"swains" poems
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
And all the craggy mountain yields.
There we will sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses,
With a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
7.2k
Sweet, harmless lives! (on whose holy leisure
Waits innocence and pleasure),
Whose leaders to those pastures, and clear springs,
Were patriarchs, saints, and kings,
How happened it that in the dead of night
You only saw true light,
While Palestine was fast asleep, and lay
Without one thought of day?
Was it because those first and blessed swains
Were pilgrims on those plains
When they received the promise, for which now
’Twas there first shown to you?
’Tis true, He loves that dust whereon they go
That serve Him here below,
And therefore might for memory of those
His love there first disclose;
But wretched Salem, once His love, must now
No voice, nor vision know,
Her stately piles with all their height and pride
Now languished and died,
And Bethlem’s humble cotes above them stepped
While all her seers slept;
Her cedar, fir, hewed stones and gold were all
Polluted through their fall,
And those once sacred mansions were now
Mere emptiness and show;
This made the angel call at reeds and thatch,
Yet where the shepherds watch,
And God’s own lodging (though He could not lack)
To be a common rack;
No costly pride, no soft-clothed luxury
In those thin cells could lie,
Each stirring wind and storm blew through their cots
Which never harbored plots,
Only content, and love, and humble joys
Lived there without all noise,
Perhaps some harmless cares for the next day
Did in their bosoms play,
As where to lead their sheep, what silent nook,
What springs or shades to look,
But that was all; and now with gladsome care
They for the town prepare,
They leave their flock, and in a busy talk
All towards Bethlem walk
To see their souls’ Great Shepherd, Who was come
To bring all stragglers home,
Where now they find Him out, and taught before
That Lamb of God adore,
That Lamb whose days great kings and prophets wished
And longed to see, but missed.
The first light they beheld was bright and gay
And turned their night to day,
But to this later light they saw in Him,
Their day was dark, and dim.
2.3k
Ares' Feast
Martian Symbols of Conquest
‘Sleep in Chambers and Vaults deep;
Flame of Torch disturbs their rest.
Swing your Scythe - thy Harvest reap!
Well do mighty Blades recall
Flesh they’ve rent from Bones of Men.
Must we hear Valkyries call
‘Fore the Swords will sleep again?
Fathers fall before the Blades,
Son-like Swains set in the West,
Valkyries shriek and shepherd Shades –
Victims of Sword’s Lust for Flesh.
Aeons pass and still they feast –
Ares and his iron-wing’d beasts.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC
Who is Silvia? What is she?
That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she;
The heaven such grace did lend her,
That she might admirèd be.
Is she kind as she is fair?
For beauty lives with kindness:
Love doth to her eyes repair,
To help him of his blindness;
And, being help’d, inhabits there.
Then to Silvia let us sing,
That Silvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing
Upon the dull earth dwelling:
To her let us garlands bring.
2.1k
She subsists in the cosmos of glamour.
Her eyes twinkle and eyelashes jiggle within the veil of the darkening mascara.
Her body glistens like the presence of phosphorous
Igniting the hearts for her swains.
She is among the stars synthesizing us to be powerless of reaching.
Her body moves like a mermaid pretending herself to be exclusive.
Her lips flutter words those are meant to be listened with sheer fascination,
and cannot be agitated.
Reigning her world she pretends herself to be the empress.
She makes, as well as breaks the hearts of a million,
Forbidding them to remonstrate.
She trends among the unknown with her charming attire- She is the moon.
Carried away by fame she shines,
Under her spell the hearts get enchanted too soon.
Mar 16, 2011
Mar 16, 2011 at 8:16 AM UTC
His golden locks Time hath to silver turn'd;
O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing!
His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurn'd,
But spurn'd in vain; youth waneth by increasing:
Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen;
Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.
His helmet now shall make a hive for bees;
And, lovers' sonnets turn'd to holy psalms,
A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,
And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms:
But though from court to cottage he depart,
His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.
And when he saddest sits in homely cell,
He'll teach his swains this carol for a song,—
'Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well,
Curst be the souls that think her any wrong.'
Goddess, allow this agèd man his right
To be your beadsman now that was your knight.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields,
And lures from cities and from fields,
To sell their liberty for charms
Of ****** lace and glitt'ring arms;
And when Ambition's voice commands,
To fight and fall in foreign lands.
I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To me it talks of ravaged plains,
And burning towns and ruin'd swains,
And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
And widow's tears, and orphans moans,
And all that Misery's hand bestows,
To fill a catalogue of woes.
John Scott (1730-1783)
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC
A lone, lorn traveler
In silence and memory,
Writes to one flame at night
In a room where no answering
Appears, only shadows speak
With out lips to endear. A lone
Traveler has time sutured to will
Cast in a tomb of what might have
Been. He scrawls on chalky sheets
In the mausoleum of murk and dream,
His flame was once a face, real as now,
Filled with light unlike the later seasons
Of split rooms crowding. So much of life
There once was to be lived, her flesh, burnt
Fertile, her eyes knowing promise, her blood
Red rains of hair, endless sojourns beyond myth
Or fable, a thousand barks, her swains over ocean
Silenced by her lips of love for you, only, a lone traveler,
Captain of all oaring ships launched from the plain shores
Of loss under a cliff so high, where his once long devoted
Before wrote a vow of love to all his follies, fates, travails
And gave her hand, to bloom of youths so glorious.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
.
