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Oct 2018 · 8.1k
Timothy Oct 2018
There is no comfort on the storm tossed sea,
Where haply death claims lives without a trace.
There in the froth, the gale, the waves that be,
Convulsed from clime to clime, and now embrace
What I just cannot fathom nor conceal,
The dark and boundless depths that now reveal—
The lives, long gone, a homeless corpse up churn'd
The shores that change but ne'er cease to recall
A rage that sank both sailour and the learn'd,
No knells, no coffins, graves, or ev'n headstones at all!

O, rolling ocean, ship's wreckage contained
Inside thy stomach deep and rotting be,
The slave, the free, the captain thou retained;—
Mere bones, that once were faces, they to me
Are nameless and unknown, they be not mine,
All wrapt in tangle, fathom deep in brine.
Somewhere someone adored and loved their form;
Yet now fore'er engulf'd in bub'ling foam,—
Still in the barnacles that are their dorm,
Old ship was matchless to the storm—hear thy last groan.

Yet standing on thy shores, heave to and fro,
No evidence of death that catch my eyes;
Thy waters glass, they sometime toss and go
Without impending gloom, no darken'd skies.
My love, ocean, rekindled all for thee,
Within my heart, within my soul, and see;—
Time changes not thy waves wherein I play'd
As childhood waned, adulthood now I find—
Both cheerful and the cheerless waters spray'd,
Thou givest hours of cheerfulness and death unkind.
( Dedicated to Tryst. )
© Timothy 20 January 2015
Oct 2018 · 1.9k
Timothy Oct 2018
Shadows fall to earth . . .
Crossing pathways, sun and moon
. . . Briefly together.
© Timothy 21 August 2017
Oct 2018 · 1.2k
Timothy Oct 2018
Sunlight is dimming . . .
Shades of Eventide appear
. . . Sun and Moon embrace.
© Timothy 21 August 2017
Timothy Oct 2018
No swelling anthems do I offer thee,
     Gone are those words that came so quick by day,
     And in whose mind they seem'd to swell and sway,
And leave just as another came to me.
I merely have a simple, "Thank thee," see?
     A poor reflection of those flow'rs of May
     An unforgiving nagging in mine lay
'Pray render more and more about the lea.'

     O mine good friend, now take a look at this,
These words art meant for thee, for thee art penn'd!
Thou didst arise, like Byrons rolling sea,
     To shake an Ode for me—how great that bliss!
Now for thee, Tryst, these poor lines here do wend,
Across that mighty ocean to bless thee!
A thank thee to Tryst for those lovely words!
© Timothy 14 October 2018
Timothy Aug 2017
Time ebbs away so craftily, so fast
     An hour, a day, a month, or yet a year—
     A decade too—they all shall disappear
And soon the present will become the past.
Death waits with ready sickle for the blast,
     When that appointed Time draws ever near,
     And greets us all with trembling hand, or tear,
With knells and saddest dirge, buried at last.

     But God shall one day waken all these bones,
Which now lay mould’ring with damp worms and clay,
Shall gather all our dust and bid it rise.
     For now, each dreamless head sleeps ‘neath these stones,
Soon God shall raise them to unending Day
Our blissful, heav’nly home, beyond the skies.
19 March 2017 9:28am EDT
Timothy Aug 2017
Sweet Springtime blossoms bud and bloom again
     When all that Winter frost is done away
     Each nodding stem, each petal zephyrs sway
That’s laden with petrichor after rain.
Hard by the lea and meadow grass and grain
     Which toss about in breezes from clouds gray
     Along yon wold where creeks flow all astray
And ferns beneath old oaks trees bend and strain.

     O yet with gentle passing day and hour,
All emerald green trees resort their dress
Which one beholds with awe all eagerly;
     So bask in joy and gather up a flow’r,
Time now to cherish Spring in loveliness,
For soon cold Winter comes on greedily.
12 May 2017 7:50pm EDT
Timothy Apr 2017
Sweet zephyrs stir and tremble through fir trees
     Yon woodland, fields, and ever rolling hills
     A lone Pine Warbler sings and pipes his trills
Along with Meadowlarks across the leas.
Refreshing, soothing, gentle-warming breeze,
     Spring gardens, flowers, and cool gurgling rills
     Are spied with nature’s furbelows and frills
Some beauty ev’rywhere our eye to please.

