden green,
As August's season high came round
When corn is cut with sickles keen.
There, where that pearl rolled down, a mound
With herbs was shadowed fair and sheen,
With gillyflower, ginger, and gromwell crowned,
And peonies powdered all between.

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poem by Anonymous Olde English
Added by Poetry Lover
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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

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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Added by Poetry Lover
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Dontcha Wanna

If you had the chance I know you, surely would
And anytime I want it baby, I could
Said youd never saw it coming, did you dear
But you cant run from everything you fear
Hey, dont you wanna fall in love?
(dont you wanna, dont you wanna, dont you wanna fall in love with me? )
Ahha yeah
Oh baby you and i
(dont you wanna, dont you wanna, dont you wanna fall in love? )
Hey
Why dont you push your precious pride aside?
(dont you wanna, dont you wanna, dont you wanna fall in love with me? )
Hey yeah oh yeah
Dont you wanna
cause you cant let your whole life pass you by
Oooh
Sure that you aint had nothing like, this before
You can be the same if I give, anymore
I dont wanna waste any of your, precious time
But you wont have no choice but to be mine
Baby dont you wanna play it, on the line?
(dont you wanna, dont you wanna, dont you wanna fall in love with me? )
Yeah yeah yeah ooh
Dont you wanna, ooh
(dont you wanna, dont you wanna, dont you wanna fall in love? )
In love
Dont you wanna fall in love?
(dont you wanna, dont you wanna, dont you wanna fall in love with me? )
Hey yeah yeah yeah yeah
cause you cant let your whole life pass you by
Oooh whoo ooooh
(you cant put nothing before your pride)
I said nothing, nothing
(but baby what I give)
Whoo, you can lay your pride aside
Whoo ooooooh
(baby dont you wanna fall in love with me? )
(cause we can take it all night and Ill make you see)
Fall in love with me
(but baby let me know, dont you wanna fall? )
He haha haha
Dont you wanna?
(dont you wanna fall in love with me? )
(cause we can take it all noight and Ill make you see)
Heeey yeah hey
(but baby let me know, dont you wanna fall? )
I wanna fall in love!
(baby dont you wanna fall in love with me? )
(dont you wanna, dont you wanna, dont you wanna fall in love with me? )
(cause we can take it all night and Ill make you see)

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song performed by Anastacia
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Mylora Elopement

By the winding Wollondilly where the weeping willows weep,
And the shepherd, with his billy, half awake and half asleep,
Folds his fleecy flocks that linger homewards in the setting sun
Lived my hero, Jim the Ringer, "cocky" on Mylora Run.
Jimmy loved the super's daughter, Miss Amelia Jane McGrath.
Long and earnestly he sought her, but he feared her stern papa;
And Amelia loved him truly -- but the course of love, if true,
Never yet ran smooth or duly, as I think it ought to do.

Pondering o'er his predilection, Jimmy watched McGrath, the boss,
Riding past his lone selection, looking for a station 'oss
That was running in the ranges with a mob of outlaws wild.
Mac the time of day exchanges -- off goes Jim to see his child;

Says, "The old man's after Stager, which he'll find is no light job,
And tomorrow I will wager he will try and yard the mob.
Will you come with me tomorrow? I will let the parson know,
And for ever, joy or sorrow, he will join us here below.

"I will bring the nags so speedy, Crazy Jane and Tambourine,
One more kiss -- don't think I'm greedy -- good-bye, lass, before I'm seen --
Just one more -- God bless you, dearie! Don't forget to meet me here,
Life without you is but weary; now, once more, good-bye, my dear."

* * * * *
The daylight shines on figures twain
That ride across Mylora Plain,
Laughing and talking -- Jim and Jane.
"Steady, darling. There's lots of time,
Didn't we slip the old man prime!
I knew he'd tackle that Bowneck mob,
I reckon he'll find it too big a job.
They've beaten us all. I had a try,
But the warrigal devils seem to fly.
That Sambo's a real good but of stuff
No doubt, but not quite good enough.
He'll have to gallop the livelong day,
To cut and come, to race and stay.
I hope he yards 'em, 'twill do him good;
To see us going I don't think would."
A turn in the road and, fair and square,
They meet the old man standing there.
"What's up?" "Why, running away, of course,"
Says Jim, emboldened. The old man turned,
His eye with wild excitement burned.
"I've raced all day through the scorching heat
After old Bowneck: and now I'm beat.
But over that range I think you'll find
The Bowneck mob all run stone-blind.

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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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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