Urceus Exit
Triolet
I INTENDED an Ode,
And it turn'd to a Sonnet
It began a la mode,
I intended an Ode;
But Rose cross'd the road
In her latest new bonnet;
I intended an Ode;
And it turn'd to a Sonnet.
poem by Henry Austin Dobson
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Related quotes
Wife to Be (Petrarchan Sonnet)
I stroll along a fragrant country lane
With honeysuckle perfume on the air -
And feathered crooner's warble to revere -
Then cross a golden sea of flowing grain
In empathy - it seems to sense my pain
Of knowing all was done with my affair -
Her empty meaning now the solitaire
She cast away - betrothment all in vain.
But oceans team with many fish to catch
So I must up and hoist another sail
And seek the one that really waits for me,
For soon auspicious breezes will prevail
In guiding forth to find a truer match:
The one to take my hand as wife to be.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
[...] Read more
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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With Rose In Hand
Prayer is worth more than a rose
in my hand where love grows
for God and all he knows
The rose has a thorn
which Jesus felt on the crown he had worn.
the rose is red as the blood from his head
when he was crucifed before we were born.
[...] Read more
poem by Meg Harrison
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Margaret's Bridal Eve
I
The old grey mother she thrummed on her knee:
There is a rose that's ready;
And which of the handsome young men shall it be?
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
My daughter, come hither, come hither to me:
There is a rose that's ready;
Come, point me your finger on him that you see:
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
O mother, my mother, it never can be:
There is a rose that's ready;
For I shall bring shame on the man marries me:
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
Now let your tongue be deep as the sea:
There is a rose that's ready;
And the man'll jump for you, right briskly will he:
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
Tall Margaret wept bitterly:
There is a rose that's ready;
And as her parent bade did she:
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
O the handsome young man dropped down on his knee:
There is a rose that's ready;
Pale Margaret gave him her hand, woe's me!
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
II
O mother, my mother, this thing I must say:
There is a rose in the garden;
Ere he lies on the breast where that other lay:
And the bird sings over the roses.
Now, folly, my daughter, for men are men:
There is a rose in the garden;
You marry them blindfold, I tell you again:
And the bird sings over the roses.
O mother, but when he kisses me!
There is a rose in the garden;
My child, 'tis which shall sweetest be!
And the bird sings over the roses.
O mother, but when I awake in the morn!
[...] Read more
poem by George Meredith
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My Bonnet Of Blue
My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,
Its gossamer fineness I'll sing to you;
For a delicate fabric in sooth it was,
All trimmed and finified off with gauze.
My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,
How well I remember thy azure hue!
To church I wore it, one pleasant day,
Bedecked in ribbons of fanciful ray;
And all the while I sat on my seat
I thought of naught save my bonnet so neat.
My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,
Broke not my heart when I bade thee adieu?
When service was over, my steps I bent
Towards home, a-nodding my head as I went
But, alas for my bonnet! there came a wind
And blew it away, for the strings were not pinned.
My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,
What shifting scenes have been thine to pass through!
I raised my eyes to the calm, blue sky,
There sailed my bonnet serene and high!
O, what a feeling of hopeless woe
Stole over me then, no heart may know!
My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,
As clear as the sky was thy azure hue!
'Twas vain to mourn for my bonnet, and yet
It taught me a lesson I shall not forget;
'Twas, never to make you an idol of clay,
For when you best love them they'll fly away.
My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,
I loved thee well, but thou wert untrue!
poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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Rose Mary
Of her two fights with the Beryl-stone
Lost the first, but the second won.
PART I
“MARY mine that art Mary's Rose
Come in to me from the garden-close.
The sun sinks fast with the rising dew,
And we marked not how the faint moon grew;
But the hidden stars are calling you.
“Tall Rose Mary, come to my side,
And read the stars if you'd be a bride.
In hours whose need was not your own,
While you were a young maid yet ungrown
You've read the stars in the Beryl-stone.
“Daughter, once more I bid you read;
But now let it be for your own need:
Because to-morrow, at break of day,
To Holy Cross he rides on his way,
Your knight Sir James of Heronhaye.
