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"hadst" poems
"While I sit at the door Sick to gaze within Mine eye weepeth sore For sorrow and sin: As a tree my sin stands To darken all lands; Death is the fruit it bore. "How have Eden bowers grown Without Adam to bend them! How have Eden flowers blown Squandering their sweet breath Without me to tend them! The Tree of Life was ours, Tree twelvefold-fruited, Most lofty tree that flowers, Most deeply rooted: I chose the tree of death. "Hadst thou but said me nay, Adam, my brother, I might have pined away; I, but none other: God might have let thee stay Safe in our garden, By putting me away Beyond all pardon. "I, Eve, sad mother Of all who must live, I, not another, Plucked bitterest fruit to give My friend, husband, lover;-- O wanton eyes, run over; Who but I should grieve?-- Cain hath slain his brother: Of all who must die mother, Miserable Eve!" Thus she sat weeping, Thus Eve our mother, Where one lay sleeping Slain by his brother. Greatest and least Each piteous beast To hear her voice Forgot his joys And set aside his feast. The mouse paused in his walk And dropped his wheaten stalk; Grave cattle wagged their heads In rumination; The eagle gave a cry From his cloud station; Larks on thyme beds Forbore to mount or sing; Bees drooped upon the wing; The raven perched on high Forgot his ration; The conies in their rock, A feeble nation, Quaked sympathetical; The mocking-bird left off to mock; Huge camels knelt as if In deprecation; The kind hart's tears were falling; Chattered the wistful stork; Dove-voices with a dying fall Cooed desolation Answering grief by grief. Only the serpent in the dust Wriggling and crawling, Grinned an evil grin and ****** His tongue out with its fork.
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Eve
"While I sit at the door Sick to gaze within Mine eye weepeth sore For sorrow and sin: As a tree my sin stands To darken all lands; Death is the fruit it bore. "How have Eden bowers grown Without Adam to bend them! How have Eden flowers blown Squandering their sweet breath Without me to tend them! The Tree of Life was ours, Tree twelvefold-fruited, Most lofty tree that flowers, Most deeply rooted: I chose the tree of death. "Hadst thou but said me nay, Adam, my brother, I might have pined away; I, but none other: God might have let thee stay Safe in our garden, By putting me away Beyond all pardon. "I, Eve, sad mother Of all who must live, I, not another, Plucked bitterest fruit to give My friend, husband, lover;-- O wanton eyes, run over; Who but I should grieve?-- Cain hath slain his brother: Of all who must die mother, Miserable Eve!" Thus she sat weeping, Thus Eve our mother, Where one lay sleeping Slain by his brother. Greatest and least Each piteous beast To hear her voice Forgot his joys And set aside his feast. The mouse paused in his walk And dropped his wheaten stalk; Grave cattle wagged their heads In rumination; The eagle gave a cry From his cloud station; Larks on thyme beds Forbore to mount or sing; Bees drooped upon the wing; The raven perched on high Forgot his ration; The conies in their rock, A feeble nation, Quaked sympathetical; The mocking-bird left off to mock; Huge camels knelt as if In deprecation; The kind hart's tears were falling; Chattered the wistful stork; Dove-voices with a dying fall Cooed desolation Answering grief by grief. Only the serpent in the dust Wriggling and crawling, Grinned an evil grin and ****** His tongue out with its fork.
