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Timothy Sep 2012
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
         The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
         And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,
         And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
         And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
         The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
         ****** her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
         Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
         The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
         The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,
The ****'s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
         No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
         Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
         Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
         Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
         How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
         Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
         The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
         And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.
         The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
         If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
         The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust
         Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
         Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
         Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
         Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
         Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
         And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
         The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,
         And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
         The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
         Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
         The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
         And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone
         Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
         And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
         To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
         With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
         Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
         They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect,
         Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
         Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,
         The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
         That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
         This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
         Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
         Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
         Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead
         Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
         Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
         "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
         To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
         That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
         And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
         Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
         Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
         Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
         Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

"The next with dirges due in sad array
         Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne.
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
         Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."


Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
       A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
       And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
       Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,
       He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
       Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose)
       The ***** of his Father and his God.

~Thomas Gray 1716—1771~
11.7k · Jan 2015
breath of new life
Timothy Jan 2015
O Divine Flame
light a fire within me
to burn away all the old dead layers
ignite a love that breaks open my heart
to new heights.
and deepen my love for Thee.
Here I am,
utterly broken poured out like wax,
rekindle the light
of Thy countenance
within me to remove all the
dross and dregs of my heart
and breathe, O breath of Divine Flame
new life within my soul
that I might love Thee more
make me whole.
Collaborative work of:
Silas: and
© Silas and
© Timothy
January 23rd to 24th, 2015
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 Oct 2012
Here bygynneth the Book of the tales of Caunterbury*
Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote,
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licóur
Of which vertú engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open ye,
So priketh hem Natúre in hir corages,
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
And specially, from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.

Bifil that in that seson on a day,
In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay,
Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage
To Caunterbury with ful devout corage,
At nyght were come into that hostelrye
Wel nyne and twenty in a compaignye
Of sondry folk, by áventure y-falle
In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle,
That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde.
The chambres and the stables weren wyde,
And wel we weren esed atte beste.
And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste,
So hadde I spoken with hem everychon,
That I was of hir felaweshipe anon,
And made forward erly for to ryse,
To take oure wey, ther as I yow devyse.

But nathelees, whil I have tyme and space,
Er that I ferther in this tale pace,
Me thynketh it acordaunt to resoun
To telle yow al the condicioun
Of ech of hem, so as it semed me,
And whiche they weren and of what degree,
And eek in what array that they were inne;
And at a Knyght than wol I first bigynne.

A Knyght ther was, and that a worthy man,
That fro the tyme that he first bigan
To riden out, he loved chivalrie,
Trouthe and honóur, fredom and curteisie.
Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre,
And thereto hadde he riden, no man ferre,
As wel in cristendom as in hethenesse,
And evere honóured for his worthynesse.
At Alisaundre he was whan it was wonne;
Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bigonne
Aboven alle nacions in Pruce.
In Lettow hadde he reysed and in Ruce,—
No cristen man so ofte of his degree.
In Gernade at the seege eek hadde he be
Of Algezir, and riden in Belmarye.
At Lyeys was he, and at Satalye,
Whan they were wonne; and in the Grete See
At many a noble armee hadde he be.

At mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene,
And foughten for oure feith at Tramyssene
In lyste thries, and ay slayn his foo.
This ilke worthy knyght hadde been also
Somtyme with the lord of Palatye
Agayn another hethen in Turkye;
And evermoore he hadde a sovereyn prys.
And though that he were worthy, he was wys,
And of his port as meeke as is a mayde.
He nevere yet no vileynye ne sayde,
In al his lyf, unto no maner wight.
He was a verray, parfit, gentil knyght.

But for to tellen yow of his array,
His hors weren goode, but he was nat gay;
Of fustian he wered a gypon
Al bismótered with his habergeon;
For he was late y-come from his viage,
And wente for to doon his pilgrymage.

With hym ther was his sone, a yong Squiér,
A lovyere and a ***** bacheler,
With lokkes crulle as they were leyd in presse.
Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse.
Of his statúre he was of evene lengthe,
And wonderly delyvere and of greet strengthe.
And he hadde been somtyme in chyvachie
In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Pycardie,
And born hym weel, as of so litel space,
In hope to stonden in his lady grace.
Embrouded was he, as it were a meede
Al ful of fresshe floures whyte and reede.
Syngynge he was, or floytynge, al the day;
He was as fressh as is the month of May.
Short was his gowne, with sleves longe and wyde;
Wel koude he sitte on hors and faire ryde;
He koude songes make and wel endite,
Juste and eek daunce, and weel purtreye and write.
So hoote he lovede that by nyghtertale
He sleep namoore than dooth a nyghtyngale.
Curteis he was, lowely and servysáble,
And carf biforn his fader at the table.

A Yeman hadde he and servántz namo
At that tyme, for hym liste ride soo;
And he was clad in cote and hood of grene.
A sheef of pecock arwes bright and kene,
Under his belt he bar ful thriftily—
Wel koude he dresse his takel yemanly;
His arwes drouped noght with fetheres lowe—
And in his hand he baar a myghty bowe.
A not-heed hadde he, with a broun viságe.
Of woodecraft wel koude he al the uságe.
Upon his arm he baar a gay bracér,
And by his syde a swerd and a bokeler,
And on that oother syde a gay daggere,
Harneised wel and sharp as point of spere;
A Cristophere on his brest of silver sheene.
An horn he bar, the bawdryk was of grene.
A forster was he, soothly as I gesse.

Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse,
That of hir smylyng was ful symple and coy;
Hire gretteste ooth was but by seinte Loy,
And she was cleped madame Eglentyne.
Ful weel she soong the service dyvyne,
Entuned in hir nose ful semely;
And Frenssh she spak ful faire and fetisly,
After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe,
For Frenssh of Parys was to hire unknowe.
At mete wel y-taught was she with-alle:
She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle,
Ne wette hir fyngres in hir sauce depe.
Wel koude she carie a morsel and wel kepe
Thát no drope ne fille upon hire brist;
In curteisie was set ful muchel hir list.
Hire over-lippe wyped she so clene
That in hir coppe ther was no ferthyng sene
Of grece, whan she dronken hadde hir draughte.
Ful semely after hir mete she raughte.
And sikerly she was of greet desport,
And ful plesáunt and amyable of port,
And peyned hire to countrefete cheere
Of court, and been estatlich of manere,
And to ben holden digne of reverence.
But for to speken of hire conscience,
She was so charitable and so pitous
She wolde wepe if that she saugh a mous
Kaught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde.
Of smale houndes hadde she, that she fedde
With rosted flessh, or milk and wastel breed;
But soore wepte she if oon of hem were deed,
Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte;
And al was conscience and tendre herte.

Ful semyly hir wympul pynched was;
Hire nose tretys, her eyen greye as glas,
Hir mouth ful smal and ther-to softe and reed;
But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed;
It was almoost a spanne brood, I trowe;
For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe.
Ful fetys was hir cloke, as I was war;
Of smal coral aboute hire arm she bar
A peire of bedes, gauded al with grene,
And ther-on heng a brooch of gold ful sheene,
On which ther was first write a crowned A,
And after, Amor vincit omnia.

Another Nonne with hire hadde she,
That was hire chapeleyne, and Preestes thre.

A Monk ther was, a fair for the maistrie,
An outridere, that lovede venerie;
A manly man, to been an abbot able.
Ful many a deyntee hors hadde he in stable;
And whan he rood, men myghte his brydel heere
Gýnglen in a whistlynge wynd als cleere,
And eek as loude, as dooth the chapel belle,
Ther as this lord was kepere of the celle.
The reule of seint Maure or of seint Beneit,
By-cause that it was old and som-del streit,—
This ilke Monk leet olde thynges pace,
And heeld after the newe world the space.
He yaf nat of that text a pulled hen
That seith that hunters ben nat hooly men,
Ne that a monk, whan he is recchelees,
Is likned til a fissh that is waterlees,—
This is to seyn, a monk out of his cloystre.
But thilke text heeld he nat worth an oystre;
And I seyde his opinioun was good.
What sholde he studie and make hymselven wood,
Upon a book in cloystre alwey to poure,
Or swynken with his handes and labóure,
As Austyn bit? How shal the world be served?
Lat Austyn have his swynk to him reserved.
Therfore he was a prikasour aright:
Grehoundes he hadde, as swift as fowel in flight;
Of prikyng and of huntyng for the hare
Was al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare.
I seigh his sleves y-púrfiled at the hond
With grys, and that the fyneste of a lond;
And for to festne his hood under his chyn
He hadde of gold y-wroght a curious pyn;
A love-knotte in the gretter ende ther was.
His heed was balled, that shoon as any glas,
And eek his face, as he hadde been enoynt.
He was a lord ful fat and in good poynt;
His eyen stepe, and rollynge in his heed,
That stemed as a forneys of a leed;
His bootes souple, his hors in greet estaat.
Now certeinly he was a fair prelaat.
He was nat pale, as a forpyned goost:
A fat swan loved he best of any roost.
His palfrey was as broun as is a berye.

