"rehears" poems
I found myself in anothers eyes.
Reflecting all my wants and why's.
By our hearts beats a universe.
Our love to give and not rehears.
Through our eyes I saw myself
In all my sickness and in health.
For all my truth and selfworth..
Conected being with life on Earth.
This love I feel gives all meaning.
Building real; made in dreaming.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 5:50 AM UTC
Sweet girl! though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne’er forget;
And though we ne’er may meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain;
I would not say, “I love,” but still,
My senses struggle with my will:
In vain to drive thee from my breast,
My thoughts are more and more represt;
In vain I check the rising sighs,
Another to the last replies:
Perhaps, this is not love, but yet,
Our meeting I can ne’er forget.
What, though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke;
The tongue in flattering falsehood deals,
And tells a tale it never feels:
Deceit, the guilty lips impart,
And hush the mandates of the heart;
But soul’s interpreters, the eyes,
Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise.
As thus our glances oft convers’d,
And all our bosoms felt rehears’d,
No spirit, from within, reprov’d us,
Say rather, “’twas the spirit mov’d us.”
Though, what they utter’d, I repress,
Yet I conceive thou’lt partly guess;
For as on thee, my memory ponders,
Perchance to me, thine also wanders.
This, for myself, at least, I’ll say,
Thy form appears through night, through day;
Awake, with it my fancy teems,
In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams;
The vision charms the hours away,
And bids me curse Aurora’s ray
For breaking slumbers of delight,
Which make me wish for endless night.
Since, oh! whate’er my future fate,
Shall joy or woe my steps await;
Tempted by love, by storms beset,
Thine image, I can ne’er forget.
Alas! again no more we meet,
No more our former looks repeat;
Then, let me breathe this parting prayer,
The dictate of my bosom’s care:
“May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker,
That anguish never can o’ertake her;
That peace and virtue ne’er forsake her,
But bliss be aye her heart’s partaker!
Oh! may the happy mortal, fated
To be, by dearest ties, related,
For her, each hour, new joys discover,
And lose the husband in the lover!
May that fair ***** never know
What ’tis to feel the restless woe,
Which stings the soul, with vain regret,
Of him, who never can forget!”
2.6k
Ink a new line that drips upon a page;
Poetry plays a point that letters spell.
When feet are running meter's rhyme and rage,
The poet writes of love that's worth the tell.
A statement made of stanzas rings a bell
In ears that crave the rhythm of a verse
Rehears'd in dulcet tones that maybe yell
At times when feeling love is but a curse.
Volta Velveeta cheese an early hearse
And bathroom book of verses by anon.
Musical fruits smell better smelling worse;
If music be the food of loveplay on.
Flowersweet love songs ring with singing turds;
Poesy pussy-footing plays with words.
Jul 3, 2025
Jul 3, 2025 at 9:43 PM UTC
No
It's cool.
These things happen for a reason
And every time I rehears those words I almost start to believe it
Because my naive heart just needs something to believe in
When nothing feels right
And I start to lose feeling
everything that's wrong
starts revealing
You made it all worth living.
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 2:48 AM UTC