Still do recall those shorter days and cold
   Those days where snow and ice coated the lawn
      And all those lovely birds were miles away;
Melting so slowly, Winter lost her hold,
   And longer hours of light does grace each dawn
      For Spring is here again with flow’rs of May.
( Petrarchan Sonnet )
18-19 March 2017 9:30am EDT
Timothy Apr 2017
To–day is waning now here comes the end,
     Of all those dearest hours that shone so bright,
     Now darkness reigns stars appear on my sight
Cold winds blow long and shiv’ring trees do bend.
No moon to glow, soon black-night shall descend,
     Erasing faded pastel sunset light
     Inevitable sleep tucks us in tight
Until dawn breaks and new day light ascend.

But memories shall hold this day in mind
   A pleasant thought to dwell upon indeed,
      Such golden hours that sped on angel wings
Shall be retrieved at moment’s notice kind,
   And relived fresh—a germinating seed—
      A soothing lullabye which gently sings.
( Petrarchan Sonnet )
17 March 2017 6:28am EDT
Feb 2017 · 3.5k
Frost ( Haiku )
Timothy Feb 2017
Frost all glimmering . . .
From dawn's bright vivid colours
. . . Vibrant jewel'd lawn.
© Timothy 4 February 2017
Timothy Feb 2017
Dawn Of A New Season

Melting snow in wood, vale, and city—yet
Everlasting upon the pentacle of mountains high.
Spring—dawn of a new season.
Winter is a cold breeze now
Waiting dormant.

Aube d’une nouvelle saison

Faire fondre la neige dans les bois, vale et la ville — encore
Everlasting sur le pentacle de hautes montagnes.
Printemps — aube d’une nouvelle saison.
L’hiver est une brise froide maintenant
Attend le dormant.

Рассвет нового сезона

Таяние снега в дерево, Вале и город — еще
Вечный после пентакль гор высокого.
Весна — рассвет нового сезона.
Зима – холодный ветерок сейчас
Ожидание покоя.

