"olden" poems
Its deeper than the olden day slavery,
Because these days,the chains are unseen so getting help is difficult.
Souls imprisoned in fake bodies that need validation to feel fit enough to live. Modern day slavery.
Its spreading too fast,we might all fall victim. Feeling incomplete when you miss a trend that won't add any inch to your height nor value to your life; that's modern day slavery.
Its so normalised,its hard to realise its actually slavery.
Free yourself and take charge of your life!! Be who you are.
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 6:15 PM UTC
<>
"And then one day you came back home
You were a creature all in rapture
You had the key to your soul
And you did open that day you came back to the garden
The olden summer breeze was blowin' on your face
The light of God was shinin' on your countenance divine
And you were a violet colour as you
Sat beside your father and your mother in the garden
The summer breeze was blowin' on your face
Within your violet you treasure your summery words
And as the shiver from my neck down to my spine
Ignited me in daylight and nature in the garden"
In the Garden,
song by by Van Morrison
<>
***This touches me deep in the chest cavity,
the palpitations of its internalizing echoing cavitations,
a warning, go slow, choose your words wise and
accrue, the mood,
for the ache of creating, hurts, fevers me
for I am but steps away from the garden,
and its violet hues infused with fresh sunrising golden hazes,
with kindly warmth, with warming kindnesses,
touches,
caresses my shoulders, begs me to stop crying,
overcome, for I am overcome, eyes dropping wetting droplets,
for find myself at the intersection,
interlocking crossroads
where perfect perfection
begins and must
meet its natural endings
thoughts of capture, retentions, preservations,
all impossibilities, challenges,
see me, begging itinerant
muses
in the neighborhood
to guide my hand, teach me newsome words,
mine feel so old, so unworthy of this moment,
hearing me solicit their
Treasure of Summery
Words
but they won't,
excusing themselves,
that this in particular human has exercised, exorcised,
all the tools in his ever diminishing capacity,
time insufficient to learn a new calculus of
addition
and bid me calm my heaving chest,
seize my tears, just add them to the brackish salted waters steps
awaiting away
live in this moment
live within this poem,
revisit it frequent,
weep no more,
your stilling heart weakened,
take fast what is given now,
and be contented,
your treasury chest is full,
overflowing with this summary of
summery***
but I am not, cannot…
7:48:am
jul 22
Jul 22, 2025
Jul 22, 2025 at 8:03 AM UTC
Subtle vibrations.
Energy.
Exquisite sensations.
Energy.
A near perfect nirvana.
Energy.
Cleansing us like a sauna.
Energy.
Despite our bodies being of olden.
Energy.
Inside our bodies are golden.
Energy.
A swirl of red.
Energy.
In a cloud, this is our bed.
Energy.
A force to call your own.
Energy.
You body has reaped what it has sown.
Energy.
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 5:19 PM UTC
Let me do my work each day;
and if the darkened hours
of despair overcome me, may I
not forget the strength
that comforted me in the
desolation of other times. May I
still remember the bright
hours that found me walking
over the silent hills of my
childhood, or dreaming on the
margin of the quiet river,
when a light glowed within me,
and I promised my early God
to have courage amid the
tempests of the changing years.
Spare me the bitterness
and from sharp passions of
unguarded moments. May
I not forget that poverty and
riches are of the spirit.
Though the world may know me not,
may my thoughts and actions
be such as shall keep me friendly
with myself. Lift my eyes
from the earth, and let me not
forget the uses of the stars.
Forbid that I should judge others
lest I condemn myself.
Let me not follow the clamor of
the world, but walk calmly
in my path. Give me a few friends
who will love me for what
I am; and keep ever burning
before my vagrant steps
the kindly light of hope. And
though age and infirmity overtake
me, and I come not within
sight of the castle of my dreams,
teach me still to be thankful
for life, and for time's olden
memories that are good and
sweet; and may the evening's
twilight find me gentle still.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 9:33 PM UTC
As the Thunderbolt God Jupiter
Saturn’s brother
Pursued his loves in disguise
The Goddess Hera sat upon her throne
Irritated and plotting
Gazing with angry jealous eyes
Oh, courageous intelligent Athena
****** Goddess of the hunt
Dare the foolish to cast eyes upon her unclothed
Under the sentence of a tortuous death
Its said by many she was not birthed
But sprang surprisingly from her father’s head
The lovely Aphrodite
Would melt the hearts of many a man
Who would offer up their life
For but a faint touch of her hand
The Light God Apollo admirer of the word, reciting poetry
Pluck the gold lyres delicate strings
While the sea god Poseidon’s twelve daughters
Mermaids
Dressed in dripping seaweed began to sing
Ares of the bold god of war
Feared conqueror and great warrior
Planted flowers
As was his custom in the spring
Artemis in fervent haste strung her magical bow
For it was pursuit that stirred her blood
It flowed through her veins
Aged Roman wine
Running stags through shadowy woods
The gods of the Kings
The Gods of the people
To whom many sacrifices were made
Lived thousands of years beyond the lifespan of man
So, say the storytellers of olden times and past days
All right Reserved. Tammy M. Darby. Jan. 31, 2019
All Material Stored in Author Base
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 9:08 PM UTC
In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace—
Radiant palace—reared its head.
