Author Topic: Darius' poetry Corner  (Read 8965 times)

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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Darius' poetry Corner
« Reply #50 on: June 04, 2006, 12:25:34 PM »
THE PRAISE OF SPRING
by: Gonzalo de Berceo (1180-1246)

I, GONZALO de Berceo, in the gentle summertide,
Wending upon a pilgrimage, came to a meadow's side;
All green was it and beautiful, with flowers far and wide,--
A pleasant spot, I ween, wherein the traveller might abide.
 
Flowers with the sweetest odors filled all the sunny air,
And not alone refreshed the sense, but stole the mind from every care;
On every side a fountain gushed, whose waters pure and fair,
Ice-cold beneath the summer sun, but warm in winter were.
 
There on the thick and shadowy trees, amid the foliage green,
Were the fig and the pomegranate, the pear and apple seen;
And other fruits of various kinds, the tufted leaves between,
None were unpleasant to the taste and none decayed, I ween.
 
The verdure of the meadow green, the odor of the flowers
The grateful shadows of the trees, tempered with fragrant showers,
Refreshed me in the burning heat of the sultry noontide hours;
Oh, one might live upon the balm and fragrance of those bowers!
 
Ne'er had I found on earth a spot that had such power to please,
Such shadows from the summer sun, such odors on the breeze;
I threw my mantle on the ground, that I might rest at ease,
And stretched upon the greensward lay in the shadow of the trees.
 
There soft reclining in the shade, all cares beside me flung,
I heard the soft and mellow notes that through the woodland rung;
Ear never listened to a strain, for instrument or tongue,
So mellow and harmonious as the songs above me sung.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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Darius' poetry Corner
« Reply #51 on: June 10, 2006, 08:24:03 AM »
THE MERRY LITTLE MAID AND WICKED LITTLE MONK

GOOD father, I have sent for you because
I would not tamper with the holy laws,
And yet, I know that something is amiss,
For when I see the youths and maidens kiss,
I tremble and my very knees grow weak
Until my chamber I am forced to seek
And there, with cheeks aflame, in floods of tears,
I toss with strangely mingled hopes and fears.
 
And, father, strange to say, throughout the night,
Although my figure, as you see, is slight,
I dream I have a ripe, voluptuous form,
And strong arms, 'round me, hold me close and warm,
Until at last, at last, I blush to say,
My very garments seem to melt away,
Until, as nature clad me, there I stand,
The willing victim to a wandering hand.
 
And at these times, when I seem not alone,
The form that holds me is not like my own.
It has not swelling globes, here, such as these,
No sloping thighs nor rounded, dimpled knees,
And stranger still--pray, father, dear, draw near,
The greatest difference seems to be--just--here.
 
Dear father, should I pray and fast, in pain?
Or sleep and dream those blissful dreams again?
It seems not sin and yet my mirror shows
A face where shame and deepest color glows.
Tell me, it is not wicked, father, dear.
To find myself with new sensations, here.
Ah! heaven! you burn, with fever too, it seems.
Are you, as well, a prey to fitful dreams?
 
And once I dreamed far more than I have told.
This handsome stranger once was overbold,
And I will show thee, father, if I may,
Just what was done. I could not but obey.
The sun had set. The stars were in the sky,
And I was trembling, though I knew not why
And here upon this couch, I lay, like this,
When on my lips I felt a burning kiss.
Yes! that is like it! Just the very same!!!
My arms reached upward. I was not to blame.
For all my soul seemed hungering to feel
The strange delight that made my senses reel.
It seemed so strange that pleasure should be pain
And yet I fain would suffer, once again.
 
'T was thus--and so--and ever did I strain
To meet, half way, the source of all my pain.
My voice came, fitful--broken--just as now--
I was not mistress of myself, I vow!--
I clasped the spirit visitor like this--
Through all my veins, I felt his maddening kiss.
My pulse went wild--I knew not what was done--
And--goodness gracious!*****
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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Darius' poetry Corner
« Reply #52 on: June 30, 2006, 12:23:20 PM »
THE DREAM CALLED LIFE
by: Pedro Calderón de la Barca (1600-1681)