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Filipino immortal of time I'm courting thee now; And making thou mine We both kneweth This day wouldst arrive; Now taketh mine hand, stand by mine side. I hadst amour' For thee, for so long; Now let's maketh, the sweetest amare song. Ourn affection, tis obvious For all to see; We art the real deal, not some farce dream. As tis we shalt meet, As thou shalt get that engineering degree; I'll taketh a trip, or we'll meet in between. I'm courting thee now, Tribal of tropic's; I'll get ****** in thy saliva, bodie's close, bliss the main topic. None material's needed As ourn belief's state; Ourn devotedness, not some internet kiss, everlasting mate's. So now thou shalt knoweth Thou hath been courted; To showeth thee mine love, and to me thou art more important. Other's shalt judge As other wilt mock; Yet we shalt be happy, in romantic cot's Even if we art poor With none food on the table; Ourn love shalt speaketh loudly, none words needed, nor label's. We shalt write poetry As it becometh true; Sweetest earl Jane, just wanted to sayeth, I loveth thou more to. Tagalog language, thou shalt teacheth me better Queen earl Jane; This is thine courting letter. I'm not all the other's As thou doth see; I am thy Hari, thou art mine Reyna, in whom I believe. As I knoweth thou don't feeleth Good enough for man, nor God; Just wanted to telleth thee, thou art mine, and God's all. I just wanted to let thee knoweth I looketh up to thine light; Thou inspireth me so much, as to other's, thou art vital to life. So when thou feeleth down And wanting to leap out of thy brawn; Remember tommorrow ill be here, as well as ourn own god. This is mine courtship letter As now I'm courting thee; We both want it and need it, mine best friend, life, and queen... I loveth thee so much We both none more canst hide; Thou art mine Earl Jane, thou art mine life.... To thee; dearest Earl Jane.................. ©Brsndon nagley ©Lonesome poet's poetry ©Earl Jane dedication/あある じぇえん
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Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC
( Earl jane) Im courting thee now mine reyna, mine all, mine life...
Filipino immortal of time I'm courting thee now; And making thou mine We both kneweth This day wouldst arrive; Now taketh mine hand, stand by mine side. I hadst amour' For thee, for so long; Now let's maketh, the sweetest amare song. Ourn affection, tis obvious For all to see; We art the real deal, not some farce dream. As tis we shalt meet, As thou shalt get that engineering degree; I'll taketh a trip, or we'll meet in between. I'm courting thee now, Tribal of tropic's; I'll get ****** in thy saliva, bodie's close, bliss the main topic. None material's needed As ourn belief's state; Ourn devotedness, not some internet kiss, everlasting mate's. So now thou shalt knoweth Thou hath been courted; To showeth thee mine love, and to me thou art more important. Other's shalt judge As other wilt mock; Yet we shalt be happy, in romantic cot's Even if we art poor With none food on the table; Ourn love shalt speaketh loudly, none words needed, nor label's. We shalt write poetry As it becometh true; Sweetest earl Jane, just wanted to sayeth, I loveth thou more to. Tagalog language, thou shalt teacheth me better Queen earl Jane; This is thine courting letter. I'm not all the other's As thou doth see; I am thy Hari, thou art mine Reyna, in whom I believe. As I knoweth thou don't feeleth Good enough for man, nor God; Just wanted to telleth thee, thou art mine, and God's all. I just wanted to let thee knoweth I looketh up to thine light; Thou inspireth me so much, as to other's, thou art vital to life. So when thou feeleth down And wanting to leap out of thy brawn; Remember tommorrow ill be here, as well as ourn own god. This is mine courtship letter As now I'm courting thee; We both want it and need it, mine best friend, life, and queen... I loveth thee so much We both none more canst hide; Thou art mine Earl Jane, thou art mine life.... To thee; dearest Earl Jane.................. ©Brsndon nagley ©Lonesome poet's poetry ©Earl Jane dedication/あある じぇえん
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I fix mine eye on thine, and there Pity my picture burning in thine eye; My picture drowned in a transparent tear, When I look lower I espy. Hadst thou the wicked skill By pictures made and mard, to **** How many ways mightst thou perform thy will? But now I have drunk thy sweet salt tears, And though thou pour more I’ll depart; My picture vanished, vanish fears That I can be endamaged by that art; Though thou retain of me One picture more, yet that will be, Being in thine own heart, from all malice free.
