"boist" poems - Hello Poetry

Moist Boist Loist Mad chat Shriveled cat In a bank Being dank Staying moist with meh boi

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Oct 4, 2016

Oct 4, 2016 at 9:54 PM UTC

emmett-brown

Moist

Moist Boist Loist Mad chat Shriveled cat In a bank Being dank Staying moist with meh boi

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I would I were a careless child, Still dwelling in my Highland cave, Or roaming through the dusky wild, Or bounding o’er the dark blue wave; The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride, Accords not with the freeborn soul, Which loves the mountain’s craggy side, And seeks the rocks where billows roll. Fortune! take back these cultur’d lands, Take back this name of splendid sound! I hate the touch of servile hands, I hate the slaves that cringe around: Place me among the rocks I love, Which sound to Ocean’s wildest roar; I ask but this—again to rove Through scenes my youth hath known before. Few are my years, and yet I feel The World was ne’er design’d for me: Ah! why do dark’ning shades conceal The hour when man must cease to be? Once I beheld a splendid dream, A visionary scene of bliss: Truth!—wherefore did thy hated beam Awake me to a world like this? I lov’d—but those I lov’d are gone; Had friends—my early friends are fled: How cheerless feels the heart alone, When all its former hopes are dead! Though gay companions, o’er the bowl Dispel awhile the sense of ill; Though Pleasure stirs the maddening soul, The heart—the heart—is lonely still. How dull! to hear the voice of those Whom Rank or Chance, whom Wealth or Power, Have made, though neither friends nor foes, Associates of the festive hour. Give me again a faithful few, In years and feelings still the same, And I will fly the midnight crew, Where boist’rous Joy is but a name. And Woman, lovely Woman! thou, My hope, my comforter, my all! How cold must be my ***** now, When e’en thy smiles begin to pall! Without a sigh would I resign, This busy scene of splendid Woe, To make that calm contentment mine, Which Virtue knows, or seems to know. Fain would I fly the haunts of men— I seek to shun, not hate mankind; My breast requires the sullen glen, Whose gloom may suit a darken’d mind. Oh! that to me the wings were given, Which bear the turtle to her nest! Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven, To flee away, and be at rest.

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2.8k

Lord Byron

I Would I Were A Careless Child

I would I were a careless child, Still dwelling in my Highland cave, Or roaming through the dusky wild, Or bounding o’er the dark blue wave; The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride, Accords not with the freeborn soul, Which loves the mountain’s craggy side, And seeks the rocks where billows roll. Fortune! take back these cultur’d lands, Take back this name of splendid sound! I hate the touch of servile hands, I hate the slaves that cringe around: Place me among the rocks I love, Which sound to Ocean’s wildest roar; I ask but this—again to rove Through scenes my youth hath known before. Few are my years, and yet I feel The World was ne’er design’d for me: Ah! why do dark’ning shades conceal The hour when man must cease to be? Once I beheld a splendid dream, A visionary scene of bliss: Truth!—wherefore did thy hated beam Awake me to a world like this? I lov’d—but those I lov’d are gone; Had friends—my early friends are fled: How cheerless feels the heart alone, When all its former hopes are dead! Though gay companions, o’er the bowl Dispel awhile the sense of ill; Though Pleasure stirs the maddening soul, The heart—the heart—is lonely still. How dull! to hear the voice of those Whom Rank or Chance, whom Wealth or Power, Have made, though neither friends nor foes, Associates of the festive hour. Give me again a faithful few, In years and feelings still the same, And I will fly the midnight crew, Where boist’rous Joy is but a name. And Woman, lovely Woman! thou, My hope, my comforter, my all! How cold must be my ***** now, When e’en thy smiles begin to pall! Without a sigh would I resign, This busy scene of splendid Woe, To make that calm contentment mine, Which Virtue knows, or seems to know. Fain would I fly the haunts of men— I seek to shun, not hate mankind; My breast requires the sullen glen, Whose gloom may suit a darken’d mind. Oh! that to me the wings were given, Which bear the turtle to her nest! Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven, To flee away, and be at rest.

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From dark abodes to fair etherial light Th’ enraptur’d innocent has wing’d her flight; On the kind ***** of eternal love She finds unknown beatitude above. This known, ye parents, nor her loss deplore, She feels the iron hand of pain no more; The dispensations of unerring grace, Should turn your sorrows into grateful praise; Let then no tears for her henceforward flow, No more distress’d in our dark vale below, Her morning sun, which rose divinely bright, Was quickly mantled with the gloom of night; But hear in heav’n’s blest bow’rs your Nancy fair, And learn to imitate her language there. “Thou, Lord, whom I behold with glory crown’d, “By what sweet name, and in what tuneful sound “Wilt thou be prais’d? Seraphic pow’rs are faint “Infinite love and majesty to paint. “To thee let all their graceful voices raise, “And saints and angels join their songs of praise.” Perfect in bliss she from her heav’nly home Looks down, and smiling beckons you to come; Why then, fond parents, why these fruitless groans? Restrain your tears, and cease your plaintive moans. Freed from a world of sin, and snares, and pain, Why would you wish your daughter back again? No—bow resign’d. Let hope your grief control, And check the rising tumult of the soul. Calm in the prosperous, and adverse day, Adore the God who gives and takes away; Eye him in all, his holy name revere, Upright your actions, and your hearts sincere, Till having sail’d through life’s tempestuous sea, And from its rocks, and boist’rous billows free, Yourselves, safe landed on the blissful shore, Shall join your happy babe to part no more.

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1.9k

Phillis Wheatley

On The Death Of A Young Lady Of Five Years Of Age

From dark abodes to fair etherial light Th’ enraptur’d innocent has wing’d her flight; On the kind ***** of eternal love She finds unknown beatitude above. This known, ye parents, nor her loss deplore, She feels the iron hand of pain no more; The dispensations of unerring grace, Should turn your sorrows into grateful praise; Let then no tears for her henceforward flow, No more distress’d in our dark vale below, Her morning sun, which rose divinely bright, Was quickly mantled with the gloom of night; But hear in heav’n’s blest bow’rs your Nancy fair, And learn to imitate her language there. “Thou, Lord, whom I behold with glory crown’d, “By what sweet name, and in what tuneful sound “Wilt thou be prais’d? Seraphic pow’rs are faint “Infinite love and majesty to paint. “To thee let all their graceful voices raise, “And saints and angels join their songs of praise.” Perfect in bliss she from her heav’nly home Looks down, and smiling beckons you to come; Why then, fond parents, why these fruitless groans? Restrain your tears, and cease your plaintive moans. Freed from a world of sin, and snares, and pain, Why would you wish your daughter back again? No—bow resign’d. Let hope your grief control, And check the rising tumult of the soul. Calm in the prosperous, and adverse day, Adore the God who gives and takes away; Eye him in all, his holy name revere, Upright your actions, and your hearts sincere, Till having sail’d through life’s tempestuous sea, And from its rocks, and boist’rous billows free, Yourselves, safe landed on the blissful shore, Shall join your happy babe to part no more.

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