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"lookest" poems
O traveler, why lookest thou straight on the road grave and speculative, Depriving your eyes such a beatific sight, See the angelic form standeth behind the window curtain, Come, wait, sit beside me, it’s worth waiting, We both will sing in praise of her And linger until she uncurtains the curtain. You say it’s purposeless Why argue? Isn’t it the reason our maker gives us eyes? Isn’t it the purpose of our mind’s evolution to sing and hail the beauty; at least of her. You won’t believe my word? Impertinence! You will be blinded by her shadow spare her presence; “stare not for long”, What? You say it exaggeration… Bon Dieu! If beauty is not exaggerated where lies its charm. Look! her shadow moving, she is growing impatient as if  getting late to meet her lover. Yes, she wins heart in a look and crushes it in a blink and wins again by smile. Monarch sleeps in her bed Life in right, Death in left hand; she possesses, Judiciary in closet And warriors in purse. Countries bow, world kneel, universe supplicate before her. Stop! Where thou going? Pardon these adynatons, I’m drunk in her beauty. Let us sing then, I’ll lead, you follow Flowers wilting in chilled air, Waiting clouds to part To have a look fair, Of moon… Do see the restlessness in that room? I can sense her ***** heaving, repressed sighs and her fingers twisting, twirling in exasperation, It must be a lover who invented the song, isn’t it? A gloomy firefly in this starless sky Searching his lover Who has lost the light, Wait not moon, rise, help him In his plight… Look! look! The curtain is drawn There she, my sovereign, don’t mistake her eyes for stars. Have a profound look, but not too long; this witnesses only fortunate. What? you lost your vision- But I warned you earlier. Now, who’ll testify I saw her?
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Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 7:43 PM UTC
My Sovereign!
O traveler, why lookest thou straight on the road grave and speculative, Depriving your eyes such a beatific sight, See the angelic form standeth behind the window curtain, Come, wait, sit beside me, it’s worth waiting, We both will sing in praise of her And linger until she uncurtains the curtain. You say it’s purposeless Why argue? Isn’t it the reason our maker gives us eyes? Isn’t it the purpose of our mind’s evolution to sing and hail the beauty; at least of her. You won’t believe my word? Impertinence! You will be blinded by her shadow spare her presence; “stare not for long”, What? You say it exaggeration… Bon Dieu! If beauty is not exaggerated where lies its charm. Look! her shadow moving, she is growing impatient as if  getting late to meet her lover. Yes, she wins heart in a look and crushes it in a blink and wins again by smile. Monarch sleeps in her bed Life in right, Death in left hand; she possesses, Judiciary in closet And warriors in purse. Countries bow, world kneel, universe supplicate before her. Stop! Where thou going? Pardon these adynatons, I’m drunk in her beauty. Let us sing then, I’ll lead, you follow Flowers wilting in chilled air, Waiting clouds to part To have a look fair, Of moon… Do see the restlessness in that room? I can sense her ***** heaving, repressed sighs and her fingers twisting, twirling in exasperation, It must be a lover who invented the song, isn’t it? A gloomy firefly in this starless sky Searching his lover Who has lost the light, Wait not moon, rise, help him In his plight… Look! look! The curtain is drawn There she, my sovereign, don’t mistake her eyes for stars. Have a profound look, but not too long; this witnesses only fortunate. What? you lost your vision- But I warned you earlier. Now, who’ll testify I saw her?
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60
O Love! thou makest all things even In earth or heaven; Finding thy way through prison-bars Up to the stars; Or, true to the Almighty plan, That out of dust created man, Thou lookest in a grave,--to see Thine immortality!