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Witchcraft By A Picture
i. Agone day's, I kneweth not amour' mine godly Apostle I only understood fear, sorrow's, none outlook for tomorrow; Though I kneweth, ourn creator wouldst send me a seraph Twas I, was only a serf, I didn't not deserve a queen and a angel. ii. I never couldst discover where that secret treasure was hidden I looked, and waited, and hoped, also hopeless on the find; I wore mine heart on mine sleeve, waiting, waiting, none to be, But now I do knoweth, Jehovah hadst his plan, thee: one in tan. iii. Yahweh tooketh away, all the substandard's and ourn past strife's Just at his right moment, in his will, not ourn own, he made right; He parted the sea's, and moonlit dream's, for me and thee lover For me and thee queen, forever to be; eternally husband an wife. ©Brandon Nagley ©Earl jane nagley dedication ( Filipino rose) ©Lonesome poet's poetry
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Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 4:18 PM UTC
Ang mag-asawa ( Husband and wife) filipino tongue
i. Society keepeth their amour' in a box Hidden, unrevealed, secretive, locked; Me and mine Jane, shalt be open as a flame, As on mine knee's I peck upon her toe's; Again and again. ii. In the midday hour's when her back and neck get's sore Mine fingertip's shalt caresseth her epidermis; With sultry emollient, from her head to her feet. I rubbeth in deep, as tis she shalt falleth asleep As the best massage she's ever hadst, Put's her into a trance in mine hold: In peace she slumbereth, Into a romantic kingdom Stacked with ourn affection's gold. iii. Over an hour-plus thirty minute's, Mine sweaty Palm's art tender; Though it was all worth it To mine queen mine soul surrendered; Entering in her shuteye, I entered in locking ourn leg's, head's, arm's: closely cuddling-pillow's feathered. Here at this moment, nothing else in the world mattered. ©Brandon Nagley ©Earl Jane Nagley dedication ( Filipino rose) ©Lonesome poet's poetry
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Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 8:00 PM UTC
Walay laing importante ( Nothing else mattered) Cebuano tongue
Oh, how the mighty art fallen Lucifer, son of the morning star Behooved by manner of thy own devices How pompous thou hadst become to refuse to bend thy knee to man It was pride that filled thee to burst Had it not been but a few millenia later Even your knee would have bent to the King of Glory Whenst He did stoop down to the level of man Even you wouldst have cried out "Lord, Lord wouldst thou not take upon thyself my raiment of glory? Clothe yourself as a king, not as a commoner." Were it so much that us being made of dirt and you of fire that your proudness could render thee blind to our beauty as endowed by our shared Creator? Though our mediums be different, were the Crafter's hands not the same? Wouldst thou haft only humbled thyself, a different world we could have I pity and thank thee, oh fallen one For showing me how not to be
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Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
How the Mighty Art Fallen
i. I thought of the former second's Hours, day's night's; How unaccompanied and lonesome I felt. ii. I remembered, even whilst being with former Others, how I kneweth mine heart and soul for them wasn't meant; as mine prayer's to god was sent, the pain I dealt. iii. As tis the time was uneasy for me, knowing I couldst be in the crowd, with none to truly loveth me as I them, mine soul screaming loud; lord where is thine angel thou hath prepared? iv. As tis I thought last evening, through all mine sorrow's, pain's, and dreaming's. God, mine father heard me, as I wept, and slept; How he waited for me to go through mine trial's and tribulations. v. As after going through prison, through cell's, through false dealer's, in real hell. I, remembered last eve', god doth not do thing's in or on mine time; the creator doth thing's in his span. vi. Not according to the way's nor law's of men, but to him, as whilst I layeth down happily looking at mine queen through this faraway screen, I hadst the thought, God gaveth me the answer to what I've prayed for a long whilst; he gaveth me jane, for mine health. ©Brandon Nagley ©Lonesome poet's poetry ©Earl jane Nagley dedication ( Filipino rose)
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Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 4:15 PM UTC
Salamat panginoon ( Thank you god) filipino tongue
Dear Heart, I think the young impassioned priest When first he takes from out the hidden shrine His God imprisoned in the Eucharist, And eats the bread, and drinks the dreadful wine, Feels not such awful wonder as I felt When first my smitten eyes beat full on thee, And all night long before thy feet I knelt Till thou wert wearied of Idolatry. Ah! hadst thou liked me less and loved me more, Through all those summer days of joy and rain, I had not now been sorrow’s heritor, Or stood a lackey in the House of Pain. Yet, though remorse, youth’s white-faced seneschal, Tread on my heels with all his retinue, I am most glad I loved thee—think of all The suns that go to make one speedwell blue!