A Frere ther was, a wantowne and a merye,
A lymytour, a ful solémpne man.
In alle the ordres foure is noon that kan
So muchel of daliaunce and fair langage.
He hadde maad ful many a mariage
Of yonge wommen at his owene cost.
Unto his ordre he was a noble post.
Ful wel biloved and famulier was he
With frankeleyns over al in his contree,
And eek with worthy wommen of the toun;
For he hadde power of confessioun,
As seyde hym-self, moore than a curát,
For of his ordre he was licenciat.
Ful swetely herde he confessioun,
And plesaunt was his absolucioun.
He was an esy man to yeve penaunce
There as he wiste to have a good pitaunce;
For unto a povre ordre for to yive
Is signe that a man is wel y-shryve;
For, if he yaf, he dorste make avaunt
He wiste that a man was répentaunt;
For many a man so hard is of his herte
He may nat wepe al-thogh hym soore smerte.
Therfore in stede of wepynge and preyéres
Men moote yeve silver to the povre freres.
His typet was ay farsed full of knyves
And pynnes, for to yeven faire wyves.
And certeinly he hadde a murye note:
Wel koude he synge and pleyen on a rote;
Of yeddynges he baar outrely the pris.
His nekke whit was as the flour-de-lys;
Ther-to he strong was as a champioun.
He knew the tavernes wel in every toun,
And everich hostiler and tappestere
Bet than a lazar or a beggestere;
For unto swich a worthy man as he
Acorded nat, as by his facultee,
To have with sike lazars aqueyntaunce;
It is nat honest, it may nat avaunce
Fór to deelen with no swich poraille,
But al with riche and selleres of vitaille.
And over-al, ther as profit sholde arise,
Curteis he was and lowely of servyse.
Ther nas no man nowher so vertuous.
He was the beste beggere in his hous;
[And yaf a certeyn ferme for the graunt,
Noon of his brethren cam ther in his haunt;]
For thogh a wydwe hadde noght a sho,
So plesaunt was his In principio,
Yet wolde he have a ferthyng er he wente:
His purchas was wel bettre than his rente.
And rage he koude, as it were right a whelpe.
In love-dayes ther koude he muchel helpe,
For there he was nat lyk a cloysterer
With a thredbare cope, as is a povre scolér,
But he was lyk a maister, or a pope;
Of double worstede was his semycope,
That rounded as a belle, out of the presse.
Somwhat he lipsed for his wantownesse,
To make his Englissh sweete upon his tonge;
And in his harpyng, whan that he hadde songe,
His eyen twynkled in his heed aryght
As doon the sterres in the frosty nyght.
This worthy lymytour was cleped Hubérd.

A Marchant was ther with a forked berd,
In motteleye, and hye on horse he sat;
Upon his heed a Flaundryssh bevere hat;
His bootes clasped faire and fetisly.
His resons he spak ful solémpnely,
Sownynge alway thencrees of his wynnyng.
He wolde the see were kept for any thing
Bitwixe Middelburgh and Orewelle.
Wel koude he in eschaunge sheeldes selle.
This worthy man ful wel his wit bisette;
Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette,
So estatly was he of his gouvernaunce,
With his bargaynes and with his chevyssaunce.
For sothe he was a worthy man with-alle,
But, sooth to seyn, I noot how men hym calle.

A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also,
That unto logyk hadde longe y-go.
As leene was his hors as is a rake,
And he nas nat right fat, I undertake,
But looked holwe, and ther-to sobrely.
Ful thredbare was his overeste courtepy;
For he hadde geten hym yet no benefice,
Ne was so worldly for to have office;
For hym was lévere háve at his beddes heed
Twénty bookes, clad in blak or reed,
Of Aristotle and his philosophie,
Than robes riche, or fíthele, or gay sautrie.
But al be that he was a philosophre,
Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre;
But al that he myghte of his freendes hente
On bookes and on lernynge he it spente,
And bisily gan for the soules preye
Of hem that yaf hym wher-with to scoleye.
Of studie took he moost cure and moost heede.
Noght o word spak he moore than was neede;
And that was seyd in forme and reverence,
And short and quyk and ful of hy senténce.
Sownynge in moral vertu was his speche;
And gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche.

A Sergeant of the Lawe, war and wys,
That often hadde been at the Parvys,
Ther was also, ful riche of excellence.
Discreet he was, and of greet reverence—
He semed swich, his wordes weren so wise.
Justice he was ful often in assise,
By patente, and by pleyn commissioun.
For his science and for his heigh renoun,
Of fees and robes hadde he many oon.
So greet a purchasour was nowher noon:
Al was fee symple to hym in effect;
His purchasyng myghte nat been infect.
Nowher so bisy a man as he ther nas,
And yet he semed bisier than he was.
In termes hadde he caas and doomes alle
That from the tyme of kyng William were falle.
Ther-to he koude endite and make a thyng,
Ther koude no wight pynche at his writyng;
And every statut koude he pleyn by rote.
He rood but hoomly in a medlee cote,
Girt with a ceint of silk, with barres smale;
Of his array telle I no lenger tale.

A Frankeleyn was in his compaignye.
Whit was his berd as is the dayesye;
Of his complexioun he was sangwyn.
Wel loved he by the morwe a sop in wyn;
To lyven in delit was evere his wone,
For he was Epicurus owene sone,
That heeld opinioun that pleyn delit
Was verraily felicitee parfit.
An housholdere, and that a greet, was he;
Seint Julian he was in his contree.
His breed, his ale, was alweys after oon;
A bettre envyned man was nowher noon.
Withoute bake mete was nevere his hous,
Of fissh and flessh, and that so plentevous,
It snewed in his hous of mete and drynke,
Of alle deyntees that men koude thynke,
After the sondry sesons of the yeer;
So chaunged he his mete and his soper.
Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in muwe,
And many a breem and many a luce in stuwe.
Wo was his cook but if his sauce were
Poynaunt and sharp, and redy al his geere.
His table dormant in his halle alway
Stood redy covered al the longe day.
At sessiouns ther was he lord and sire;
Ful ofte tyme he was knyght of the shire.
An anlaas, and a gipser al of silk,
Heeng at his girdel, whit as morne milk.
A shirreve hadde he been, and a countour;
Was nowher such a worthy vavasour.

An Haberdasshere, and a Carpenter,
A Webbe, a Dyere, and a Tapycer,—
And they were clothed alle in o lyveree
Of a solémpne and a greet fraternitee.
Ful fressh and newe hir geere apiked was;
Hir knyves were chaped noght with bras,
But al with silver; wroght ful clene and weel
Hire girdles and hir pouches everydeel.
Wel semed ech of hem a fair burgeys
To sitten in a yeldehalle, on a deys.
Éverich, for the wisdom that he kan,
Was shaply for to been an alderman;
For catel hadde they ynogh and rente,
And eek hir wyves wolde it wel assente,
And elles certeyn were they to blame.
It is ful fair to been y-cleped Madame,
And goon to vigilies al bifore,
And have a mantel roialliche y-bore.

A Cook they hadde with hem for the nones,
To boille the chiknes with the marybones,
And poudre-marchant ****, and galyngale.
Wel koude he knowe a draughte of Londoun ale.
He koude rooste, and sethe, and broille, and frye,
Máken mortreux, and wel bake a pye.
But greet harm was it, as it thoughte me,
That on his shyne a mormal hadde he;
For blankmanger, that made he with the beste.

A Shipman was ther, wonynge fer by weste;
For aught I woot he was of Dertemouthe.
He rood upon a rouncy, as he kouthe,
In a gowne of faldyng to the knee.
A daggere hangynge on a laas hadde he
Aboute his nekke, under his arm adoun.
The hoote somer hadde maad his hewe al broun;
And certeinly he was a good felawe.
Ful many a draughte of wyn hadde he y-drawe
Fro Burdeux-ward, whil that the chapman sleep.
Of nyce conscience took he no keep.
If that he faught and hadde the hyer hond,
By water he sente hem hoom to every lond.
But of his craft to rekene wel his tydes,
His stremes, and his daungers hym bisides,
His herberwe and his moone, his lode-menage,
Ther nas noon swich from Hulle to Cartage.
Hardy he was and wys to undertake;
With many a tempest hadde his berd been shake.
He knew alle the havenes, as they were,
From Gootlond to the Cape of Fynystere,
And every cr
8.6k · Oct 2012
In Memoriam A. H. H.
Timothy Oct 2012
Abbreviated to my favourite parts.

Strong Son of God, immortal Love,
Whom we, that have not seen thy face,
By faith, and faith alone, embrace,
Believing where we cannot prove;

Thine are these orbs of light and shade;
Thou madest Life in man and brute;
Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot
Is on the skull which thou hast made.

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:
Thou madest man, he knows not why,
He thinks he was not made to die;
And thou hast made him: thou art just.

Thou seemest human and divine,
The highest, holiest manhood, thou.
Our wills are ours, we know not how;
Our wills are ours, to make them thine.

Our little systems have their day;
They have their day and cease to be:
They are but broken lights of thee,
And thou, O Lord, art more than they.

We have but faith: we cannot know;
For knowledge is of things we see
And yet we trust it comes from thee,
A beam in darkness: let it grow.

Let knowledge grow from more to more,
But more of reverence in us dwell;
That mind and soul, according well,
May make one music as before,

But vaster. We are fools and slight;
We mock thee when we do not fear:
But help thy foolish ones to bear;
Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light.

Forgive what seem'd my sin in me;
What seem'd my worth since I began;
For merit lives from man to man,
And not from man, O Lord, to thee.

Forgive my grief for one removed,
Thy creature, whom I found so fair.
I trust he lives in thee, and there
I find him worthier to be loved.

Forgive these wild and wandering cries,
Confusions of a wasted youth;
Forgive them where they fail in truth,
And in thy wisdom make me wise.


I held it truth, with him who sings
To one clear harp in divers tones,
That men may rise on stepping-stones
Of their dead selves to higher things.

But who shall so forecast the years
And find in loss a gain to match?
Or reach a hand thro' time to catch
The far-off interest of tears?

Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown'd,
Let darkness keep her raven gloss:
Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss,
To dance with death, to beat the ground,

Than that the victor Hours should scorn
The long result of love, and boast,
'Behold the man that loved and lost,
But all he was is overworn.'

Old Yew, which graspest at the stones
That name the under-lying dead,
Thy fibres net the dreamless head,
Thy roots are wrapt about the bones.

The seasons bring the flower again,
And bring the firstling to the flock;
And in the dusk of thee, the clock
Beats out the little lives of men.

O, not for thee the glow, the bloom,
Who changest not in any gale,
Nor branding summer suns avail
To touch thy thousand years of gloom:

And gazing on thee, sullen tree,
Sick for thy stubborn hardihood,
I seem to fail from out my blood
And grow incorporate into thee.