A DREAM it was in which I found myself.
And you that hail me now, then hailed me king,
In a brave palace that was all my own,
Within, and all without it, mine; until,
Drunk with excess of majesty and pride,
Methought I towered so big and swelled so wide
That of myself I burst the glittering bubble
Which my ambition had about me blown
And all again was darkness. Such a dream
As this, in which I may be walking now,
Dispensing solemn justice to you shadows,
Who make believe to listen; but anon
Kings, princes, captains, warriors, plume and steel,
Ay, even with all your airy theatre,
May flit into the air you seem to rend
With acclamations, leaving me to wake
In the dark tower; or dreaming that I wake
From this that waking is; or this and that,
Both waking and both dreaming; such a doubt
Confounds and clouds our mortal life about.
But whether wake or dreaming, this I know
How dreamwise human glories come and go;
Whose momentary tenure not to break,
Walking as one who knows he soon may wake,
So fairly carry the full cup, so well
Disordered insolence and passion quell,
That there be nothing after to upbraid
Dreamer or doer in the part he played;
Whether tomorrow's dawn shall break the spell,
Or the last trumpet of the Eternal Day,
When dreaming, with the night, shall pass away.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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Darius' poetry Corner
« Reply #53 on: July 08, 2006, 08:47:56 AM »
A LOVE LESSON
by: Thomas Burke (1887-1945)

LAST night I dreamed of the maid with yellow curls,
She came to me in the room above my shop,
And we two were alone, freed from the laws of day.
I held her then to myself.
I took from her her clothing, garment by garment,
And watched them fall about her feet--
White petals of a flower.
And I drew from her to myself her thoughts, one by one,
As often I had wished, till all of her was mine.
And then I was sad, for nothing was left to love.
 
And quickly I clothed her again, garment by garment,
And gave her back her thoughts, one by one,
And awoke in joy.
I was glad that the dream was a dream,
And that all of her was not mine;
For I had learned
That love released from bond, and unburdened of its fetters,
Is love no longer.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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Darius' poetry Corner
« Reply #54 on: July 08, 2006, 08:49:11 AM »
RED IS THE COLOR OF BLOOD
by: Conrad Aiken (1889-1973)

RED is the color of blood, and I will seek it:
I have sought it in the grass.
It is the color of steep sun seen through eyelids.
 
It is hidden under the suave flesh of women--
Flows there, quietly flows.
It mounts from the heart to the temples, the singing mouth--
As cold sap climbs to the rose.
I am confused in webs and knots of scarlet
Spun from the darkness;
Or shuttled from the mouths of thirsty spiders.
 
Madness for red! I devour the leaves of autumn.
I tire of the green of the world.
I am myself a mouth for blood ...
 
Here, in the golden haze of the late slant sun,
Let us walk, with the light in our eyes,
To a single bench from the outset predetermined.
Look: there are seagulls in these city skies,
Kindled against the blue.
But I do not think of the seagulls, I think of you.
 
Your eyes, with the late sun in them,
Are like blue pools dazzled with yellow petals.
This pale green suits them well.
 
Here is your finger, with an emerald on it:
The one I gave you. I say these things politely--
But what I think beneath them, who can tell?
 
For I think of you, crumpled against a whiteness;
Flayed and torn, with a dulled face.
I think of you, writing, a thing of scarlet,
And myself, rising red from that embrace.
 
November sun is sunlight poured through honey:
Old things, in such a light, grow subtle and fine.
Bare oaks are like still fire.
Talk to me: now we drink the evening's wine.
Look, how our shadows creep along the grave!--
And this way, how the gravel begins to shine!
 
This is the time of day for recollections,
For sentimental regrets, oblique allusions,
Rose-leaves, shrivelled in a musty jar.
Scatter them to the wind! There are tempests coming.
It is dark, with a windy star.
 
If human mouths were really roses, my dear,--
(Why must we link things so?--)
I would tear yours petal by petal with slow murder.
I would pluck the stamens, the pistils,
The gold and the green,--
Spreading the subtle sweetness that was your breath
On a cold wave of death....
 
Now let us walk back, slowly, as we came.
We will light the room with candles; they may shine
Like rows of yellow eyes.
Your hair is like spun fire, by candle-flame.
You smile at me--say nothing. You are wise.
 
For I think of you, flung down brutal darkness;
Crushed and red, with pale face.
I think of you, with your hair disordered and dripping.
And myself, rising red from that embrace.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline Flunji

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« Reply #55 on: July 08, 2006, 09:14:47 AM »
I like A Love Lesson :)

Offline k0ge

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« Reply #56 on: July 08, 2006, 03:52:44 PM »
This is the most masturbatory thread since the picture thread.  