In the monarch Thought’s dominion—
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This—all this—was in the olden
Time long ago),
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.
Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute’s well-tuned law,
Bound about a throne where, sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch’s high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate !)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh—but smile no more.
5k
*This poem is dedicated to the memory of Admiral Albert ***** Potter who displayed amazing bravery by wearing full drag through several major sea battles. He was cashiered for insisting the Admiralty rename his ship HMS Butch instead of HMS Fearless. In fact the vessel was eventually renamed HMS Damp **** because it was full of ******
A life on the ocean wave, **
In the olden days of sail
When England's ships were proud and brave
And their crews were very male.
The Captain stood upon his bridge
Looking smart and flash;
But below the decks, the orders were
*** and *** and the lash.
The bosun went to the main gunroom,
**** Deadeye at the ready;
Initiation time had come
For little midshipman Freddy.
"Strap him o'er that cannon, lads!"
Roared the hirsute fellow,
"Gag his mouth securely, lads,
In case he tries to bellow!"
The sailors did as he had bid -
Refused and they'd be punished -
And they knew their turn would come
After the bosun had finished.
The bosun went up the poor young lad
And soon was going strong;
Midshipman Fred looked rather pained -
The Bosun was THICK and LONG.
Then came the turn of the other men
And they set to with a will;
Little Fred could not say no
Until they'd had their fill.
What a life our sailors had then,
Always singing shanties;
When men were men and big and butch
And cabin boys wore silk *******
A life on the ocean wave, **
With the rolling sea and the spray.
Sinking the Frogs and murdering Wogs
Kept England's sailors so gay.
OLÉ! OLÉ! OLÉ! OLÉ! OLÉ! OLÉ!
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 6:37 PM UTC
Weeping by the Willow Tree
Written by Adam M. Snow
Who is she adorned in moonlight's veil -
This beauty with skin so fragile and pale?
I see her within a dream surreal,
Weeping by the willow tree.
Why does she weep such a woe,
Under starry midnight glow?
Upon the ground, her tears will flow;
Weeping by the willow tree.
How can I clearly see?
She weeps so tenderly...
Will I come to know; can it be,
She weeps for me by the willow tree?
What can cause her broken heart,
That led this dame to hurt?
Her hair does fairly touch the dirt;
Weeping by the willow tree.
A love that's lost should only be,
Misinterpreted reality,
For she will never be set free,
Weeping by the willow tree.
A heart's amiss if love is lost -
An empty bliss would be the cost.
A troubled dream, she would exhaust –
Weeping by the willow tree.
Every which way the wind would blow,
The rustling leaves, the willow'd throw.
Akin to willows weep, we know!
She weeps by the willow tree.
Is she an angel kneeling there?
What is her burden that she bear?
Certainly there is such grief in the air,
Away by the olden willow tree.
She veils her face with waterfall tears,
Misery held her all these years.
With tender hopes and fears,
She weeps by the willow tree.
The willow tree leaves would sway,
As she, on her knees would pray.
Every night and every day,
She weeps by the willow tree.
Alas! It is that she cries for me;
It twas I who caused her such sweet misery.
I hear her cries, her plea,
Underneath the willow tree.
I oft wonder what I did to she,
And wonder why she weeps for me.
In the night I hear the keys -
While she weeps under the willow tree.
Upon the morn, it occurred to me,
That maiden cries out of love for me.
And I simply walked past her plea,
Not knowing what causes her to weep,
Silently under the willow tree.
The succeeding night I went to see,
That beautiful girl who sits under the tree.
I saw her there, but in despair -
She hangs from two branches bare.
Swinging under the willow tree.
http://amsnow.weebly.com
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 1:33 PM UTC
I watched the glory of her childhood change,
Half-sorrowful to find the child I knew,
(Loved long ago in lily-time),
Become a maid, mysterious and strange,
With fair, pure eyes - dear eyes, but not the eyes I knew
Of old, in the olden time!