O Sorrow, cruel fellowship,
O Priestess in the vaults of Death,
O sweet and bitter in a breath,
What whispers from thy lying lip?

'The stars,' she whispers, 'blindly run;
A web is wov'n across the sky;
From out waste places comes a cry,
And murmurs from the dying sun:

'And all the phantom, Nature, stands—
With all the music in her tone,
A hollow echo of my own,—
A hollow form with empty hands.'

And shall I take a thing so blind,
Embrace her as my natural good;
Or crush her, like a vice of blood,
Upon the threshold of the mind?

Dark house, by which once more I stand
Here in the long unlovely street,
Doors, where my heart was used to beat
So quickly, waiting for a hand,

A hand that can be clasp'd no more—
Behold me, for I cannot sleep,
And like a guilty thing I creep
At earliest morning to the door.

He is not here; but far away
The noise of life begins again,
And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain
On the bald street breaks the blank day.

I hear the noise about thy keel;
I hear the bell struck in the night:
I see the cabin-window bright;
I see the sailor at the wheel.

Thou bring'st the sailor to his wife,
And travell'd men from foreign lands;
And letters unto trembling hands;
And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life.

So bring him; we have idle dreams:
This look of quiet flatters thus
Our home-bred fancies. O to us,
The fools of habit, sweeter seems

To rest beneath the clover sod,
That takes the sunshine and the rains,
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains
The chalice of the grapes of God;

Than if with thee the roaring wells
Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine;
And hands so often clasp'd in mine,
Should toss with tangle and with shells.

To-night the winds begin to rise
And roar from yonder dropping day:
The last red leaf is whirl'd away,
The rooks are blown about the skies;

The forest crack'd, the waters curl'd,
The cattle huddled on the lea;
And wildly dash'd on tower and tree
The sunbeam strikes along the world:

And but for fancies, which aver
That all thy motions gently pass
Athwart a plane of molten glass,
I scarce could brook the strain and stir

That makes the barren branches loud;
And but for fear it is not so,
The wild unrest that lives in woe
Would dote and pore on yonder cloud

That rises upward always higher,
And onward drags a labouring breast,
And topples round the dreary west,
A looming bastion fringed with fire.

The path by which we twain did go,
Which led by tracts that pleased us well,
Thro' four sweet years arose and fell,
From flower to flower, from snow to snow:

And we with singing cheer'd the way,
And, crown'd with all the season lent,
From April on to April went,
And glad at heart from May to May:

But where the path we walk'd began
To slant the fifth autumnal *****,
As we descended following Hope,
There sat the Shadow fear'd of man;

Who broke our fair companionship,
And spread his mantle dark and cold,
And wrapt thee formless in the fold,
And dull'd the murmur on thy lip,

And bore thee where I could not see
Nor follow, tho' I walk in haste,
And think, that somewhere in the waste
The Shadow sits and waits for me.

I envy not in any moods
The captive void of noble rage,
The linnet born within the cage,
That never knew the summer woods:

I envy not the beast that takes
His license in the field of time,
Unfetter'd by the sense of crime,
To whom a conscience never wakes;

Nor, what may count itself as blest,
The heart that never plighted troth
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth;
Nor any want-begotten rest.

I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

With trembling fingers did we weave
The holly round the Chrismas hearth;
A rainy cloud possess'd the earth,
And sadly fell our Christmas-eve.

At our old pastimes in the hall
We gambol'd, making vain pretence
Of gladness, with an awful sense
Of one mute Shadow watching all.

We paused: the winds were in the beech:
We heard them sweep the winter land;
And in a circle hand-in-hand
Sat silent, looking each at each.

Then echo-like our voices rang;
We sung, tho' every eye was dim,
A merry song we sang with him
Last year: impetuously we sang:

We ceased:a gentler feeling crept
Upon us: surely rest is meet:
'They rest,' we said, 'their sleep is sweet,'
And silence follow'd, and we wept.

Our voices took a higher range;
Once more we sang: 'They do not die
Nor lose their mortal sympathy,
Nor change to us, although they change;

'Rapt from the fickle and the frail
With gather'd power, yet the same,
Pierces the keen seraphic flame
From orb to orb, from veil to veil.'

Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn,
Draw forth the cheerful day from night:
O Father, touch the east, and light
The light that shone when Hope was born.

Old warder of these buried bones,
And answering now my random stroke
With fruitful cloud and living smoke,
Dark yew, that graspest at the stones

And dippest toward the dreamless head,
To thee too comes the golden hour
When flower is feeling after flower;
But Sorrow—fixt upon the dead,

And darkening the dark graves of men,—
What whisper'd from her lying lips?
Thy gloom is kindled at the tips,
And passes into gloom again.

Oh yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill,
To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;

That nothing walks with aimless feet;
That not one life shall be destroy'd,
Or cast as ******* to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete;

That not a worm is cloven in vain;
That not a moth with vain desire
Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another's gain.

Behold, we know not anything;
I can but trust that good shall fall
At last—far off—at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring.

So runs my dream: but what am I?
An infant crying in the night:
An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.

*~Alfred Lord Tennyson 1809—1892~
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 May 2013
Sometimes a loved one is nearly unknown
For all their hard work is viewed each day long;
Taken for granted, their love has now flown,
Upon the winds, just like the birds in song;
And yet for all their toil, they still persist
In taking care of those that they do love,
E'en if taken for granted, still insist
Caring for ones they adore like a dove.
O, 'tis the time now to appreciate,
Those loved ones that we tend to cast aside;
Let us prove we love them instead of hate,
Wrapt within our arms of love and not hide.
Our spouses, our children, and mothers dear,
Let us tell them the things they need to hear!

Shakespearean Sonnet. © Timothy 11 May, 2013.
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
7.4k · Oct 2018
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
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
6.6k · Oct 2012
The Barefoot Boy
Timothy Oct 2012
Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy, -
I was once a barefoot boy!
Prince thou art, - the grown-up man
Only is republican.
Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy
In the reach of ear and eye, -
Outward sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood's painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor's rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools,
Of the wild bee's morning chase,
Of the wild-flower's time and place,
Flight of fowl and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground-mole sinks his well;
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole's nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the ground-nut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine;
Of the black wasp's cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans!
For, eschewing books and tasks,
Nature answers all he asks;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy, -
Blessings on the barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood's time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw,
Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his *****;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone;
Laughed the brook for my delight
Through the day and through the night,
Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall;
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides!
Still as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches too;
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

Oh for festal dainties spread,
Like my bowl of milk and bread;
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,
On the door-stone, gray and rude!
O'er me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play
Of the pied frogs' orchestra;
And, to light the noisy choir,
Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch: pomp and joy
Waited on the barefoot boy!

Cheerily, then, my little man,
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from thy feet
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat:
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt's for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,
Up and down in ceaseless moil:
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in
Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

**~John Greenleaf Whittier 1807—1892~
Timothy Jun 2013
Withered flow'rs from long ago preserved still,
Though long since dried they contain no perfume;
Gone is the loved one, lingering at will
On the memory and within my room.
Withered thou might be, but I love thee best
As thou wert, but now within my frail mind;
I see thee as yesterday, but thy rest
Among the angelic choirs I shall find,
Thy form once more as that delicate flow'r.
This cherished thought shall always be within
My heart, and henceforth each and ev'ry hour;
This is my love and it shall never end.
Throughout all of these—my remaining years,
The memories of thee, shall rain as tears.

© Timothy 3 June, 2013.
5.2k · Oct 2012
The Lady of Shalott (1842)
Timothy Oct 2012
Part I
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
       To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
       The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
       Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
       The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
       Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
       The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
       Down to tower'd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy
       Lady of Shalott."

Part II
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
       To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
       The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
       Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
       Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
       Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
       The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
       And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed:
"I am half sick of shadows," said
       The Lady of Shalott.

Part III
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
       Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
       Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
       As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
       Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
       As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
       Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
       As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
       Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
       She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
       The Lady of Shalott.

Part IV
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
       Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
       The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seër in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance—
With a glassy countenance
       Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
       The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right—
The leaves upon her falling light—
Thro' the noises of the night
       She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
       The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken'd wholly,
       Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
       The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
       Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
       The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
       All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
       The Lady of Shalott."

**~Alfred Lord Tennyson 1809—1892~
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 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
4.7k · Sep 2012
Apostrophe to the Ocean
Timothy Sep 2012

   There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
   There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
   There is society where none intrudes,                                
   By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
   I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
   From these our interviews, in which I steal
   From all I may be, or have been before,
   To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.                  


   Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean--roll!
   Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
   Man marks the earth with ruin--his control
   Stops with the shore;--upon the watery plain
   The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
   A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,                
   When for a moment, like a drop of rain,
   He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.      


   His steps are not upon thy paths,--thy fields
   Are not a spoil for him,--thou dost arise
   And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
   For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
   Spurning him from thy ***** to the skies,
   And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
   And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
   His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth: --there let him lay.            


   The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
   Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
   And monarchs tremble in their capitals.
   The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
   Their clay creator the vain title take
   Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war;
   These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
   They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.              


   Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee -
   Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
   Thy waters wasted them while they were free
   And many a tyrant since:  their shores obey
   The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
   Has dried up realms to deserts:  not so thou,
   Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play -
   Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow -
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.        


   Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
   Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
   Calm or convulsed--in breeze, or gale, or storm,
   Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
   Dark-heaving;--boundless, endless, and sublime -
   The image of Eternity--the throne
   Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
   The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
Obeys thee:  thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.        


   And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
   Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
   Borne like thy bubbles, onward:  from a boy
   I wantoned with thy breakers--they to me
   Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
   Made them a terror--'twas a pleasing fear,
   For I was as it were a child of thee,
   And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane--as I do here.