Yes. I am a hypocrite.  Still though.
The world that's made us can no longer contain us.
-Regina Spektor, The Consequence of Sounds

Offline Aimless

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« Reply #57 on: July 08, 2006, 04:01:55 PM »
I do not love you as if you were brine-rose, topaz,

or barbed carnations thrown off by the fire.

I love you as certain hidden things are loved,

secretly, between night and soul.

 

I love you like the flower-less plant

carrying inside itself the light of those flowers,

and, graced by your love, a fierce perfume

risen from earth, is alive, concealed in my flesh.

 

I love you without knowing how, whence, when.

I love you truly, without doubts, without pride,

I love you so, and know, no other way to love,

 

none but this mode of neither You nor I,

so close that your hand over my chest is my hand,

so close they are your eyes I shut when I sleep.

:P
Sometimes I think, sometimes I am

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #58 on: July 23, 2006, 09:32:09 AM »
THE SILENT LOVER
by: Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1618)

PASSIONS are liken'd best to floods and streams:
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb;
So, when affection yields discourse, it seems
The bottom is but shallow whence they come.
They that are rich in words, in words discover
That they are poor in that which makes a lover.

WRONG not, sweet empress of my heart,
The merit of true passion,
With thinking that he feels no smart,
That sues for no compassion.
 
Silence in love bewrays more woe
Than words, though ne'er so witty:
A beggar that is dumb, you know,
May challenge double pity.
 
Then wrong not, dearest to my heart,
My true, though secret passion;
He smarteth most that hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #59 on: July 23, 2006, 09:33:39 AM »
ODE TO PSYCHE
by: John Keats (1795-1821)

O GODDESS! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
By sweet enforcement and remembrances dear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
Even into thine own soft-conchèd ear:
Surely I dream'd to-day, or did I see
The wingèd Psyche with awaken'd eyes?
I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly,
And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
Saw two fair creatures, couchèd side by side
In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof
Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran
A brooklet, scarce espied:
'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers fragrant-eyed,
Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian
They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass;
Their arms embracèd, and their pinions too;
Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu,
As if disjoinèd by soft-handed slumber,
And ready still past kisses to outnumber
At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:
The wingèd boy I knew;
But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
His Psyche true!
 
O latest-born and loveliest vision far
Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!
Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star,
Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
Nor altar heap'd with flowers;
Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moan
Upon the midnight hours;
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet
From chain-swung censor teeming;
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
 
O brightest! though too late for antique vows,
Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,
When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
Holy the air, the water, and the fire;
Yet even in these days so far retired
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,
Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
Upon the midnight hours;
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
From swingèd censor teeming:
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
 
Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
In some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branchèd thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:
Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees
Fledge the wild-ridgèd mountains steep by steep;
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,
The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep;
And in the midst of this wide quietness
A rosy sanctuary will I dress
With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain,
With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,
Who, breeding flowers, will never bread the same;
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
That shadowy thought can win,
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
To let the warm Love in!
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #60 on: July 28, 2006, 07:30:42 PM »
THE SOUL'S PRAYER
by: Sarojini Naidu (1879-1949)

IN childhood’s pride I said to Thee:
‘O Thou, who mad’st me of Thy breath,
Speak, Master, and reveal to me
Thine inmost laws of life and death.
 
‘Give me to drink each joy and pain
Which Thine eternal hand can mete,
For my insatiate soul would drain
Earth’s utmost bitter, utmost sweet.
 
‘Spare me no bliss, no pang of strife,
Withhold no gift or grief I crave,
The intricate lore of love and life
And mystic knowledge of the grave.’
 
Lord, Thou didst answer stern and low:
‘Child, I will hearken to thy prayer,
And thy unconquered soul shall know
All passionate rapture and despair.
 
‘Thou shalt drink deep of joy and fame,
And love shall burn thee like a fire,
And pain shall cleanse thee like a flame,
To purge the dross from thy desire.
 
‘So shall thy chastened spirit yearn
To seek from its blind prayer release,
And spent and pardoned, sue to learn
The simple secret of My peace.
 
