"laurels" poems
Ye got to Fancy this Hearty Stout, Aye,
Soot-soaked with tub-flavoured Laurels of Gold
Now bloke-haste Juggers tick your nerves on-high
And make ye shout the Trumpet-Football-Fold
Yet so, our Celtic Spirit comes to call
For you to Jig their Post-Victorious Dance
Or, if upset, prefer to keep knees on hold
And hope such Font will get you that Romance
Still, never deny those After-Glugs won't count
In palling the Bet for Arsenal's Wear
Sudden Death Match will cause the Team to Mount
And show those Charbarrels a Reason to Tear.
Raise a Swig, to where there Brave Captains be
I take me Share, and drink the Sailor in me.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 5:25 AM UTC
The goddess
Of golden-faced victory
Her head brilliantly decorated with green laurels
Victoria, bestowing victory for what is named after her
Down to the red-plumed Romans with their gleaming swords
Nike, champion of the Greek gods.
Riding the chariot of victory into battle
The laurels catches the light of a mirror
It dances away, after its victorious champion
She may be a bit crazy or at least hungry
For the taste of that sweet victory
Let her be Roman; let her be Greek;
She is never weak
What one might say, she does not know
For her victory is clogging up her ears
Goddess of victory, we all want a taste of her power.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 9:13 AM UTC
Far back in the ages,
The plough with wreaths was crowned;
The hands of kings and sages
Entwined the chaplet round;
Till men of spoil disdained the toil
By which the world was nourished,
And dews of blood enriched the soil
Where green their laurels flourished:
--Now the world her fault repairs--
The guilt that stains her story;
And weeps her crimes amid the cares
That formed her earliest glory.
The proud throne shall crumble,
The diadem shall wane,
The tribes of earth shall humble
The pride of those who reign;
And War shall lay his pomp away;--
The fame that heroes cherish,
The glory earned in deadly fray
Shall fade, decay, and perish.
Honour waits, o'er all the Earth,
Through endless generations,
The art that calls her harvests forth,
And feeds the expectant nations.
8.6k
The minstrels played their Christmas tune
To-night beneath my cottage-eaves;
While, smitten by a lofty moon,
The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen,
That overpowered their natural green.
Through hill and valley every breeze
Had sunk to rest with folded wings:
Keen was the air, but could not freeze,
Nor check, the music of the strings;
So stout and hardy were the band
That scraped the chords with strenuous hand.
And who but listened?—till was paid
Respect to every inmate’s claim,
The greeting given, the music played
In honour of each household name,
Duly pronounced with ***** call,
And “Merry Christmas” wished to all.
6.2k
What a misfortune, although you are made
for fine and great works
this unjust fate of yours always
denies you encouragement and success;
that base customs should block you;
and pettiness and indifference.
And how terrible the day when you yield
(the day when you give up and yield),
and you leave on foot for Susa,
and you go to the monarch Artaxerxes
who favorably places you in his court,
and offers you satrapies and the like.
And you accept them with despair
these things that you do not want.
Your soul seeks other things, weeps for other things;
the praise of the public and the Sophists,
the hard-won and inestimable Well Done;
the Agora, the Theater, and the Laurels.
How can Artaxerxes give you these,
where will you find these in a satrapy;
and what life can you live without these.
4.5k
Two crowned Kings, and One that stood alone
With no green weight of laurels round his head,
But with sad eyes as one uncomforted,
And wearied with man’s never-ceasing moan
For sins no bleating victim can atone,
And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed.
Girt was he in a garment black and red,
And at his feet I marked a broken stone
Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees.
Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame,
I cried to Beatrice, ‘Who are these?’
And she made answer, knowing well each name,
‘AEschylos first, the second Sophokles,
And last (wide stream of tears!) Euripides.’
4.4k
lovers are burning.] balsamic ****** gallops from shame
into the overwild wetness of labial volcanoes, caramelized in musk. by love's labor.
laid bare, their bodies origami inhibition...[ lovers are burning. ]
and surrender is victorious !