“Ere he wed you, flower of mine,
For a heavy shrift he seeks the shrine.
Now hark to my words and do not fear;
Ill news next I have for your ear;
But be you strong, and our help is here.
“On his road, as the rumour's rife,
An ambush waits to take his life.
He needs will go, and will go alone;
Where the peril lurks may not be known;
But in this glass all things are shown.”
Pale Rose Mary sank to the floor:—
“The night will come if the day is o'er!”
“Nay, heaven takes counsel, star with star,
And help shall reach your heart from afar:
A bride you'll be, as a maid you are.”
The lady unbound her jewelled zone
And drew from her robe the Beryl-stone.
Shaped it was to a shadowy sphere,—
World of our world, the sun's compeer,
That bears and buries the toiling year.
With shuddering light 'twas stirred and strewn
Like the cloud-nest of the wading moon:
Freaked it was as the bubble's ball,
Rainbow-hued through a misty pall
Like the middle light of the waterfall.
Shadows dwelt in its teeming girth
Of the known and unknown things of earth;
The cloud above and the wave around,—
The central fire at the sphere's heart bound,
Like doomsday prisoned underground.
[...] Read more
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Rode to a Knight Impale - after John Keats - Ode to a Nightingale
. :) kindly refer to notes. :)
My part aches and a rousing stiffness pains
my whole as though viagra I had drank,
or loosened up some pheronomic chains
split seconds past, endorphined, anticipating prank.
'Tis not through envy that I ask a lot,
but seeking through your image happiness,
love-lipped epitome of all that please
amused muse stays aware that what you've got
conjurs wet dreams, streams’ ready eddies numberless,
straw hollow swallows spring in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
fat vat prime time cocked, erect in deep pelvic berth,
tasting of horny fauna’s jelly beans,
dancing tandem to tambourine song since sunny birth!
O for a beaker full of the warm south,
filled to whet winking brink noways obscene,
with beaded bubbles oozing at the brim,
of purple-hooded mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
and with thee knock on doors quite in the swim:
ride far away, knot solve, and quite forget
what you senses leaves had never known,
no weariness, no fever, and no fret.
Here, men lose wit to hear each other groan
as palsy shakes a few, sad, beardless chins,
where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and sighs;
where but to think of size baits rod with sorrow
and leaden-eyed despairs,
No, Beauty, none may mime your lustrous eyes,
where new Love pines, fears un-orgasmic morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
not roped in by vile censors, critics’ pards,
but on untrammelled wings of intimacy,
though most dull brains perplex, their sloth retards.
Already with thee! tender is the night,
and tenderness my motto ‘tis well known
to massage tissues starry nights, sun days,
without the which love’s light
moons absence of reflection, breezes blown
through tortuous gameplays, inexperienced ways.
You should not care what flowers are at your feet,
for all is incense garland, and endows
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Sonnet Cycle to M C after W S Sonnets CXXXI - CXXXIX
Sonnet Cycle to M C after William Shakespeare Sonnets CXXXI - CLIV
[c] Jonathan Robin
CARE IS OUR DREAM
Sonnet Cycle after William Shakespeare: Part II
Sonnets CXXXI - CLIV
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXI
Thou art so tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan;
To say they err I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to myself alone.
And to be sure that is not false, I swear,
A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,
One on another's neck, do witness bear
Thy black is fairest in my judgement's place.
In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.
Sonnet CXXXI
Swift in succession fleet speed thoughts when I
Allow time to rhyme contemplating smile.
Nefertiti resignèdly would cry
Grieving 'Quits' obliged to reconcile
To defeat, a feat none else dare try.
Outer skin and inner heart worthwhile
Most naturally ally I testify,
Adopt love’s truth to heart, scorn art and style.
Millions shudder – to your rank unworthy -
Aware all their priorities weigh zilch,
Understatements glib by small minds scurvy,
Deprived of value still your fame they’d filch.
Enshadowed, dark, stark dead their teeming dreams
Compelled to spell fell shutters, failing themes.
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXII
Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain,
Have put on black and ivory mourner she,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning sun of heaven
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Road Block
Yeah!, all right!
