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So spake the Son of God; and Satan stood
A while as mute, confounded what to say,
What to reply, confuted and convinced
Of his weak arguing and fallacious drift;
At length, collecting all his serpent wiles,
With soothing words renewed, him thus accosts:—
  “I see thou know’st what is of use to know,
What best to say canst say, to do canst do;
Thy actions to thy words accord; thy words
To thy large heart give utterance due; thy heart            
Contains of good, wise, just, the perfet shape.
Should kings and nations from thy mouth consult,
Thy counsel would be as the oracle
Urim and Thummim, those oraculous gems
On Aaron’s breast, or tongue of Seers old
Infallible; or, wert thou sought to deeds
That might require the array of war, thy skill
Of conduct would be such that all the world
Could not sustain thy prowess, or subsist
In battle, though against thy few in arms.                  
These godlike virtues wherefore dost thou hide?
Affecting private life, or more obscure
In savage wilderness, wherefore deprive
All Earth her wonder at thy acts, thyself
The fame and glory—glory, the reward
That sole excites to high attempts the flame
Of most erected spirits, most tempered pure
AEthereal, who all pleasures else despise,
All treasures and all gain esteem as dross,
And dignities and powers, all but the highest?              
Thy years are ripe, and over-ripe.  The son
Of Macedonian Philip had ere these
Won Asia, and the throne of Cyrus held
At his dispose; young Scipio had brought down
The Carthaginian pride; young Pompey quelled
The Pontic king, and in triumph had rode.
Yet years, and to ripe years judgment mature,
Quench not the thirst of glory, but augment.
Great Julius, whom now all the world admires,
The more he grew in years, the more inflamed                
With glory, wept that he had lived so long
Ingloroious.  But thou yet art not too late.”
  To whom our Saviour calmly thus replied:—
“Thou neither dost persuade me to seek wealth
For empire’s sake, nor empire to affect
For glory’s sake, by all thy argument.
For what is glory but the blaze of fame,
The people’s praise, if always praise unmixed?
And what the people but a herd confused,
A miscellaneous rabble, who extol                          
Things ******, and, well weighed, scarce worth the praise?
They praise and they admire they know not what,
And know not whom, but as one leads the other;
And what delight to be by such extolled,
To live upon their tongues, and be their talk?
Of whom to be dispraised were no small praise—
His lot who dares be singularly good.
The intelligent among them and the wise
Are few, and glory scarce of few is raised.
This is true glory and renown—when God,                    
Looking on the Earth, with approbation marks
The just man, and divulges him through Heaven
To all his Angels, who with true applause
Recount his praises.  Thus he did to Job,
When, to extend his fame through Heaven and Earth,
As thou to thy reproach may’st well remember,
He asked thee, ‘Hast thou seen my servant Job?’
Famous he was in Heaven; on Earth less known,
Where glory is false glory, attributed
To things not glorious, men not worthy of fame.            
They err who count it glorious to subdue
By conquest far and wide, to overrun
Large countries, and in field great battles win,
Great cities by assault.  What do these worthies
But rob and spoil, burn, slaughter, and enslave
Peaceable nations, neighbouring or remote,
Made captive, yet deserving freedom more
Than those their conquerors, who leave behind
Nothing but ruin wheresoe’er they rove,
And all the flourishing works of peace destroy;            
Then swell with pride, and must be titled Gods,
Great benefactors of mankind, Deliverers,
Worshipped with temple, priest, and sacrifice?
One is the son of Jove, of Mars the other;
Till conqueror Death discover them scarce men,
Rowling in brutish vices, and deformed,
Violent or shameful death their due reward.
But, if there be in glory aught of good;
It may be means far different be attained,
Without ambition, war, or violence—                        
By deeds of peace, by wisdom eminent,
By patience, temperance.  I mention still
Him whom thy wrongs, with saintly patience borne,
Made famous in a land and times obscure;
Who names not now with honour patient Job?
Poor Socrates, (who next more memorable?)
By what he taught and suffered for so doing,
For truth’s sake suffering death unjust, lives now
Equal in fame to proudest conquerors.
Yet, if for fame and glory aught be done,                  