‘I, bending from my sevenfold height,
Will teach thee of My quickening grace,
Life is a prism of My light,
And Death the shadow of My face.’
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #61 on: July 28, 2006, 07:31:54 PM »
A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM
by: Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow--
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
 
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand--
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep--while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline Mattias

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« Reply #62 on: July 28, 2006, 09:09:03 PM »
A calm breeze caresses her hair
A few silky hairs conceal her face for a moment
She removes them with a smile

A lonely sunbeam kisses her eyelids, her neck, her lips
Lips as sweet as springs first flowers
And her eyes, I could loose myself in them for hours
Her eyes, they shine like the sun

It is a dream. A dream from which I don't want to wake
But I know. I know that dawn is approaching

Then the wind changes
What was a waft of summer,
now feels cold as winter
And that is when I see it...

There is anothers arm around her waist
It is no longer the wind that caresses her hair
Not the sun kissing her lips
It is not for me her eyes are shining

Wake me
Please
Wake me

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #63 on: August 06, 2006, 09:45:29 AM »
THE DISAPPOINTMENT
by: Aphra Behn

        I.

            ONE day the amorous Lysander,
            By an impatient passion swayed,
            Surprised fair Cloris, that loved maid,
            Who could defend herself no longer.
            All things did with his love conspire;
            The gilded planet of the day,
            In his * chariot drawn by fire,
            Was now descending to the sea,
            And left no light to guide the world,
            But what from Cloris' brighter eyes was hurled.
             
            II.
             
            In a lone thicket made for love,
            Silent as a yielding maid's consent,
            She with a charming languishment,
            Permits his force, yet gently strove;
            Her hands his bosom softly meet,
            But not to put him back designed,
            Rather to draw him on inclined;
            Whilst he lay trembling at her feet,
            Resistance 'tis in vain to show;
            She wants the power to say -- 'Ah! What d'ye do?'
             
            III.
             
            Her bright eyes sweet, and yet severe,
            Where love and shame confusedly strive,
            Fresh vigour to Lysander give;
            And breathing faintly in his ear,
            She cried -- 'Cease, cease -- your vain desire,
            Or I'll call out -- what would you do?
            My dearer honour even to you
            I cannot, must not give -- retire,
            Or take this life, whose chiefest part
            I gave you with the conquest of my heart.'
             
            IV.
             
            But he as much unused to fear,
            As he was capable of love,
            The blessed minutes to improve,
            Kisses her mouth, her neck, her hair;
            Each touch her new desire alarms,
            His burning trembling hand he pressed
            Upon her swelling snowy breast,
            While she lay panting in his arms.
            All her unguarded beauties lie
            The spoils and trophies of the enemy.
             
            V.
             
            And now without respect or fear,
            He seeks the object of his vows,
            (His love no modesty allows)
            By swift degrees advancing where
            His daring hand that altar siezed,
            Where gods of love do sacrifice:
            That awful throne, that paradise
            Where rage is calmed, and anger pleased,
            That fountain where delight still flows,
            And gives the universal world repose.
             
            VI.
             
            Her balmy lips encountering his,
            Their bodies, as their souls, are joined;
            Where both in transports unconfined
            Extend themselves upon the moss.
            Cloris half dead and breathless lay;
            Her soft eyes cast a humid light,
            Such as divides the day and night;
            Or falling stars, whose fires decay:
            And now no signs of life she shows,
            But what in short-breathed sighs returns and goes.
             
            VII.
             
            He saw how at her length she lay;
            He saw her rising bosom bare;
            Her loose thin robes, through which appear
            A shape designed for love and play;
            Abandoned by her pride and shame
            She does her softest joys dispense,
            Offering her virgin innocence
            A victim to love's sacred flame;
            While the o'er-ravished shepherd lies
            Unable to perform the sacrifice.
             
            VIII.
             
            Ready to taste a thousand joys,
            The too transported hapless swain
            Found the vast pleasure turned to pain;
            Pleasure which too much love destroys.
            The willing garments by he laid,
            And Heaven all opened to his view,
            Mad to possess, himself he threw
            On the defenceless lovely maid.
            But oh what envious gods conspire
            To snatch his power, yet leave him the desire!
             
            IX.
             
            Nature's support (without whose aid
            She can no human being give)
            Itself now wants the art to live;
            Faintness its slackened nerves invade;
            In vain th'enraged youth essayed
            To call its fleeting vigour back,
            No motion 'twill from motion take;
            Excess of love his love betrayed.
            In vain he toils, in vain commands;
            The insensible fell weeping in his hand.
             
            X.
             