Eros is speechless. maidens howl into cumulus goose-down, chewing carnal haikus
with swayed backs.... hips wide and wanton. masculine wands plow oyster beds, unmade.
they joust pearls... and [ lovers are burning ]
.... a damp conflagration; tongue stoked and windswept, conspires.
monotony is slain !
puritan harps are plucked and thrummed ! lewd harmonies anoint the perfect pitch
and a chorus moans. the ghost of sylvia plath, straddles Apollo; and he earns his wreath
surging besotted. [ lovers are burning ] and laurels forgotten.
lotharios charge the seldom road; the starfish door to Saturn's parlor.
pumping unbridled, that glistening, cloven moon. her riding crop insists !
his urgency must do.
satyrs sup salaciously and summon staves to dip in brine. they grin and grind
their sutras, stripping karma gears with silk scarves. ankles to a post, well spread...
cushions crush. flowers press... stamen fed.
nymphs clutch their serpent stones
to drain what nectar slips the slit. they ***** and throat.
they peck and pinch their quivers; knock their arrows to the purpose, half spent.
[ lovers are burning ]
eyes ablaze. nostrils fetch randy fumes of consent. mouths seek.
a pouty swamp with Spanish moss.... finds a matador
and a bull, a china shop.
lovers are burning the rough sketch of a lost god
and their angels are voyeurs
with unclean thoughts
for gospels.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
Dirt on my name never
My loyalty is forever
Dirt on my name never
My loyalty is forever
Never talkin ****
Never takin it
Now I take a hit
And pass the ****
Never sink to a putdown
Never will I be a letdown
If I go down I always know I'll never be out
I'm not in it to get paid ain't about all that clout
False laurels and accolades, not something to flout
People always frontin don't even know what they about
These fake people always say you ain't a fan of that
"Oh I bet you don't even know this, know that"
"Bet you don't really feel the way you feel" It falls flat
Don't need to put down, to know I feel so let's run it back
"Oh **** man, you a fan of that"
"Did you know this, know that"
"I feel you and I feel that"
No need to doubt some idle chit chat
Dirt on my name never
My loyalty is forever
Dirt on my name never
My loyalty is forever
Heard from a friend lost in the wild hadn't seen em in a while
Asked for my help and knew that I'd be there with a smile
Didn't matter to me that I had to walk there over four miles
Never turn the back on someone who I know trusts my smile
Always there to help and if you can't hit me back
Then don't worry just do what you can and stay on track
Never put myself in a position where I can't come back
And if I ever did I know I have Friends so I can fall back
That trusts been broken but I won't give in
Won't **** the trust I hold because a few gave in
Few scars on this back where they put the blade in
Forgiven but never will I let it be forgotten
Never forgetting that I can't trust them
And it makes me sad because I love them
But if all they have is that hate then **** them
Still unhappy knowing they can't love themselves
Dirt on my name never
My loyalty is forever
Dirt on my name never
My loyalty is forever
My loyalty is forever
This loyalty is forever
This love is forever
Mar 17, 2019
Mar 17, 2019 at 8:25 PM UTC
So full of life and vital things
upon the brink, I spread my wings
and close my eyes and look ahead
at all the things I've never said
at all the things I should have done
of prizes that I've striven for
and hopelessly have never won
of friends I've made
who've come and gone
Of mountains that I should have climbed
instead, on cushions I reclined
and thoughtlessly I drank the wine
of Apathy
So now that clouds have drifted by
and all alone, I lift my eye
and see the way to heaven's door
and know that life's worth fighting for
Next time I see a mountain high
I'll bound right up and touch the sky
I'll seek the prize and win this time
I'm not afraid, I'll take what's mine
won't rest on laurels in the sun
I'll fly to where the work is done
and if it's worth the price I'll give,
of all I have, so we can live
in peace, I'll comfort anyone
who needs my help
to get things done
I'll thank the Lord for what he gave
his sinless life our souls to save
I'll hold my friends much dearer still
I'll share the wine, we'll drink our fill
No Apathy
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
~~~
one can strive for greatness
in the field of dreams
in medicine or business
in law for what it seems
academic achievement
reqires work and time
one can garner laurels
and be in their prime
but to find true excellence
in poetry as art
it won't be found in dusty tomes
it must be in your
HEART
soulsurvivor
(C) 8/15/2015
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 9:41 AM UTC
There is just no sleeping tonight
I am trying but the twirling of my head
won't let everything be alright.