Till on my doubting soul the ancient good
Of her dear childhood in the new disguise
Dawned, and I hastened to adore
The glory of her waking maidenhead,
And found the old tenderness within her deepening eyes,
But kinder than before.
3.3k
This is the quiet hour; the theaters
Have gathered in their crowds, and steadily
The million lights blaze on for few to see,
Robbing the sky of stars that should be hers.
A woman waits with bag and shabby furs,
A somber man drifts by, and only we
Pass up the street unwearied, warm and free,
For over us the olden magic stirs.
Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights
We live a little ere the charm is spent;
This night is ours, of all the golden nights,
The pavement an enchanted palace floor,
And Youth the player on the viol, who sent
A strain of music through an open door.
3.2k
Sophisticated elegance
Pornographic decadence
Psychedelic trip
The past, present and future
Of what is the Sunset Strip
Hot spots undiscovered
History recovered
Dig in and take a dip
The past, present and future
Of what is the Sunset Strip
Darkness in the daytime
Sunlight cleans the slime
It's easier to grip
The past, present and future
Of what is the Sunset Strip
Tales of olden Hollywood
Hangers on and hoods
Changing what is hip
The past, present and future
Of what is the Sunset Strip
Sophisticated Decadence
Pornographic Elegance
The Chateau for a nip
The past, present and future
Of what is the Sunset Strip
Oct 12, 2021
Oct 12, 2021 at 10:42 PM UTC
I miss the Norwesters
I miss the heavy rains
I miss hurrying to catch a bus
Completely drenched
Oh Kolkata!
Without you I am
Like a fish out of water
I miss the olden buildings
I miss the bustling streets
I miss riding the tramway
With a song playing on repeat
Oh Kolkata!
Without you I am
But a fish out of water
I miss the winter sunsets
I miss evenings by the lake
I miss Maharaja's kachoris
And jalebis on a steel plate
Oh Kolkata!
Without you I am
Just a fish out of water
I miss the yellow taxis
I miss the hawkers' stalls
I miss the political graffiti
Adorning the walls
Oh Kolkata!
Without you I am
Still a fish out of water
Now I'm so far
But yet so near
My heart can't shelter
These hopes and fears
Rejection, reduction
I feel choked once again
Within your walls of nostalgia
Maybe I'll be safe
Oh Kolkata!
Show me a way
To return to the water
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 7:19 AM UTC
Some say the Hero came first,
others say the Poet.
I perused again the olden verse,
sure enough; the poet.
A hero and a poet are
always, 'side-by-side.'
How else might we know it,
-without the forlorn scribe?
Jun 18, 2016
Jun 18, 2016 at 11:31 AM UTC
Let me do my work each day;
and if the darkened hours
of despair overcome me, may I
not forget the strength
that comforted me in the
desolation of other times. May I
still remember the bright
hours that found me walking
over the silent hills of my
childhood, or dreaming on the
margin of the quiet river,
when a light glowed within me,
and I promised my early God
to have courage amid the
tempests of the changing years.
Spare me the bitterness
and from sharp passions of
unguarded moments. May
I not forget that poverty and
riches are of the spirit.
Though the world may know me not,
may my thoughts and actions
be such as shall keep me friendly
with myself. Lift my eyes
from the earth, and let me not
forget the uses of the stars.
Forbid that I should judge others
lest I condemn myself.
Let me not follow the clamor of
the world, but walk calmly
in my path. Give me a few friends
who will love me for what
I am; and keep ever burning
before my vagrant steps
the kindly light of hope. And
though age and infirmity overtake
me, and I come not within
sight of the castle of my dreams,
teach me still to be thankful
for life, and for time's olden
memories that are good and
sweet; and may the evening's
twilight find me gentle still.
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 3:41 PM UTC
I watched the glory of her childhood change,
Half-sorrowful to find the child I knew,
(Loved long ago in lily-time),
Become a maid, mysterious and strange,
With fair, pure eyes - dear eyes, but not the eyes I knew
Of old, in the olden time!
Till on my doubting soul the ancient good
Of her dear childhood in the new disguise
Dawned, and I hastened to adore
The glory of her waking maidenhead,
And found the old tenderness within her deepening eyes,
But kinder than before.
2.5k
~for Steve R. & Stephen Y.~
*"two regrets are mine -
not finding you earlier in life when...words would have carved for me a better road, and...not hand-ing you a touch, the perfect tightness-shake of one's hand reserved for fondest friends and the light press on one's back deserved for dearest brothers!"