            In this so amorous cruel strife,
            Where love and fate were too severe,
            The poor Lysander in despair
            Renounced his reason with his life.
            Now all the brisk and active fire
            That should the nobler part inflame,
            Served to increase his rage and shame,
            And left no spark of new desire:
            Not all her naked charms could move
            Or calm that rage that had debauched his love.
             
            XI.
             
            Cloris returning from the trance
            Which love and soft desire had bred,
            Her timorous hand she gently laid
            (Or guided by design or chance)
            Upon that fabulous Priapas,
            That potent god, as poets feign;
            But never did young shepherdess,
            Gathering of fern upon the plain,
            More nimbly draw her fingers back,
            Finding beneath the verdant leaves, a snake.
             
            XII.
             
            Then Cloris her fair hand withdrew,
            Finding that god of her desires
            Disarmed of all his awful fires,
            And cold as flowers bathed in morning dew.
            Who can the nymph's confusion guess?
            The blood forsook the hinder place,
            And strewed with blushes all her face,
            Which both disdain and shame expressed:
            And from Lysander's arms she fled,
            Leaving him fainting on the gloomy bed.
             
            XIII.
             
            Like lightning through the grove she hies,
            Or Daphne from the Delphic god,
            No print upon the grassy road
            She leaves, t'instruct pursuing eyes.
            The wind that wantoned in her hair,
            And with her ruffled garments played,
            Discovered in the flying maid
            All that the gods e'er made, of fair.
            So Venus, when her love was slain,
            With fear and haste flew o'er the fatal plain.
             
            XIV.
             
            The nymph's resentments none but I
            Can well imagine or condole:
            But none can guess Lysander's soul,
            But those who swayed his destiny.
            His silent griefs swell up to storms,
            And not one god his fury spares;
            He cursed his birth, his fate, his stars
            But more the shepherdess's charms,
            Whose soft bewitching influence
            Had damned him to the hell of impotence.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

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« Reply #64 on: August 06, 2006, 09:46:43 AM »
A NYMPH WHEN AS THE SUMMER'S BEAMS
An anonymous poem

A NYMPH when as the Summer's beams
Made hot the colder air,
Into a fountain's Crystal streams,
To bathe her did repair:
And by degrees she boldly did at length
Those parts unhide:
Which to be bashful, nature made
So curious to be spied.
 
Oft downward would she cast her head,
And blushing look away;
Then twist her arms, and twine her thighs,
As fearful to betray
Her self unto her fearful self:
Thus frighted she at last,
Into the fountains swiftest streams,
Her purest body cast.
 
The waves did proudly bear her up,
And as she waded in the silver-brook,
Seem'd not to cleanse her as she swam,
But from her purifying took.
And underneath the Crystal streams,
As she did gliding pass,
She seemed like a Lily fair,
That's sunk into a glass.
 
And as she did her dainty arms
In sundry sort display,
Ofttimes she would Narcissus-like
With her own shadow play.
Oft would she lie upon her back:
With legs and arms both spread,
And imitate those wanton joys,
That women use in bed.
 
Women their modesty forget
And often lay aside;
This Nymph, that thought herself unseen,
Was by a Shepherd spy'd:
Who ravished with the sight he saw,
No longer staid to woo her,
But flung away his hook and scrip,
And boldly stept unto her.
She shrieking dived, thought to have hid
Herself, but all in vain,
The Waters to preserve her life,
Did bear her up again;
The Shepherd caught her in his arms,
And laid her on the brink,
And what he did without delay,
You know, or else may think.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

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« Reply #65 on: August 26, 2006, 01:09:16 PM »
THE EVE OF WATERLOO
by: Lord Byron (1788-1824)

THERE was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men.
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell;
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it? -- No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
But hark! -- that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before;
Arm! arm! it is -- it is -- the cannon's opening roar!

Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell;
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago,
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness.
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated; who would guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips -- "The foe! they come! they come!"
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

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« Reply #66 on: August 26, 2006, 01:11:11 PM »
SHE SAT AND SANG
by: Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

SHE sat and sang alway
By the green margin of a stream,
Watching the fishes leap and play
Beneath the glad sunbeam.
 
I sat and wept alway
Beneath the moon's most shadowy beam,
Watching the blossoms of the May
Weep leaves into the stream.
 