**~Lord George Gordon Byron 1788—1824~
4.6k · Mar 2013
Love Is Like A Garden
Timothy Mar 2013
Love is like a garden,
That starts out perhaps overgrown.
Diligently dig and get rid of weeds,
And pluck out the rocks.
Till the soil in love's garden.
Plant seeds, small though they seem.
Water with kindness.
Feed with encouragement.
A mistaken **** pluck up.
An unseen stone revealed cast aside.
Though imperfect, love will flourish
Within these conditions...
Handle and treat with care!
No longer destroying...
No longer being destroyed,
But slowly slowly growing more and more...
Within the garden of LOVE!!!!!<3#:)<3#:):)!!!
Slowly, slowly
Within the


Inspired by a poem I read by zaRaCarLyle entitled: "Dangerous Love." I trust you will read this and feel some better!!! So this is for you, zaRa!!!!!<3<3##:):)!!! © Timothy 12 March, 2013.
4.5k · Oct 2012
The Raven.
Timothy Oct 2012
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visiter,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
            Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    “’Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
            This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my *****’s core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
            Shall be lifted—nevermore!

**~Edgar Allan Poe 1809—1849~
4.4k · May 2013
Rain (Haiku)
Timothy May 2013
The Way The Rain Pours
That Is How I Feel Inside
Like The Rain Falling.

© Timothy 6 May, 2013.
4.3k · Nov 2012
Amid the Woodland
Timothy Nov 2012
Amid the woodland and the wold,
     There is a spot I love to go,
     Where faeries come and faeries show,
Themselves to me glimm'ring as gold.

They dance and twirl about the place,
     Hidden sequestered in thick brush;
     Darting about and ride a thrush,
And blush, they kiss me on my face.

Leading me to their own abode,
     They laugh and cheer up all my thoughts;
     Casting behind all of my aughts,
As on I follow, on I strode.

Looking about their village nigh,
     And all within me is so light;
     And all those gloomy thoughts are bright,
And rows of homes, I stop and sigh.

A little faerie sees me sad,
     And turns and flies up to my face;
     And then she gives me an embrace,
Which lifts my heart and I am glad.

"This spot I visit frequently,
     But never saw this sight before!
     Why is this so? Please, tell me more
I'll n'er tell, tis safe with me."

"We're not seen for lack of trust,
     People fail to believe we're so;
     Dismiss us as fake—off they go,
They never see our faerie dust."

"O, how sad is this awful thing,
     When adults fail to realise;
     That you are here before my eyes,
And I long to see you ev'ry Spring!"

"You believe and that's why you see,
     Things others won't for we remain;
     Invisible to their domain,
Come, follow me, let's cheerful be!"

They dance and twirl and sing a song,
     The elves and gnomes keep harmony;
     With a faerie enchantingly,
Watching my face the whole while long.

Amid the woodland and the wold,
     There is a spot I love to go,
     Where faeries come and faeries show,
Themselves to me glitt'ring as gold!

Thinking more of the Cottingley photographs and "The Coming of the Faeries," by Sir Arthur Connan Doyle.
© Timothy 7 November, 2012
4.1k · Sep 2012
Old Meeting House
Timothy Sep 2012
(new jersey, 1918)
Its quiet graves were made for peace till Gabriel blows his horn.
    Those wise old elms could hear no cry
    Of all that distant agony—
Only the red-winged blackbird, and the rustle of thick ripe corn.        

The blue jay, perched upon that bronze, with bright unweeting eye
   Could never read the names that signed
   The noblest charter of mankind;
But all of them were names we knew beneath our English skies.

And on the low gray headstones, with their crumbling weather-stains,
   —Though cardinal birds, like drops of blood,
   Flickered across the haunted wood,—
The names you’d see were names that woke like flowers in English lanes

John Applegate was fast asleep; and Temperance Olden, too.
   And David Worth had quite forgot
   If Hannah’s lips were red or not;
And Prudence veiled her eyes at last, as Prudence ought to do.

And when, across that patch of heaven, that small blue leaf-edged space
   At times, a droning airplane went,
   No flicker of astonishment
Could lift the heavy eyelids on one gossip’s upturned face.

For William Speakman could not tell—so thick the grasses grow—
   If that strange humming in the sky
   Meant that the Judgment Day were nigh,
Or if ’twere but the summer bees that blundered to and fro.

And then, across the breathless wood, a Bell began to sound,
   The only Bell that wakes the dead,
   And Stockton Signer raised his head,
And called to all the deacons in the ancient burial-ground.

“The Bell, the Bell is ringing! Give me back my rusty sword.
   Though I thought the wars were done,
   Though I thought our peace was won,
Yet I signed the Declaration, and the dead must keep their word.

“There’s only one great ghost I know could make that ’larum ring.
   It’s the captain that we knew
   In the ancient buff and blue,
It’s our Englishman, George Washington, who fought the German king!”

So the sunset saw them mustering beneath their brooding boughs,
   Ancient shadows of our sires,
   Kindling with the ancient fires,
While the old cracked Bell to southward shook the shadowy meeting house.

~Alfred Noyes 1880—1958~
3.9k · Nov 2012
Timothy Nov 2012
O for the sunlight shining on the land,
And all the darkness of the night is sped,—
Nightmares are over and I firmly stand,
In the bright sunshine which gleams on my head.

O dear sweet friends and family also,
That have emerged into my little sphere;
And all of you cheers up my pain and woe,
And I think of this while I'm standing here.

Sun shining brighter with each passing hour,
Making me feel so happy deep within.
So glad those charcoal grey clouds left my bow'r,
And lightened up my sad face to a grin.

O while these lighter thoughts within me glow,
And brighter beams the sun into my heart;
I am amazed how quickly it must go,
Then all the darkness also will restart.

O let me have this moment to be glad
A rarity from me, I know, 'tis true;
But I enjoyed these rays and I'm not sad,
But treasured these glad golden hours I've had.

O for the sunlight shining on the land,
And all the darkness of the night is sped,—
Nightmares are over and I firmly stand,
In the bright sunshine which fills up my head!

© Timothy 5 November, 2012
3.9k · Oct 2012
Who Christ Will Follow
Timothy Oct 2012
From the 16th century Anabaptist Ausbund
Hymn 11 by Jörg Wagner, burnt 1527


Wer Christo jetzt will folgen nach,
Muß achten nichte der Welt Schmach,
Das Creutz er auch muß tragen,
Kein ander Weg in Himmel geht,
Hört ich von Jugend sagen.

Also thät Jörg der Wagner auch,
Gen Himmel fuhr er in dem Rauch,
Durchs Creutz ward er bewähret,
Gleich wie man thut dem klaren Gold,
Von Herzen ers begehret.

Der Falkenthurm ward ihm zu Theil,
Es galt ihm seiner Seelen Heyl,
Er acht kein's Menschen Trauren,
Er acht auch nicht sein kleine Kind,
Noch seiner Ehlichen Frauren.

Wiewohl sie ihm nicht war'n nunmehr,
Und er gern bey ihn's blieben wär,
Hat Liebe und Leids gelitten,
Kein Arbeit an seim Leib gespart,
Nach frommer Ehleut Sitten.

Gleichwohl er sie verlassen muß,
Es war ihm kein geringe Buß,
Daß er von ihn'n mußt scheiden.
Klein Fürst mit seinem Fürstenthum,
Hätts ihm mögen erleiden.

Zween Baarfüß—Möch in grauem Kleid
Jörg Wagner trösten in seim Leid,
Sie wollten ihn bekerhren,
Er wiess  sie in ihr Klösterlein,
Ihr Red wollt er nicht hören.

Der Henker führt ihn an ein'm Strick,
Im Rathaus las man ihm vier Stück,
Darauf stund ihm sein Leben:
Eh er eins widerrufen wollt,
In Tod thät er sich geben.

Der erst Artikel war nicht leicht,
Trauff an die mündlich Ohrenbeicht,
Kein Pfaff mocht ihm verzeihen,
Dieweil er wider Gott gethan,
Der ihm allein konnt freyen.

Der Tauff ist recht wie Christus lehrt,
Wenn die Ordnung nicht wird verkehrt,
Bedeut sein bitter Sterben,
Ist ein Abwäschung unser Sünd,
Dadurch wir Gnad erwerben.

Vons Herren Christi Sacrament,
Jörg Wagner ihn'n auch frey bekennt,
Ich halt es vor ein Zeichen,
Vor Christi hingegebnen Leib,
Redt er ohn alles Schmeichlen.

Zum vierten wollt nicht Glauben thun,
Daß sich Gott sollte zwingen lohn,
Auf Erd herab zu kommen,
Bis er werd halten sein Gericht,
Den Böse mit den Frommen.

Etlich Christliche Brüder war'n,
Redten Jörg Wagner in sein' Ohr'n,
Weil er noch war beym Leben,
Im Feur sterb als ein frommer Christ,
Wollst uns ein Zeichen geben.

Er sprach: Das will ich gerne thun,
Christum den wahren Gottes Sohn
Will ich mit'm Mund bekennen,
So lang als mein Vermögen ist,
Will ich ihn Jesum nennen.

Zween Heker stunden bey der Seit,
Den Ring um ihn sie machten weit,
Jörg Wagner sprach den Glauben.
Zugegen stund ein große Schaar
Von Männern und von Frauen.

Jörg Wagner sh ohn Furcht um sich,
Sein Mund zu keiner Zeit verblich,
Er redt daß manchen wundert.
Geschah im sieben un zwanzigsten Jahr,
Ein tausend und fünf hundert.

Im Hornung in demselben Jahr,
Am achten Tag ganz offenbar,
Hing man ihm an sein Kehle
Ein sack mit Pulver nicht fast klein,
Benahm ihm da sein Seele.

Man flocht ihm auf ein Leiter  hart,
Das Holz und Stroh anzünndet ward,
Jetz ward das Lachen teuer.
Jesus, Jesus, zum vierten mahl,
Rief er laut aus dem Feuer.

Elias thut die Wahrheit sagen,
Daß er in ein'm feurigen Wagen
Fuhr in das Paradeise:
So bitten wir den Heiligen Geist,
Daß er nus unterwiese.