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Quia Multum Amavi
Milton! thou should’st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; Oh! raise us up, return to us again; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart: Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life’s common way, In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
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London, 1802
i This is for thou both miss Vicki, and miss Beth Stclair, true poet's Miss Beth StClair, thy sonnet style, brings back the old smile I see; Miss Vicki, writing of love so quickly, so beautifully inspiring Miss beth, thy word's got me flying I'll buyeth thy book real soon. ii Miss Vicki, thou art an old soul made of gold, a home amongst homes, as thou liveth in mine state, miss beth, I'd seeith thee if I go to England, amongst the Beatle street's we'll speaketh of ourn living's, and reciteth sonnet's of Shakespearian knowledge. iii Miss Vicki, thy jargon is wrapped like a bouquet, glazed with honey, thine words art displayed, people in this world like Thee I do prayeth, that thine life wilt be joyful, and harmonious in thy tommorrow, beth, I feeleth thine wild's, as the sixties thou hadst. iv Beth StClair, if it was back in the day, we'd be wonderful friend's, thou wouldst hath watched me on a stage, singing poetic thunder, miss Vicki, when thou feeleth down and under, continue to write thy creator in thy works, and I promise thou both, thou both hath A friend in me...... ©Brandon nagley ©Miss Vicki/miss Beth StClair dedication for both of you (::::: ©Lonesome poet's poetry
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Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
Thy word's like honey ( dedication to miss Vicki, and for miss Beth StClair both of you in one poem) enjoy (:::::
Know, Celia, since thou art so proud, ’Twas I that gave thee thy renown. Thou hadst in the forgotten crowd Of common beauties lived unknown Had not my verse extolled thy name, And with it imped the wings of Fame. That killing power is none of thine; I gave it to thy voice and eyes. Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine; Thou art my star, shin’st in my skies: Then dart not from thy borrowed sphere Lightning on him that fixed thee there. Tempt me with such affrights no more, Lest what I made I uncreate. Let fools thy mystic form adore, I know thee in thy mortal state. Wise poets, that wrapped truth in tales, Knew her themselves through all her veils.
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Ingrateful Beauty Threatened
XII Indeed this very love which is my boast, And which, when rising up from breast to brow, Doth crown me with a ruby large enow To draw men’s eyes and prove the inner cost,— This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost, I should not love withal, unless that thou Hadst set me an example, shown me how, When first thine earnest eyes with mine were crossed, And love called love. And thus, I cannot speak Of love even, as a good thing of my own: Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak, And placed it by thee on a golden throne,— And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!) Is by thee only, whom I love alone.
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Sonnet 12 - Indeed This Very Love Which Is My Boast
i. Coming out of the state of anabiosis, mine form was ripped and torn, mine adorn was battered and burned, I went through Hades whilst the pit of death's kiss shattered me in agowilt; ii. I was dying, in Hell's kilt; once a shape, now ***** in a pit of unsatisfactory demon's; roped, doped, bleeding. iii. The scaled creature's bit me, the ceiling's muck dripped me, whilst at mine ending breath's, a light shined forthward, a Filipino empress. iv. I was nothingness: a mess, molested, infected, by the realm of raven's nest's. That's when she thundered in, in Baro’t saya wonder; twas me who on the sea, on her lip's i swirled up-with Satan down under, mine tears hadst fluttered by like butterfly's; mine ghost awoke with Jane; v. Twas, she was Heaven on Mine side; She took me For a ride, Back to Life Again!!! ©Brandon Nagley ©Lonesome poet's poetry ©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)
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Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 9:44 PM UTC
Yn Hades , fi saweth golau ( In hades, i saweth a light) welsh tongue
Pardie, mine is thine, parfay in Mine siesta; I hadst a sweven of Tender refine. We art perantique To the temporal, sacrosanct we Art, divinity's temple's. Patration Hath been acknowledged, by the Guardian's of the extrasolar, as doth Me and thine beauty amour', lieth in The eye's of ourn beholder. ©Brandon Nagley ©Lonesome poets poetry ©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose) dedicated
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Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 9:28 PM UTC
A sweven of tender refine
Byron! how sweetly sad thy melody! Attuning still the soul to tenderness, As if soft Pity, with unusual stress, Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thou, being by, Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer'd them to die. O'ershadowing sorrow doth not make thee less Delightful: thou thy griefs dost dress With a bright halo, shining beamily, As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil, Its sides are ting'd with a resplendent glow, Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail, And like fair veins in sable marble flow; Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale, The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe.
