"remaineth" poems
How many paltry foolish painted things,
That now in coaches trouble every street,
Shall be forgotten, whom no poet sings,
Ere they be well wrapped in their winding-sheet!
Where I to thee eternity shall give,
When nothing else remaineth of these days,
And queens hereafter shall be glad to live
Upon the alms of thy superfluous praise.
Virgins and matrons, reading these my rhymes,
Shall be so much delighted with thy story
That they shall grieve they lived not in these times,
To have seen thee, their sex's only glory:
So shalt thou fly above the ****** throng,
Still to survive in my immortal song.
4k
When will the day bring its pleasure?
When will the night bring its rest?
Reaper and gleaner and thresher
Peer toward the east and the west:--
The Sower He knoweth, and He knoweth best.
Meteors flash forth and expire,
Northern lights kindle and pale;
These are the days of desire,
Of eyes looking upward that fail;
Vanishing days as a finishing tale.
Bows down the crop in its glory
Tenfold, fifty-fold, hundred-fold;
The millet is ripened and hoary,
The wheat ears are ripened to gold:--
Why keep us waiting in dimness and cold?
The Lord of the harvest, He knoweth
Who knoweth the first and the last:
The Sower Who patiently soweth,
He scanneth the present and past:
He saith, "What thou hast, what remaineth, hold fast."
Yet, Lord, o'er Thy toil-wearied weepers
The storm-clouds hang muttering and frown:
On threshers and gleaners and reapers,
O Lord of the harvest, look down;
Oh for the harvest, the shout, and the crown!
"Not so," saith the Lord of the reapers,
The Lord of the first and the last:
"O My toilers, My weary, My weepers,
What ye have, what remaineth, hold fast.
Hide in My heart till the vengeance be past."
3.8k
There's a crowd of pitch black unicorns at a Chelsea Wolfe's concert.
A crowd of pitch black unicorns moving their onyx hooves and horns
at the rhythm of drones dressed in electric guitars. An acoustic break follows.
The vibrations of the music and dancing cause purple flowers to grow,
purple flowers weaned on blood and sticky black tar. There's a crowd of
unicorns dancing at a Chelsea Wolfe's concert feeding on ladybirds crisps
and dragonflies sticks, that once home will play vinyls on mystic turntables of fire.
The purple flowers grow into vines and try to smother the unicorns
to prevent them from listening to bloodred-dyed vinyls on mystic turntables of fire.
Meanwhile in the corner of a museum S. Teresa of Avila's statue animates by itself, walks
to the window and throwing itself crumbles into a thousand of pieces of marble.
The seventh seal has not been opened yet but the ninth the eleventh and the seventeenth
exploded already, cracked their own wax and started spreading tongues of flames
and water to decimate humanity. A woman dressed in a fifteenth century scarlet outfit
leads the pitch black unicorns to salvation creating a safe haven for them
in Manchester and another one in California. They have in the meantime gone bonkers
and started feeding on each other. Equine teeth suddenly grow carnivorous jaws.
Nothing is left in the two oasis apart from a puddle of blood and a pavement of corpses.
It's 7 a.m. Chelsea has not yet finished her concert and her music blossoms around
played by the mystic turntables of fire. That which remaineth is pitch black light
and the breath of aeons lingering here and beyond and nowhere.
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 8:33 PM UTC
When Lazarus left his charnel-cave,
And home to Mary's house return'd,
Was this demanded--if he yearn'd
To hear her weeping by his grave?
'Where wert thou, brother, those four days?'
There lives no record of reply,
Which telling what it is to die
Had surely added praise to praise.
From every house the neighbours met,
The streets were fill'd with joyful sound,
A solemn gladness even crown'd
The purple brows of Olivet.
Behold a man raised up by Christ!
The rest remaineth unreveal'd;
He told it not; or something seal'd
The lips of that Evangelist.