I wept for memory;
She sang for hope that is so fair:
My tears were swallowed by the sea;
Her songs died in the air.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

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« Reply #67 on: August 31, 2006, 09:10:50 PM »
FREDERICKSBURG
by: Thomas Bailey Aldrich (1836-1906)

THE increasing moonlight drifts across my bed,
And on the churchyard by the road, I know
It falls as white and noiselessly as snow. . . .
'T was such a night two weary summers fled;
The stars, as now, were waning overhead.
Listen! Again the shrill-lipped bugles blow
Where the swift currents of the river flow
Past Fredericksburg; far off the heavens are red
With sudden conflagration; on yon height,
Linstock in hand, the gunners hold their breath;
A signal rocket pierces the dense night,
Flings its spent stars upon the town beneath:
Hark!--the artillery massing on the right,
Hark!--the black squadrons wheeling down to Death!
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

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« Reply #68 on: August 31, 2006, 09:11:53 PM »
THE DISAPPOINTMENT
by: Aphra Behn

ONE day the amorous Lysander,
By an impatient passion swayed,
Surprised fair Cloris, that loved maid,
Who could defend herself no longer.
All things did with his love conspire;
The gilded planet of the day,
In his * chariot drawn by fire,
Was now descending to the sea,
And left no light to guide the world,
But what from Cloris' brighter eyes was hurled.
 
II.
 
In a lone thicket made for love,
Silent as a yielding maid's consent,
She with a charming languishment,
Permits his force, yet gently strove;
Her hands his bosom softly meet,
But not to put him back designed,
Rather to draw him on inclined;
Whilst he lay trembling at her feet,
Resistance 'tis in vain to show;
She wants the power to say -- 'Ah! What d'ye do?'
 
III.
 
Her bright eyes sweet, and yet severe,
Where love and shame confusedly strive,
Fresh vigour to Lysander give;
And breathing faintly in his ear,
She cried -- 'Cease, cease -- your vain desire,
Or I'll call out -- what would you do?
My dearer honour even to you
I cannot, must not give -- retire,
Or take this life, whose chiefest part
I gave you with the conquest of my heart.'
 
IV.
 
But he as much unused to fear,
As he was capable of love,
The blessed minutes to improve,
Kisses her mouth, her neck, her hair;
Each touch her new desire alarms,
His burning trembling hand he pressed
Upon her swelling snowy breast,
While she lay panting in his arms.
All her unguarded beauties lie
The spoils and trophies of the enemy.
 
V.
 
And now without respect or fear,
He seeks the object of his vows,
(His love no modesty allows)
By swift degrees advancing where
His daring hand that altar siezed,
Where gods of love do sacrifice:
That awful throne, that paradise
Where rage is calmed, and anger pleased,
That fountain where delight still flows,
And gives the universal world repose.
 
VI.
 
Her balmy lips encountering his,
Their bodies, as their souls, are joined;
Where both in transports unconfined
Extend themselves upon the moss.
Cloris half dead and breathless lay;
Her soft eyes cast a humid light,
Such as divides the day and night;
Or falling stars, whose fires decay:
And now no signs of life she shows,
But what in short-breathed sighs returns and goes.
 
VII.
 
He saw how at her length she lay;
He saw her rising bosom bare;
Her loose thin robes, through which appear
A shape designed for love and play;
Abandoned by her pride and shame
She does her softest joys dispense,
Offering her virgin innocence
A victim to love's sacred flame;
While the o'er-ravished shepherd lies
Unable to perform the sacrifice.
 
VIII.
 
Ready to taste a thousand joys,
The too transported hapless swain
Found the vast pleasure turned to pain;
Pleasure which too much love destroys.
The willing garments by he laid,
And Heaven all opened to his view,
Mad to possess, himself he threw
On the defenceless lovely maid.
But oh what envious gods conspire
To snatch his power, yet leave him the desire!
 
IX.
 
Nature's support (without whose aid
She can no human being give)
Itself now wants the art to live;
Faintness its slackened nerves invade;
In vain th'enraged youth essayed
To call its fleeting vigour back,
No motion 'twill from motion take;
Excess of love his love betrayed.
In vain he toils, in vain commands;
The insensible fell weeping in his hand.
 
X.
 
In this so amorous cruel strife,
Where love and fate were too severe,
The poor Lysander in despair
Renounced his reason with his life.
Now all the brisk and active fire
That should the nobler part inflame,
Served to increase his rage and shame,
And left no spark of new desire:
Not all her naked charms could move
Or calm that rage that had debauched his love.
 
XI.
 