Who Christ will follow now, newborn,
Dare not be moved by this world's scorn,
The cross must bear sincerely;
No other way to heaven leads,
From childhood we're taught clearly.

This did George Wagner, too, aspire,
He went to heav'n 'mid smoke and fire,
The cross his test and proving,
As gold is in a furnace tried,
His heart's desire approving.

The falcon tower became his lease,
It brought about his soul's release,
No human sorrowing swerved him,
Nor was he moved by his small child,
Nor had his wife unnerved him.

They no more his could be to aid,
Though he gladly with them had stayed,
His love and sorrow welling;
No labor spared he on his part,
As righteous partners dwelling.

Although he from them must depart,
No meanly sacrifice of heart,
That he from them be parting,
No prince with all his princely gain
Could him from this be thwarting.

Two barefoot monks in grey array,
George Wagner's sorrow's would allay,
They would be him converting;
He waved them to their cloister home,
Their speech he'd be averting.

The hangman him with rope interned,
In the town hall four counts he learned,
Upon which hinged his living;
Before he one truth would deny,
His life would he be giving.

The article which first would weigh,
With the confession it did lay,
No priest could be forgiving,
For against God would he have sinned,
Who'd only be grace giving.

Baptism is right as Christ has taught,
When this ord'nance is not distraught,
Portends his bitter dying,
In symbol washes us from sins,
And grace us signifying.

Of our Lord Christ's own sacrament,
George Wagner testified intent,
A symbol, it esteem I,
Of Christ's own body offered free;
No flattery spake he hereby.

Fourthly, he would not fain believe
That God should such constraint receive
And come to earth in brightness,
Until His judgment He should hold,
The wicked with the righteous.

Did several Christian brothers near
Speak then into George Wagner's ear
While still he was yet living,
(He died in fire, a Christian true),
Wilt us a sign be giving.

He said: This will I gladly do,
Christ, truly God's own Son, as due,
By mouth I'll be confessing:
As long as privilege shall be,
Jesus him be addressing.

Two hangmen stood now at his side,
The ring about him they made wide,
George Wagner spake his faith strong,
Around him a great company,
Men, women, an attent throng.

George Wagner's gaze did nothing quail,
His lips did never once grow pale,
He spake that many wondered.
T'was in the twenty seventh year,
One thousand and five hundred.

In February the same year,
The eighth day, openly and clear,
Men on a stake then hung him,
A bag of powder, rather small,
There took his soul quite from him.

Men fastened him to ladder firm
The wood and straw was made to burn,
Now was the laughter dire;
Jesus! Jesus! did he four times
Call loudly from the fire.

Elias speaks the truth entire
That he in chariot of fire
In paradise did lighten;
So pray we then, the Holy Ghost,
That He may us enlighten.

Translated by John J Overholt ©1970
3.8k · Sep 2012
The Highwayman
Timothy Sep 2012
By Alfred Noyes 1880—1958**


The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.  
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.  
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,  
And the highwayman came riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,  
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.  
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
         His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.  
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there  
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
         Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.  
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,  
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
         The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,  
Then look for me by moonlight,
         Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;  
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
         (O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.


He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;  
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,  
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,  
A red-coat troop came marching—
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.  
But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!  
There was death at every window;
         And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
         Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!  
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
         Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.  
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.  
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;  
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
         Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;  
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding—
The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!  
Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,  
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
         Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood  
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!  
Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear  
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
         The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shouting a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.
Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
         Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

.       .       .

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,  
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,  
A highwayman comes riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.  
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there  
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
         Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Timothy Feb 2013
Я зимой
Снег мой
Печаль и слезы.

Мое сердце не является
Замороженные как на землю
В снегов я спать.

Надежды и жизни.
Все это время ждет
Просто вопрос времени.

Вот цветет
Из Догвудс.

Почувствовать тепло
Бризы переполох
И душистый воздух.

Ох увидеть плавления
Снег? Бабочки
Нарциссы и лилии.

Вы танцевали
Ажурные деревья
И теперь Вистерия доказывает,

Я пою на лугу
И ходить на
Путь. Я слышу птицы

Папоротники лесополоса
Цветет плач вишни;
Видели проповедников и Леди Тапочки
Старый Мосс охвачены деревья начинают оставить вне.

Ароматы жизни
Звуки жизни
Везде увидеть.

Слезы исчезли. Как я
Проснулся на заре нового
Но таинственно древних

Одуванчики, лютики,
Колокольчики и розы тоже
Появляются все еще раз.

Гладиолусы, шпорники и скромный
Tiny фиалки все привлекают глаз.
Подснежники показали их лица.

Я много времени, чтобы принять это
Как я обнял тьмы
Короткие темные дни зимы.

Я долго к танца и обнять
Весна. Развернув цветет
И серебристые лунной вечеров
Когда козодоев и совы
Являются активными, услышал и редко видели.

Может цветы и может поляков
Вокруг цикла идет. В
Жимолость и ползучие лозы
Приветствовать меня танцевать
Славки Мелодия.

Обнимаю больше дней.
И я приветствую светлее
Золотые часы приехать по-старому.

Пробудить цикады, жаба, и
Изящные девица мухи. Пчелы
Поцелуй цветение деревьев и кустарников.

Еще раз аромат скошенной
Травы и сено, веет воспоминания о
Год, исчезли. Начало оттепели
И в снегу и льду это моя надежда.

Принять мою руку, для теперь, холодной
Лед и зимой. Ибо я буду
Прощаемся с вами и
Рассвет тех
Забыли меня неимущими, которые являются
Веков так старые и новые.

Приходите, вертеть о
Поле и травянистый луг.
Слышать пение с ликованием птиц
С сердцем, песня для вас и меня.

Платанами и бука
Стенд так высок. Есть пятно
Я часто медитировать и налить
На некоторые темы. Да зима
Я возлюбил вас. Ах, Весна я обожаю
Ожидание нетерпением снова для изучения.

Последние несколько капель расплавленного
Снег, я наблюдаю. Обновления жизни
Оттепель и теплее весны
И более дней.


In snow Spring emerges

I am the winter
The snow is my
Sorrow and tears.

My heart is not
Frozen like the ground
In snows I sleep.

The ancient
Dawning of
Hope and Life.
Awaits all the while
Just a matter of time.

Come now
Behold the blooms
Of the dogwoods.

Feel the warm
Breezes stir
And the air perfumed.

Oh, see the melting
Snow? The butterflies
The daffodils, and lilies.

You have danced
You have laced the trees
And now the wisteria proves,
The thaw.

I sing in the meadow
And walk upon the
Path. I hear the birds

Ferns of the woodland
The blossoms of the weeping cherry;
Pulpits and Lady slippers are seen
Old moss covered trees start to leave out.

Scents of life
Sounds of life are
Everywhere to see.

Tears are gone. As I
Awake to the dawn a new
But mysteriously ancient

The dandelions, buttercups,
The bluebells, and the roses too
Are all appearing once again.

Gladiolas, larkspurs, and humble
Tiny violets all attract the eyes.
Snowdrops have shown their face.

I long to embrace this
As I embraced the darkness
Of the short dark days of Winter.

I long to dance and embrace
Spring. The unfurling blossoms
And the silvery moonlit evenings
When the nightjars and owls
Are active, heard, and seldom seen.

May flowers and May poles
Around the cycle goes. The
Honeysuckle and creeping vines
Welcome me to dance to the
Warblers melody.

I embrace the longer days.
And I welcome the lighter
Golden hours to come as of old.

Awaken the cicada, toad, and
Graceful damsel flies. Bees
Kiss the blossoms of both tree and shrub.

Once again the scent of mowed
Grass and hay, wafts memories of
The year gone away. The thaw is begun
And in snow and ice this is my hope.

Take my hand, for now, cold
Ice and Winter. For I shall
Bid farewell to you, and the
Dawning of those
Forget me nots that are
Centuries so old and new.

Come, twirl about the
Field and grassy meadow.
Hear the birds singing with glee
With heart, a song for you and me.

Sycamores and beech trees
Stand so tall. There is a spot
I frequent to meditate and pour
Upon some themes. Oh, Winter
I have loved you. Oh, Spring I adore
Waiting eagerly again to explore.

The last few drops of melted
Snow I watch. The renewal of life
By the thaw and Spring warmer
And longer days.

© 3 February, 2013 by Timothy
This was inspired by the warm blast of air that our area had.
Also the writings of Yelena~!!!!!!~<3<3:):)☺☼♂♀♥♠♣♦◘☻◙•○.O♫
3.5k · Oct 2012
Death and Dr. Hornbrook.
Timothy Oct 2012
Some books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penn'd:
Ev'n ministers, they ha'e been kenn'd,
In holy rapture,
A rousing whid, at times, to vend,
And nail't wi' Scripture.

But this that I am gaun to tell,
Which lately on a night befel,
Is just as true's the Deil's in h--ll
Or Dublin-city;
That e'er he nearer comes oursel
'S a muckle pity.

The Clachan yill had made me canty,
I was na fou, but just had plenty;
I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay
To free the ditches;
An' hillocks, stanes, and bushes, kenn'd ay
Frae ghaists an' witches.

The rising moon began to glow'r
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre:
To count her horns with a' my pow'r,
I set mysel;
But whether she had three or four,
I could na tell.

I was come round about the hill,
And todlin down on Willie's mill,
Setting my staff with a' my skill,
To keep me sicker;
Tho' leeward whyles, against my will,
I took a bicker.

I there wi' something did forgather,
That put me in an eerie swither;
An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther,
Clear-dangling, hang;
A three-taed leister on the ither
Lay, large an' lang.

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa,
The queerest shape that e'er I saw,
For fient a wame it had ava:
And then, its shanks,
They were as thin, as sharp an' sma'
As cheeks o' branks.

"Guid-een," quo' I; "Friend, hae ye been mawin,
When ither folk are busy sawin?"
It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan',
But naething spak;
At length, says I, "Friend, where ye gaun,
Will ye go back?"