So I sit, gaze straight instead.
No, there is just no rest in sight.
The coffee *** is waiting ready
for the dawning of early morning light,
but I keep my gaze steady.
If there will be snoozing against minds might
tomorrow will come in glory
to greet me without a fight
and I will continue on
to the following verse of this story.
Verse 2...Still no sleep
Magnitude of mighty morals
must mind minutes on laurels.
Lay lying in lighted luck lamenting.
Love lives lively less forgetting.
Find favor of Father's future.
Fair in fun filled creature.
Crawl in crevasse created.
Can of cold cards played.
Pain of posture posed poignantly.
Part in pretty petals painted loosely.
Learn of leaning lantern low.
Lid open liturgy's lighted meadow!
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 8:15 PM UTC
From beginning to end
she kept a straight face.
If she didn't, she would just explode.
The white, silk polka-dots
surrounded her, billowing
like an ivory cloud.
She grasped his finger tightly,
Her manicured hands sweating, feet throbbing.
The ring touched her head.
She had not promised herself to another.
She kept a straight face.
If she smiled, she would just burst.
On their heads were glorious crowns
of laurels and satin,
and they danced the ancient dance of Isaiah.
She kept a straight face,
if she didn't watch where she was going
she would fall, but he would catch her.
*May you be as loving as Isaac and Rebecca,
as fruitful as Jacob and Rachel.*
Another squeeze of his pinky, and a twitch of her cheek.
God grant many years!
Chant onlookers.
Her eyes flooded and washed away
her straight face.
Catching her soiled tears,
Papa's paisley black handkerchief.
She was still his little Tzeitel.
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 6:09 PM UTC
~~~
The unsung heroes
They work every day
Without complaint
At a job with low pay.
There are not many are out there
Who place their laurels
On the person who's right
But ends a quarrel.
It takes a person
Internally strong
To accept a defeat
And say they were wrong!
Those little things matter!
But don't get much ink
Like the husband who shaves
And cleans up the sink!
The mother who picks up
The toys from the stairs
The wife who cleans drains
And removes the hair.
The child who sees
That grandma is old
And therefore replaces
The toilet roll!
The boyfriend who remembers
The day of first date
A girl who pays dutch
To help out her mate.
Remember that you
Are needed and wanted!
So many small tasks
Are taken for granted.
At last the bell
Is taken and rung
For the persons who do this...
... the heroes unsung.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 11:37 AM UTC
It no longer exists.
The wind; a passing gale sweeps
my laurels.
The desert is filled, too many
my voice.
Origin, a return to birth.
A sword of blazing fire, winged
halts me.
Where are you Eden?
I look and look,
the desert is filled with voices too many,
which is mine or do i have any?
The sun no weeps, I sing.
Myself, I find, thick of leaves
I carry, it sings no longer green.
Winged fire sword ablaze,
use I, leaves dry. Outstretched,
brown, my arms, fail to sky
afire. Feet my burns, I no walk longer.
Stiff, I root my tree to flower.
Fragrant white flowers, settle.
Pray I to you, of hope I joy.
Bring life to water, Frame of sky
Bring, Abba, Father.
(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal - February 1, 2011)
Jul 21, 2012
Jul 21, 2012 at 12:43 PM UTC
In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
“Whose heart-strings are a lute;”
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel,
And the giddy Stars (so legends tell),
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.
Tottering above
In her highest noon,
The enamoured Moon
Blushes with love,
While, to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were seven),
Pauses in Heaven.
And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That Israfeli’s fire
Is owing to that lyre
By which he sits and sings—
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.
But the skies that angel trod,
Where deep thoughts are a duty—
Where Love’s a grow-up God—
Where the Houri glances are
Imbued with all the beauty
Which we worship in a star.
Therefore, thou art not wrong,
Israfeli, who despisest
An unimpassioned song;
To thee the laurels belong,
Best bard, because the wisest!
Merrily live and long!
The ecstasies above
With thy burning measures suit—
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
With the fervor of thy lute—
Well may the stars be mute!
Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely—flowers,
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Is the sunshine of ours.
If I could dwell
Where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,
While a bolder note than this might swell
From my lyre within the sky.
3.3k
Innocence Molested
Innocence has been molested, thrown in dust bin
Just without any sin and just without any crime
The only sin of little girl was to get education to win
The laurels in days to come to serve in her prime
Morality has gone to dogs and dogs are but stray
Their masters are trying hard to save them for brutality
Shameless creatures are hidden in their ***** way
But this time they will not be safe for but heir hostility
Zainab was ***** and killed in the age of just seven
While her parents were on holy journey to Makkah
So sweet a girl being a martyr she embraced heaven
Her chastity purity were converted by rascals to saga
Criminals must be hanged till death for their ***** sin
Little girl be given justice with exemplary punishment
No more little girls be molested ,thrown but in dust bin
Corrupt elements be annihilated as declared and meant
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2018 Golden Glow
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 4:53 AM UTC
Spanish
El ancla de oro canta…la vela azul asciende
Como el ala de un sueño abierta al nuevo día.
Partamos, musa mía!
Ante lo prora alegre un bello mar se extiende.
En el oriente claro como un cristal, esplende
El fanal sonrosado de Aurora. Fantasía
Estrena un raro traje lleno de pedrería
para vagar brillante por las olas.
Ya tiende
La vela azul a Eolo su oriflama de raso…
El momento supremo!…Yo me estremezco; acaso
Sueño lo que me aguarda en los mundos no vistos!…
Acaso un fresco ramo de laureles fragantes,
El toison reluciente, el cetro de diamantes,
El naufragio o la eterna corona de los Cristos?…
English
The golden anchor beckons, the blue sail rises
Like the wing of a dream unfolding to a new day.
Let us depart, my muse!
Beyond an anxious prow, the sea stretches itself out.
In the crystal clear East, Aurora's
Blushed beacon shines. Fantasy
Is donning a rare garment of gems
To wander brilliantly over the waves.
The blue sail
Unfolds its private oriflamme to ******
The supreme moment!…I tremble: do I know–
Oh God!–what awaits me in unseen worlds?
Perhaps a freshly picked bouquet of fragrant laurels,
The golden fleece, a diamond scepter,
A shipwreck, or the eternal crown of the Anointed Ones?…
3.2k
In this Dragon's Year eighty Candles knock
Kneeling to Confirm another Life's Best
Your Strength, still sturdy; Your Concepts, in-lock
Which Rivers flowing among all your rest
I thanked you before for Friendship accept
Though Identity was risk to beseech
Still in your Paper those Laurels you kept
That Wisdom only an Open Mind could reach
And guess what, Coach, did you see your Boy's stunt,
Flicking himself in an air-wheel Down Under?
Where a Hermit Crab's shell prayed his be blunt
Hoping his Weight would not crush it asunder.
Joking aside, may your Day all be well
Knowing your Shoes are dancing, I can tell.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 8:56 PM UTC
O ***** king.
***** O ***** king,
what bitter thing is this?
what shaft, tearing my heart?
what scar, what light, what fire
searing my eye-balls and my eyes with flame?
nameless, O spoken name,
king, lord, speak blameless *****
Why do you blind my eyes?
why do you dart and pulse
till all the dark is home,
then find my soul
and ruthless draw it back?
scaling the scaleless,
opening the dark?
speak, nameless, power and might;
when will you leave me quite?
when will you break my wings
or leave them utterly free
to scale heaven endlessly?
A bitter, broken thing,
my heart, O ***** lord,
yet neither drought nor sword
baffles men quite,
why must they feign to fear
my ****** glance?
feigned utterly or real
why do they shrink?
my trance frightens them,
breaks the dance,
empties the market-place;
if I but pass they fall
back, frantically;
must always people mock?
unless they shrink and reel
as in the temple
at your uttered will.
O ***** king,
lord, greatest, power, might,
look for my face is dark,
burnt with your light,
your fire, O ***** lord;
is there none left
can equal me
in ecstasy, desire?
is there none left
can bear with me
the kiss of your white fire?
is there not one,
Phrygian or frenzied Greek,
poet, song-swept, or bard,
one meet to take from me
this bitter power of song,
one fit to speak, *****
your praises, lord?