Cloris returning from the trance
Which love and soft desire had bred,
Her timorous hand she gently laid
(Or guided by design or chance)
Upon that fabulous Priapas,
That potent god, as poets feign;
But never did young shepherdess,
Gathering of fern upon the plain,
More nimbly draw her fingers back,
Finding beneath the verdant leaves, a snake.
 
XII.
 
Then Cloris her fair hand withdrew,
Finding that god of her desires
Disarmed of all his awful fires,
And cold as flowers bathed in morning dew.
Who can the nymph's confusion guess?
The blood forsook the hinder place,
And strewed with blushes all her face,
Which both disdain and shame expressed:
And from Lysander's arms she fled,
Leaving him fainting on the gloomy bed.
 
XIII.
 
Like lightning through the grove she hies,
Or Daphne from the Delphic god,
No print upon the grassy road
She leaves, t'instruct pursuing eyes.
The wind that wantoned in her hair,
And with her ruffled garments played,
Discovered in the flying maid
All that the gods e'er made, of fair.
So Venus, when her love was slain,
With fear and haste flew o'er the fatal plain.
 
XIV.
 
The nymph's resentments none but I
Can well imagine or condole:
But none can guess Lysander's soul,
But those who swayed his destiny.
His silent griefs swell up to storms,
And not one god his fury spares;
He cursed his birth, his fate, his stars
But more the shepherdess's charms,
Whose soft bewitching influence
Had damned him to the hell of impotence.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

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« Reply #69 on: September 07, 2006, 08:01:43 PM »
THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW
by: Robert Trail Spence Lowell (1816-1891)

OH, that last day in Lucknow fort!
We knew that it was the last;
That the enemy's mines crept surely in,
And the end was coming fast.

To yield to that foe meant worse than death;
And the men and we all worked on;
It was one day more of smoke and roar,
And then it would all be done.

There was one of us, a corporal's wife,
A fair, young, gentle thing,
Wasted with fever in the siege,
And her mind was wandering.

She lay on the ground, in her Scottish plaid,
And I took her head on my knee;
"When my father comes fame frae the pleugh," she said
"Oh! then please wauken me."

She slept like a child on her father's floor,
In the flecking of woodbine shade,
When the house-dog sprawls by the open door,
And the mother's wheel is stayed.

It was smoke and roar and powder-stench,
And hopeless waiting for death;
And the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child,
Seemed scarce to draw her breath.

I sank to sleep; and I had my dream
Of an English village-lane,
And wall and garden; but one wild scream
Brought me back to the roar again.

There Jessie Brown stood listening
Till a sudden gladness broke
All over her face; and she caught my hand
And drew me near and spoke:

"The Hielanders! Oh! dinna ye hear
The slogan far awa?
The McGregor's? Oh! I ken it weel;
It's the grandest o' them a'!

"God bless thae bonny Hielanders!
We're saved! We're saved!" she cried;
And fell on her knees; and thanks to God
Flowed forth like a full flood-tide.

Along the battery line her cry
Had fallen among the men,
And they started back; -- they were there to die;
But was life so near them, then?

They listened for life; the rattling fire
Far off, and the far-off roar,
Were all; and the colonel shook his head,
And they turned to their guns once more.

Then Jessie said, "That slogan's done;
But can ye hear them noo,
'The Campbells are comin''? It's no dream;
Our succors hae broken through."

We heard the roar and the rattle afar,
But the pipes we could not hear;
So the men plied their work of hopeless war,
And knew that the end was near.

It was not long ere it made its way,
A thrilling, ceaseless sound:
It was no noise from the strife afar,
Or the sappers under ground.

It was the pipes of the Highlanders!
And now they played "Auld Lang Syne."
It came to our men like the voice of God,
And they shouted along the line.

And they wept, and shook one another's hands,
And the women sobbed in a crowd;
And every one knelt down where he stood,
And we all thanked God aloud.

That happy day, when we welcomed them,
Our men put Jessie first;
And the general gave her his hand, and cheers
Like a storm from the soldiers burst.

And the pipers' ribbons and tartan streamed,
Marching round and round our line;
And our joyful cheers were broken with tears,
As the pipes played "Auld Lang Syne."
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #70 on: September 17, 2006, 09:35:35 AM »
WHEN THE SHY STAR GOES FORTH IN HEAVEN
by: James Joyce (1882-1941)

WHEN the shy star goes forth in heaven
All maidenly, disconsolate,
Hear you amid the drowsy even
One who is singing by your gate.
His song is softer than the dew
And he is come to visit you.
 