Oh, ain't no problem
Carry no heavy load
Lord, no!
Why can't i love you, baby ?
You try to block my road.
You try to block my road. hey!
Oh, better off to hand you
Everything i own, ha ha ha ha!
Strange to see you waiting for me,
You try to block my road, yeah yeah,
Try to block my road
Hey, hey, hey, hey.
Road block
Road block
Road block
Road block
Road block daddy daddy daddy
Road block
Road block
Alright on the road block
Road block
Road block
Road block
Road block
Road block
Road block
Yeah! road block
Road block, alright, alright, alright!
Road block
Road block
Road block
Road block
Road block
Road block
Whoa road block
Road block
Road block
Road block
Road block
Road block
Road block
Road block
Road block
Road block
Road block
Road block
Yeah!
Try to block my road, daddy daddy daddy
I said now every time i turn around
[...] Read more
song performed by Janis Joplin
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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Sonnet LX - Variations In Imitation - after William Shakespeare
See below W S Sonnet LX for English and French variations
Sonnet LX
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown’d,
Crooked eclipses ‘gainst his glory fight
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow
Feeds on the rareities of Nature’s truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow;
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth despite his cruel hand.
William SHAKESPEARE shak1_0008_shak1_0000 PST_DZX
________________________
So nnet LX Imitation - Par Vagues
Par vagues, s’approchant à la rive pierreuse,
Nos instants précieux écument leur destin,
Chacun son précédent remplaçant en chemin,
Le tout se bousculant - avancée périlleuse.
Le Temps notre jeunesse avale et l’âme heureuse,
Avance, et, mûrissant, se voit sacrée: sa main
Dispute nos chansons, gloires d’antan, - déclin
Que le faucheur étale, éclipse malheureuse.
Le Temps reprend ses dons, de profonds sillons creuse,
Des affronts forts profonds au front jadis si saint,
En dévorant les traces de notre grâce éteinte,
Aucun ne faisant face à sa fauche rieuse!
Pourtant malgré le Temps, sa main sans pitié,
Ces lignes attendent un jour coulant de vérité.
15 December 1991 revised 2005 robi3_0508_shak1_0008 PFT_DZX see robi3_0654
Translation William SHAKESPEARE – Sonnet LX for previous version see below
__________________
Sonnet LX
Ainsi qu’aux vagues visant la rive pierreuse,
Nos instants précieux se hâtent vers leur destin,
Chacun son précedent remplaçant en chemin,
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi
Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then … nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
"Well, he can say no other than what he says.
"We have been young, too,—come, there's greater guilt!
"Let him but decently disembroil himself,
"Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—
"We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast
As if I were a phantom: now 't is—"Friend,
"Collect yourself!"—no laughing matter more—
"Counsel the Court in this extremity,
"Tell us again!"—tell that, for telling which,
I got the jocular piece of punishment,
Was sent to lounge a little in the place
Whence now of a sudden here you summon me
To take the intelligence from just—your lips!
You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—
That she I helped eight months since to escape
Her husband, was retaken by the same,
Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,—
(I being disallowed to interfere,
Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,
For you and law were guardians quite enough
O' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)—
And that he has butchered her accordingly,
As she foretold and as myself believed,—
And, so foretelling and believing so,
We were punished, both of us, the merry way:
Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?
Pompilia is only dying while I speak!
Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?
My masters, there's an old book, you should con
For strange adventures, applicable yet,
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Figli Di Pitagora
Siamo figli di Pitagora e di Casadei
Di Macchiavelli e di Tot
Cresciuti con una morale cattolica
E con i Depeche Mode
Siamo figli di Pitagora e di Trinit
Di Michelangelo e Dario Fo
cresciuti con una morale cattolica
E con i Depeche Mode
E con i Depeche Mode...
Everywhere
we have been everywhere
we 've broken barricades
thanks to the fathers we've had
Who knows how many men
will go along our way
We're living every day
Never forgetting where we're from
Siamo figli di Pitagora e di Casadei
Di Macchiavelli e di Tot
Cresciuti con una morale cattolica
E con i Depeche Mode
Siamo figli di Pitagora e di Trinit
Di Michelangelo e Dario Fo
cresciuti con una morale cattolica
E con i Depeche Mode
E con i Depeche Mode...
