"singeth" poems
Now the day is done,
Now the shepherd sun
Drives his white flocks from the sky;
Now the flowers rest
On their mother's breast,
Hushed by her low lullaby.
Now the glowworms glance,
Now the fireflies dance,
Under fern-boughs green and high;
And the western breeze
To the forest trees
Chants a tuneful lullaby.
Now 'mid shadows deep
Falls blessed sleep,
Like dew from the summer sky;
And the whole earth dreams,
In the moon's soft beams,
While night breathes a lullaby.
Now, birdlings, rest,
In your wind-rocked nest,
Unscared by the owl's shrill cry;
For with folded wings
Little Brier swings,
And singeth your lullaby.
4.7k
1
Awake ye muses nine, sing me a strain divine,
Unwind the solemn twine, and tie my Valentine!
Oh the Earth was made for lovers, for damsel, and hopeless swain,
For sighing, and gentle whispering, and unity made of twain.
All things do go a courting, in earth, or sea, or air,
God hath made nothing single but thee in His world so fair!
The bride, and then the bridegroom, the two, and then the one,
Adam, and Eve, his consort, the moon, and then the sun;
The life doth prove the precept, who obey shall happy be,
Who will not serve the sovereign, be hanged on fatal tree.
The high do seek the lowly, the great do seek the small,
None cannot find who seeketh, on this terrestrial ball;
The bee doth court the flower, the flower his suit receives,
And they make merry wedding, whose guests are hundred leaves;
The wind doth woo the branches, the branches they are won,
And the father fond demandeth the maiden for his son.
The storm doth walk the seashore humming a mournful tune,
The wave with eye so pensive, looketh to see the moon,
Their spirits meet together, they make their solemn vows,
No more he singeth mournful, her sadness she doth lose.
The worm doth woo the mortal, death claims a living bride,
Night unto day is married, morn unto eventide;
Earth is a merry damsel, and heaven a knight so true,
And Earth is quite coquettish, and beseemeth in vain to sue.
Now to the application, to the reading of the roll,
To bringing thee to justice, and marshalling thy soul:
Thou art a human solo, a being cold, and lone,
Wilt have no kind companion, thou reap’st what thou hast sown.
Hast never silent hours, and minutes all too long,
And a deal of sad reflection, and wailing instead of song?
There’s Sarah, and Eliza, and Emeline so fair,
And Harriet, and Susan, and she with curling hair!
Thine eyes are sadly blinded, but yet thou mayest see
Six true, and comely maidens sitting upon the tree;
Approach that tree with caution, then up it boldly climb,
And seize the one thou lovest, nor care for space, or time!
Then bear her to the greenwood, and build for her a bower,
And give her what she asketh, jewel, or bird, or flower—
And bring the fife, and trumpet, and beat upon the drum—
And bid the world Goodmorrow, and go to glory home!
3.6k
Knows he who tills this lonely field
To reap its scanty corn,
What mystic fruit his acres yield
At midnight and at morn?
In the long sunny afternoon,
The plain was full of ghosts,
I wandered up, I wandered down,
Beset by pensive hosts.
The winding Concord gleamed below,
Pouring as wide a flood
As when my brothers long ago,
Came with me to the wood.
But they are gone,— the holy ones,
Who trod with me this lonely vale,
The strong, star-bright companions
Are silent, low, and pale.
My good, my noble, in their prime,
Who made this world the feast it was,
Who learned with me the lore of time,
Who loved this dwelling-place.
They took this valley for their toy,
They played with it in every mood,
A cell for prayer, a hall for joy,
They treated nature as they would.
They colored the horizon round,
Stars flamed and faded as they bade,
All echoes hearkened for their sound,
They made the woodlands glad or mad.
I touch this flower of silken leaf
Which once our childhood knew
Its soft leaves wound me with a grief
Whose balsam never grew.
Hearken to yon pine warbler
Singing aloft in the tree;
Hearest thou, O traveller!
What he singeth to me?
Not unless God made sharp thine ear
With sorrow such as mine,
Out of that delicate lay couldst thou
The heavy dirge divine.
Go, lonely man, it saith,
They loved thee from their birth,
Their hands were pure, and pure their faith,
There are no such hearts on earth.
Ye drew one mother's milk,
One chamber held ye all;
A very tender history
Did in your childhood fall.
Ye cannot unlock your heart,
The key is gone with them;
The silent ***** loudest chants
The master's requiem.
2.4k
Gone were but the Winter,
Come were but the Spring,
I would go to a covert
Where the birds sing;
Where in the white-thorn
Singeth a thrush,
And a robin sings
In the holly-bush.