O bend no more in revery
When he at eventide is calling,
Nor muse: Who may this singer be
Whose song about my heart is falling?
Know you by this, the lover's chant,
'Tis I that am your visitant.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

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« Reply #71 on: September 17, 2006, 09:36:44 AM »
EMOTIONAL
by: Michael Strange

LEAN your mouth well over into the moonlight
So that I may kiss it full, O chance--
Press me into your pungent arms
So jagged with nightmare--so rent with spasmodic glories--
So pliant with momentary relaxing--
O your arms so compact with variety--
For no strident with triton freshness
And glossed as if by spray shaken off a burst of godliness
Out of glacier streams--
And now slippery-darkened with that moulten calm
Preceding some sinister extase--
 
O chance--stinging--refreshing
Like a sudden rain of flowers across my being that is ever held
So deliberately accessible--
O chance teasing with evasive glimpses of some further road
Ever lightening towards breathless eventualities--
Aye, for ever alternately veiling--disclosing--
That face approximate of Heaven--and hell.
 
I am resting by the edge of the sea--
But in my arm is a curve imperceptible
For the weight of your head--lover--comrade--
My feet are damp with the vigorous jet of the sea--
My body is splashed in a sudden pour of sunlight
Spreading down now in widening--blazing torrents--
From behind the pushed-away clouds--
Yet I long to be chilled--warmed--and surpassing these--
And by our limbs co-mingling--lover--comrade.
 
Sad, we must find each other--ourselves--life--out
Through this impediment of love--
(With its billion toe-stubbings along the Olympian track.)
Pathetic we must exercise by falling out of the sky
And chasing our own tails for awhile--
Instead of feeling our manes tearing out behind us
Along those freezing spiral vapours of the Continuous Ascension.
 
O You and I have stood poignantly close upon the edge of perilous slanting--
And with sublime sunbeams bouncing from upturned face to face
And measuring upon each utter equality of dazzle--
O you and I have leant fraternally together in a light
Reducing to proportionate form at last--
All those melancholy grotesques of conscious life--
Yea and together heard a conclusive goodness affirming
Through vast harp-sweet spaces--
Then--then--the reverential swoon of our knees
Before this momentary shining out of the beyond
Has been cause for a touch between us--
Ah, what union in this accidental knocking of knees
Before a Shared Presence--
When suddenly--suddenly--
The thrown-back hood of vision clamping down precipitant,
And a sadness in the air as of some Divine Retreat--
When my claw stirring--waking--reaching out--
And in your answering motion a gracious shoot of reverberating "yea"--
Then your eyes becoming a liquid gale
Importunate--parting--pressing aside my branches--
And your mouth a distortion of fire skipping--falling--
Clinging strangely among my blossoms--
My blossoms opening--shedding for you in ghastly broad abandon--
O love--love--unequipped--unaware
Of the subtle fatality in your own repletion.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

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« Reply #72 on: September 18, 2006, 10:10:49 AM »
MY LADY CARRIES LOVE WITHIN HER EYES
by: Dante Alighieri (1265-1321)

MY lady carries love within her eyes;
All that she looks on is made pleasanter;
Upon her path men turn to gaze at her;
He whom she greeteth feels his heart to rise,
And droops his troubled visage, full of sighs,
And of his evil heart is then aware:
Hate loves, and pride becomes a worshiper.
O women, help to praise her in somewise.
Humbleness, and the hope that hopeth well,
By speech of hers into the mind are brought,
And who beholds is blessèd oftenwhiles,
The look she hath when she a little smiles
Cannot be said, nor holden in the thought;
'Tis such a new and gracious miracle.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

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« Reply #73 on: September 18, 2006, 10:11:56 AM »
HYPOCRISY
by: Samuel Butler (1612-1680)

HYPOCRISY will serve as well
To propogate a church as zeal;
As persecution and promotion
Do equally advance devotion:
So round white stones will serve, they say,
As well as eggs to make hens lay.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #74 on: September 25, 2006, 07:09:30 PM »
TO MY DEAR AND LOVING HUSBAND
by: Anne Bradstreet (c.1612-1672)

IF ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were lov'd by wife, then thee.
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye women, if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole Mines of gold
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that Rivers cannot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee give recompetence.
Thy love is such I can no way repay.
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let's so persever
That when we live no more, we may live ever.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich