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Man Naturally loves delay,
And to procrastinate;
Business put off from day to day
Is always done to late.

Let ever hour be in its place
Firm fixed, nor loosely shift,
And well enjoy the vacant space,
As though a birthday gift.

And when the hour arrives, be there,
Where'er that "there" may be;
Uncleanly hands or ruffled hair
Let no one ever see.

If dinner at "half-past" be placed,
At "half-past" then be dressed.
If at a "quarter-past" make haste
To be down with the rest

Better to be before you time,
Than e're to be behind;
To open the door while strikes the chime,
That shows a punctual mind.

Moral:

Let punctuality and care
Seize every flitting hour,
So shalt thou cull a floweret fair,
E'en from a fading flower
brandon nagley Jun 2016
(greek tongue)
i.

Ένδυσης της αγνή
ένα παραθυρόφυλλο του προτροπή;
Espied θεραπείες , Girt μέση του,
δεν είναι σε τάφο, δια του παρόντος
υπερβατική πηγή έμπνευσης.

ii.

Αμετάβλητος θέλεις να είμαστε
συναντιούνται για νεότητα , η δική μου κόσμιος βασίλισσα;
Κανένας πιο ζωντανό μέσα ourn ονείρου,
μόνο εσύ και εγώ , ορυχείο μετριάζεται γλυκό.

iii.

θελεις ανθύλλιο του αψηφούν earthbound μυαλό των ανδρών του, που τόνος , που τόνος , θαυμάστε τους ? του είδους του Θεού.

iv.

O ' σε ourn χρόνο , O' εκείνη την ημέρα,
sup μας μαραίνονται , στη ζεστή αγκαλιά;
Ο Θεός να είναι ο ήλιος , το φως για ourn πρόσωπο ,
Αρχοντικού για να μας οδηγήσει στο σπίτι , πέρα από τις πύλες μαργαριταρένια .








(English version)
i.

Apparel of the chaste
a casement of exhortation;
Espied cures, waist's girt,
not in a grave, herewith
transcendent inspiration.

ii.

Immutable shalt we be
meet for newness, mine comely queen;
None more living inside ourn dreams,
Just thou and me, mine tempered sweet.

iii.

Floweret's shalt defy men's earthly mind's,
They warble, their marvel's; of heaven's
Kind.

iv.

O' in ourn time, O' in that day,
Sup we wilt, in warm embrace;
God to be the sun, light's on ourn face,
Mansion's to lead us home, past the pearly gates.


©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl jane Nagley ( àgapi mou dedication)
Apparel of the chaste
a casement of exhortation;



Apparel - clothing.
Chaste- pure, clean not currupt.
Casement - window.
Exhortation - Encouragement, or council. This is used as encouragement.
Espied-  . discovered , examined.
Girt- wrapped around.
Herewith - with this ( archaic form ) as all these words are.
Immutable - unchangeable( as God is unchanging)
Meet- Suitable; agreeable; fit; proper.
Comely - of a woman ( attractive)
Thou- you.
Tempered - combined.
Floweret- small flower.
Defy- openly resist or refuse to obey.
Warble-(of a bird) sing softly and with a succession of constantly changing notes. ( Many who have died gone to heaven and have come back to tell their near death experiences in heaven I hate word near death when these people actually die brain and heart dead and all have different stories yet all speak of Christ and God the father and his angels and their loved ones. And colors in heaven not on earth rainbow scale. And everything is alive and has life in it including grass trees and many have spoke of the singing flowers that sing praise songs to God constantly and are so beautiful a black man who died almost an hour from what I remember almost an hour spoke of he thought they were angels singing which angels do sing with people already up in heaven praising God constantly. An angel was showing this man the mansions christ spoke of in John 14:2 where he tells his followers
1Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. 2In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. 3And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also. 4And whither I go ye know, and the way ye know.
He told us he goes to prepare a place for us as he did and its ready now though most of his followers aren't ready including me and I need to change more things in life asap what's happening now in world. Anyways moral of singing flowers many who have died and seen heaven will speak of the singing flowers who sing praise songs to God as the black man was mentioning was being led around heaven by an angel as the black man asked who's singing those glorious songs..... the angel told him the flowers are singing. As everything has life in it in heaven!!! Everything !!! It's all living!!!! And i can't wait to see it!  I wonder if anyone's ever tried to pick one of these singing flowers I told my mother I'd pick some if allowed let them sing with me!!! Hahahahahahshha I'd love it!!!
Sup- eat or dine.
Ourn - means our.

Will upload this to SoundCloud.com in about twenty -30mins have to record it first for anyone who goes on SoundCloud.com to listen can follow me at Brandon Nagley! And again thank you all for support and hoping all my fellow writers are doing wonderful today if not write me I'll make you smile lol! Your friend Brandon Nagley!!!
Dona Mayoora Apr 2014
You, the secret code
of a ship wreckage
inscribed with my name.

On a chariot of wind
Wearing a T-shirt saying
‘Sorry, I have vexed you’,
I’m sending you
a floweret form the sea,
Whose petals in-sync
with the waves in the seas.

When the chariot returns
Please do send back with it,
An acceptance footnote
for my apologies to you.

Like a bulb illuminating
on the speech bubble
of a cartoon character
I will find the map
en route to the land form it.
Original poem published in Malayalam(Samakalika Malayalam Weekly), translated by poet.
Now the golden Morn aloft
Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
With vermeil cheek and whisper soft
She wooes the tardy Spring:
Till April starts, and calls around
The sleeping fragrance from the ground,
And lightly o’er the living scene
Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.