Aught suffered—if young African for fame
His wasted country freed from Punic rage—
The deed becomes unpraised, the man at least,
And loses, though but verbal, his reward.
Shall I seek glory, then, as vain men seek,
Oft not deserved?  I seek not mine, but His
Who sent me, and thereby witness whence I am.”
  To whom the Tempter, murmuring, thus replied:—
“Think not so slight of glory, therein least
Resembling thy great Father.  He seeks glory,              
And for his glory all things made, all things
Orders and governs; nor content in Heaven,
By all his Angels glorified, requires
Glory from men, from all men, good or bad,
Wise or unwise, no difference, no exemption.
Above all sacrifice, or hallowed gift,
Glory he requires, and glory he receives,
Promiscuous from all nations, Jew, or Greek,
Or Barbarous, nor exception hath declared;
From us, his foes pronounced, glory he exacts.”            
  To whom our Saviour fervently replied:
“And reason; since his Word all things produced,
Though chiefly not for glory as prime end,
But to shew forth his goodness, and impart
His good communicable to every soul
Freely; of whom what could He less expect
Than glory and benediction—that is, thanks—
The slightest, easiest, readiest recompense
From them who could return him nothing else,
And, not returning that, would likeliest render            
Contempt instead, dishonour, obloquy?
Hard recompense, unsuitable return
For so much good, so much beneficience!
But why should man seek glory, who of his own
Hath nothing, and to whom nothing belongs
But condemnation, ignominy, and shame—
Who, for so many benefits received,
Turned recreant to God, ingrate and false,
And so of all true good himself despoiled;
Yet, sacrilegious, to himself would take                    
That which to God alone of right belongs?
Yet so much bounty is in God, such grace,
That who advances his glory, not their own,
Them he himself to glory will advance.”
  So spake the Son of God; and here again
Satan had not to answer, but stood struck
With guilt of his own sin—for he himself,
Insatiable of glory, had lost all;
Yet of another plea bethought him soon:—
  “Of glory, as thou wilt,” said he, “so deem;              
Worth or not worth the seeking, let it pass.
But to a Kingdom thou art born—ordained
To sit upon thy father David’s throne,
By mother’s side thy father, though thy right
Be now in powerful hands, that will not part
Easily from possession won with arms.
Judaea now and all the Promised Land,
Reduced a province under Roman yoke,
Obeys Tiberius, nor is always ruled
With temperate sway: oft have they violated                
The Temple, oft the Law, with foul affronts,
Abominations rather, as did once
Antiochus.  And think’st thou to regain
Thy right by sitting still, or thus retiring?
So did not Machabeus.  He indeed
Retired unto the Desert, but with arms;
And o’er a mighty king so oft prevailed
That by strong hand his family obtained,
Though priests, the crown, and David’s throne usurped,
With Modin and her suburbs once content.                    
If kingdom move thee not, let move thee zeal
And duty—zeal and duty are not slow,
But on Occasion’s forelock watchful wait:
They themselves rather are occasion best—
Zeal of thy Father’s house, duty to free
Thy country from her heathen servitude.
So shalt thou best fulfil, best verify,
The Prophets old, who sung thy endless reign—
The happier reign the sooner it begins.
Rein then; what canst thou better do the while?”            
  To whom our Saviour answer thus returned:—
“All things are best fulfilled in their due time;
And time there is for all things, Truth hath said.
If of my reign Prophetic Writ hath told
That it shall never end, so, when begin
The Father in his purpose hath decreed—
He in whose hand all times and seasons rowl.
What if he hath decreed that I shall first
Be tried in humble state, and things adverse,
By tribulations, injuries, insults,                        
Contempts, and scorns, and snares, and violence,
Suffering, abstaining, quietly expecting
Without distrust or doubt, that He may know
What I can suffer, how obey?  Who best
Can suffer best can do, best reign who first
Well hath obeyed—just trial ere I merit
My exaltation without change or end.
But what concerns it thee when I begin
My everlasting Kingdom?  Why art thou
Solicitous?  What moves thy inquisition?                    
Know’st thou not that my rising is thy fall,
And my promotion will be thy destruction?”
  To whom the Tempter, inly racked, replied:—