Świt nowego sezonu

Topnienie śniegu w drewnie, Vale, i miasta-jeszcze
Everlasting na pentagram gór wysokich.
Wiosna-świt nowego sezonu.
Zima jest zimna bryza teraz
Czeka w uśpieniu.
© Timothy 4 February 2017
*Russian version may not be accurate.
It is a beautiful, but difficult language to learn.
**French and Russian. . .love both.
Dec 2016 · 2.6k
Merry Christmas ( 10w )
Timothy Dec 2016
Merry Christmas
To All Of Thee & Happy
New Year!
© Timothy 24 December 2016
Timothy Dec 2016
Sleep, Mary, sleep alongside our dear Lord
A holy picture for all men to see
That King of glory and incarnate Word
Now cradled infant mortal child He be;
When all at once some village shepherds keep
Watching their sheep—abundant angels sing—
Told where to find this Saviour fast asleep,
And with great haste sought Yeshua the King.
Still coming forth from distant lands, wise men,
Approaching later on—Epiphany—
Bring finest gifts into their humble den
And bow in worship, rev'rence, on their knee.
     But wise men seek our Lord within these days,
     And keep Him in their hearts, and give Him praise.
© Timothy 24 December 2016
Yeshua - Jesus.
Epiphany - the manifestation of Christ to the gentiles as represented by the Magi (Matthew 2:1–12).
#Christmas #Jesus #Yeshua
Timothy Dec 2016
Gold slanting rays of sunshine strikes white walls,
As shorter length of light within each day
Illuminate so briefly rooms and halls,
So quick, ephemeral, it fades away.
As Winter's shortest hour approacheth fast,
And darkness closes curtains on the land;
All frozen be those ponds where frogs sang last,
Spring Peepers too, now buried deep in sand.
But slowly longer hours of light shall grow
And warmer Spring, awakens  lovely flow'rs;
When chanting birds sing 'til the evening glow,
And trees and shrubs become bird nesting bow'rs.
     I dream of dappled light on wooded path,
     All blooming flowers take a long sunbath.
© Timothy 3 December 2016 4:30pm EST
Timothy Dec 2016
An English rose by name of Windermere
Whose nodding blooms still dripping from light rain,
Emit a fragrance all through atmosphere,
Which brightens up our backyard once again.
Penelope, a Hybrid Musk, blooms too,
Intoxicating scent I love so well;
Some others bud, but this is all they do,
As colder air shall make each petal fell.
Then these are last of Summer's gifts I spy
Before that dormant state o'ertake them all
And half-woke blooms and buds shall wither, die,
And ev'ry wrinkled, yellow leaflet fall.
     So gather roses whilst ye may, Time flies,
     And buds which bloom to-day, to-morrow dies.
© Timothy 2 December 2016 9am EST
*Couplet inspired by stanza one:
To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time
—Robert Herrick 1591—1674
Timothy Nov 2016
So silent, peacefully snow falls again
Through afternoon and all throughout the night;
Snow turns to sleet and pelting freezing rain
As morning breaks to pastel sunrise bright.
White glazing on each branch of leafless trees
And Jack Frost etched each window with his skill;
Nipt our world with a sudden icy freeze,
Delighting young and old with Winter still.
But though this scenery engulfs a while,
Provoking childish antics blissfully;
Soon snowmen melt, which vanishes a smile
And frostbit flowers bloom with greatest glee.
     When once again sweet warblers start to sing,
     Announcing to the world rebirth of Spring.
© Timothy 29 November 2016 6pm EST
Timothy Nov 2016
O lief pure snow shall garnish ev'ry tree
As Winter Storms compel snowflakes to fly,
And make drab landscape daz'ling sight to see
Whilst grey clouds swell and fill up sapphire sky.
Bold firs and pines all capp'd in feath'ry snow
And just a hint of emerald is seen;
Sometime snow drifts, sometime harsh blizzards blow,
Which leaves behind a lovely Winter scene.
But frozen still may be both lawn and lake,
And hoarfrost lines each windowpane with care;
Slow melt, slow thaw, slow crocuses awake,
And Time moves on 'til dawn of Spring we share.
     For though cold Winter reigns with ice and freeze,
     I hold within my mind sweet Springtime breeze.
© Timothy 29 November 2016 10am EST
Lief here meaning, soon. Archaic word.
Timothy Nov 2016
It is at this Time of swift passing year,
When vanish'd hands of loved ones lief recall
As though it were just yesterday so clear;
As though I greet them into entrance hall.
For them, no more, a well-spread table bless,
Or gather 'round some stories for to share;
Not one embrace, nor yet one sweet caress,
Or listen to old Carols without care.
But still I hold on to those memories,
At grandma's house where we would celebrate
Christ's birth, and open gifts of pleasantries
And sav'ring hymns until the hour was late.
     O God, pray help me with this awful pain,
     I know in Heav'n those loved ones meet again.
© Timothy 28 November 2016 10am EST
Lief has different meanings, but here it means:
beloved, dear.
Timothy Nov 2016
Old barren house, now laced in Winter's white,
Reveals a bow'd ridgepole from end to end,
And tangled vines wrap 'round each column tight,
Weak porches swag, frail shutters Time didst bend.
Once, within prime, those walls a fam'ly kept
Safe from bleak, howling winds and Winter's blast;
Some ****-hair'd swain from all his labour slept,
And housewife plied her care until the last.
But scenes like these long vanishèd away,
No more a jocund respite, nor a home,
And like that family, it doth decay,
And moulders like yon leaning cup'la dome.
     If patient merchant with a heap of care
     Could'st lend his talent—have a home so rare.
© Timothy 27 November 2016 10pm EST
Timothy Nov 2016
Gone be the leaves upon those trees which stand
     And all those fluting Wood Thrush melodies
     Whose songs long parted like the Summer breeze
And Winter well prepared to freeze our land.
Repeating roses bloom one last time bland
     Before departing of last warmth to freeze
     Which no one can reverse her icy squeeze
How firm and cold thy frosty gripping hand.
But though gnarl'd trees devoid of all their dress,
   The Aspen, Beech, and Elms begin to bud
     And Dogwoods too, shews forth a ray of light;
For now cold Winter winds do strain and stress
   Yet on the morrow Spring begins to flood
     With longer days of sunshine beaming bright.
( Petrarchan Sonnet )
© Timothy 13 November 2016 9am EST
Nov 2016 · 1.3k
Acrostic Tribute
Timothy Nov 2016
Prepare for Winter's icy sudden grasp,
As time once more for her draws ever nigh;
Pure snow upon hard frozen ground doth clasp,
And breath is seen again—the smoke curls high.
Yet here, hard by, the blazing hearth you pore
All through the cold, 'til Spring returns once more.
(For Papaya: Hope thou enjoyest this!)
© Timothy 17 November 2016 10:29am EST
Nov 2016 · 3.5k
The Deserted Village
Timothy Nov 2016
Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheared the labouring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed,
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,
How often have I loitered o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endeared each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm,
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blest the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree,
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old surveyed;
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,
And slights of art and feats of strength went round;
And still as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter tittered round the place;
The bashful ******'s side-long looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove!
These were thy charms, sweet village; sports like these,
With sweet succession, taught even toil to please;
These round thy bowers their chearful influence shed,
These were thy charms—But all these charms are fled.
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,
And desolation saddens all thy green:
One only master grasps the whole domain,
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain;
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But, choaked with sedges, works its weedy way;
Along thy glades, a solitary guest,
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.
Sunk are thy bowers, in shapeless ruin all,
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall;
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,
Far, far away, thy children leave the land.
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;
A breath can make them, as a breath has made;
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroyed, can never be supplied.
A time there was, ere England's griefs began,
When every rood of ground maintained its man;
For him light labour spread her wholesome store,
Just gave what life required, but gave no more:
His best companions, innocence and health;
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
But times are altered; trade's unfeeling train
Usurp the land and dispossess the swain;
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose,
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose;
And every want to oppulence allied,
And every pang that folly pays to pride.
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Those calm desires that asked but little room,
Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene,
Lived in each look, and brightened all the green;
These, far departing seek a kinder shore,
And rural mirth and manners are no more.
Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour,
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power.
Here as I take my solitary rounds,
Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruined grounds,
And, many a year elapsed, return to view
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.
In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my griefs—and God has given my share—
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting by repose.
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
Amidst the swains to shew my book-learned skill,
Around my fire an evening groupe to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;
And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return—and die at home at last.
O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,