~~~*
the light press surety of five fingers on one,
oh, what messages it composes, oh, what duty weighty it transmits
dear brothers:
tho this hands-on handoff, this fly-over, is still a
mission unaccomplished,
yet no regrets, please!
men don't overuse superlatives,
what you lovingly uncover in my rocket-verbal Mars probes,
is more telling, more revealing of who you are,
than any hand-tightness shake,
any touching grasp, could e'er convey
yet I promise, forsworn upon the cross
of the north west Pacifico latitude and longitude
a latitude that just happens to intersect
my olden, new english state,
knowing that Interstate 90
a straight transcontinental shot,
and the car keys just an impulse grab away
to tell your arms, your face, your back, our hands,
that when you love my poetry,
you love me,
you friends,
are an affirmation of Pablo Neruda's words:
***"whoever discovers who I am
discovers who you are"***
fondness is not distance constrained,
touching grasps pay no obeisance to time,
the honor of your affection permanent
affirmed and enflamed,
all mine, sublime, to lead my heart,
where to lay hands upon your back,
to realize even more
our single united rhyme
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 4:58 PM UTC
You were already dead
by the time
I was planted in your soil.
Your story is one told to me
through grainy photographs.
Echoed whispers of
peripheral port cities.
Somewhere lovingly untouchable.
My home was once alive.
My stomach lurches
while picturing these
hollow streets,
once filled with laughter.
The harbour
bursting with smiles.
Each neighbour,
a family or friend,
usually both.
How I love this island!
The salted summer's breeze,
hand woven scarlet autumns.
Wild flowers dancing
atop cliff-sides,
free for us
to admire and absorb.
Absorb we did.
I swear my bones
are made of sea-glass.
How could they be
made of anything less?
In their stories,
you are a fairyland.
A cosmically unified olden wood,
dipped in Scotch
and swaddled in wool.
Yet your branches rot,
thinner and damper each year.
Soon the whispers
will be stale air.
No one will be left
to tell tales
of your beautiful youth.
Everything dies.
How I once wished to see
you in your prime.
Even in your postmortem existence,
you've given me
mud to stick my toes into.
I see you
melting into the sea.
I smell your flesh
being swallowed
by bottom feeders.
You are a wonder to me
all the same.
Apr 22, 2021
Apr 22, 2021 at 10:15 AM UTC
There castles fair as a moon of June
Despite denizens 'neath a pit of despair
Like a night lit not by stars or moon.
Sweet is the silent whispers of a zephyr
When falls dew at the peep of dawn
Upon meadow boughs of emerald fair.
When heaven's ever fair golden eye
Doth sprinkle her very last fiery ray
To pave way unto maidens of the sky
That evermore bedeck heaven's bay,
In woods strange lonely things dost cry
In lament of the sweet melted olden day
Now 'neath the vale of time: In fairyland,
Where days once colorful and bright,
Where novelty gems bedeck each strand,
Where lofty towers shine than star light,
There naught remains that doth stand
And there dawns never but endless night.
Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Los Angels, California.
20th/09/2018
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 5:02 AM UTC
WHERE dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of reddest stolen chetries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With afacry, hand in hand,
For the world's morefull of weeping than you
can understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's morefully of weeping than you
can understand.}
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To to waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For to world's morefully of weeping than you
can understand.
Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
For be comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
from a world more full of weeping than you
can understand.
2.2k
*I suddenly don't know who my friends are anymore
But I know who has never been,isn't and never will
You're not my friend if you think our whimpers propaganda
You're not my friend if you're not in support of a proper Uganda
You're not my friend if you opposed our
struggle till its seemingly dead end
You're not my friend if you think we shouldn't grieve
You're not my friend if in yellow rule you still believe
you're not my friend if you're still blinded
even after so many are hurt and lives ended
you're not my friend if you sung a song in praise
of he who won't our teacher's salary raise
you're not my friend if I reminded you of the Hospital
and you said them sick suffer for the love of free things with no remorse at all
you're not my friend if you've stuck to his support
simply because he fills your wallet while the rest are emptied,
you're not my friend if in this sad time you feel relief
you're not my friend if you forgot about the *** holes
the uncertainty that characterises the air all over the country,
you're not my friend if in your heart melancholy isn't,the despair
you're not my friend if you don't mind the pauper on the street
the emptiness of our capital competing with that in our hearts
you're not my friend if you don't think it badly hurts
you're not my friend if as long as your Porsche you drive
you don't mind about the state of a country
whether your neighbour's child is dead or alive
you're are not my friend if everything you wish for you have
and you don't give a **** if others starve
you're not my friend if you're contented with the shaky epicentre
forgetting that when the centre is shaky things fall apart
you're not my friend even if the politics ended
for my friend you weren't right from the start
you're not my friend if you've played part in steering us to a wrong course
against the pleas and cries of the despairing concourse
you're not my friend if you're the reason country man lies in a casket
in exchange for a piece of the national cake in your basket
you're not my friend if you believe in steady progress
even if you're my brother,whilst rest of the country lies in regrets
you're not my friend if you are against the people's choice
for the people's choice is the people's voice
You're not my friend if your government military deploys
dubbing the shout of our plight unnecessary noise
You're not my friend if you're smiling while we cry
in darkness as sunshine lights your home for you own our sky
you're not my friend if you forgot about those studying under a tree
you're not my friend if you still think we're free
You're my enemy if you're an enemy to my friend
You've wounded this nation by standing by the olden trend
you're an enemy to the state and so you're my enemy
you're not my friend, for God and my country
you're not my friend and that I will never forget traitor
no,I will remember through every January to December
I will remember even after you forget,centuries later*
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 1:51 AM UTC
O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute!
