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On Another's Sorrow - William Blake
Can I see another's woe,
And not be in sorrow too,
Can I see another's grief,
And not seek for kind relief.
Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrows share,
Can a father see his child,
Weep, nor be with sorrow fill'd.
Can a mother sit and hear,
An infant groan an infant fear-
No no never can it be.
Never never can it be.
And can he who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small birds grief & care
Hear the woes that infants bear-
And not sit beside the nest
Pouring pity in their breast,
And not sit the cradle near
Weeping tear on infants tear.
And not sit both night & day,
Wiping all the tears away.
O! no never can it be.
Never never can it be.
He doth give his joy to all.
He becomes an infant small.
He becomes a man of woe
He doth feel the sorrow too.
Think not, thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy maker is not by.
Think not, thou canst weep a tear,
And thy maker is not near.
O! he gives to us his joy,
That our grief he may destroy
Till our grief is fled & gone
He doth sit by us and moan.
She Walks In Beauty - Lord Byron
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear, their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
Remind Me Not, Remind Me Not - Lord Byron
Remind me not, remind me not,
Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours,
When all my soul was given to thee;
Hours that may never be forgot,
Till Time unnerves our vital powers,
And thou and I shall cease to be.
Can I forget---canst thou forget,
When playing with thy golden hair,
How quick thy fluttering heart did move?
Oh! by my soul, I see thee yet,
With eyes so languid, breast so fair,
And lips, though silent, breathing love.
When thus reclining on my breast,
Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet,
As half reproach'd yet rais'd desire,
And still we near and nearer prest,
And still our glowing lips would meet,
As if in kisses to expire.
And then those pensive eyes would close,
And bid their lids each other seek,
Veiling the azure orbs below;
While their long lashes' darken'd gloss
Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek,
Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow.
I dreamt last night our love return'd,
And, sooth to say, that very dream
Was sweeter in its fantasy,
Than if for other hearts I burn'd,
For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam
In Rapture's wild reality.
Then tell me not, remind me not,
Of hours which, though for ever gone,
Can still a pleasing dream restore,
Till Thou and I shall be forgot,
And senseless, as the moldering stone
Which tells that we shall be no more.
The Tear - Lord Byron
When Friendship or Love
Our sympathies move;
When Truth, in a glance, should appear,
The lips may beguile,
With a dimple or smile,
But the test of affection's a Tear:
Too oft is a smile
But the hypocrite's wile,
To mask detestation, or fear;
Give me the soft sigh,
Whilst the soul telling eye
Is dimm'd, for a time, with a Tear:
Mild Charity's glow,
To us mortals below,
Shows the soul from barbarity clear;
Compassion will melt,
Where this virtue is felt,
And its dew is diffused in a Tear:
The man, doom'd to sail With the blast of the gale,
Through billows Atlantic to steer,
As he bends o'er the wave
Which may soon be his grave,
The green sparkles bright with a Tear;
The Soldier braves death
For a fanciful wreath
In Glory's romantic career;
But he raises the foe
When in battle laid low,
And bathes every wound with a Tear.
If, with high-bounding pride,
He return to his bride!
Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear;
All his toils are repaid
When, embracing the maid,
From her eyelid he kisses the Tear.
Sweet scene of my youth!
Seat of Friendship and Truth,
Where Love chas'd each fast-fleeting year
Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd,
For a last look I turn'd,
But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear:
Though my vows I can pour,
To my Mary no more,
My Mary, to Love once so dear,
In the shade of her bow'r,
I remember the hour,
She rewarded those vows with a Tear.
By another possest,
May she live ever blest!
Her name still my heart must revere:
With a sigh I resign,
What I once thought was mine,
And forgive her deceit with a Tear.
Ye friends of my heart,
Ere from you I depart,
This hope to my breast is most near:
If again we shall meet,
In this rural retreat,
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.
When my soul wings her flight
To the regions of night,
And my cores shall recline on its bier;
As ye pass by the tomb,
Where my ashes consume,
Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.
When We Two Parted - Lord Byron
When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow---
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me---
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:---
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met---
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?---
With silence and tears.
The Ballad of William Bloat - Raymond Calvert
In a mean abode on the Skankill Road
Lived a man named William Bloat;
He had a wife, the curse of his life,
Who continually got his goat.
So one day at dawn, with her nightdress on
He cut her bloody throat.
With a razor gash he settled her hash
Oh never was crime so quick
But the drip drip drip on the pillowslip '
Of her lifeblood made him sick.