Retreats from care that never must be mine,
How happy he who crowns, in shades like these
A youth of labour with an age of ease;
Who quits a world where strong temptations try,
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!
For him no wretches, born to work and weep,
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep;
No surly porter stands in guilty state
To spurn imploring famine from the gate,
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue's friend;
Bends to the grave with unperceived decay,
While resignation gently slopes the way;
And, all his prospects brightening to the last,
His Heaven commences ere the world be past!
Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;
There, as I past with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came soften'd from below;
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young,
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school,
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind,
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And filled each pause the nightingale had made.
But now the sounds of population fail,
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,
No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread,
For all the bloomy flush of life is fled.
All but yon widowed, solitary thing
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring;
She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread,
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,
To pick her wintry ****** from the thorn,
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn;
She only left of all the harmless train,
The sad historian of the pensive plain.
Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was, to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place;
Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings but relieved their pain;
The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sate by his fire, and talked the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shouldered his crutch, and shewed how fields were won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits, or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings leaned to Virtue's side;
But in his duty prompt at every call,
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all.
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies;
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was layed,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns, dismayed
The reverend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;
Even children followed, with endearing wile,
And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest,
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest:
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule,
The village master taught his little school;
A man severe he was, and stern to view,
I knew him well, and every truant knew;
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace
The day's disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee,
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he:
Full well the busy whisper circling round,
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned;
Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault;
The village all declared how much he knew;
'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And ev'n the story ran that he could gauge.
In arguing too, the parson owned his skill,
For even tho' vanquished, he could argue still;
While words of learned length and thundering sound,
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around;
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame. The very spot
Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot.
Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired,
Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired,
Where village statesmen talked with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace
The parlour splendours of that festive place;
The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor,
The varnished clock that clicked behind the door;
The chest contrived a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
The pictures placed for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose;
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day,
With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay;
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for shew,
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row.
Vain transitory splendours! Could not all
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall!
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart;
Thither no more the peasant shall repair
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear;
The host himself no longer shall be found
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round;
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest,
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.
Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,
These simple blessings of the lowly train;
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the gloss of art;
Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play,
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway;
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined.
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed,
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain;
And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy.
Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey
The rich man's joys encrease, the poor's decay,
'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand
Between a splendid and a happy land.
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore,
And shouting Folly hails them from her shore;
Hoards even beyond the miser's wish abound,
And rich men flock from all the world around.
Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name
That leaves our useful products still the same.
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride
Takes up a space that many poor supplied;
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds,
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds:
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth,
Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth;
His seat, where solitary sports are seen,
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green:
Around the world each needful product flies,
For all the luxuries the world supplies.
While thus the land adorned for pleasure, all
In barren splendour feebly waits the fall.
As some fair female unadorned and plain,
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign,
Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies,
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes.
But when those charms are past, for charms are frail,
When time advances, and when lovers fail,
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless,
In all the glaring impotence of dress.
Thus fares the land, by luxury betrayed:
In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed;
But verging to decline, its splendours rise,
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprize;
While, scourged by famine from the smiling land,
The mournful peasant leads his humble band;
And while he sinks, without one arm to save,
The country blooms—a garden, and a grave.
Where then, ah where, shall poverty reside,
To scape the pressure of contiguous pride?
If to some common's fenceless limits strayed,
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade,
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,
And ev'n the bare-worn common is denied.
If to the city sped—What waits him there?
To see profusion that he must not share;
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind;
To see those joys the sons of pleasure know,
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe.
Here while the courtier glitters in brocade,
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;
Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display,
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way.
The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign,
Here, richly deckt, admits the gorgeous train;
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy!
Sure these denote one universal joy!
Are these thy serious thoughts?—Ah, turn thine eyes
Where the poor houseless shivering female lies.
She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest,
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest;
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn:
Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled,
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head,
And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower,
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour
When idly first, ambitious of the town,
She left her wheel and robes of country brown.
Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train,
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?
Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread!
Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene,
Where half the convex world intrudes between,
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.
Far different there from all that charm'd before,
The various terrors of that horrid shore;
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray,
And fiercely shed intolerable day;
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing,
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling;
Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned,
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,
And savage men, more murderous still than they;
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies.
Far different these from every former scene,
The cooling brook, the grassy vested green,
The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love.
Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parti
Nov 2016 · 1.0k
O God, Our Help in Ages Past
Timothy Nov 2016
O God, our help in ages past,
    Our hope for years to come,
    Our shelter from the stormy blast,
    And our eternal home.