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5.6k
O Love! Thou Makest All Things Even
That you are fair or wise is vain, Or strong, or rich, or generous; You must have also the untaught strain That sheds beauty on the rose. There is a melody born of melody, Which melts the world into a sea. Toil could never compass it, Art its height could never hit, It came never out of wit, But a music music-born Well may Jove and Juno scorn. Thy beauty, if it lack the fire Which drives me mad with sweet desire, What boots it? what the soldier's mail, Unless he conquer and prevail? What all the goods thy pride which lift, If thou pine for another's gift? Alas! that one is born in blight, Victim of perpetual slight;— When thou lookest in his face, Thy heart saith, Brother! go thy ways! None shall ask thee what thou doest, Or care a rush for what thou knowest, Or listen when thou repliest, Or remember where thou liest, Or how thy supper is sodden,— And another is born To make the sun forgotten. Surely he carries a talisman Under his tongue; Broad are his shoulders, and strong, And his eye is scornful, Threatening, and young. I hold it of little matter, Whether your jewel be of pure water, A rose diamond or a white,— But whether it dazzle me with light. I care not how you are drest, In the coarsest, or in the best, Nor whether your name is base or brave, Nor tor the fashion of your behavior,— But whether you charm me, Bid my bread feed, and my fire warm me, And dress up nature in your favor. One thing is forever good, That one thing is success,— Dear to the Eumenides, And to all the heavenly brood. Who bides at home, nor looks abroad, Carries the eagles, and masters the sword.
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3.8k
Fate
That you are fair or wise is vain, Or strong, or rich, or generous; You must have also the untaught strain That sheds beauty on the rose. There is a melody born of melody, Which melts the world into a sea. Toil could never compass it, Art its height could never hit, It came never out of wit, But a music music-born Well may Jove and Juno scorn. Thy beauty, if it lack the fire Which drives me mad with sweet desire, What boots it? what the soldier's mail, Unless he conquer and prevail? What all the goods thy pride which lift, If thou pine for another's gift? Alas! that one is born in blight, Victim of perpetual slight;— When thou lookest in his face, Thy heart saith, Brother! go thy ways! None shall ask thee what thou doest, Or care a rush for what thou knowest, Or listen when thou repliest, Or remember where thou liest, Or how thy supper is sodden,— And another is born To make the sun forgotten. Surely he carries a talisman Under his tongue; Broad are his shoulders, and strong, And his eye is scornful, Threatening, and young. I hold it of little matter, Whether your jewel be of pure water, A rose diamond or a white,— But whether it dazzle me with light. I care not how you are drest, In the coarsest, or in the best, Nor whether your name is base or brave, Nor tor the fashion of your behavior,— But whether you charm me, Bid my bread feed, and my fire warm me, And dress up nature in your favor. One thing is forever good, That one thing is success,— Dear to the Eumenides, And to all the heavenly brood. Who bides at home, nor looks abroad, Carries the eagles, and masters the sword.
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50
O Love! thou makest all things even In earth or heaven; Finding thy way through prison-bars Up to the stars; Or, true to the Almighty plan, That out of dust created man, Thou lookest in a grave,--to see Thine immortality!
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2.8k
Love
XV Accuse me not, beseech thee, that I wear Too calm and sad a face in front of thine; For we two look two ways, and cannot shine With the same sunlight on our brow and hair. On me thou lookest with no doubting care, As on a bee shut in a crystalline; Since sorrow hath shut me safe in love’s divine, And to spread wing and fly in the outer air Were most impossible failure, if I strove To fail so. But I look on thee—on thee— Beholding, besides love, the end of love, Hearing oblivion beyond memory; As one who sits and gazes from above, Over the rivers to the bitter sea.
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2.3k
Sonnet 15 - Accuse Me Not, Beseech Thee, That I Wear
O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down Through the clear windows of the morning, turn Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring! The hills tell one another, and the listening Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn’d Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth And let thy holy feet visit our clime! Come o’er the eastern hills, and let our winds Kiss thy perfumèd garments; let us taste Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee. O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour Thy soft kisses on her ***** and put Thy golden crown upon her languish’d head, Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee.
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2.2k
To Spring
The sad and solemn night Hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires; The glorious host of light Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires; All through her silent watches, gliding slow, Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go. Day, too, hath many a star To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they: Through the blue fields afar, Unseen, they follow in his flaming way: Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim, Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him. And thou dost see them rise, Star of the Pole! and thou dost see them set. Alone, in thy cold skies, Thou keep'st thy old unmoving station yet, Nor join'st the dances of that glittering train, Nor dipp'st thy ****** orb in the blue western main. There, at morn's rosy birth, Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air, And eve, that round the earth Chases the day, beholds thee watching there; There noontide finds thee, and the hour that calls The shapes of polar flame to scale heaven's azure walls. Alike, beneath thine eye, The deeds of darkness and of light are done; High towards the star-lit sky Towns blaze--the smoke of battle blots the sun-- The night-storm on a thousand hills is loud-- And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud. On thy unaltering blaze The half-wrecked mariner, his compass lost, Fixes his steady gaze, And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast; And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night, Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their footsteps right. And, therefore, bards of old, Sages, and hermits of the solemn wood, Did in thy beams behold A beauteous type of that unchanging good, That bright eternal beacon, by whose ray The voyager of time should shape his heedful way.