1.5k
698
Life—is what we make of it—
Death—we do not know—
Christ’s acquaintance with Him
Justify Him—though—
He—would trust no stranger—
Other—could betray—
Just His own endorsement—
That—sufficeth Me—
All the other Distance
He hath traversed first—
No New Mile remaineth—
Far as Paradise—
His sure foot preceding—
Tender Pioneer—
Base must be the Coward
Dare not venture—now—
1.3k
Too much noise, too much misery;
Fake beauty, false flattery;
Feigned tears, faint hearts;
Mock presents, dainty pasts.
Too much singing, too much song;
Far too empty, too wrong.
Too regular, too feminine;
Too much constancy seen.
Too insincere, too blind;
Too raucous to one’s mind.
Unhearing, unloving;
Unknowing, unseeing.
Inconsistent, ravaged, savage;
Not aware of youth and age.
Not knowing sins are fatal;
Not knowing worlds call chaos.
Not seeing lives are mortal;
Not seeing value, nor loss.
Too defined, too thin, too fair;
No curious touch nor flair;
Not jubilant, nor merciful;
Not knowing arts are plentiful.
Not voice, nor titles, nor vice;
Not pictures, nor pride, nor lies.
Too soothing, too tedious;
Too apparent, too obvious;
Too gracious, too grainless;
Not an emblem of happiness;
Not distinctive, nor charming;
Not distinguished, nor loving.
Too engaged, too dim, too forgetful;
Too separate, too disgraceful;
Too priceless, too sensuous;
No realness is to them, wondrous;
Too unbecoming, too wishful;
Too known, too gay, too sinful.
Too delighted, but evil to me;
Those boasting beauties of thee;
I am not part, nor flesh of thine;
I live with the voice in my mind;
I love in silence, in seclusion;
Only mirth salves my delusion;
Too sparkling, but mean still;
Unknowing towards those I feel;
I cannot be, nor shall I be;
I shall not place my soul in thee;
Thy voice remaineth loved still;
But to love thee, I never will.
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 3:03 AM UTC
When the pale moon recedes; no sun to take it's place,
And darkness hides all tears, now frozen on thy face,
And no cries can be uttered, they only echo in the head,
When all joy turns to sorrow, and hope right into dread,
And light not even remaineth, not even within the soul,
And the wind makes no chime; the bells no longer toll,
When ghosts no longer taunt me, with words I should've said,
Tis' the day I'll admit, my dear, our love is surely dead.
Mar 4, 2011
Mar 4, 2011 at 6:37 PM UTC
SCENE 1: Park’s Parlor
It was a sunny Saturday morn
A busy week of lectures, classes, briskly worn
Liam, in a grey city short and blue polo shirt
Disregardantly laid on a campus park bench
Enjoying the warm summer breeze
As it plunged his advertence into a mild slumber.
He was then awakened by the sound of footsteps approaching
He glanced
And there she was, walking down the descending footpath
Taunting every living creature she passed by
With her stout, curvy frame sculptured with intricate exuberance;
He knew her; She knew him not
SCENE 2: Classroom Debacle
It was a dull Tuesday after-morning
Liam was running late for a lecturer
As he entered the classroom, there she was
Setting in the fifth row North
Wearing a silken Darthmouth-green cloth.
He gazed about, looking for an empty chair
And only one remaineth, next to her
He hesitantly approached the seat
Trying to dodge the stern cold stare from the lecturer
Moments passed, his body laying cold-death with fright
He then was startled by a gentle voice saying
‘Hi, I am Amy’ ” ” ‘You can have my today’s notes’ ” ” ‘ ‘:
She knew him; She knew his intentions not
SCENE 3: Hostel Civility
It was a noisy Friday evening.
Liam was resting in his wooden bed
And the echoing jubilance of the half-drunken students
Glutted the air like a summers-end park amusements.