Motherland
As well as fatherland
Some say godfatherland
But that's the land that we have
Who knows how many men
Will go along our way
We're living every day
Never forgetting where we're from
Siamo figli di Pitagora e di Casadei
Di Macchiavelli e di Tot
Cresciuti con una morale cattolica
E con i Depeche Mode
Siamo figli di Pitagora e di Trinit
Di Michelangelo e Dario Fo
cresciuti con una morale cattolica
E con i Depeche Mode
E con i Depeche Mode...
Siamo figli di Pitagora e di Casadei
Di Macchiavelli e di Tot
Cresciuti con una morale cattolica
E con i Depeche Mode
Siamo figli di Pitagora e di Trinit
Di Michelangelo e Dario Fo
cresciuti con una morale cattolica
[...] Read more
song performed by Eiffel 65
Added by Lucian Velea
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Percys Song
Bad news, bad news,
Come to me where I sleep,
Turn, turn, turn again.
Sayin one of your friends
Is in trouble deep,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.
Tell me the trouble,
Tell once to my ear,
Turn, turn, turn again.
Joliet prison
And ninety-nine years,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.
Oh whats the charge
Of how this came to be,
Turn, turn, turn again.
Manslaughter
In the highest of degree,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.
I sat down and wrote
The best words I could write,
Turn, turn, turn again.
Explaining to the judge
Id be there on wednesday night,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.
Without a reply,
I left by the moon,
Turn, turn, turn again.
And was in his chambers
By the next afternoon,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.
Could ya tell me the facts?
I said without fear,
Turn, turn, turn again.
That a friend of mine
Would get ninety-nine years,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.
A crash on the highway
Flew the car to a field,
Turn, turn, turn again.
There was four persons killed
And he was at the wheel,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.
But I knew him as good
[...] Read more
song performed by Bob Dylan
Added by Lucian Velea
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First rose
A heart of youthful year was yearning,
Crying out the pain; the burning
Tears would e’er remain until
An answer from the man would see them die.
A sympathetic mirror blessed her –
Softened up the curves, caressed her
Skin to help regain a calm –
Assuage a heaving breast and blushing eye.
And through a struggling mind, a chiming:
Someone at the door; the timing
Perfect and exquisite in the
Reconciliation of her woes.
She took the oak to make the parting,
‘Here! ’ a presentation startling.
Drawing deep through radiant lips, she
Kissed her very dream: a crimson rose.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Birdhouse In Your Soul
Im your only friend
Im not your only friend
But Im a little glowing friend
But really Im not actually your friend
But I am
Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch
Who watches over you
Make a little birdhouse in your soul
Not to put too fine a point on it
Say Im the only bee in your bonnet
Make a little birdhouse in your soul
I have a secret to tell
From my electrical well
Its a simple message and Im leaving out the whistles and bells
So the room must listen to me
Filibuster vigilantly
My name is blue canary one note* spelled l-i-t-e
My storys infinite
Like the longines symphonette it doesnt rest
Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch
Who watches over you
Make a little birdhouse in your soul
Not to put too fine a point on it
Say Im the only bee in your bonnet
Make a little birdhouse in your soul
Im your only friend
Im not your only friend
But Im a little glowing friend
But really Im not actually your friend
But I am
Theres a picture opposite me
Of my primitive ancestry
Which stood on rocky shores and kept the beaches shipwreck free
Though I respect that a lot
Id be fired if that were my job
After killing jason off and countless screaming argonauts
Bluebird of friendliness
Like guardian angels its always near
Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch
Who watches over you
Make a little birdhouse in your soul
Not to put too fine a point on it
Say Im the only bee in your bonnet
Make a little birdhouse in your soul
(and while youre at it
Keep the nightlight on inside the
Birdhouse in your soul)
Not to put too fine a point on it
Say Im the only bee in your bonnet
Make a little birdhouse in your soul
[...] Read more
song performed by They Might Be Giants
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Road
Sitting alone on my hotel
Looking in the mirror wondering, well,
After all this time you never thought youd still be out on the road?