“Let that come when it comes.  All hope is lost
Of my reception into grace; what worse?
For where no hope is left is left no fear.
If there be worse, the expectation more
Of worse torments me than the feeling can.
I would be at the worst; worst is my port,
My harbour, and my ultimate repose,                        
The end I would attain, my final good.
My error was my error, and my crime
My crime; whatever, for itself condemned,
And will alike be punished, whether thou
Reign or reign not—though to that gentle brow
Willingly I could fly, and hope thy reign,
From that placid aspect and meek regard,
Rather than aggravate my evil state,
Would stand between me and thy Father’s ire
(Whose ire I dread more than the fire of Hell)              
A shelter and a kind of shading cool
Interposition, as a summer’s cloud.
If I, then, to the worst that can be haste,
Why move thy feet so slow to what is best?
Happiest, both to thyself and all the world,
That thou, who worthiest art, shouldst be their King!
Perhaps thou linger’st in deep thoughts detained
Of the enterprise so hazardous and high!
No wonder; for, though in thee be united
What of perfection can in Man be found,                    
Or human nature can receive, consider
Thy life hath yet been private, most part spent
At home, scarce viewed the Galilean towns,
And once a year Jerusalem, few days’
Short sojourn; and what thence couldst thou observe?
The world thou hast not seen, much less her glory,
Empires, and monarchs, and their radiant courts—
Best school of best experience, quickest in sight
In all things that to greatest actions lead.
The wisest, unexperienced, will be ever                    
Timorous, and loth, with novice modesty
(As he who, seeking *****, found a kingdom)
Irresolute, unhardy, unadventrous.
But I will bring thee where thou soon shalt quit
Those rudiments, and see before thine eyes
The monarchies of the Earth, their pomp and state—
Sufficient introduction to inform
Thee, of thyself so apt, in regal arts,
And regal mysteries; that thou may’st know
How best their opposition to withstand.”                    
  With that (such power was given him then), he took
The Son of God up to a mountain high.
It was a mountain at whose verdant feet
A spacious plain outstretched in circuit wide
Lay pleasant; from his side two rivers flowed,
The one winding, the other straight, and left between
Fair champaign, with less rivers interveined,
Then meeting joined their tribute to the sea.
Fertil of corn the glebe, of oil, and wine;
With herds the pasture thronged, with flocks the hills;    
Huge cities and high-towered, that well might seem
The seats of mightiest monarchs; and so large
The prospect was that here and there was room
For barren desert, fountainless and dry.
To this high mountain-top the Tempter brought
Our Saviour, and new train of words began:—
  “Well have we speeded, and o’er hill and dale,
Forest, and field, and flood, temples and towers,
Cut shorter many a league.  Here thou behold’st
Assyria, and her empire’s ancient bounds,                  
Araxes and the Caspian lake; thence on
As far as Indus east, Euphrates west,
And oft beyond; to south the Persian bay,
And, inaccessible, the Arabian drouth:
Here, Nineveh, of length within her wall
Several days’ journey, built by Ninus old,
Of that first golden monarchy the seat,
And seat of Salmanassar, whose success
Israel in long captivity still mourns;
There Babylon, the wonder of all tongues,                  
As ancient, but rebuilt by him who twice
Judah and all thy father David’s house
Led captive, and Jerusalem laid waste,
Till Cyrus set them free; Persepolis,
His city, there thou seest, and Bactra there;
Ecbatana her structure vast there shews,
And Hecatompylos her hunderd gates;
There Susa by Choaspes, amber stream,
The drink of none but kings; of later fame,
Built by Emathian or by Parthian hands,                    
The great Seleucia, Nisibis, and there
Artaxata, Teredon, Ctesiphon,
Turning with easy eye, thou may’st behold.
All these the Parthian (now some ages past
By great Arsaces led, who founded first
That empire) under his dominion holds,
From the luxurious kings of Antioch won.
And just in time thou com’st to have a view
Of his great power; for now the Parthian king
In Ctesiphon hath gathered all his host                    
Against the Scythian, whose incursions wild
Have wasted Sogdiana; to her aid
He marches now in haste.  See, though from far,
His thousands, in what martial e
DAVID  Apr 2018
poem letter
DAVID Apr 2018
Love the touch of
Your body, beating
Under mine

