"carolling" poems
Are you struck with her figure and face?
How lucky you happened to meet
With none of the gossiping race,
Who dwell in this horrible street!
They of slanderous hints never tire;
I love to approve and commend,
And the lady you so much admire,
Is my very particular friend!
How charming she looks — her dark curls
Really float with a natural air;
And the beads might be taken for pearls,
That arc twined in that beautiful hair:
Then what tints her fair features o'erspread -
That she uses white paint some pretend;
But, believe me, she only wears red
She's my very particular friend!
Then her voice, how divine it appears
While carolling: "Rise gentle moon;"
Lord Crotchet lastnight stopped his ears,
And declared that she sung out of tune;
For my part, I think that her lay
Might to Malibran's sweetness pretend;
But people won't mind what I say —
I'm her very particular friend!
Then her writings — her exquisite rhyme
To posterity surely must reach;
(I wonder she finds so much time
With four little sisters to teach!)
A critic in Blackwood, indeed.
Abused the last poem she penned;
The article made my heart bleed —
She's my very particular friend!
Her brother dispatched with a sword,
His friend in a duel, last June;
And her cousin eloped from her lord,
With a handsome and whiskered dragoon:
Her father with duns is beset,
Yet continues to dash and to spend —
She's too good for so worthless a set —
She's my very particular friend!
All her chance of a portion is lost,
And I fear she'll be single for life;
Wise people will count up the cost
Of a gay and extravagant wife:
But tis odious to marry for pelf,
(Though the times are not likely to mend,)
She's a fortune besides in herself —
She's my very particular friend!
That she's somewhat sarcastic and pert,
It were useless and vain to deny;
She's a little too much of a flirt,
And a slattern when no one is by:
From her servants she constantly parts,
Before they have reached the year's end;
But her heart is the kindest of hearts —
She's my very particular friend!
Oh! never have pencil or pen,
A creature more exquisite traced;
That her style does not take with the men,
Proves a sad want of judgment and taste;
And if to the sketch I give now,
Some flattering touches I lend;
Do for partial affection allow —
She's my very particular friend!
15.3k
Departing summer hath assumed
An aspect tenderly illumed,
The gentlest look of spring;
That calls from yonder leafy shade
Unfaded, yet prepared to fade,
A timely carolling.
No faint and hesitating trill,
Such tribute as to winter chill
The lonely redbreast pays!
Clear, loud, and lively is the din,
From social warblers gathering in
Their harvest of sweet lays.
Nor doth the example fail to cheer
Me, conscious that my leaf is sere,
And yellow on the bough:—
Fall, rosy garlands, from my head!
Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed
Around a younger brow!
Yet will I temperately rejoice;
Wide is the range, and free the choice
Of undiscordant themes;
Which, haply, kindred souls may prize
Not less than vernal ecstasies,
And passion’s feverish dreams.
For deathless powers to verse belong,
And they like Demi-gods are strong
On whom the Muses smile;
But some their function have disclaimed,
Best pleased with what is aptliest framed
To enervate and defile.
Not such the initiatory strains
Committed to the silent plains
In Britain’s earliest dawn:
Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale,
While all-too-daringly the veil
Of nature was withdrawn!
Nor such the spirit-stirring note
When the live chords Alcæus smote,
Inflamed by sense of wrong;
Woe! woe to Tyrants! from the lyre
Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire
Of fierce vindictive song.
And not unhallowed was the page
By wingèd Love inscribed, to assuage
The pangs of vain pursuit;
Love listening while the Lesbian Maid
With finest touch of passion swayed
Her own æolian lute.
O ye, who patiently explore
The wreck of Herculanean lore,
What rapture! could ye seize
Some Theban fragment, or unroll
One precious, tender-hearted scroll
Of pure Simonides.
That were, indeed, a genuine birth
Of poesy; a bursting forth
Of genius from the dust:
What Horace gloried to behold,
What Maro loved, shall we enfold?