It spak right howe,--"My name is Death,
But be na fley'd."--Quoth I, "Guid faith,
Ye're may be come to stap my breath;
But tent me, billie;
I red ye weel, take care o' skaith,
See, there's a gully!"

"Guidman," quo' he, "put up your whittle,
I'm no design'd to try its mettle;
But if I did, I *** be kittle
To be mislear'd,
I *** nae mind it, no that spittle
Out-owre my beard."

"Weel, weel!" says I, "a bargain be't;
Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't;
We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat,
Come, gies your news!
This while ye hae been mony a gate
At mony a house.

"Ay, ay!" quo' he, an' shook his head,
"It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed
Sin' I began to nick the thread,
An' choke the breath:
Folk maun do something for their bread,
An' sae maun Death.

"Sax thousand years are near hand fled
Sin' I was to the butching bred,
An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid,
To stap or scar me;
Till ane Hornbook's ta'en up the trade,
An' faith, he'll waur me.

"Ye ken **** Hornbook i' the Clachan,
Deil mak his kings-hood in a spleuchan!
He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan[6]
An' ither chaps,
The weans haud out their fingers laughin
And pouk my hips.

"See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart,
They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart;
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art
And cursed skill,
Has made them baith no worth a f----t,
****'d haet they'll ****.

"'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen,
I threw a noble throw at ane;
Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain;
It just play'd dirl on the bane,
But did nae mair.

"Hornbook was by, wi' ready art,
And had sae fortified the part,
That when I looked to my dart,
It was sae blunt,
Fient haet o't *** hae pierc'd the heart
Of a kail-runt.

"I drew my scythe in sic a fury,
I near-hand cowpit wi' my hurry,
But yet the bauld Apothecary,
Withstood the shock;
I might as weel hae tried a quarry
O' hard whin rock.

"Ev'n them he canna get attended,
Although their face he ne'er had kend it,
Just sh---- in a kail-blade, and send it,
As soon's he smells't,
Baith their disease, and what will mend it,
At once he tells't.

"And then a' doctor's saws and whittles,
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles,
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles,
He's sure to hae;
Their Latin names as fast he rattles
As A B C.

"Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees;
True sal-marinum o' the seas;
The farina of beans and pease,
He has't in plenty;
Aqua-fortis, what you please,
He can content ye.

"Forbye some new, uncommon weapons,
Urinus spiritus of capons;
Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings,
Distill'd per se;
Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings,
And mony mae."

"Waes me for Johnny Ged's-Hole[7] now,"
Quo' I, "If that thae news be true!
His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew,
Sae white and bonie,
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew;
They'll ruin Johnie!"

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh,
And says, "Ye need na yoke the plough,
Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh,
Tak ye nae fear;
They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh
In twa-three year.

"Whare I ****'d ane a fair strae death,
By loss o' blood or want of breath,
This night I'm free to tak my aith,
That Hornbook's skill
Has clad a score i' their last claith,
By drap an' pill.

"An honest wabster to his trade,
Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel bred,
Gat tippence-worth to mend her head,
When it was sair;
The wife slade cannie to her bed,
But ne'er spak mair

"A countra laird had ta'en the batts,
Or some curmurring in his guts,
His only son for Hornbook sets,
An' pays him well.
The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets,
Was laird himsel.

"A bonnie lass, ye kend her name,
Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame;
She trusts hersel, to hide the shame,
In Hornbook's care;
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame,
To hide it there.

"That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way;
Thus goes he on from day to day,
Thus does he poison, ****, an' slay,
An's weel paid for't;
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey,
Wi' his d--mn'd dirt:

"But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot,
Though dinna ye be speaking o't;
I'll nail the self-conceited sot,
As dead's a herrin':
Niest time we meet, I'll *** a groat,
He gets his fairin'!"

But just as he began to tell,
The auld kirk-hammer strak' the bell
Some wee short hour ayont the twal,
Which rais'd us baith:
I took the way that pleas'd mysel',
And sae did Death.

**~Robert Burns 1759—1796~
3.4k · Nov 2012
~Creation on Love~
Timothy Nov 2012
She takes
The first
Sip of
Beaten, battered,
Trembling, but so it
Goes, doth not know of
Time or place or foreign lands!!
Agapi, 'abah, Amour, Liebe, Liefde,
Con amore, Dragoste, Любовь, Amor, all means Love!!!!!
Agapi, (Greek) one of the five words of Love (the Highest I think), Amour (French), Liebe (German), Liefde (Dutch), Con amore (Italian), Dragoste (Romanian), Любовь (Russian), & Amor (Spanish) means Love!! :) Thus the:  ~Creation on Love~  !! To Friends... NEW or familiar alike!! :) :)
© Timothy 30 November, 2012
3.4k · Feb 2017
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.
3.3k · Oct 2012
Rain (Haiku)
Timothy Oct 2012
Rain is pouring down,
A breeze astir in the air;
My ear hears the sound.

© Timothy 29 October, 2012
3.2k · Oct 2012
Howling Winds
Timothy Oct 2012
Cold winds howling in the night air,
Like sirens of the sea entice
To passing ships, O their demise,
Wailing loudly without a care.

The sounds are chilling in my ear,
The rage of nature still doth ****;
And churning 'round at its own will,
Shreds up the landscape—I can hear.

Once mighty oaks and great fir trees,
Stood firmly planted in the ground,
'Til blasting winds thundered the sound,
And left them lying in the breeze.

O wrath of nature dark winds blow,
The candle or lamp out at ease;
And voids all in thy path you please,
And in thy wake—homes rarely glow.

I hear thy noise about my pane,
And wonder if the glass will break.
Ah, save us Lord, for Thy own sake,
And lead us to some safer lane.

Yet on he growls and on he wails,
And knells all through the creepy night;
And snaps his jaws through ev'ry light,
The ships at sea are crushed with gales.

The mighty surges beat the beach,
And pitch the moored boats on the wharf,
With a veng'ance, I seem a dwarf
Thy strength is thine, I cannot reach.

The mighty winds I hear them rise
As if a funeral you weep;
And take some lives while they're asleep,
And bury them 'neath the black skies.

O great Lord God help me to see,
Beyond the wrath which nature brings;
Or hurl abuse at what he flings,
But fasten me safe unto Thee!

© Timothy 31 October, 2012
Timothy Feb 2013

Seasons of the year


Snowdrops waken from their long sought rest
And crocuses awaken with pearly dew
And breezes softly shake the dancing trees
While sunshine hits upon the ground.

Soft green grass gently dances through the meadow
Full of waltzing flowers
And lotuses float delicately across the pond
Which gurgles a happy song.

White clouds drift across the blue sky
And wild cotton blossoms are blowing
In the cool breeze
Which stirs the tall green grass.

Cherry blossoms drop their pink petals
From the pretty trees
And birds sing a sweet spring anthem to all
One so clear and sweet.

* * * *

Roses bloom and heat has come to all
While mountains never shed their snow
And waterfalls gurgle and sing happily
And dance and sway nearby.

Tall trees provide shade for all
And book lovers read underneath their shade
Until it's time to go home once again
And return to their duties once more.

Sunrises of watercolours fill the eastern sky at dawn
And dewdrops greet the opening flowers with a kiss
And birds greet the brand new day
With such a lovely song.

Sunsets of vibrant colours fill the western sky
And it's the end of such a lovely day
Birds return to their nests to rest
While flowers unfurl at night.

* * * *

Leaves turn from green to gold as Autumn arrives
And it grows cold and chilly once more
And summer all to soon hath glided away
So soon we bid farewell to Summer.

The ground becomes cold
But every season is beautiful
Each one different but each is beautiful
And so is Autumn.

Leaves of autumnal colours land inside the creeks
And float upon the blue-green seas
But still Autumn hath preserved her beauty
Just as she has done each year.

Sunsets and sunrises fill the sky
And everywhere shows signs of Autumn
And Winter is on its way
With white snows and Jack Frost.

* * * *

The cardinal sings upon the dogwood tree
As the snow falls silently upon the cold ground
And the ground is covered in pure white
And the sky matches the colour of the snow.

The air is filled with birdsong anthems full of melody
Birds hop on the snow covered ground
Leaving tiny footprints in the snow
Then they fly into the snow covered pines.

The wintry smell of wood smoke fills the air
With a pleasant aroma
Mingling with the smell of pine
And the wind stings my nose.


Времена года


Подснежники будить от их давней отдыха
И крокусы пробудить с жемчужными росы
И бризы мягко потрясите танцующих деревья
В то время как солнце хитов на земле.

Мягкие зеленая трава аккуратно танцует через луг
Полный Вальс цветов
И лотосы float деликатно через пруд
Который булькает Счастливая песня.

Белые облака дрейфа через голубое небо.
И дует дикие хлопок цветет
В прохладный бриз
Который подогревает высокой зеленой травой.

Вишня падение их розовые лепестки
От красивых деревьев
И птицы поют сладкий весенний гимн для всех
Один так ясно и сладкие.

* * * *

Розы цвести и тепла настал для всех
В то время как горы никогда не пролить их снег
И водопады бульканье и петь с удовольствием
И танцуют и качаться поблизости.

Высокие деревья обеспечивают тень для всех
И любителей книги читать под их тени
До пришло время идти домой еще раз
И еще раз вернуться к их обязанностей.

Восходы акварелей заполнить Восточной небо на рассвете
И капли росы приветствовать открытие цветы с поцелуй
И птицы приветствовать новый день
С такой прекрасной песней.

Закаты яркими цветами заполнить западных неба
И это конец такой прекрасный день
Птицы вернуться в свои гнезда на отдых
Хотя цветы unfurl ночью.

* * * *

Листья становятся от зеленого к золоту как приходит осень
И он растет холодным и холодным еще раз
И летом все скоро скользил прочь
Так скоро мы прощаемся с лета.