2. Under the shadow of thy throne,
    Still may we dwell secure;
    Sufficient is thine arm alone,
    And our defense is sure.

3. Before the hills in order stood,
    Or earth received her frame,
    From everlasting, thou art God,
    To endless years the same.

4. A thousand ages, in thy sight,
    Are like an evening gone;
    Short as the watch that ends the night,
    Before the rising sun.

5. Time, like an ever rolling stream,
    Bears all who breathe away;
    They fly forgotten, as a dream
    Dies at the opening day.

6. O God, our help in ages past,
    Our hope for years to come;
    Be thou our guide while life shall last,
    And our eternal home.

~By: Isaac Watts 1674—1748
Timothy Sep 2016
Should darkness overwhelm me to the last
And cruel winds and frozen raindrops fall
We all would see, we all would feel the blast;
And O dear me and others wouldest stall.
Like hatred, mocking, and course jesting too
No one shouldst have to face this, nay, not one,
Though on they go molesting me and you
With this and more until the last deed done.
But all around the voice of others weep
And me and others listen to their cries;
For some awaiteth death approaching deep
For others, life moves on and fam'ly ties.
     But how I long for peace to spread on earth
     And like the dawn of springtime's sweet new birth.
Shakespearean Sonnet
© Timothy 9 September 2016 9:36pm EDT
Timothy Sep 2016
When snow and ice again to earth do fall
     And gone be all the pretty flow'rs of May
     While shorter grows the warm sunlight of day
Long harvested the corn which stood so tall.
The shortest day approacheth after all
     And ponds freeze over, snow fills all my way;
     The brooding birds sit on bare branches sway,
And long drawn icicles hang by the wall.

But Spring shall dawn with newness once again
  Awaking blooming meadows, piping birds,
    And longer days return and golden hours.
I clasp this tightly in the frozen rain
  And store away in notebooks all my words,
    For hope abounds just like unfurling flow'rs.
Petrarchan Sonnet
© Timothy 9 September 2016 9:36pm EDT
Aug 2016 · 1.8k
Rainfall ( Haiku )
Timothy Aug 2016
Praying for rainfall
Soothing droplets sliding down
Weathered windowpane.
© Timothy 29 August 2016
6:04 pm EDT
Aug 2016 · 763
Relief ( Haiku )
Timothy Aug 2016
No rain falling down . . .
Dry and thirsty land is cracked
. . . Waiting for relief.
© Timothy 29 August 2016
6:04 pm EDT
Aug 2016 · 1.5k
Cumulonimbus ( Haiku )
Timothy Aug 2016
Brewing storm clouds rise . . .
To great heights within blue skies
. . . Thunder peals—rain falls.
© Timothy
26 August 2016 12:56 pm EDT
Aug 2016 · 2.1k
Breeze ( Haiku )
Timothy Aug 2016
Cedar and pine sough . . .
In the breeze that gently blows
. . . Sighing mournful song.
© Timothy
26 August 2016 12:56 pm EDT
Timothy Aug 2016
Thou art beautiful . . .
More than sunset and gloaming
. . . Pleasant to behold.
© Timothy
23 August 2016 10:56pm EDT
Aug 2016 · 1.0k
Lovely ( Haiku - Senryū )
Timothy Aug 2016
Thou art lovely as . . .
Rose unfurling in late spring
. . . Pleasing to the eye.
© Timothy
23 August 2016 10:56pm EDT
May 2016 · 1.5k
Timothy May 2016
Fallen men of war . . .
Long since silenced now by time
. . . Bugles still echo.
© Timothy 30 May 2016
May 2016 · 1.5k
Timothy May 2016
White cliffs of Dover . . .
Seagulls soaring and chatt'ring
. . . Tides endlessly roll.
© Timothy 30 May 2016
May 2016 · 1.4k
Timothy May 2016
Rook, Knight, Bishop, Queen
Each taking their stealthy move
Captured! Capturing!
Pawns on the eighth square are then
Made Rook, Knight, Bishop, or Queen.
© Timothy 28—30 May 2016
May 2016 · 803
Timothy May 2016
By the river Thames . . .
Bells chime from Saint Lawrence Church
. . . Ev'ning in Lechlade.
© Timothy 27—30 May 2016
Timothy May 2016
When dreary days lay hold on me once more
     And dark the hours ahead stretch on for miles
     With all the best laid plans, like broken tiles
Shards of their usage lay now by the store.
My heart, it hurt so bad it tore, it tore,
     In half, and broke, and sank like window stiles
     Which now are gather'd, swept into neat piles
With all the remnants of the days of yore.