New-born flocks, in rustic dance,
Frisking ply their feeble feet;
Forgetful of their wintry trance
The birds his presence greet:
But chief, the skylark warbles high
His trembling thrilling ecstasy;
And, lessening from the dazzled sight,
Melts into air and liquid light.

Yesterday the sullen year
Saw the snowy whirlwind fly;
Mute was the music of the air,
The herd stood drooping by:
Their raptures now that wildly flow
No yesterday nor morrow know;
’Tis Man alone that joy descries
With forward and reverted eyes.

Smiles on past Misfortune’s brow
Soft Reflection’s hand can trace,
And o’er the cheek of Sorrow throw
A melancholy grace;
While Hope prolongs our happier hour,
Or deepest shades, that dimly lour
And blacken round our weary way,
Gilds with a gleam of distant day.

Still, where rosy Pleasure leads
See a kindred Grief pursue;
Behind the steps that Misery treads
Approaching Comfort view:
The hues of bliss more brightly glow
Chastised by sabler tints of woe,
And blended form, with artful strife,
The strength and harmony of life.

See the wretch that long has tost
On the thorny bed of pain,
At length repair his vigour lost,
And breathe and walk again:
The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening Paradise.
In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands
Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands.

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song,
Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng:

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold,
Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old;

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme,
That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime.

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band,
Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde’s hand;

On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days
Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian’s praise.

Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art:
Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart;

And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone,
By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own.

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust,
And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust;

In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare,
Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air.

Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart,
ived and labored Albrecht Dürer, the Evangelist of Art;

Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand,
Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land.

Emigravit is the inscription on the tomb-stone where he lies;
Dead he is not, but departed,—for the artist never dies.

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair,
That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air!

Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal lanes,
Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude poetic strains.

From remote and sunless suburbs came they to the friendly guild,
Building nests in Fame’s great temple, as in spouts the swallows build.

As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme,
And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil’s chime;

Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom
In the forge’s dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom.

Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft,
Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed.

But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor,
And a garland in the window, and his face above the door;

Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman’s song,
As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard white and long.

And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care,
Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master’s antique chair.

Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my dreamy eye
Wave these mingled shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry.

Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world’s regard;
But thy painter, Albrecht Dürer, and Hans Sachs thy cobbler bard.

Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away,
As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his careless lay:

Gathering from the pavement’s crevice, as a floweret of the soil,
The nobility of labor,—the long pedigree of toil.
Jesu Castin Aug 2018
Will I box my
floweret memories
in an infinite existence,
Will I water it
with my tears from
the eyes that beheld you,
Will I nourish it
with my blood from
the deep scars
that you left behind,
Will I let it
speak of the
beautiful harmony we had,
Will I spare it
from danger that tries
to vanish the memoir
inked in my heart,
Neither will it wither
nor will it die,
For you are the floweret
in my everlasting memory!
A single flow'r he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet --
One perfect rose.

I knew the language of the floweret;
"My fragile leaves," it said, "his heart enclose."
Love long has taken for his amulet
One perfect rose.
Why is it no one ever sent me yet
One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah no, it's always just my luck to get
One perfect rose.
A Tango Feb 2017
Witness me in full bloom;
I am a flower
about to blossom.
I possess an alluring scent
to capture your attention.

Other than that,
I am just a fragile floweret
that you used
as a wreath.

I was a stupid bud
to think that
I am the only flower
in your garden;


yet you chose to hung me up.
David R Apr 2021
There once was a rare flower
A bloom that flourished in shade
Few could see its power
And that's how it might have stayed

For its planter derived pleasure
From floweret's love for obscurity
And as a golden treasure
Delighted in the bud's soft purity

but within the perennial's gene
there was a cancerous spot
a desire to be known as queen
to be recognised and not forgot

so there came a well-meaning person
who beheld the bloom's beauty
and opened it up to light and sun
thinking he was doing his duty

he wished all to benefit from its sweetness
all be blest by its aroma
for he'd not appreciated its discreetness
true secret of its persona

for the secret of its pulchritude
of its grace and its allure
was its modesty in its attitude
which kept it chaste and good and pure

and so the flower that once was
a bloom of rarefied scent
withered because of one faux-pas
and its own malcontent.

many a winter and summer passed
since the flower had stopped blooming
as by-and-by it became overcast
other foliage, it subsuming

but slowly within the darkness again
it awakened and started thriving
this time it'd learnt to contain
detrimental want and driving

to let its nature bloom 'n flourish
while none knew its charm 'n grace
and its concealment would it nourish
in its small secluded place

for there are souls destined 'n made
to act as king or queen or ruler
whilst others must act within the shade
'n thus know their loving Jeweller

As car must have a steering wheel
an axle, brakes and engine
as a person has a heart and a heel
a brain, veins and tendon

so the world of souls contains
the hidden and the visible
and this world has many planes
of Unity indivisible

each soul is perfect and complete,
with radiance incomparable
and no soul need with other compete
for its uniqueness irreplaceable.
BLT's Merriam-Webster Word of The Day Challenge
#pulchritude
Bursts of blooming colors in my garden fair
every bud is beauty, born of love and toil  
Rays of sunshine easy days and breezy air
cordial flowers flushed with color coil

Nature sings of all creation its here and there
a joyful world of wonder heart's embroil
Calliandra feather sweeps of angel hair
silver artemisias slick as linseed oil

Garden art, its all about the artist's flair
every shoot and floweret is alive with dare
radiant things growing on blessed soil
like cordial flowers flushed with color coil

Bursts of blooming colors in my garden fair
rays of sunshine, easy days and breezy air.

— The End —