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1.5k
Hymn To The North Star
The sad and solemn night Hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires; The glorious host of light Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires; All through her silent watches, gliding slow, Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go. Day, too, hath many a star To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they: Through the blue fields afar, Unseen, they follow in his flaming way: Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim, Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him. And thou dost see them rise, Star of the Pole! and thou dost see them set. Alone, in thy cold skies, Thou keep'st thy old unmoving station yet, Nor join'st the dances of that glittering train, Nor dipp'st thy ****** orb in the blue western main. There, at morn's rosy birth, Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air, And eve, that round the earth Chases the day, beholds thee watching there; There noontide finds thee, and the hour that calls The shapes of polar flame to scale heaven's azure walls. Alike, beneath thine eye, The deeds of darkness and of light are done; High towards the star-lit sky Towns blaze--the smoke of battle blots the sun-- The night-storm on a thousand hills is loud-- And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud. On thy unaltering blaze The half-wrecked mariner, his compass lost, Fixes his steady gaze, And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast; And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night, Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their footsteps right. And, therefore, bards of old, Sages, and hermits of the solemn wood, Did in thy beams behold A beauteous type of that unchanging good, That bright eternal beacon, by whose ray The voyager of time should shape his heedful way.
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42
Why dost thou build the hall, Son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy tower to-day: yet a few years, and the blast of the desart comes: it howls in thy empty court.—Ossian. I Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle: Thou, the hall of my Fathers, art gone to decay; In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle Have choak’d up the rose, which late bloom’d in the way. II Of the mail-cover’d Barons, who, proudly, to battle, Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine’s plain, The escutcheon and shield, which with ev’ry blast rattle, Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. III No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers, Raise a flame, in the breast, for the war-laurell’d wreath; Near Askalon’s towers, John of Horistan slumbers, Unnerv’d is the hand of his minstrel, by death. IV Paul and Hubert too sleep in the valley of Cressy; For the safety of Edward and England they fell: My Fathers! the tears of your country redress ye: How you fought! how you died! still her annals can tell. V On Marston, with Rupert, ‘gainst traitors contending, Four brothers enrich’d, with their blood, the bleak field; For the rights of a monarch their country defending, Till death their attachment to royalty seal’d. VI Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant departing From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu! Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting New courage, he’ll think upon glory and you. VII Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, ’Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret; Far distant he goes, with the same emulation, The fame of his Fathers he ne’er can forget. VIII That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish; He vows that he ne’er will disgrace your renown: Like you will he live, or like you will he perish; When decay’d, may he mingle his dust with your own!
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1.4k
On Leaving Newstead Abbey
Why dost thou build the hall, Son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy tower to-day: yet a few years, and the blast of the desart comes: it howls in thy empty court.—Ossian. I Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle: Thou, the hall of my Fathers, art gone to decay; In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle Have choak’d up the rose, which late bloom’d in the way. II Of the mail-cover’d Barons, who, proudly, to battle, Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine’s plain, The escutcheon and shield, which with ev’ry blast rattle, Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. III No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers, Raise a flame, in the breast, for the war-laurell’d wreath; Near Askalon’s towers, John of Horistan slumbers, Unnerv’d is the hand of his minstrel, by death. IV Paul and Hubert too sleep in the valley of Cressy; For the safety of Edward and England they fell: My Fathers! the tears of your country redress ye: How you fought! how you died! still her annals can tell. V On Marston, with Rupert, ‘gainst traitors contending, Four brothers enrich’d, with their blood, the bleak field; For the rights of a monarch their country defending, Till death their attachment to royalty seal’d. VI Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant departing From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu! Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting New courage, he’ll think upon glory and you. VII Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, ’Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret; Far distant he goes, with the same emulation, The fame of his Fathers he ne’er can forget. VIII That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish; He vows that he ne’er will disgrace your renown: Like you will he live, or like you will he perish; When decay’d, may he mingle his dust with your own!