But yet the Lord almighty gives me hope,
   That He shall breathe new life inside of me;
   I trust one day His dear face I shall see
     In heav'n above, where lives eternal May.
'Til then, the lighter hours I grasp and cope,
     And live tomorrow as fresh as today.
( Petrarchan Sonnet )
© Timothy 9 May 2016
May 2016 · 1.2k
Timothy May 2016
Walking nów with héavy heavy most
Weary dreary footsteps steps hígher and being pressed,
Ás nów the wine press screws tíghter, much less brighter than
Those days of, halcyon days of rays now strays, frays, and
Falls black sootèd dúst. Is there none less líghter hour
After toil and care, try-if-you-dare, happier . . . happier?
No it's dóne, it's done, Ó no it's done. . .
None nówhere the less wearisome steps.
Walking dreary stéps, dragging, lagging, dróoping steps fall
Falling steps backwards bending, nó mending now, all dóne with.
Done with steps áside with áway with steps, slowly. . .
Slówly walking-to-death steps. Can this be? Can this be reversed?
Ó no, there is none now. All dóne now. Now done with.
Done for. Dóne away with. Cast áway with.
Walking now to grave steps. Churchyard steps.
Fewer, fewer, fewer steps sée
Less steps, steppingstone steps to nówhere steps. . .
To dark, déep dark down, lónely void of,
Void of stéps. Énding on the last step,
Wíthout a brace or catch,
To catch step, steps to
Nó more last steps.
Count the súm of steps.
The steps, steps—
Steps. . .
© Timothy 5 May, 2016
Timothy May 2016
(from Macbeth, spoken by Macbeth)*

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
William Shakespeare 1564—1616
Timothy May 2016
(from Macbeth, spoken by Macbeth)

Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest; I see thee still,
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before. There's no such thing:
It is the ****** business which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one halfworld
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep; witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings, and wither'd ******,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace.
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives:
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
                                    *[a bell rings]

I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven or to hell.
William Shakespeare 1564—1616
Timothy Apr 2016
No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,
    More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.
    Comforter, where, where is your comforting?
Mary, mother of us, where is your relief?
My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chief
    Woe, wórld-sorrow; on an áge-old anvil wince and sing —
    Then lull, then leave off. Fury had shrieked 'No ling-
ering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief."'

    O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap
    May who ne'er hung there. Nor does long our small
Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep,
    Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all
Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.
–Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844—1889
Timothy Apr 2016
I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.
What hours, O what black hours we have spent
This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!
And more must, in yet longer light's delay.
   With witness I speak this. But where I say
Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament
Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent
To dearest him that lives alas! away.

