elizabeth-evans
English
Passion for writing stories, poems and creative writing in general. / Very into Shakespeare, Thomas Hardy, Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters and Phillipa Gregory. / Love historical fiction and it is my aspiration to write a book about the past someday. / Hope you enjoy my starter poems! I just do this for fun really, nether the less comment and give me your feedback!
When I was a young maiden
Young but sensible and sweet,
My face was round and my lips rosy,
But my dress was always neat.
The village boys they would compare,
Me, the other girls and stare;
At each one of us to see
Who was fairer than she.
I was told that I was pretty
As pretty as they go,
But I had but mind and soul
Not to let it blow.
It was only until then
That I caught a great lords eye
With my hair and my smile,
But I was not ready to comply.
O' Why did he seek me out?
To praise my long brown hair
Why did this lord seek me out
To merely tell me I was faire?
He took me to his castle,
He took his faire maid there,
And with him I went,
Alas, went without a care.
Thus, the garden of Eden was created,
And it's great sins rose from it's grave;
But he made me his puppet,
And I knew that I was his slave.
Oh but pleasure such as these;
Soon grow tired and weary.
I was called his young harlot,
But then I became teary.
“O I am not pure! Not pure anymore!”
“No, dear heart, you are my dove,
Whose lily white and beautiful;
Which is purer than angels love.”
My lords eye wondered
to other girls like I used to be,
He wooed and gave them favours
But I was far from being free.
O Lady Alice, exquisite Alice;
Grew fairer than I;
He ceased calling for me,
Until he would fully cast me by.
I screamed and pulled my dress,
“O' I love him so, I love him so!”
I stomped and raged my feet;
But in this sin, he has caused me naught but woe.
He had given me jewels
He had given me treasures,
But they were worthless;
Without his concentrated pleasures.
It was like I never was,
Like everything he said was a lie;
That he never loved me,
Just used me and said goodbye.
I went back down the path,
All the way to my girlhood home,
But the folk, they looked upon me
At the place where I once did roam.
Because Alice was a good girl;
Because she waited and didn't say yes,
He soon put a ring on her finger,
Whereas he lifted up my dress.
They called her a lucky girl,
They called you virtuous and pure;
But I was the outcast little thing,
Something I was always to endure.
But who can say your love was greater?
Or more true or more strong,
For the lord said that same to me;
What he says to you in his song.
O' But maid Alice, my love was true,
But he would not let it be,
You would be where I be now,
If he had fooled you and not me.
His handsome face his strong hands,
Led me into such a trance,
I was blinded by what was true,
When he led me to a merry dance.
My golden son, my babe, my shame;
Cried every night at eleven past two;
For this is when this babe came about,
When I shamelessly laid with you.
Sixteen, far too young,
To be a mother, shamed and be done;
I be ruined and I be alone,
With you and your Alice, and I with your son.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 7:42 PM UTC
seasons turn
and we learn that good things don't last
like we wish they do. And, regrettably
summer melts into autumn
and the beauty of nature melts with it
time and time again; we live to see many summers
and many winters. Enjoying them
while they last and miss them when they're gone.
But after many of these turning seasons, we grow old.
Us, change and whiter slowly
whereas the landscape does it quicker.
But; as we progress towards death, the earth renews itself
and returns fresh once again. But we are left
slowly dying
knowing that we will one day be lost.
And that's the saddest thing of all.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 3:28 PM UTC
and I see you
so perfect
beautifully formed
lips of delicate silk
hair in the form of
gold strands. Even the
angels would be jealous
of the love
between us, for
I have never known
anything so powerful.
So influential
in all my years of living.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 5:37 AM UTC
Beauty: they say, is a perfectly crafted thing a small dose can throw us into a spiral of bliss.
That small piece we are allowed must be spread out evenly across the whole of our lives. We must treasure it when we have it, and when it disappears be thankful for when it was here.
Although, if we take it for granted, or take it all at the same time, it will not last.
And we will be left broken; for we are so fragile in comparison.
That small share we are given, if taken all at once, can be dangerous. Thus; leaving some broken hearted, perhaps permantly.
And those, who take it all at once or are unfortunately handed to them, are due no more beauty.
And stay sad forever.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 5:20 PM UTC
Oh Elizabeth the faire
sweet as the roses that grow for her
each summer.
That sends her senses
into a whirl of magic
that only beauty such as hers
could think to enhance.
Last spring
thee faire Elizabeth won may queen.
And came with it was a garland of flowers
to crown her pretty golden head.
Almost as if those flowers,
could grow so beautiful
from that perfect head of hair.
Men would look upon her
and dream that she was theirs
for she was a physical goddess in their eyes.
Her loveliness
would inspire poets and story writers
for years to come;
and Elizabeth the faire
spoke not of it.
Like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Alas, years went by
And faire Elizabeth
was made to marry a man who
cared not for beauty or purity.
For sweet Elizabeth would have picked a ripe fruit.
But instead, she was handed this rotten apple.
Although, in the eyes of merry England
she was the greatest girl ever to live
but she was still a girl; so thus, she married
him, much against her will.
Spring melted into summer and summer melted into autumn.
Until years went by, and faire Elizabeth
faded into the background, amongst the other ordinary wives.
But she was still fertile and beautiful; and she bore her rotten
husband ten children.
But, alas, one winters morning,
where the land froze over
and frost besides on every bramble bush.
There, on that frozen morning,
lay a once beautiful maiden
dying in her bed.
Her complexion no longer rosey,
but grey and lifeless.
Her golden hair turned limp and thin. Rings around her
beautiful eyes, eyes that once sparkled.
But, a garland of flowers sat in her hands underneath
her eleventh babe, also cold and grey.
So Elizabeth the faire
took her leave of the world without complaint.
And so her name was lost in time.
But that golden may day some years ago,
where the fairest girl ever there was was crowned may queen
shall not be lost. But will live on;
in the human heart.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 9:15 AM UTC
We are haunted by the vastness of eternity
and so we ask ourselves;
will our actions echo across the centuries?
Will they hear our name and wonder who we were, how bravely we fought, how fiercely we loved.
They will write stories about
your victories for thousands
of years my love; and when you
are lost your name will live on. It shall
inspire men and women all through the ages, just like it had inspired every fibre
of my being when we were in our
golden days. Come, dear heart
into my coffin bed
keep it warm with me,
and we shall glory over your triumph
in our death bed,
for the rest of time.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 6:55 PM UTC
had I not but known,
the fate that was to await me
if I stayed here, in this royal bed chamber
then things would go the fate I was handed
but if I left
wondered out and closed the door behind me
then perhaps life would be different. Thus, the King called for I and none else
like he could think about no other except me.
And I obediently embraced my fate
and he took his full of pleasure
until the product of this 'love' grew and came
then he had no interest
and moved onto the next girl like me
and I was disposed of
like I knew I would be.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 5:25 AM UTC
each and every word you spoke to me,
stained the soul that I held so dear.
observations of a small life go unnoticed by so many; the idea that there is something better to hear, something greater to do,
to see as if there is perfect air to breathe, better people to love
oh no; how can I imagine
a better being than yourself. To brighten my heart so utterly, placed upon broken glass
if you may go, and leave me in this wrechard mess
that I call love
for how can it be any different.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 5:03 AM UTC