How your eyes scream
An ****** song, of
Love and ligth

Petal by petal, one by
One kissed and
Treasured

In your soul, im
United to you, in
An awakening

Beware of the darks
Looking to ruin your
LIGTH

And feeding of it
Triying to make you
Sleep again

In one nigth your essence
Enter me, mi ligth became
Yours

And complete you
As a woman, fertil,
Desired every hour, every
Minute, every second

The feeling of you complete
Shinning of placer, cuddles
Mi nigths

You are wath was not asked
A treasure of fate, mi
Placer to drink of you

Kissing your body, and
Loving it violently, with
Strength and devotion

While your eyes, scream
of desire, and passion
corresponded

Your soul shines, under
Mi claws of cat, and with your
scent, now in heat.

Sensual echoes of your
skin, covering mine,
vibrating between the blind

Awakened soul, vibrating
In peace, you became free

Guard our ligth, because
Is only ours, and mind those
Darks

Of your devoted heart ,
now i live there, mi ligth
Nest between your
fertil *******, the loved
Ones

And the fertil touch, of
Your body became
everithyng, in just
one nigth

Youre everithyng,
The ligth and peace
In front of darkness
and the storm

Pore by pore, your skin
Is adored, your heart and  
Desires, goes with me, as part
of mi ligth

And in your adored thighs,
The path to my truth

Poems are more personal than
a letter,  cause youre evoqued
Even more, your eyes and the ligth of your body, of your soul

In mi feline claws, youre
the goddess, that holds
the leeche, calming me, and if neccesarie give me peace

Beyond desire, cause thats slavery,
Wath you provoque, in me, makes
appears the ligth

In search of evoquing ligth, you
The MUDRA sacred femmale, are
Loved and respected.

And in your arms, and by
your side, peace comes, and
we became one

You have to lose some to win some and  finding That, giving us peace,
that moment In witch youre life,
ligth, and truth, loved truth

Between your eyes of honey,
And in your hair, theres a part
Of me

Youre that scream, and
The soft whiesper  in the
Lovers ears

  inside of me, as a union,
And in that union, and  in this
eyes, theres a DIVINE image, as the peak Moment, in witch peace sorround you, and you became part of another person, youre the complete, loved, satisfied, fertil and free.
Not finished, like love, poetry is a work in progress, and a way to say, youre a very, very thinked person, beautiful friend.
Two ancient eagles often meet
free and high, celebration dancing our death spiral or mating dance.

Flying over this weeping willow forest lands we found
Our white willow tree bark healing properties own
salicylic acid relieving pains and inflammations.  

Our beautiful pendular branches, the weeping willow trees of us, symbols of fertility are; out willow trees grow best by side roads by body of water rivers lakes, or ponds. And us special eagles, mate by the sea.

And like us our willows of life attract scary snakes, but also birds bees butterflies, cocoons moths many diverse birds make a home in us. Our willow trees seem to hide a fertil sadness within.

In our roots, creatures find habitat restauration erosion control and perfect ******* growth of 6 to 8 inches length.

Our willow trees filter poisons grows quickly and live longer with a human touch like ours.

Our weeping willow tree established root systems decontaminating water and soil.

Raindrops drip down our leaves. My weeping is called pillow P**y willow tree.

When our weeping tree grows largest it casts a grave size shadow and a family member goes supernovae or so it's written.

Thank you my weeping willow tree, sweet poet mine for placing baby blankets under our weeping willow tree.

Your invitation uncovered accepted loved and cherished eternally.

To the one poet Sonnet 75 my
True love, this one honors the day my smile captured thine heart, my weeping willow my everything beloved.
~~~
Inspired by a tree of life planted in my honor once upon a time.
~~~

By: Mr And Mrs Andrews
https://youtube.com/shorts/_Jn499wTp1A?si=EixykCTh7LFS_ybg
JR Rhine  Jan 2016
Salida de Sol
JR Rhine Jan 2016
Yo florezco
en la salida de sol.