Full of fresh scents
Are the budding boughs,
Arching high over
A cool green house:
Full of sweet scents,
And whispering air
Which sayeth softly:
"We spread no snare;
"Here dwell in safety,
Here dwell alone,
With a clear stream
And a mossy stone.
"Here the sun shineth
Most shadily;
Here is heard an echo
Of the far sea,
Though far off it be."
2k
Knows he who tills this lonely field
To reap its scanty corn,
What mystic fruit his acres yield
At midnight and at morn?
In the long sunny afternoon,
The plain was full of ghosts,
I wandered up, I wandered down,
Beset by pensive hosts.
The winding Concord gleamed below,
Pouring as wide a flood
As when my brothers long ago,
Came with me to the wood.
But they are gone,— the holy ones,
Who trod with me this lonely vale,
The strong, star-bright companions
Are silent, low, and pale.
My good, my noble, in their prime,
Who made this world the feast it was,
Who learned with me the lore of time,
Who loved this dwelling-place.
They took this valley for their toy,
They played with it in every mood,
A cell for prayer, a hall for joy,
They treated nature as they would.
They colored the horizon round,
Stars flamed and faded as they bade,
All echoes hearkened for their sound,
They made the woodlands glad or mad.
I touch this flower of silken leaf
Which once our childhood knew
Its soft leaves wound me with a grief
Whose balsam never grew.
Hearken to yon pine warbler
Singing aloft in the tree;
Hearest thou, O traveller!
What he singeth to me?
Not unless God made sharp thine ear
With sorrow such as mine,
Out of that delicate lay couldst thou
The heavy dirge divine.
Go, lonely man, it saith,
They loved thee from their birth,
Their hands were pure, and pure their faith,
There are no such hearts on earth.
Ye drew one mother's milk,
One chamber held ye all;
A very tender history
Did in your childhood fall.
Ye cannot unlock your heart,
The key is gone with them;
The silent ***** loudest chants
The master's requiem.
1.6k
i.
I slumbereth inside her soul
Whilst I glory amongst her gold;
There art treasure's there of old
As Angel's singeth hymn's of solomon.
ii.
Her spirit to me is a guide
Her eye's I sinketh in, slide;
From her Filipino Tagalog
I'll taketh a celestial ride.
iii.
Calm I am with her ambience
Embalmed I am, in her gladness;
I shalt swimmeth across the isthmus
To reacheth her, in the Asiatic distance.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
Like to the bird that singeth
To woo a ***** make,
I sing; and yet it bringeth
Upon my throat an ache.
For one who cannot hear me
Is one for whom I sing:
I sing for one not near me
Of loneliness and spring.
^ ^
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 5:05 PM UTC
i.
Last eve', whilst mine Filipino rose
Was falling deep into her slumber;
I started to doze off, into hypnagogic state
I wasn't sleeping, nor was I fully awake.
ii.
In the midst of this hallucinatory reality
I couldst discern a tender mild voice, betwixt this actuality;
The strong yet forward word's spoke as this to me
Brandon, "doth thou want to cometh home to JESUS CHRIST" ?
iii.
As tis the word's JESUS CHRIST were in italic bold font
From the way it was saidst, it was sung as an angel wouldst singeth his name up in heaven; someone, not knowing whom, asked if I wanted to cometh home, was this an angel, or a dream?
iv.
Ive hadst encounter's with demonic being's daily, as tis I've had angelic encounter's as well, wouldst twenty seven be mine last;
As I've thought of this a many whilst's, as tis every musician of mine I've loved died at this age, as two plus seven equal's nine.
v.
Nine, mine favorite number, mine sport's digit always chosen as a boy, nine, the number meaning completion in all religion's;
The figure representing the completion of life's own cycle, as tis so many star's completed their journey at 27, was I being called?
Ivi.
Didst someone asketh me to cometh home? Back where I belong? To the star's? To God's son? Number's alway's meaneth something; in mine bible, in all religion's, in all thing's, as tis angel's speaketh in front of thee or in dream's, was that mine angel? Calling me?
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 9:44 AM UTC
ii.
Sampaguitas to fragrance her mane
She whispereth sir Brandon;
Mine husband
Mine king.
ii.
I layeth down the counterpane
frankincense and myrrh aligned;
Tea candles surrounding ourn jungle
Of a bedspread romantic design.
iii.
Tis we loseth, track of all time
She sloweth her breathing, I singeth for her, she smiles and sayeth it's pleasing; ourn heart's steadily yet quickly beating, as if we were drunkened off of lover's delight divine.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl jane nagley dedication ( Filipino rose )
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 4:06 PM UTC
i.