Like a gypsy I was born to roam
Like a wanderer with no fixed abode
I think about the friends Ive left behind on the road
Well, the roads been rocky along the way
Its been a long, hard haul on the motorway
But if it gets too smooth its time to call it a day
(on the road)
The bed and breakfasts and the greasy spoons
(the road)
The loser bars and the noisy rooms
(the road)
The casualties who did too many lines
(the road)
Wasted talent on women and wine
I think of all the friends Ive left behind
Whenever its time to get back out on the road
Started playing blues in a coffee bar
I took a trip down charing cross road
With my imitation gretsch guitar
And my head full of songs and my eyes full of stars
I saw a band called the rolling stones
I thought, thats it, Ill get a band,
Im leaving home, Im out on the road.
The motorways all over this land
(the road)
Far away places like wigan and birmingham
(the road)
Didnt have no name, didnt have any fans
(the road)
Didnt have no money so we slept in the van
All those early gigs we ever played
Sometimes we were lucky if we even got paid
On the road
Pete played on the bass guitar
Liked to get around, mixing with all the stars
But mrs. avorys child was all fingers and thumbs
But solid as a rock, setting time on the drums
While dave the rave hit the rock n roll riffs
Yours truly strummed away with a slightly limp wrist
On the road
Everyday is when I cant get used to it
Everyday is when I cant get away
Another day, another freeway to face
Thats the road
Well, life is a road, its a motorway
And the road gets rocky along the way
But if it gets too smooth its time to call it a day
[...] Read more
song performed by Kinks
Added by Lucian Velea
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Hudibras: Part 3 - Canto II
THE ARGUMENT
The Saints engage in fierce Contests
About their Carnal interests;
To share their sacrilegious Preys,
According to their Rates of Grace;
Their various Frenzies to reform,
When Cromwel left them in a Storm
Till, in th' Effigy of Rumps, the Rabble
Burns all their Grandees of the Cabal.
THE learned write, an insect breeze
Is but a mungrel prince of bees,
That falls before a storm on cows,
And stings the founders of his house;
From whose corrupted flesh that breed
Of vermin did at first proceed.
So e're the storm of war broke out,
Religion spawn'd a various rout
Of petulant Capricious sects,
The maggots of corrupted texts,
That first run all religion down,
And after ev'ry swarm its own.
For as the Persian Magi once
Upon their mothers got their sons,
That were incapable t' enjoy
That empire any other way;
So PRESBYTER begot the other
Upon the good old Cause, his mother,
Then bore then like the Devil's dam,
Whose son and husband are the same.
And yet no nat'ral tie of blood
Nor int'rest for the common good
Cou'd, when their profits interfer'd,
Get quarter for each other's beard.
For when they thriv'd, they never fadg'd,
But only by the ears engag'd:
Like dogs that snarl about a bone,
And play together when they've none,
As by their truest characters,
Their constant actions, plainly appears.
Rebellion now began, for lack
Of zeal and plunders to grow slack;
The Cause and covenant to lessen,
And Providence to b' out of season:
For now there was no more to purchase
O' th' King's Revenue, and the Churches,
But all divided, shar'd, and gone,
That us'd to urge the Brethren on;
Which forc'd the stubborn'st for the Cause,
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poem by Samuel Butler
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Marmion: Canto V. - The Court
I.
The train has left the hills of Braid;
The barrier guard have open made
(So Lindesay bade) the palisade,
That closed the tented ground;
Their men the warders backward drew,
And carried pikes as they rode through
Into its ample bound.
Fast ran the Scottish warriors there,
Upon the Southern band to stare.
And envy with their wonder rose,
To see such well-appointed foes;
Such length of shaft, such mighty bows,
So huge, that many simply thought,
But for a vaunt such weapons wrought;
And little deemed their force to feel,
Through links of mail, and plates of steel,
When rattling upon Flodden vale,
The clothyard arrows flew like hail.
II.