   I am gall, I am heartburn. God's most deep decree
Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;
Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.
   Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see
The lost are like this, and their scourge to be
As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse.
–Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844—1889
Apr 2016 · 811
God's Grandeur
Timothy Apr 2016
The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
    It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
    It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
    And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
    And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
    There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
    Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
    World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
–Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844—1889
Timothy Apr 2016

How to kéep—is there ány any, is there none such, nowhere known some, bow or brooch or braid or brace, láce, latch or catch or key to keep
Back beauty, keep it, beauty, beauty, beauty, … from vanishing away?
Ó is there no frowning of these wrinkles, rankéd wrinkles deep,
Dówn? no waving off of these most mournful messengers, still messengers, sad and stealing messengers of grey?
No there ’s none, there ’s none, O no there ’s none,
Nor can you long be, what you now are, called fair,
Do what you may do, what, do what you may,
And wisdom is early to despair:
Be beginning; since, no, nothing can be done
To keep at bay
Age and age’s evils, **** hair,
Ruck and wrinkle, drooping, dying, death’s worst, winding sheets, tombs and worms and tumbling to decay;
So be beginning, be beginning to despair.
O there ’s none; no no no there ’s none:
Be beginning to despair, to despair,
Despair, despair, despair, despair.


There ís one, yes I have one (Hush there!);
Only not within seeing of the sun,
Not within the singeing of the strong sun,
Tall sun’s tingeing, or treacherous the tainting of the earth’s air,
Somewhere elsewhere there is ah well where! one,
Oné. Yes I can tell such a key, I do know such a place,
Where whatever’s prized and passes of us, everything that ’s fresh and fast flying of us, seems to us sweet of us and swiftly away with, done away with, undone,
Undone, done with, soon done with, and yet dearly and dangerously sweet
Of us, the wimpled-water-dimpled, not-by-morning-matchèd face,
The flower of beauty, fleece of beauty, too too apt to, ah! to fleet,
Never fleets móre, fastened with the tenderest truth
To its own best being and its loveliness of youth: it is an everlastingness of, O it is an all youth!
Come then, your ways and airs and looks, locks, maiden gear, gallantry and gaiety and grace,
Winning ways, airs innocent, maiden manners, sweet looks, loose locks, long locks, lovelocks, gaygear, going gallant, girlgrace—
Resign them, sign them, seal them, send them, motion them with breath,
And with sighs soaring, soaring síghs deliver
Them; beauty-in-the-ghost, deliver it, early now, long before death
Give beauty back, beauty, beauty, beauty, back to God, beauty’s self and beauty’s giver.
See; not a hair is, not an eyelash, not the least lash lost; every hair
Is, hair of the head, numbered.
Nay, what we had lighthanded left in surly the mere mould
Will have waked and have waxed and have walked with the wind what while we slept,
This side, that side hurling a heavyheaded hundredfold
What while we, while we slumbered.
O then, weary then why should we tread? O why are we so haggard at the heart, so care-coiled, care-killed, so ******, so fashed, so cogged, so cumbered,
When the thing we freely fórfeit is kept with fonder a care,
Fonder a care kept than we could have kept it, kept
Far with fonder a care (and we, we should have lost it) finer, fonder
A care kept.—Where kept? Do but tell us where kept, where.—
Yonder.—What high as that! We follow, now we follow.—Yonder, yes yonder, yonder,
–Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844—1889
Mar 2016 · 1.7k
Sweet Spring
Timothy Mar 2016
Sweet spring hath greeted all the land
Now Swifts and Thrushes build their nest
And Periwinkle blossoms best
Whilst lazy Lilac blooms at hand.

Rose leaves are pushing forth once more
And Violets nod in the breeze;
All 'round about new growth on trees,
And Springtime warmth doth open store.

The frogs and peeps both now awake,
And actively do sing about
The distant meadows—woodlands stout,
Blend with the Woodcock by the lake.

The pollen raining down with ease,
And Kinglets trill with all their might
Within the daytime sun so bright,
These sights and sounds content and please.

Virginia Bluebells do sway
Within the gentle breeze that blows;
Sun dappled shade that shrinks and grows
A thousand times within each day.

O God, thank Thee, for eyes to see!
The beauty of all things around!
For ears to hear each wond'rous sound!
All praise alone be unto Thee!
© Timothy 24 March 2016
Mar 2016 · 1.1k
Timothy Mar 2016
Thuſ ſhal begyn mye laſtynge ſong
And when death ſhuts mye eies;
O let theſe lines liue on ſo long
'Til timme and nature dies.

Death's ſeconde ſelf ſeals me in reſt
Blacke night iſ all arounde;
Colde in the Churchyarde withe the beſt,
Molderynge in the grounde.

O God, praye take me to Thye home,
To liue where nothynge dies,
And neuermore to runne or roam,
Beneathe vnclouded skies!

( Translated )

Thus shall begin my lasting song,
And when death shuts my eyes;
O let these lines live on so long,
'Til time and nature dies.

Death's second self seals me in rest
Black night is all around;
Cold in the Churchyard with the best,
Moldering in the ground.