A lone, lorn traveler
In silence and memory,
Writes to one flame at night
In a room where no answering
Appears, only shadows speak
With out lips to endear. A lone
Traveler has time sutured to will
Cast in a tomb of what might have
Been. He scrawls on chalky sheets
In the mausoleum of murk and dream,
His flame was once a face, real as now,
Filled with light unlike the later seasons
Of split rooms crowding. So much of life
There once was to be lived, her flesh, burnt
Fertile, her eyes knowing promise, her blood
Red rains of hair, endless sojourns beyond myth
Or fable, a thousand barks, her swains over ocean
Silenced by her lips of love for you, only, a lone traveler,
Captain of all oaring ships launched from the plain shores
Of loss under a cliff so high, where his once long devoted
Before wrote a vow of love to all his follies, fates, travails
And gave her hand, to bloom of youths so glorious.
.
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 4:37 PM UTC
LOVE IS ALL I NEED
Fri, 07/15/2016 - 14:52 -- Poetic Judy Emery
The beauty of the swains
will dance and sing in delight
Love is what keeps hearts moving
Love is unstoppable ;
Love is the writing of the soul
Love is personal and true
Love is the power in high towers
Love moves the universe ,
Love is worthy of the Light
that shines deep within the night
Love kisses the mind of all kinds
Love is the embrace that warms
the hearts of faith ;
Love is deeper then the sea
this is something I do believe
even when the heart bleeds
Love is all I need to set my soul free .
Poetic Judy Emery (c)
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 6:26 PM UTC
I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields,
And lures from cities and from fields,
To sell their liberty for charms
Of ****** lace, and glittering arms;
And when Ambition's voice commands,
To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands.
I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To me it talks of ravag'd plains,
And burning towns, and ruin'd swains,
And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
And widow's tears, and orphans moans;
And all that misery's hand bestows,
To fill the catalogue of human woes.
ያስጠላኛል ያ ቀፋፊ ድምፅ የታምቡሩ(ለመዝሙር የታሰበ ግጥም)
ያስጠላኛል ያቀፋፊ ድምፅ የታምቡሩ
የባንድ አባላት በሰልፍ ሲውርዱ
ክብ ክብ እየሰሩ!
ለሀሳብ የለሽ ወጣቶቸ ደስታውን ይዘራል
ከከተማ፣ ከሜዳ አማሎ ይጠራል
‹‹ምጡ፣ ነፃነታችሁን ሽጡ
ለዩኒፎርምና ለሜዳል ድንቅ፣
ለመሳሪያም የሚያንፀባርቅ! ››
እናም አንዳስፈላጊንቱ ትዛዝ ሲነግረ
ዘምቶ ተዋግቶ ለመውደቅ በሰው አገር!
ያስጠላኛል ያቀፋፊ ድምፅ የታምቡሩ
የባንድ አባላት በሰልፍ ሲውርዱ
ክብ ክብ እየሰሩ !
ለኔ ሹክ የሚለኝ
የታረሱ ኮረብታዎች፣የነድዱ ከተማዎች፣
የመከኑ ወጣት አፍቃሪዎች፣
የተበለቱ ገላዎች፣ ዋይታዎች፣ ማጣጣሮች
የባልቴት እንባ፣
እንዲሁም የሕፃናት ወላጅ አልባ!
ደሞም ለመዘከር፣ አንዲት ነገር ሳተቀር--
ስለሰው ልጆች ስቃይ፣ በችግር እጅ ስለሚታይ::
(ጆን ስኮት)
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 6:55 AM UTC
Oh Kushite muses, open wide my lips
Regardless whether blood or honey drips,
To speak against the backwardness of those
Who progress, light, and liberty oppose.
To clarify a theme of clannish wrong
While nomads move the camel-herds along.
Animal husbandry takes on new meaning:
Their brides sewn shut; their pasturelands are greening;
Sheba’s daughters cheated of their pleasure,
Despoiled through painful plunder of their treasure.
Filthy blade in hand, the crone bears witness.
The girl in terror, clueless, cut, then clitless.
As if this weren’t enough, infibulation
Ensures the bridegroom’s ****** **********
The honeymoon brings every husband joy:
Reopening the wrapping on his toy.
Where knife or horse-whip place their gentle kiss,
there Kushite swains deliver nights of bliss.
And nine moons later, motherhood, grown mild,
is opened yet again by blade for child.
From Kush to Punt, on Afric’s burning horn,
Sadistic ways cause modern minds to mourn.
We wonder how this barbary was born . . .
Many Bantus, and Ishmaelites as well
consign their birth-machines to living hell.
Explain to me how Satan sold this rite
to those who dwell in bio-sexual night?
Veiled in flesh, her godhead cast aside
Subjected to some herdsman’s wounded pride . . .
Let Kush and Punt, their glory days recall;
Their daughters drink the wormwood and the gall.
Old scars, reopened, threaten to infect
What multi-culti feminists protect.
(*But no one ought to talk about such things
because of all the prejudice it brings*.)
Apr 10, 2020
Apr 10, 2020 at 5:23 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
The Fairies Themselves Now Dance Sweet Summer In
My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird
-Mary Oliver, “Messenger”
Everything is sacramental this week:
The Strawberry Moon in the fullness of being
Midsummer magic by day and by night
The English quarter day, the Feast of St. John
And holy bonfires in honor of light
Good honeybees take Communion at every flower
Soft breezes sing hymns among the ripening corn
The woods and fields are baptized in happiness
The sun and moon bless maidens and swains
We need no clocks or calendars to tell us when –
The fairies themselves now dance sweet summer in
Jun 19, 2024
Jun 19, 2024 at 5:46 PM UTC