Fair plumed Syren! Queen of far away!
Leave melodizing on this wintry day,
Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute.
Adieu! for once again the fierce dispute
Betwixt damnation and impassioned clay
Must I burn through; once more humbly assay
The bitter-sweet of this Shakespearian fruit.
Chief Poet! and ye clouds of Albion,
Begetters of our deep eternal theme,
When through the old oak Forest I am gone,
Let me not wander in a barren dream,
But when I am consumed in the Fire,
Give me new Phoenix wings to fly at my desire.
2.1k
As I walk towards the shrine of blood and gold,
Reeking of the fallen and of the old
Unbeknownst to what might lay beyond,
A ******* in what comes after, a ******* in what came before.
This sack of maimed flesh that you see
A conquered ***** of the soul
This skin worn by all but one
A temple broken down to the bone.
Where once was a mind delighted,
A crown of jewels, of dreams of flight and
Of merriment and of might
A child of the stars that I once was
Burnt embers of olden coal that I am now.
Hence here I lay, astray, with no greed
No rage, no radiance and no leads
A destitute of life, fed and dressed
A king of the barren, a pastor amongst the wicked and unblessed.
And as I stand now at the altar of the fallen ghouls,
From suitor to gatekeeper of my own poisoned muse
Guiding sheep to a slaughter frayed
A purgatorial monument, unraveled and unswayed.
Nov 7, 2020
Nov 7, 2020 at 1:29 PM UTC
When Dagobert adorned Franco caves,
Clovis iniquity built a realm portentous?
Ate fruit from olden, -licentious ways…
Portentous realm thus be-stow-ed,
No king in truth but a nave?
Nave only to a Catholic po-et.
Hearken crier old kingdom days,
Oh Franco brave!
Oh Franco brave!
Oh Franco brave!
Oh Franco brave!
In regret of Dagobert's disturb-ed grave.
Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 3:17 PM UTC
I.
Beneath the vine-clad eaves,
Whose shadows fall before
Thy lowly cottage door—
Under the lilac’s tremulous leaves—
Within thy snowy clasped hand
The purple flowers it bore.
Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand,
Like queenly nymph from Fairy-land—
Enchantress of the flowery wand,
Most beauteous Isadore!
II.
And when I bade the dream
Upon thy spirit flee,
Thy violet eyes to me
Upturned, did overflowing seem
With the deep, untold delight
Of Love’s serenity;
Thy classic brow, like lilies white
And pale as the Imperial Night
Upon her throne, with stars bedight,
Enthralled my soul to thee!
III.
Ah! ever I behold
Thy dreamy, passionate eyes,
Blue as the languid skies
Hung with the sunset’s fringe of gold;
Now strangely clear thine image grows,
And olden memories
Are startled from their long repose
Like shadows on the silent snows
When suddenly the night-wind blows
Where quiet moonlight lies.
IV.
Like music heard in dreams,
Like strains of harps unknown,
Of birds for ever flown,—
Audible as the voice of streams
That murmur in some leafy dell,
I hear thy gentlest tone,
And Silence cometh with her spell
Like that which on my tongue doth dwell,
When tremulous in dreams I tell
My love to thee alone!
V.
In every valley heard,
Floating from tree to tree,
Less beautiful to me,
The music of the radiant bird,
Than artless accents such as thine
Whose echoes never flee!
Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine:—
For uttered in thy tones benign
(Enchantress!) this rude name of mine
Doth seem a melody!
2.1k