En la mañana:
La luz de tus ojos cafés
son como el rocío del césped
en la tierra
fertil y suave.

Cuando me despierto en la luz,
veo tu cara bonita--
pacífica, encantadora.

Cuando tu despiertas,
y abres tus ojos,
yo florezco en tu
salida de sol.

Translation:

I blossom
in the sunrise.

In the morning:
The light of your brown eyes
is like the dew on the grass
in the rich and soft
earth.

When I wake up in the light,
I see your pretty face--
peaceful, lovely.

When you wake up,
and open your eyes,
I blossom in your sunrise.
From a ****** to his Corazón.
Karijinbba Aug 2020
His beloved beauty's leaf
got flown away and one by one
priceless leaves fell of
her tree of life
Lovers hidden treasure loot
Mandrake fertile root
blowing traveler obvolute
to far away strange land route
dragged by passer by deceitul dustiest ever contaminant
wirl-wind devil geek.

Still fertil twigs sacred grow
with green leaf shoots aknew
for the beauty of creation
must contine to amaze
it's infinite divine grace
E.T. maker mine.
~~~~~
By:Karijinbba
07-07-20 revised.
Life goes on the forestlands
turnng green again oxigenating
mother Earth it's bountiiful
diverse life.
Mandrake plant has a forked fleshy root that supposedly resembles the human form formerly widely used in medicine and magic, allegedly shrieking when pulled from the ground.
Keiri  Oct 2019
The Truth
Keiri Oct 2019
I stand here naked in the crowd
A spotlight hits me where I'm proud.
I'll flash the skin of my bones
I will cry to you! Hear my moans!

I will come clean in the open field
Remove my mask and lower my shield
Oh please, shoot me in my roots.
Bleed me! Throw me off my boots.

I am but only a human being.
For it's not just the lies I'm not seeing.
Refuse to be more than I'm capable of.
There is no such thing as peace, fly off, dove!
I have lied, I have deceived.
I have hated and I have grieved.

But I am only mortal.
Imperfect human and fertil.
A beast of the many.
Proud of inventing the penny.

I stand here telling the truth!
The elder, the grown and the youth!
We are but a brink of humanity!
Already through our sanity!

Hit me with your words which shall not be spoken...
I hope, I dearly hope, I'm not alone who feels awoken.
Here the world will grand a token.
For my fellow who are broken,
Accept we are but only human,
Yet human we shall be...
Amanda Shelton Oct 2022
I gazed upon its beauty,
like a star gazer watching
the night sky. I dripped upon
the earth soaking deep into its girth.
What once was barren is now
pregnant and fertil.

I wounded amongst the meadows,
laid between the roots and
melted into the black that is
velvet and deep.

I shed my sorrows to hydrate
its wormy bed.

With my tears I birthed the
blackest rose, its roots grow
where my soul weeps.

As I became overgrown and
that like stone my fountain
flows.

I wonder should I paint my
black rose red or leave it
as it grows, just like Alice
painted the white roses red?

©️ 2022 By Amanda Shelton
I had a lucid dream last night. I dreamt I was a star and I dropped upon the earth scattered into millions of pieces and from my shattered pieces I soaked into the dirt and from my tears of sorrow I birthed a black rose. This is a poem that was inspired by my lucid dream.
FeelingDistant Dec 2013
Everything dies,
No exceptions.
The seed is planted in the fertil ground,
Dropping from the mother it will never meet.
A green shoot sprouts up,
Tender and lively,
Growing up strong and beautiful.
The green leaves produce its food
With the miracle of photosynthesis
While a princess gazes into its beautiful petals.
But no matter how inspiring it may be,
Nature steps in,
Wilting first the tips of the leaves
Traveling downwards,
Killing the roots and destroying all health
Until it dies,
Being forgotten by anyone who ever once cared.
I used to be that flower,
Lovely and intelligent,
Kind to everyone around me.
Nature, serotonin, anxiety, anorexia, bulimia,
All cut me off from the spring of life.
There's only one difference:
I can cut my own stem to end the pain.

— The End —