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To Byron
i. O' mine asawa, mine novel put away for millennia, Brute man hast hidden thee from view, thou hast been burdened by men's crucifying, thy fear's art of lonesomeness; as many hast left thee, As I've known thine tears. I've seen and watched thy fear's, over the year's thine heart was bleeding. ii. Though whilst thou was leaking from thine wound's, I was keeping track on high, from the moon, and universal sky, from the nebula they calleth God's eye; I made plan's to cometh near. Thither below where I hadst none purpose, other than thee; I asked ourn maker to pusheth me into the sea of the great Pacific ocean, I hadst come with mine love, and incorporeal potion's. iii. Afore thine nativity, I hadst known thee a whilst, though as an angel thy falling to the atmosphere madeth thee forget thy memory; and divine self. Though I remembered thou, as thy soulmate from ages passed: I waited, with the great originator, I hadst beseeched him to seeing thee again; mine beloved, mine consort of other realm related. As Elohim kneweth thou was mine Filipino rose, mine all, and best friend: he granted me back heaven, as I landed into thy hand's. ©Brandon Nagley ©Lonesome poets poetry ©Earl Jane Nagley-Filipino rose dedicated
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Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 5:01 PM UTC
Yr wyf yn glanio yn dy law yn ( I landed into thine hand's) welsh tongue
Though frost and snow lock’d from mine eyes That beauty which without door lies, Thy gardens, orchards, walks, that so I might not all thy pleasures know, Yet, thou within thy gate Art of thyself so delicate, So full of native sweets, that bless Thy roof with inward happiness, As neither from nor to thy store Winter takes aught, or spring adds more. The cold and frozen air had starv’d Much poor, if not by thee preserv’d, Whose prayers have made thy table blest With plenty, far above the rest. The season hardly did afford Coarse cates unto thy neighbors’ board, Yet thou hadst dainties, as the sky Had only been thy volary; Or else the birds, fearing the snow Might to another Deluge grow, The pheasant, partridge, and the lark Flew to thy house, as to the Ark. The willing ox of himself came Home to the slaughter, with the lamb, And every beast did thither bring Himself, to be an offering. The scaly herd more pleasure took, Bath’d in thy dish, than in the brook; Water, earth, air, did all conspire To pay their tributes to thy fire, Whose cherishing flames themselves divide Through every room, where they deride The night, and cold aboard; whilst they, Like suns within, keep endless day. Those cheerful beams send forth their light To all that wander in the night, And seem to beckon from aloof The weary pilgrim to thy roof, Where if, refresh’d, he will away, He’s faily welcome; or if stay, Far more; which he shall hearty find Both from the master and the hind. The stranger’s welcome each man there Stamp’d on his cheerful brow doth wear, Nor doth this welcome or his cheer Grow less ‘cause he stays longer here; There’s none observes, much less repines, How often this man sups or dines. Thou hast no porter at the door T’examine or keep back the poor; Nor locks nor bolts: thy gates have been Made only to let strangers in; Untaught to shut, they do not fear To stand wide open all the year, Careless who enters, for they know Thou never didst deserve a foe; And as for thieves, thy bounty’s such, They cannot steal, thou giv’st so much.