Земли становится холодно
Но каждый сезон красиво
Каждый из них разные, но каждый из них красиво
И поэтому осенью.

Листья осенние цвета земли внутри ручьев
И плавать по морям сине зеленый
Но еще осенью сохранились ее красоты
Так же, как она сделала каждый год.

Закаты и восходы заполнить небо
И везде показывает признаки осени
И зима на своем пути
С белым снегом и Джек Фрост.

* * * *

Кардинал поет на дерево кизила
Как Тихо падает снег на холодной земле
И земли покрыта в чистый белый
И небо соответствует цвет снега.

Воздух наполнен пение гимнов полный мелодии
Птицы хоп на снегу покрыты землей
Оставляя крошечные следы в снегу
Затем они летают в заснеженных сосен.

Зимний запах древесины дым заполняет воздух
С приятным ароматом
Смешиваясь с запахом сосны
И ветер укусы мой нос.

© Timothy 27 February, 2013.
3.0k · Oct 2012
Ode to Grief
Timothy Oct 2012
Part I

O where has love gone? I can't see
       The beauty of her vibrant hues;
       Amidst the morning grass and dews,
Why can she not return to me!

O all these dark and gloomy lays,
       Cooked in the chambers of my mind;
       On the dark burner this I find,
The same old thoughts of other days.

O calm this wretched grieving head,
       Let lighter thoughts of golden hours;
       Of nature's Spring and blooming flow'rs,
Return to me before I'm dead.

Why can I not accept the good?
       Of deeds I do or words of praise?
       Instead the vicious doom mislays,
My sadden heart misunderstood.

Look at the jaws which feed on me,
       That drain me like a chalice bare;
       And leaves me hopeless over there,
My head, I put, between my knee.

Part II

O Lord of Light and God of love,
       Breathe respite into healthy deeds;
       Not some dull ancient sullen creeds,
But Life renewed from Thee above!

Father I stretch my hands to Thee,
       No other source of help I know;
       O where else too should I then go,
If Thou withdraw Thyself from me!

O God of Mercy dost Thou hear,
       These murm'rings of my rusty brain;
       They fall down heavy as the rain,
O free them from me, make them clear.

O wretched creature that I fall,
       Back into gloomy thoughts some more;
       As if Thy Mercy passed me o'er,
Forgive me Lord I seem to stall.

Forgive me, Lord, for these sad lines,
       I need to lift them up to Thee;
       I am in want and need to see,
Thy pruning shears to cut these vines!

These vines of gloom which fills my head,
       O cut them loose and set me free;
       I need to love and more of Thee,
To set me free when I am dead.

Pray hold my hand and bless me God,
       All through the Narrow Path I tread;
       Raise to Life those that are now dead,
Lord bless my steps where I do trod!

Bless then the remnant of my days,
       The rest of time within the glass;
       The rest of Life which soon will pass,
O teach me, Lord, all of Thy ways!

And when the clock of Life shall halt,
       The clock of Life which once is wound;
       I am accustomed to its sound,
Preserve me God without a fault!

Part III

Life and Death walk hand in hand,
       I notice this from my own shore;
       I wish I knew love more and more,
E'en tho'  my life is only sand.

The reaper's scythe is ready wide,
       And in due time he'll swing it hard;
       The dead we'll bury in Churchyard,
Until it's full from side to side.

Love seems to come then turn and go,
       Wrapt in the vaults of timeless rest;
       All of those who I've loved the best,
Are dead and gone—I'm full of woe!

Shrouded in depression let me weep,
       For God is just I trust Him well;
       All of those that have rose and fell,
One day He shall awake from sleep!

This gives me hope, Lord, lift Thou me,
       A melancholy creature here;
       And hear me full with Thine own ear,
O God, bid me to come to Thee!

For nothing walks with Lifeless feet,
       And not one Life shall be destroy'd;
       Or hurled as ******* to the void,
When Thou hast made the pile complete.

O Father bring about that day,
       When Death is robbed of all her pow'rs;
       Gather up all Thy pretty flow'rs,
Where none of them shall face decay!

© Timothy 16 October, 2012
3.0k · Jan 2013
The Lighthouse Keeper
Timothy Jan 2013
By the shores that lay hard by
The old lighthouse keeper and his daughter dwells.
Keeping the light burning for the Galleons, Skimmers,
And the ships that rides the surf that rises and swells.
The day the man from the harbour finally came,
That day the lighthouse keeper lost his daughter.
Oh, if he could have stopped her from leaving the
Little village where she grew up, but she was led like a lamb to the slaughter.
Ah, the ship looked so well built to last for many years of use by the sailour lad;
But she climbed aboard with that man to leave for the Boston shore,
There he had nothing to do but wave and watch the ship float away making him sad.
There was a storm brewing in the harbour which they saw nevermore nevermore!
Alas! the news of the sinking of the ship was wired to the lighthouse keeper,
And there was nothing to do as the ship had sank at a tremendous pace.
The sailour lad and the lighthouse keeper's daughter went down deeper
And deeper. The old lighthouse keeper sped out with such a race.
They sank into the crest of frothy foam never to rise,
And though those on shore tired to help, none could do so.
Their bodies disappeared, tears fell from the lighthouse keeper's eyes,
His daughter would not again return from her journey with that sailour though.
They are all now long gone away for so many years and only stories past about
At a gathering around the hearth, as if a reverie, this story is retold,
Though never like the one granddaughter of the old lighthouse keeper;
Who took care of the keeper until he was very old,
She too was a nice story weaver and weeper
But the only thing is left now is the stones;
Of the lighthouse keeper and those he loved well
All ashes and all that is left are the bones.
That is all there is left to tell.
The story is dead
That is all that
Can be said.













My first story poem.
© Timothy 8 January, 2013
3.0k · Jun 2013
Timothy Jun 2013
Placid water with skimmers
As I enter my daydream.
Requiem from depression's hold,
Relief felt at last!

The cattails and the tall grass
Tangled into one blur now;
As I peacefully recline,
Daydream at the creek.

Pair of Dodoitsu. © Timothy 25 June, 2013.
2.9k · Oct 2012
Epistle to Augusta
Timothy Oct 2012
My sister! my sweet sister! if a name
      Dearer and purer were, it should be thine.
      Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim
      No tears, but tenderness to answer mine:
      Go where I will, to me thou art the same
      A lov'd regret which I would not resign.
      There yet are two things in my destiny—
A world to roam through, and a home with thee.

      The first were nothing—had I still the last,
      It were the haven of my happiness;
      But other claims and other ties thou hast,
      And mine is not the wish to make them less.
      A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past
      Recalling, as it lies beyond redress;
      Revers'd for him our grandsire's fate of yore—
He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore.

      If my inheritance of storms hath been
      In other elements, and on the rocks
      Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen,
      I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks,
      The fault was mine; nor do I seek to screen
      My errors with defensive paradox;
      I have been cunning in mine overthrow,
The careful pilot of my proper woe.

      Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward.
      My whole life was a contest, since the day
      That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd
      The gift—a fate, or will, that walk'd astray;
      And I at times have found the struggle hard,
      And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay:
      But now I fain would for a time survive,
If but to see what next can well arrive.

      Kingdoms and empires in my little day
      I have outliv'd, and yet I am not old;
      And when I look on this, the petty spray
      Of my own years of trouble, which have roll'd
      Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away:
      Something—I know not what—does still uphold
      A spirit of slight patience; not in vain,
Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain.

      Perhaps the workings of defiance stir
      Within me—or perhaps a cold despair,
      Brought on when ills habitually recur,
      Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air
      (For even to this may change of soul refer,
      And with light armour we may learn to bear),
      Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not
The chief companion of a calmer lot.

      I feel almost at times as I have felt
      In happy childhood; trees, and flowers, and brooks,
      Which do remember me of where I dwelt
      Ere my young mind was sacrific'd to books,
      Come as of yore upon me, and can melt
      My heart with recognition of their looks;
      And even at moments I could think I see
Some living thing to love—but none like thee.

      Here are the Alpine landscapes which create
      A fund for contemplation; to admire
      Is a brief feeling of a trivial date;
      But something worthier do such scenes inspire:
      Here to be lonely is not desolate,
      For much I view which I could most desire,
      And, above all, a lake I can behold
Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old.

      Oh that thou wert but with me!—but I grow
      The fool of my own wishes, and forget
      The solitude which I have vaunted so
      Has lost its praise in this but one regret;
      There may be others which I less may show;
      I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet
      I feel an ebb in my philosophy,
And the tide rising in my alter'd eye.

      I did remind thee of our own dear Lake,
      By the old Hall which may be mine no more.
      Leman's is fair; but think not I forsake
      The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore:
      Sad havoc Time must with my memory make
      Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before;
      Though, like all things which I have lov'd, they are
Resign'd for ever, or divided far.

      The world is all before me; I but ask
      Of Nature that with which she will comply—
      It is but in her summer's sun to bask,
      To mingle with the quiet of her sky,
      To see her gentle face without a mask,
      And never gaze on it with apathy.
      She was my early friend, and now shall be
My sister—till I look again on thee.

      I can reduce all feelings but this one;
      And that I would not; for at length I see
      Such scenes as those wherein my life begun,
      The earliest—even the only paths for me—
      Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun,
      I had been better than I now can be;
      The passions which have torn me would have slept;
I had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept.

      With false Ambition what had I to do?
      Little with Love, and least of all with Fame;
      And yet they came unsought, and with me grew,
      And made me all which they can make—a name,
      Yet this was not the end I did pursue;
      Surely I once beheld a nobler aim.
      But all is over—I am one the more
To baffled millions which have gone before.

      And for the future, this world's future may
      From me demand but little of my care;
      I have outliv'd myself by many a day,
      Having surviv'd so many things that were;
      My years have been no slumber, but the prey
      Of ceaseless vigils; for I had the share
      Of life which might have fill'd a century,
      Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by.