May I not wed
as you have wed?
may it not break, beauty,
from out my hands, my head, my feet?
may Love not lie beside me
till his heat
burn me to ash?
may he not comfort me, then,
spent of all that fire and heat,
still, ashen-white and cool
as the wet laurels,
white, before your feet
step on the mountain-slope,
before your fiery hand
lift up the mantle
covering flower and land,
as a man lifts,
O ***** from his bride,
(cowering with woman eyes,) the veil?
O ***** lord, be kind.
2.9k
Montgomery! true, the common lot
Of mortals lies in Lethe’s wave;
Yet some shall never be forgot,
Some shall exist beyond the grave.
“Unknown the region of his birth,”
The hero rolls the tide of war;
Yet not unknown his martial worth,
Which glares a meteor from afar.
His joy or grief, his weal or woe,
Perchance may ’scape the page of fame;
Yet nations, now unborn, will know
The record of his deathless name.
The Patriot’s and the Poet’s frame
Must share the common tomb of all:
Their glory will not sleep the same;
‘That’ will arise, though Empires fall.
The lustre of a Beauty’s eye
Assumes the ghastly stare of death;
The fair, the brave, the good must die,
And sink the yawning grave beneath.
Once more, the speaking eye revives,
Still beaming through the lover’s strain;
For Petrarch’s Laura still survives:
She died, but ne’er will die again.
The rolling seasons pass away,
And Time, untiring, waves his wing;
Whilst honour’s laurels ne’er decay,
But bloom in fresh, unfading spring.
All, all must sleep in grim repose,
Collected in the silent tomb;
The old, the young, with friends and foes,
Fest’ring alike in shrouds, consume.
The mouldering marble lasts its day,
Yet falls at length an useless fane;
To Ruin’s ruthless fangs a prey,
The wrecks of pillar’d Pride remain.
What, though the sculpture be destroy’d,
From dark Oblivion meant to guard;
A bright renown shall be enjoy’d,
By those, whose virtues claim reward.
Then do not say the common lot
Of all lies deep in Lethe’s wave;
Some few who ne’er will be forgot
Shall burst the ******* of the grave.
2.9k
the waiting in hallways
lined up on the wall
with eyes following the chatterbox and her
flowing train of rabid listeners
who hang themselves ritualisticly on her
shallow water illustrations
swimming on this thin tide of unpublished lip candy
her bubblegum words are commentary
upon which her followers build temples
to the unfit mothers of televangelists
the chatterbox spills her loud thoughts
on the sun warmed concrete
as the summer lawnmower navigates
around santa and his late december reindeer
and the children's labyrinth of christams morning plans
while i sunbath nearby
she gathers her spilled thoughts
and races away proudly proclaiming that'
my poems are too short for the pulitzer
so she is ready for her laurels
and a fast road to academia
with a neatly packaged version of her inner perversions
spread like *** and lip candy
on the local coffee shop bookshelf's
for the pretty college girl with glasses to drink from
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 2:08 PM UTC
Eagle of Austerlitz! where were thy wings
When far away upon a barbarous strand,
In fight unequal, by an obscure hand,
Fell the last scion of thy brood of Kings!
Poor boy! thou shalt not flaunt thy cloak of red,
Or ride in state through Paris in the van
Of thy returning legions, but instead
Thy mother France, free and republican,
Shall on thy dead and crownless forehead place
The better laurels of a soldier’s crown,
That not dishonoured should thy soul go down
To tell the mighty Sire of thy race
That France hath kissed the mouth of Liberty,
And found it sweeter than his honied bees,
And that the giant wave Democracy
Breaks on the shores where Kings lay couched at ease.
2.8k
I.
AM.
A.
Piece of ****
Here's how i roll.
I plop the excrement, directly in the pool.
I **** on chairs,
This is where i place stool.
Plip plob drop loads,
Crenated blood cells and lymphatic drool.
Hurt my kidneys in a fight with truth the other night.
7 brutal, flooring uppercuts to the Latisimus dorsi....
I am > "this girl"
That one that's taken more hits in the face than Tyson.