Certainly, his drifting mind was brought to a halt by a little knock on the door
“Come on in”, He answered
Amy entered while wearing a hunters-moon grin
‘I have come for my notes’ she said
Liam feignly offered her a cup of coffee, pretending like he didn’t hear her
“The night is young, let’s go out and grab a bite”, he continued
She gallantly stood up: He expeditiously grabbed his coat,
And they shut the door behind them and disappeared into the radiant dusk
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 2:44 AM UTC
your appearance has never graced my vision,
yet on the night of the moon gloweth thy prison.
Shelter in the dark heart of pain,
affecting the solitary state of thine name,
a travesty none shall ever tame.
Your warmth has never been in my grasp,
tender touch of love never hath pasted.
Alas' the struggle of innocent pain,
reflects that of the nature of thy game,
sorrowfully remaineth the same.
Torture my fight of sight,
shall strike forth with the pierce of thy knife.
Heart ache drowning in loneliness pain,
crumble upon my humility grave,
enslaved.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 2:26 PM UTC
While thou on Tereus descant'st better skill.
Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill,
For nothing this wide universe I call,
My love is as a fever, longing still
'Long may they kiss each other, for this cure!
Doth in her poison'd closet yet endure.'
He kisses her; and she, by her good will,
To accessary yieldings, but still pure
But low shrubs wither at the cedar's root.
He shall not boast who did thy stock pollute
And leave the faltering feeble souls alive?
And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
For now she knows it is no gentle chase,
Because the cry remaineth in one place,
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace.
Then call them not the authors of their ill,
Like to a mortal butcher bent to ****
'O Jove,' quoth she, 'how much a fool was I
An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still,
But her foresight could not forestall their will.
The silly lambs: pure thoughts are dead and still,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
Is form'd in them by force, by fraud, or skill:
Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend:
Were it not sinful then, striving to mend,
Doth half that glory to the sober west,
In true plain words by thy true-telling friend;
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
Is madly toss'd between desire and dread;
For all my mind, my thought, my busy care,
A second fear through all her sinews spread,
And, blushing with him, wistly on him gazed;
Her earnest eye did make him more amazed:
And for my sake serve thou false Tarquin so.
That two red fires in both their faces blazed;
That all the world besides methinks are dead.
For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed,
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head,
He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear,
Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,
She tears the senseless Sinon with her nails,
Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear;
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 2:53 PM UTC
On day of sun and summer heat,
A young man farms among the wheat,
His work ne’er seen as any feat,
Its purpose be to quotient meet,
In the fields of Camelot.
His work complete hours after noon,
He lies to rest in light of moon,
‘Neath willow tree he hears a tune,
Come from strange Shalott.
Was not the first this song he heard,
As sweet as chirping of a bird.
To where is seen the water gird
His ears had often promptly turned,
Away from Camelot.
The singer fair, he did not know,
But song his face would light aglow,
And often thoughts of his would blow,
Upon the isle, Shalott.
“In cursed seal, the isle is shrouded,”
Said those around the market crowded.
The boy had thought their judgments clouded,
The love he had he never doubted,
Despite the words of Camelot.
For voice there trapped in lightless tower,
He often dreamt of lending power,
To see her free, the captured flower,
The Lady of Shalott.
When time was right, there came a day,
As clouds in somber mood turned grey,
To bring to light that which he pray.
And so, with nothing left to say,
He ran toward Camelot.
At river there, he found great length.
Though with no boat, he reached the banks,
For in the fields he’d found the strength,
To make it to Shalott.
His body cold, his soul ablaze,
He made his way to open door,
Climbed up the stairs in lighting poor,
And in his mind he thought no more
Of busy Camelot.
But in her room, he found it bare,
With only woven works of care,
Which all revealed such beauty rare,
Of worlds outside Shalott.
And though within his heart he knew,
The voice he loved had bid adieu,
Her memory remaineth true,
The Lady of Shalott.
Jul 27, 2019
Jul 27, 2019 at 7:17 AM UTC