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To Saxham
Though frost and snow lock’d from mine eyes That beauty which without door lies, Thy gardens, orchards, walks, that so I might not all thy pleasures know, Yet, thou within thy gate Art of thyself so delicate, So full of native sweets, that bless Thy roof with inward happiness, As neither from nor to thy store Winter takes aught, or spring adds more. The cold and frozen air had starv’d Much poor, if not by thee preserv’d, Whose prayers have made thy table blest With plenty, far above the rest. The season hardly did afford Coarse cates unto thy neighbors’ board, Yet thou hadst dainties, as the sky Had only been thy volary; Or else the birds, fearing the snow Might to another Deluge grow, The pheasant, partridge, and the lark Flew to thy house, as to the Ark. The willing ox of himself came Home to the slaughter, with the lamb, And every beast did thither bring Himself, to be an offering. The scaly herd more pleasure took, Bath’d in thy dish, than in the brook; Water, earth, air, did all conspire To pay their tributes to thy fire, Whose cherishing flames themselves divide Through every room, where they deride The night, and cold aboard; whilst they, Like suns within, keep endless day. Those cheerful beams send forth their light To all that wander in the night, And seem to beckon from aloof The weary pilgrim to thy roof, Where if, refresh’d, he will away, He’s faily welcome; or if stay, Far more; which he shall hearty find Both from the master and the hind. The stranger’s welcome each man there Stamp’d on his cheerful brow doth wear, Nor doth this welcome or his cheer Grow less ‘cause he stays longer here; There’s none observes, much less repines, How often this man sups or dines. Thou hast no porter at the door T’examine or keep back the poor; Nor locks nor bolts: thy gates have been Made only to let strangers in; Untaught to shut, they do not fear To stand wide open all the year, Careless who enters, for they know Thou never didst deserve a foe; And as for thieves, thy bounty’s such, They cannot steal, thou giv’st so much.
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If yet I have not all thy love, Dear, I shall never have it all; I cannot breathe one other sigh, to move, Nor can intreat one other tear to fall; And all my treasure, which should purchase thee-- Sighs, tears, and oaths, and letters--I have spent. Yet no more can be due to me, Than at the bargain made was meant; That some to me, some should to others fall, Dear, I shall never have thee all. Or if then thou gavest me all, All was but all, which thou hadst then; But if in thy heart, since, there be or shall New love created be, by other men, Which have their stocks entire, and can in tears, In sighs, in oaths, and letters, outbid me, For this love was not vow'd by thee. And yet it was, thy gift being general; The ground, thy heart, is mine; whatever shall Grow there, dear, I should have it all. Yet I would not have all yet, He that hath all can have no more; And since my love doth every day admit New growth, thou shouldst have new rewards in store; Thou canst not every day give me thy heart, If thou canst give it, then thou never gavest it; Love's riddles are, that though thy heart depart, It stays at home, and thou with losing savest it; But we will have a way more liberal, Than changing hearts, to join them; so we shall Be one, and one another's all.
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Lovers' Infiniteness
If yet I have not all thy love, Dear, I shall never have it all; I cannot breathe one other sigh, to move, Nor can intreat one other tear to fall; And all my treasure, which should purchase thee-- Sighs, tears, and oaths, and letters--I have spent. Yet no more can be due to me, Than at the bargain made was meant; If then thy gift of love were partial, That some to me, some should to others fall, Dear, I shall never have thee all. Or if then thou gavest me all, All was but all, which thou hadst then; But if in thy heart, since, there be or shall New love created be, by other men, Which have their stocks entire, and can in tears, In sighs, in oaths, and letters, outbid me, This new love may beget new fears, For this love was not vow'd by thee. And yet it was, thy gift being general; The ground, thy heart, is mine; whatever shall Grow there, dear, I should have it all. Yet I would not have all yet, He that hath all can have no more; And since my love doth every day admit New growth, thou shouldst have new rewards in store; Thou canst not every day give me thy heart, If thou canst give it, then thou never gavest it; Love's riddles are, that though thy heart depart, It stays at home, and thou with losing savest it; But we will have a way more liberal, Than changing hearts, to join them; so we shall Be one, and one another's all.
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Loves' Infiniteness
An old angelic poet went flying one drab and tempestuous night. Upon the clouds he rested as the fallen angels were in his sight. Whence all angel's were together Serving their mighty God. Now separated by good and evil By free will the hellion hadst lost. Their spaceships were ablazed And their crown's they wore as king's. Their wing's we're ivory crystalline And their thunderous aura like electricity didst ring... A trace of cherub dust they left behind in the sky Telepathically knowing, today their wing's shalt fly... Chorus- Chariot's roll Chariot's play Seraphim riders, in the sky....... Their countenance unearhtly, their eye's lit Their batas all drenched by unseen blood. Their flying hard to get those hellion But they've lost one of their ship's. Because it's their duty, to protect the all powerful God They sweep by force in by million's, with lightning bolts as Rod's. As the chariot Master's swept by the ghouls The ghoulies calleth out their names, The serpahim said to the ghoulies Go back to hell from whence thou came. And hellion its to late to changeth thy ways, thou made a bad choice..... So the Hellion's retreated, back to their doom of fiery noise.... Chorus- Chariot's roll Chariot's play Seraphim rider's in the sky, Serpahim rider's in the sky Serpahim rider's in the sky......