Can haughty Time be just!
2.5k
Between autumn's offerings
And spring's wings,
Our winter lights are everything.
Crisp sky nights string tinsel streams,
And crystal air heils winter's dreams.
Poplar trees that snowed in summer
Are treasures held in winter's slumber.
Bare branches reach in silhouette
For crowning stars where none now sit.
Here dreams of flight and fancy thrill
Shimmering eyes on a gift-wrapped hill.
Shorelines once rubbed with reeds,
Are splashed by our moonlight beads.
Knolls wrapped in wreaths of herring bone,
Like sirens call us from our home.
Stars held in place by poplar fingers
Ring our ponds like carolling singers.
There nestled by framed winter scenes,
Our winter lights glitter red and green.
These lights that through our window stream,
Bring to mind warm Christmas dreams
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
I'm the Other Woman - I'm done with that
That melancholy state
I'm suspended on string - I'm over that
It makes me most irate
How baffling his attitude
Behind it Ego lies
I think I'll be six feet under
Before he'll realise
That we could have lived in comfort
Instead he bore me pain
Bereft of love's sweet carolling
That mutual refrain
Dec 25, 2016
Dec 25, 2016 at 11:01 AM UTC
Between autumn's offerings
And spring's wings,
Our winter lights are everything.
Crisp sky nights string tinsel streams,
And crystal air heils winter's dreams.
Poplar trees that snowed in summer
Are treasures held in winter's slumber.
Bare branches reach in silhouette
For crowning stars where none now sit.
Here dreams of flight and fancy thrill
Shimmering eyes on a gift-wrapped hill.
Shorelines once rubbed with reeds,
Are splashed by our moonlight beads.
Knolls wrapped in wreaths of herring bone,
Like sirens call us from our home.
Stars held in place by poplar fingers
Ring our ponds like carolling singers.
There nestled by framed winter scenes,
Our winter lights glitter red and green.
These lights that through our window stream,
Bring to mind warm Christmas dreams.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
Between autumn's offerings
And spring's wings,
Our winter lights are everything.
Crisp sky nights string tinsel streams,
And crystal air heils winter's dreams.
Poplar trees that snowed in summer
Are treasures held in winter's slumber.
Bare branches reach in silhouette
For crowning stars where none now sit.
Here dreams of flight and fancy thrill
Shimmering eyes on a gift-wrapped hill.
Shorelines once rubbed with reeds,
Are splashed by our moonlight beads.
Knolls wrapped in wreaths of herring bone,
Like sirens call us from our home.
Stars held in place by poplar fingers
Ring our ponds like carolling singers.
There nestled by framed winter scenes,
Our winter lights glitter red and green.
These lights that through our window stream,
Bring to mind warm Christmas dreams
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 8:17 AM UTC
Mid-winter solstice, cold dawn,
The shortest day is the longest night.
Day grey skies, walking on rain empty beach.
Night bright carolling and mulled wine warming,
Friends’ festive mood balks bank depression,
The world turns and the days get longer,
On this 3rd rock from the sun
In snow-cold Dublin.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:26 AM UTC
There lives a poet beyond the trees
But all that he writes is pain,
He spends his evenings down on his knees
Regretting the way he came,
He thinks of the path he should have trod
And the path that he really took,
Then writes regrets in a verse to God
And places them all in a book.
A single book on an altar there
That nobody else will see,
He won’t let anyone read his verse
For, ‘That’s between God, and me!’
But he reads and writes them over again
And his tears will stain his cheek,
‘They’re only the faults of mortal men,’
He thinks, but they make him weep.
He weeps for the loss of an innocence
That he barely remembers now,
It seems so long since his world went wrong
Yet he cannot imagine how.
He tried so hard to be godly then
But the good in his deeds went sour,
And hurt so many he knew back when,
He lies in his bed, to cower.