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43
Thy furry ****** fur that do not glow, It show not social status,  worth or wealth, Upon thy lovely face thy make it grow, Yet flatter thee it does not, bring no health. What is the purpose of thy fuzziness? Dost thou wish to appear more masculine? Dost burgeoning of dark bring happiness? Thou wishest to appear more than thy kin? But while my dislike for thy beard is true, Thou art a lady lovely, sweet and fair, And while she love your eyes of green and blue, She loveth all thine scruffy ****** hair. So while I feel thy lookest like a *** She still believe you shineth like the sun.
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Nov 10, 2010
Nov 10, 2010 at 7:16 AM UTC
Tyler's ****** Hair- Sonnet 3
My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime, For thy fair youthful years too swift of flight; Thou musest, with wet eyes, upon the time Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with light,-- Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong, And quick the thought that moved thy tongue to speak, And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong Summoned the sudden crimson to thy cheek. Thou lookest forward on the coming days, Shuddering to feel their shadow o'er thee creep; A path, thick-set with changes and decays, Slopes downward to the place of common sleep; And they who walked with thee in life's first stage, Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting near, Thou seest the sad companions of thy age-- Dull love of rest, and weariness and fear. Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone, Nor deem that glorious season e'er could die. Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn, Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky; Waits, like the morn, that folds her wing and hides, Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour; Waits, like the vanished spring, that slumbering bides Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower. There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand On his bright morning hills, with smiles more sweet Than when at first he took thee by the hand, Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet. He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still, Life's early glory to thine eyes again, Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then. Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here, Of mountains where immortal morn prevails? Comes there not, through the silence, to thine ear A gentle rustling of the morning gales; A murmur, wafted from that glorious shore, Of streams that water banks for ever fair, And voices of the loved ones gone before, More musical in that celestial air?
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797
The Return Of Youth
My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime, For thy fair youthful years too swift of flight; Thou musest, with wet eyes, upon the time Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with light,-- Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong, And quick the thought that moved thy tongue to speak, And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong Summoned the sudden crimson to thy cheek. Thou lookest forward on the coming days, Shuddering to feel their shadow o'er thee creep; A path, thick-set with changes and decays, Slopes downward to the place of common sleep; And they who walked with thee in life's first stage, Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting near, Thou seest the sad companions of thy age-- Dull love of rest, and weariness and fear. Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone, Nor deem that glorious season e'er could die. Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn, Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky; Waits, like the morn, that folds her wing and hides, Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour; Waits, like the vanished spring, that slumbering bides Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower. There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand On his bright morning hills, with smiles more sweet Than when at first he took thee by the hand, Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet. He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still, Life's early glory to thine eyes again, Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then. Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here, Of mountains where immortal morn prevails? Comes there not, through the silence, to thine ear A gentle rustling of the morning gales; A murmur, wafted from that glorious shore, Of streams that water banks for ever fair, And voices of the loved ones gone before, More musical in that celestial air?
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40
Who knows what thoust sees when thou lookest upon the sea. No fragrant flowers wafting sweet perfume No open fields full of **** born mushrooms No sunny days where lovers pray to play their ****** part Display their desirous heart naked and blushing Not from shame but from such pleasurable exertions No fairytale creatures like unicorns, elves, or hobbits No dragons with emerald scales to catch and claw Devouring my flesh No fantastic sea serpent Ready to rend the ships to pieces
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Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 5:49 PM UTC
Untitled
Serendipity in you Oh ! my sweetheart I don’t know what I am to u ... I wish to know much I mean to u. But I always am hesitating to... I am always addicted to u I want to escape from u I am trying but I am failing in that too The only thing which resides in my HEART now is U I don’t want to accept but I have to That I cant separate from u Oh! Beloved, lover and dream of everyone I am jus ordinary to be loved I am nothing but a piece of BEAUTY Searching for ur soul Will u accept my presence? or u will reward me disappointment I don’t know the consequences.... but I JUS want u I am afraid to be pushed out Don’t push me out .. oh! BEAUTY SAY SOMETHING Do u want me too Do u like me like i do I am waiting for these answers foretime And i will wait a thousand years Only jus to hear that U LIKE ME TOO ..!! Oh !! my adorable , Thou lookest only upon SOUL , not BEAUTY My words fly up .. like UR BEAUTIFUL soul LIFE without u ... is meaningless like me without U !! MeEnakshi
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Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 11:26 AM UTC
Untitled