And the pool of gore on the bedroom floor
Grew clotted and cold and thick.
And yet he was glad he had done what he had
When she lay there stiff and still
But a sudden awe of the angry law
Struck his heart with an icy chill.
So to finish the fun so well begun
He resolved himself to kill.
He took the sheet from the wife's coul' feet
And twisted it into a rope
And he hanged himself from the pantry shelf,
'Twas an easy end, let's hope.
In the face of death with his latest breath
He solemnly cursed the Pope.
But the strangest turn to the whole concern
Is only just beginning.
He went to Hell but his wife got well
And she's still alive and sinning.
For the razor blade was German made
But the sheet was Belfast linen.
The Prophet - Abraham Cowley
Teach me to Love? go teach thy self more wit;
I am chief Professor of it.
Teach craft to Scots, and thrift to Jews,
Teach boldness to the Stews;
In tyrants courts teach supple flattery,
Teach Jesuits, that have traveled far, to Lye.
Teach fire to burn and Winds to blow.
Teach restless Fountains how to flow,
Teach the dull earth, fix, to abide,
Teach Woman-kind inconstancy and Pride.
See if your diligence here will useful prove;
But, pr'ithee, teach not me to love.
The God of Love, if such a thing there be,
May learn to love from me,
He who does boast that he has bin,
In every Heart since Adams sin,
I'll lay my Life, nay Mistress on't, that's more;
I'll teach him things he never knew before;
I'll teach him a receipt to make
Words that weep, and Tears that speak,
I'll teach him Sighs, like those in death,
At which the Souls go out too with the breath;
Still the Soul stays, yet still does from me run;
As Light and Heat does with the Sun.
'Tis I who Love's Columbus am; 'tis I, Who must new Worlds
in it descry;
Rich Worlds, that yield of Treasure more,
than that has been known before,
And yet like his (I fear) my fate must be,
To find them out for others; not for Me.
Me Times to come, I know it, shall
Loves last and greatest prophet call.
But, ah, what's that, if she refuse,
To hear the whole doctrines of my Muse?
If to my share the Prophets fate must come;
Hereafter fame, here Martyrdom.
The Road Not Taken - Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair;
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, And I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
To The Virgins, Make Much of Time - Robert Herrick
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying,
And this same flower that smiles today,
To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
and while ye may, go marry;
For having lost just once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.
Fashion - Mike Searles
I see that look on your face
So carefully careless
In a carefully planned kinda way
It’s so very stylish
But 5 minutes 'till its outa date
I hear the words you speak
They are filled with your wisdom
Of eighteen years to this date
They are so carefully chosen
To match the smile on your face
I see the way you walk
Copying your pace
Walking your carefully chosen steps
Towards your crowd
Where you disappear
Going to were you will be,
In twice the time.
Forgetting Is a Circle - Mike Searles
Forgetting is a circle
Leading on a slow existence
Fighting off shadows of a past
Painful to a soul
Who breeds only apathy
In an effort to cocoon itself
Into a shelter
Where it can be alone
Safely tucked away from the world
Set to change by it’s own will
To forget that one moment
And once that memory lost
It will emerge
Find another past
Destined to be forgotten
Life - Mike Searles
Life
Is nothing more
Than these moments in time
That we remember
And hold
Like a hungry child
Waiting for more
While most of it passes us by
Weeding out
Or choosing to ignore
What truly defines what we are
Then by choice
Or age
We lose our memories
And like sand falling through
Clutching fingers
We struggle to hold onto what we have lost
Only to find we lose ourselves
In a slow process of
Time
O Captain! My Captain! - Walt Whitman
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck the Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up --- for you the flag is flung --- for you the bugle trills,
For you the bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths --- for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning,
Here Captain! dear father!
The arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Me! O life!- Walt Whitman
O Me! O life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless,
of cities fill'd with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself,
(for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light,
of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew'd,
Of the poor results of all,
of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest,
with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring-What good amid these,
O me, O life?
Answer.
That you are here-that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.
To a Stranger - Walt Whitman
Passing stranger! you do not know
How longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking,
Or she I was seeking
(It comes to me as a dream)
I have somewhere surely
Lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall'd as we flit by each other,
Fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,
You grew up with me,
Were a boy with me or a girl with me,
I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become
not yours only nor left my body mine only,
You give me the pleasure of your eyes,
face, flesh as we pass,
You take of my beard, breast, hands,
in return,
I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you
when I sit alone or wake at night, alone
I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.