O God, pray take me to Thy home,
To live where nothing dies,
And nevermore to run or roam,
Beneath unclouded skies!
© Timothy 24 March 2016
Dec 2015 · 1.5k
Windsong ( Haiku )
Timothy Dec 2015
Lonely soughing pines
Shivering under pale moon—
Haunting notes of wind.

© Timothy 5 December, 2015
Dec 2015 · 1.0k
December Rose ( Haiku )
Timothy Dec 2015
Pale December rose
Blooms are wither'd now and frail—
Memories of June.

© Timothy 5 December, 2015
Dec 2015 · 2.2k
O Jesus
Timothy Dec 2015

Christ I
Adore Thee,
Whom Left The
Ivory Palaces And
Came To This World:
Thy People To Free From
Sin And Satan's Power. Pray
Guide Me And Keep Me This And
Every Hour. O Jesus Christ I Thank Thee,
Amen & Amen.
© Timothy 5 December, 2015
Dec 2015 · 1.6k
O Lord
Timothy Dec 2015
O Lord of all both large and small
Thy hands uphold the weak and frail
And on the wings the morning sings
Of golden hours that hath set sail.

When day is done at setting sun
The moon shall cast her silv'ry light
As starlight shines a lone wolf whines
All in the canopy of night.

Long, long ago in warm fire glow
As shepherds watch'd and kept their sheep
When voices rang and angels sang
In praise and awe found Him asleep.

Emanuel! Emanuel!
All glory be to Him on high
And to the Son the only One
May God and Heav'n to us draw nigh.

O Jesus praise our voice we raise
With grateful hearts and hands uphold
To Thee above whom is pure love
The greatest gift to man behold.

O Lord of light all full of might
Thy good news heralds onward still
From age to age Thy Word is sage
Dawn freshly Lord peace and good will.

O Lord of all both large and small,
Thy hands upheld the weak and frail
And on the wings the morning sings
Of golden hours that n'er set sail.

© Timothy 5 December, 2015
Nov 2015 · 1.4k
Those Days
Timothy Nov 2015
So dear as that last fond embrace
The treasured mem'ry lingers still.
Lush field in Autumn where we race
All 'round the house and o'er the hill.
I ponder this—when by the shore,
And think of days that are no more.

Those dearest friends and fam'ly flown,
In deepest chambers of my heart
Wherein the fading embers shown;
Now dark those golden days depart,
When by that rolling tide once more,
And sadly think—those days no more.

Take Lord, my heart and mind, pray hold
My feeble hand throughout my life.
O God of mercy—peace unfold,
Be Thou mine anchor, stay all strife;
I think of Thy eternal day,—
Where all those days shall last for aye.

( Inspired by Tears, Idle Tears. )
© Timothy 21 November, 2015
Nov 2015 · 959
Autumn Ended
Timothy Nov 2015
Autumn Ended

Last few rust leaves
Falling to cold ground
All color has come to an end.

Snow storms of winter
Soon the earth will cover
Blanketing all in white.

God, maker of all things,
I humbly ask You—
Please draw near!

All of Your creation
Tells of Your handiwork
Every leaf that lay, You know how many.

Autumn swiftly fades
Into cold winter
When snow and icicles abound.

Warm my heart and
Warm my soul now and
Always until the end.

automne terminée

Derniers quelques feuilles de rouille
Tombant à terre froide
Toutes les couleurs a pris fin .

Les tempêtes de neige de l'hiver
Bientôt la terre couvrira
Inertage tout en blanc .

Dieu, créateur de toutes choses ,
Je demande humblement You-
S'il vous plaît approcher !

Tout de votre création
Indique de votre œuvre
Chaque feuille qui était , vous savez combien .

Automne disparaît rapidement
En hiver froid
Lorsque la neige et de glaçons abondent .

Réchauffer mon cœur et
Réchauffer mon âme maintenant et
Toujours , jusqu'à la fin .

Осень , закончившийся**

Последние несколько ржавчина листья
Упав на холодной земле
Все цвета пришло к концу.

Снег бури зимой
Вскоре земля покроет
Подушки все в белом .

Бог , создатель всех вещей ,
Я смиренно прошу вы-
Пожалуйста, приблизиться !

Все Вашего творчества
Сообщает Вашего рук
Каждый лист, который лежал , Вы знаете, как много.

Осень стремительно исчезает
В холодную зиму
Когда снег и сосульки предостаточно.

Теплый мое сердце и
Теплый мою душу сейчас и
Не всегда до конца .

© Timothy 21 November, 2015
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