I canst not thanketh thee enough, for assuaging mine pang's
On earth, in heaven, on the dwarf planet's, in thy kiss of leaven;
When thou art down, I'll taketh thine frown, when broken, when hopeless, I shalt giveth thee mine own gladness; lifting thy smile.
ii.
In cities, in town's, aloft the skies, on the ground, in the open, in the wild, cadmium yellow floret's, mine Asian child, in thy eye's;
In thy laugh, passed the noise, of hellish mess, passed the pain's, madness and stress; I shalt always be by thy waistside, mine pet.
iii.
In ourn life, and beyond ourn death's, we shalt meeteth at the place of holiness, tis not a place sculpted by hand's of men;
Tis a place of dominion's and kingdom's. Inside God's house wherein we shalt be in peace, the angel's shalt singeth, halo sleep.
©Brandon Nagley
©Earl jane Nagley (Pookie) dedication
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 6:56 PM UTC
I am in love, and in love with him;
I'll love him t'night, under th' moonbeams;
And who shall say-t'at he's really mean?
As far as I know, he's funny and keen;
I am but trapped, between his West' worlds;
Too polite for poems; too tactful for words.
I'm alive no more, by my Eastern wings;
Only a poem at nights; but none on mornings.
I seekest only him thus, with such eyes so blue;
A promise faint still, but delights so true.
I loved his yesterday, and shall do his tomorrow;
I loveth him like t'at-within th' very here and now.
Ah, but shall he ever perfectly know-
T'at I singeth his songs, and painteth his rainbow?
And should t'is lasting love ever transform;
I too wouldst change, I'd take any form.
I may not be within his green leaves;
But I'll 'ways be t'ere, even in his tears.
I am to be th' queen within his throne;
And owneth his secret, intended for my eyes alone.
His skin is even brighter than t'is sunny day;
His blue eyes were mine in dreams, and th' whole of today.
I am th' lover of his goods, th' charms of his bads;
I loveth him happily, and sacredly; in flesh and in all my head.
And whenst my soul he began to tease,
All I ever wanted was to share his kiss;
And by him I feelest but peace,
No dire annoyance, just one secret bliss;
And 'tis his lips t'at shall be my taste;
What a love t'at groweth-but never is in haste!
Ah, and I wanteth to taste just his watery breath;
So let's just hope t'at t'is world hath no death-
At least no death before he is mine;
Th' one I hath yearnt for, th' one on my mind;
And perhaps love canst be direly ill;
But none canst presume aught; nor what I might feel.
And whenst but cometh th' shriekings of fall;
Still 'tis his voice, t'at I loveth at all.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 12:40 PM UTC
630
The Lightning playeth—all the while—
But when He singeth—then—
Ourselves are conscious He exist—
And we approach Him—stern—
With Insulators—and a Glove—
Whose short—sepulchral Bass
Alarms us—tho’ His Yellow feet
May pass—and counterpass—
Upon the Ropes—above our Head—
Continual—with the News—
Nor We so much as check our speech—
Nor stop to cross Ourselves—
998
Strings o' de'd piano singeth,
Voices beaneth its heart, expelleth,
Movin' sadness o' my grave, murmureth,
Coffin o' t'se broken love weep'th,
Every pint o' her voice, serene tasteth,
Every drop o' her saliva, my lips t'en consumeth,
Eyes h've I open'd, memories t'se,
Enigmatic'ly disappeareth,
Hairs o' mine, tranquil breeze pusheth,
Words within my mouth, die in t'at war o' silence,
Shrinketh ***** o' mine, fume exposeth,
Yet the requiem, w'th victorious head o' silence, stoppeth hath not,
Burstin' blisters on fingers o' mine, squeezeth the throat o' thy piano.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 2:20 AM UTC
Mine own joybringer moon ambler
Mine own figure is thy company per purr
Thee madeth me a humour addeth loveth abler
Saveth thy ardor banter to me thy emotion banker
Beest mine own forever pricketh spur
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 11:28 AM UTC
i.
Thou hath uplifted me
Thou hath lit mine path;
Darkness topple's me
Thine light is mine other half.
ii.
thou art mine cherub
Mine serpahim;
Thou art mine angel
Mine cheribum.
iii.
Thou hath given me life
Before, I was dead and gone;
A brilliance of the curtain Sky's
Now I singeth joyous song's.
iv.
And in mine right and wrong's
Thou hath always forgiven me;
I couldn't ask, for a better lass
One whom set's me free.
v.
I kneweth this long ago
I saweth it in mine and thine's word's;
That we wouldst be truest soulmate's
Forever to endure.
©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane/Reyna dedication
©Lonesome poets poetry
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 8:21 PM UTC