The one that makes Jenna and Sunni Leone look like pre-school dropouts of ****
Guys say.
"She"
"got the,"
"best head."
She has nothing in it though.
Her brain's finished by the time words leave her lips whole.
thats as far as it gets
the words pass her **** then she falls, grab her hips.
Prepare the sword for the stone.
The one with the baby whole in her dome.
She's not good, much else.
Her black hair and wisdom lines go bout as deep as her shirt.
Depending on the day.
Pervert.
Lets do ANOTHER line.
"Oh My GOD!" "We did so much *******
Coke in cans.
Filled with whiskey flask-hand.
"This night's gunna be one to remember",
if his member is inside, that's my gender,
Blend it with all the worst intentions,
Use the worst intentions.
Stab the heart of conviction.
Tear it to tethers with tension.
Rip the strings of friendship.
Tease the knots of frayed linen,
Like its the only thing ya got.
"I am so high right now."
I forgot what earth looks like.
Probably like my town.
Only place I've been.
I'm 17 ya see.
Its the only thing you got.
You don't deserve roses, flowers, Laurels.
No trees.
No dime bags, no speed, no crying hag.
I can sure **** 25 yearolds.
Saying your better never sounded more like a lie.
Worst thing is you have that prevarication internalized.
I have a god complex...
Wanna save em all...
Can't save a ******* one...
I did lie once...
It was...
When I told you that you weren't...
A piece of ****
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
I
The shepherds went their hasty way,
And found the lowly stable-shed
Where the Virgin-Mother lay:
And now they checked their eager tread,
For to the Babe, that at her ***** clung,
A Mother’s song the Virgin-Mother sung.
II
They told her how a glorious light,
Streaming from a heavenly throng.
Around them shone, suspending night!
While sweeter than a mother’s song,
Blest Angels heralded the Savior’s birth,
Glory to God on high! and Peace on Earth.
III
She listened to the tale divine,
And closer still the Babe she pressed:
And while she cried, the Babe is mine!
The milk rushed faster to her breast:
Joy rose within her, like a summer’s morn;
Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born.
IV
Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace,
Poor, simple, and of low estate!
That strife should vanish, battle cease,
O why should this thy soul elate?
Sweet Music’s loudest note, the Poet’s story,
Didst thou ne’er love to hear of fame and glory?
V
And is not War a youthful king,
A stately Hero clad in mail?
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring;
Him Earth’s majestic monarchs hail
Their friends, their playmate! and his bold bright eye
Compels the maiden’s love-confessing sigh.
VI
Tell this in some more courtly scene,
To maids and youths in robes of state!
I am a woman poor and mean,
And wherefore is my soul elate.
War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,
That from the aged father’s tears his child!
VII
A murderous fiend, by fiends adored,
He kills the sire and starves the son;
The husband kills, and from her board
Steals all his widow’s toil had won;
Plunders God’s world of beauty; rends away
All safety from the night, all comfort from the day.
VIII
Then wisely is my soul elate,
That strife should vanish, battle cease:
I’m poor and of low estate,
The Mother of the Prince of Peace.
Joy rises in me, like a summer’s morn:
Peace, Peace on Earth! The Prince of Peace is born!
2.7k
I
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
This modern world is grey and old,
And what remains to us of thee?
No more the shepherd lads in glee
Throw apples at thy wattled fold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Nor through the laurels can one see
Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold,
And what remains to us of thee?
And dull and dead our Thames would be,
For here the winds are chill and cold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Then keep the tomb of Helice,
Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold,
And what remains to us of thee?
Though many an unsung elegy
Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Ah, what remains to us of thee?
II
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady,
Thy satyrs and their wanton play,
This modern world hath need of thee.
No nymph or Faun indeed have we,
For Faun and nymph are old and grey,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This is the land where liberty
Lit grave-browed Milton on his way,
This modern world hath need of thee!
A land of ancient chivalry
Where gentle Sidney saw the day,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This fierce sea-lion of the sea,
This England lacks some stronger lay,
This modern world hath need of thee!
Then blow some trumpet loud and free,
And give thine oaten pipe away,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This modern world hath need of thee!
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