      And for the remnant which may be to come
      I am content; and for the past I feel
      Not thankless, for within the crowded sum
      Of struggles, happiness at times would steal,
      And for the present, I would not benumb
      My feelings further. Nor shall I conceal
      That with all this I still can look around,
And worship Nature with a thought profound.

      For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart
      I know myself secure, as thou in mine;
      We were and are—I am, even as thou art—
      Beings who ne'er each other can resign;
      It is the same, together or apart,
      From life's commencement to its slow decline
      We are entwin'd—let death come slow or fast,
The tie which bound the first endures the last!

**~Lord George Gordon Byron 1788—1824~
2.9k · Sep 2012
Timothy Sep 2012
Let them bury your big eyes
In the secret earth securely,
Your thin fingers, and your fair,
Soft, indefinite-colored hair,—
All of these in some way, surely,
From the secret earth shall rise;
Not for these I sit and stare,
Broken and bereft completely;
Your young flesh that sat so neatly
On your little bones will sweetly
Blossom in the air.

But your voice,—never the rushing
Of a river underground,
Not the rising of the wind
In the trees before the rain,
Not the woodcock's watery call,
Not the note the white-throat utters,
Not the feet of children pushing
Yellow leaves along the gutters
In the blue and bitter fall,
Shall content my musing mind
For the beauty of that sound
That in no new way at all
Ever will be heard again.

Sweetly through the sappy stalk
Of the vigorous ****,
Holding all it held before,
Cherished by the faithful sun,
On and on eternally
Shall your altered fluid run,
Bud and bloom and go to seed;
But your singing days are done;
But the music of your talk
Never shall the chemistry
Of the secret earth restore.
All your lovely words are spoken.
Once the ivory box is broken,
Beats the golden bird no more.

~Edna St. Vincent Millay 1892—1950~
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
2.9k · Feb 2013
Awaiting Spring (Choka)
Timothy Feb 2013
Winter's blast is cold
All the flowers hibernate
Until Spring arrives.

Frozen is the landscape now
Bleak except the snow.

Yet Spring's blast is on the way
Ancient yet so new.

Snowdrops, daffodils, and sweet
Roses start to bloom.

Ninety year old oaks leaf out
Birds return again.

Lilacs bloom and perfume sweet
Filling my backyard.

Periwinkles 'round lilacs
Nice and colourful.

This is close to happening
My heart sings an ode.

I await the dawn of Spring
And all of its loveliness.

(Originally written 2/3 February, 2013.) © Timothy 23 February, 2013.
2.8k · Feb 2013
Her Cello Songs
Timothy Feb 2013
With her cello she shall play a song
For the death of purest Autumn.
A cold haunting mourn like
Winter's wind moaning
And growling low.
A sad and
Hymn for cold icy
Ponds and deep snows.
Winter, grey, overcast,
"I shall play you a song
Upon my cello."
That is what

Goodbye, and hope
To see you again. Upon
The strings, her bow finds
Another tune of happiness.
A song for Spring's return
And all the flowers are
Blooming, the birds
Make up and
Join the chorus
As she plays.
Within the
Twilight, there
Comes a sound. Hark!
The sound of the wind and the
Last Woodcocks calling, and the faint
Strings of the cello. The chorus has not yet begun.
There comes another voice of a piano, afar off saying
Softly but certainly: Happy Birthday to you! And an
Echoing of the same, Happy Birthday to you, to you.
Happy Birthday, Birthday, to you, to you you, you, you.
And the skies are all purple and charcoal and black.
A bearded meteorite, first one then two, are seen.

Happy Birthday Madison Grace (24 February)!!!! :):) I know it is not much, and a bit early, but I couldn't help it!!!! :):) Hope you like this. These are random thoughts wound together, so I HOPE it is coherent!!! May you have many many more, dear friend!!!!!!!~<3<3:):)☺☼♂♀♥♠♣♦◘☻◙•○.O♫ To see Madison Grace's works visit: You deserve much more than this dear dear friend!!!!! :):):) © Timothy 23 February, 2013.
2.8k · Dec 2012
The Birds (Tanka)
Timothy Dec 2012
Birds have migrated
South again to warmer place
There's no warblers.
Spring and summer they return
To fill the trees with their songs.

21 December, MMXII
© Timothy 22 December, 2012
2.8k · Jul 2013
Timothy Jul 2013
Thank you so much everyone.
It hath been so very nice.
You all have made
me feel as though
my writings do
really count.
Each and every view or
read; each comment
and every like...
I wish to thank you

© Timothy 19 July, 2013.
2.7k · Nov 2012
The Quaker Graveyard
Timothy Nov 2012
Four straight brick walls, severely plain,
A quiet city square surround;
A level space of nameless graves;—
The Quakers' burial-ground.

In gown of gray, or coat of drab,
They trod the common ways of life,
With passions held in sternest leash,
And hearts that knew not strife.

To you grim meeting-house they fared,
With thoughts as sober as their speech,
To voiceless prayer, to songless praise,
To hear the elders preach.

Through quiet lengths of days they came,
With scarce a change to this repose;
Of all life's loveliness they took
The thorn without the rose.

But in the porch and o'er the graves,
Glad rings the southward robin's glee,
And sparrows fill the autumn air
With merry mutiny;

While on the graves of drab and gray
The red and gold autumn lie,
And wilful Nature decks the sod
In gentlest mockery.

     **~By: Silas Weir Mitchell~
2.7k · Jun 2013
Timothy Jun 2013
The sun shines slowly on another day.
All around there is serenity.
Such a tranquil healing balm in God's nature!


I thank God for seeing another day and the beauty of His creation.
For eyes to see it. Thank you God, for mercy and grace!
Twenty words. © Timothy 14 July, 2013.
2.7k · Jun 2013
Timothy Jun 2013
Thick moss covered stones,
Nestled all 'round the creek bed—
Such a lovely sight.
Placid water with skimmers,
I watch them and feel at peace.

Tanka. © Timothy 25 June, 2013.
2.6k · Nov 2012
Meditation As I Walk
Timothy Nov 2012
I walk in beauty of the lea,
And all my thoughts are void of sight
Inside my feeble heart takes flight,
An ev'ning thought and night shall be.

I walk in twilight through the wood,
Which lichens, moss, and evergreens
Among the faded Autumn scenes,
Yet in the shroud of night I stood;

And watched the last pale rays of day,
And shadows deepen in the sky;
I droop my head, 'I too must die,'
This thought sinks deep into this lay.

O the sick thoughts arise in me,
And fills my heart up to the brim;
With all my wasted hours so grim,
I feel so faint—I hardly see.

The Churchyard is not far away,
And I look on it with a sigh;
Musing o'er how many lie,
Asleep in death, there they stay.

This stormy heart of mine feels old,
And Light was waning in the sky,
Wrapt up in tombs once as they die,
And dry up in their beds so cold.

I durst not walk around these plots,
Lest all my heaviness caves in;
Like those that lie here deep within,
And so neglected, slowly rots.

So I walk on through yonder field,
And gather up some happy thought;
Pushing away what darkness brought,
I call to mem'rance sunset's guild.

Thus let me walk through my pathway,
And chase away these thoughts of mine!
O leave to me some peace so fine,
'Mid dusk and night while on my way!

Forsake me not, Lord, lest I die,
And shrivel in a twisted heap;
And take my peace in a deep sleep,
O fit my soul, to worlds on high!

© Timothy 31 October, 2012
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
2.5k · Nov 2012
Crying (Haiku)
Timothy Nov 2012
O just like the rain,
Drops of tears to ease the pain,
Emerge as one strain.

© Timothy 15 November, 2012
2.5k · Oct 2012
Autumn Gone
Timothy Oct 2012
Gone are the birds and flowers too,
They dormant lay as if they're dead;
Those dried up fragments are the head,
They have done all that they can do.

Gone are the leaves upon the tree,
Thy vestments scattered here around;
Still covering the hard cold ground,
The sleep of Winter, let it be.

Yet all my hopes and wishes lay,
Wrapt up in frozen crypts of dreams;
Ev'n tho' I try so hard it seems,
My ambitions wilt and decay.

O let these dirges of my mind,
Embed themselves some other place;
Grant me rest for a little space,
  O Lord, help me some peace to find.

Lord lift me out of these grey walls,
To brighter golden happy hours;
And see the beauty of Thy pow'rs,
And to accept whatever falls.

I am o'er come with grief and pain,
For all of those which left me here;
And sometimes I will shed a tear,
But this often is all in vain.

For like a thief Death shows its face,
Unveiling just before the blow;
Before the living are laid low,
Ye come and go without disgrace.

My happiness is quickly o'er,
I feel it come and feel it pass;
Just like sand in an hourglass,
I hope to cultivate it more.

O God I know that Thou art nigh,
Bid those gone to the realms of day;
And help my members ne'er to sway,
O wing my soul to Thee on High!

© Timothy 18 October, 2012.
2.5k · Oct 2012
Wayfaring Stranger
Timothy Oct 2012
I am a poor wayfaring stranger,
      While trav'ling thro' this world of woe;
Yet there's no sickness, toil, nor danger
      In that bright land to which I go.
I'm going there to meet my father,
      I'm going there no more to roam;
I'm only going over Jordan,
      I'm only going over home.

I know dark clouds will gather o'er me,
      I know my pathways rough and steep;
But golden fields lie out before me,
      Where weary eyes no more shall weep.
I'm going there to see my mother,
      She said she'd meet me when I come;
I'm only going over Jordan,
      I'm only going over home.

I'll soon be free from ev'ry trial,
      This form will rest beneath the sod;
I'll drop the cross of self-denial,
      And enter in my home with God.
I'm going there to see my Saviour,
      To sing His praise forevermore;
I'm only going over Jordan,
      I'm only going over home.
(I am a poor wayfaring stranger—
      I'm only going over home.)

*American Folk/Old Irish Folk/Catskills Folk/Spiritual~dating back to 1780
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