Nor less did Marmion's skilful view
Glance every line and squadron through;
And much he marvelled one small land
Could marshal forth such various band:
For men-at-arms were here,
Heavily sheathed in mail and plate,
Like iron towers for strength and weight,
On Flemish steeds of bone and height,
With battle-axe and spear.
Young knights and squires, a lighter train,
Practised their chargers on the plain,
By aid of leg, of hand, and rein,
Each warlike feat to show,
To pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain,
The high curvet, that not in vain
The sword sway might descend amain
On foeman's casque below.
He saw the hardy burghers there
March armed, on foot, with faces bare,
For vizor they wore none,
Nor waving plume, nor crest of knight;
But burnished were their corslets bright,
Their brigantines, and gorgets light,
Like very silver shone.
Long pikes they had for standing fight,
Two-handed swords they wore,
And many wielded mace of weight,
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poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Don't Tell THe World! (Sonnet)
This Sonnet is in the popular Petrarchan Form
I behold thy love as beautiful thing,
In my wrecked heart, a pleasure garden,
Thy revered love, a blooming Eden.
A daisy tuft seasoned by bright spring,
Surging in moments that defeats waiting,
I behold thy words as a jeweled crown,
On my worn pages of despicable frown.
And thy memory feeds my mind dying,
Daring couple disclose, but don’t you tell,
About memoirs many encased and kept,
Say not thy chronicle, sweet as daisy smell,
Buried, not unseen to thy eyes except
Reveal not, the guarded stash of our love,
Lest a rational world desires to know! ! !
IA NOTE: For those who find the format unfitting to a sonnet!
(Sonnet
only 14 lines long— and has a firmly fixed form. The sonnet works best for expressing strong emotion or intense feeling, firm purpose, or great seriousness. This form works best if you want to focus attention on a single thing—a particular idea, situation, emotion, problem, observation, etc. —the sonnet gets to its point quickly and efficiently, with beauty and charm of form or expression.
The Shakespearean (or English) sonnet and the Petrarchan (or Italian) sonnet are the two most prevalent versions of this form today.
A Shakespearean sonnet or English sonnet is written in one stanza composed of three rhymed quatrains (each making one point in a three-step argument) , followed by a rhyming couplet that summarizes the argument
A Petrarchan sonnet or Italian sonnet is composed of an octet followed by a sestet with a variable rhyme scheme. The octet presents the poem’s theme or problem, while the sestet offers a change or a resolution. In its traditional form, this sonnet never ends in a couplet.
Robert Frost was popular at Petrarchan form of sonnets.
sonnet’s formal requirements (14 lines of iambic pentameter with a specific rhyme scheme) , method (a strong focus on one subject) , and goals (persuasion, surprise, balance) ,
Ref: www.poetry.com/techniques/form of poetic expressions.
Thank You
poem by Seema Aarella
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Bonny Dundee
To the Lords of Convention ’twas Claver’se who spoke.
‘Ere the King’s crown shall fall there are crowns to be broke;
So let each Cavalier who loves honour and me,
Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
Come saddle your horses, and call up your men;
Come open the West Port and let me gang free,
And it’s room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!’
Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street,
The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat;
But the Provost, douce man, said, ‘Just e’en let him be,
The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil of Dundee.’
Come fill up my cup, etc.
As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow,
Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow;
But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and slee,
Thinking luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny Dundee!
Come fill up my cup, etc.
With sour-featured Whigs the Grass-market was crammed,
As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged;
There was spite in each look, there was fear in each e’e,
As they watched for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, etc.
These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears,
And lang-hafted gullies to kill cavaliers;
But they shrunk to close-heads and the causeway was free,
At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, etc.
He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle rock,
And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke;
‘Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three,
For the love of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.’
Come fill up my cup, etc.
The Gordon demands of him which way he goes—
‘Where’er shall direct me the shade of Montrose!
Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me,
Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, etc.
‘There are hills beyond Pentland and lands beyond Forth,
If there’s lords in the Lowlands, there’s chiefs in the North;
There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three,
Will cry hoigh! for the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, etc.
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poem by Sir Walter Scott
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