His heart had leapt on the wings of love
It brought him a purer truth,
He thought she came from the lord above
But all that she had was youth,
And time and fortune had withered that
As the tone in her voice went harsh,
It went from roses and sweet perfume
To the croak you hear in the marsh.
Would nothing pleasant inspire his verse,
Would nothing brighten his day?
He’d sit and chew on his feather quill
And search for something to say.
There must be more to a life than this
For others were doing well,
While he would brood on the sadder bits,
Imagining life as hell.
A girl went wandering though the trees
Carolling loud and clear,
It brought the poet up from his knees
And straining so he could hear,
She sang the song of a trilling bird
And the poet’s eyes were bright,
His heart leapt higher the more he heard
And he took her home that night.
His verses now hold the sweet refrain
Of a birdsong, light and free,
He wields his quill with an inner thrill,
‘How could this happen to me?’
The book of pain on the altar’s stained
With neglect, and barely a nod,
‘I’ll take this life with my darling wife
And I’ll leave the rest to God!’
David Lewis Paget
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 9:17 AM UTC
Between autumn's offerings
And spring's wings,
Our winter lights are everything.
Crisp sky nights string tinsel streams,
And crystal air heils winter's dreams.
Poplar trees that snowed in summer
Are treasures held in winter's slumber;
Their branches hold in silhouette
Crowning stars that brightly sit.
Here dreams of flight and fancy thrill
Shimmering eyes on a gift-wrapped hill.
Shorelines once rubbed with reeds,
Are splashed by our moonlight beads.
Knolls wrapped in wreaths of herring bone,
Like sirens call us out from home.
Stars held in place with poplar fingers
Ring our ponds like carolling singers.
There nestled by framed winter scenes,
Our winter lights glint red and green.
These lights, that through our windows stream,
Bring to mind warm Christmas dreams.
Dec 20, 2023
Dec 20, 2023 at 1:04 PM UTC
I hear Christmas carols
across the frozen sea
Singers merrily out of tune
carolling my ears
I hear lullaby darlings
sung to children
in the midst of war
Singers merrily out of tune
reaching my heart
confused and angry
reaching out for more
I lay down my song
singing merrily out of tune
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 11:44 AM UTC
And he so nonchalantly calm
Conspires to convey
Direction of his true heart's bliss
Epiphanies at play
With words, with wits, he conjures worlds
Waving wanton wand
Infuses eyes with magic
World not seen as planned
He dedicates his carolling
To the spirits, the divine
He prays to mercy, love and peace
In every luscious line
O Beauty, devotee of bliss
Tell me how you see like this
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 7:40 AM UTC
Rapt in your eyes, the fever of the moment burns
Stoking ripples of magic in the deeps of my heart
Intoxicated on the liquor of the moment, it churns
The majestic truth of Love it diligently imparts
In fires of red, your spirit's beacon beckons me
Cascading bright with mad sparks of bliss
In its flame I am warmed, made wild and free
Touched and blessed for its passionate kiss
With ardour, be the blossom to my Spring
And beautify my soul's barren plains
We'll warm it with Love's carolling
That mutual refrain
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 2:07 AM UTC
One morn a muse meandered in to mind
Carolling soft in sacred tongue
The spirited song of kindred hearts
Clan to which my own belongs
She stroked my mind with fearsome flame
When all the world had dropped dead
Stoking bright and cosmic spark
At the center of my head
The ebb and flow of epiphanies
Through percipient perception course
Strange, explosive truths yielded
From deep, divinest source
Her mind is wider than the skies
Which ring with her luscious lullabies
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 2:23 AM UTC
Behind heartbeat’s syncopation
Where deepest beats are lain
Is Love’s echolocation
That mutual refrain
Which gives Love’s life
To the world, to all and everything
Hearts romp together to resplendent tune
Love’s sweet carolling
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 10:43 PM UTC
Across the rooftops the bells do sing.
Blessings lurk through the haphazard pews.
Here do not lie a low mound of shoes;
But a stock of praise and carolling.
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 5:55 PM UTC