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Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 9:53 AM UTC
Seraphim rider's in the sky.. ( remake by me from song ghost riders in the sky by johnny cash and willie nelson) mine own version...enjoy
O Nightingale! that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, Thou with fresh hope the lover’s heart dost fill, While the jolly hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, First heard before the shallow cuckoo’s bill, Portend success in love; O, if Jove’s will Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh; As thou from year to year hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why: Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
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To The Nightingale
Oh, Friend! for ever lov’d, for ever dear! What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour’d bier! What sighs re-echo’d to thy parting breath, Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death! Could tears ****** the tyrant in his course; Could sighs avert his dart’s relentless force; Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey; Thou still hadst liv’d to bless my aching sight, Thy comrade’s honour and thy friend’s delight. If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie, Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, A grief too deep to trust the sculptor’s art. No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, But living statues there are seen to weep; Affliction’s semblance bends not o’er thy tomb, Affliction’s self deplores thy youthful doom. What though thy sire lament his failing line, A father’s sorrows cannot equal mine! Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer, Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here: But, who with me shall hold thy former place? Thine image, what new friendship can efface? Ah, none!—a father’s tears will cease to flow, Time will assuage an infant brother’s woe; To all, save one, is consolation known, While solitary Friendship sighs alone.
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Epitaph On A Beloved Friend
She writeth mellifluous calligraphy When she speaketh in her mother tongue; She's ineffable, irresistible, Tis, she's mine chosen one.                                                 Her kaleidoscopic ambience pirouettes around mine being, heaven's own, the most beautiful soul; O' how I'm blessed with this queen. Supine I layeth, looking aloft mine glimpse, a brightness flashed, in Asian sash, turtle shell's around her hips. At that moment, I hadst an epiphany, I was finally living, to God I owed thanksgiving, for this archangel he hadst sent to me. ©Brandon Nagley ©Lonesome poet's poetry ©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose) dedication
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Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 9:43 PM UTC
Leagan faoi Supine , ar epiphany an Dhiaga ( Laying Supine, an epiphany of the divine) old irish tongue
Go, dumb-born book, Tell her that sang me once that song of Lawes: Hadst thou but song As thou hast subjects known, Then were there cause in thee that should condone Even my faults that heavy upon me lie, And build her glories their longevity. Tell her that sheds Such treasure in the air, Recking naught else but that her graces give Life to the moment, I would bid them live As roses might, in magic amber laid, Red overwrought with orange and all made One substance and one color Braving time. Tell her that goes With song upon her lips But sings not out the song, nor knows The maker of it, some other mouth May be as fair as hers, Might, in new ages, gain her worshippers, When our two dusts with Waller’s shall be laid, Siftings on siftings in oblivion, Till change hath broken down All things save beauty alone.
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Envoi
In numbers, and but these few, I sing Thy birth, Oh, Jesu! Thou pretty Baby, born here, With sup’rabundant scorn here: Who for Thy princely port here, Hadst for Thy place Of birth, a base Out-stable for Thy court here. Instead of neat inclosures Of interwoven osiers, Instead of fragrant posies, Of daffodils and roses, Thy cradle, kingly Stranger, As Gospel tells, Was nothing else, But, here, a homely manger. But we with silks (not cruels), With sundry precious jewels, And lily-work will dress Thee Of clouts; we’ll make a chamber, Sweet Babe, for Thee, Of ivory, And plastered round with amber. The Jews they did disdain Thee, But we will entertain Thee With glories to await here Upon Thy princely state here, And more for love, than pity. From year to year We’ll make Thee, here, A free-born of our city.
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An Ode Of The Birth Of Our Savior