"temperately" poems
Three sang of love together: one with lips
Crimson, with cheeks and ***** in a glow,
Flushed to the yellow hair and finger-tips;
And one there sang who soft and smooth as snow
Bloomed like a tinted hyacinth at a show;
And one was blue with famine after love,
Who like a harpstring snapped rang harsh and low
The burden of what those were singing of.
One shamed herself in love; one temperately
Grew gross in soulless love, a sluggish wife;
One famished died for love. Thus two of three
Took death for love and won him after strife;
One droned in sweetness like a fattened bee:
All on the threshold, yet all short of life.
5.3k
Departing summer hath assumed
An aspect tenderly illumed,
The gentlest look of spring;
That calls from yonder leafy shade
Unfaded, yet prepared to fade,
A timely carolling.
No faint and hesitating trill,
Such tribute as to winter chill
The lonely redbreast pays!
Clear, loud, and lively is the din,
From social warblers gathering in
Their harvest of sweet lays.
Nor doth the example fail to cheer
Me, conscious that my leaf is sere,
And yellow on the bough:—
Fall, rosy garlands, from my head!
Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed
Around a younger brow!
Yet will I temperately rejoice;
Wide is the range, and free the choice
Of undiscordant themes;
Which, haply, kindred souls may prize
Not less than vernal ecstasies,
And passion’s feverish dreams.
For deathless powers to verse belong,
And they like Demi-gods are strong
On whom the Muses smile;
But some their function have disclaimed,
Best pleased with what is aptliest framed
To enervate and defile.
Not such the initiatory strains
Committed to the silent plains
In Britain’s earliest dawn:
Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale,
While all-too-daringly the veil
Of nature was withdrawn!
Nor such the spirit-stirring note
When the live chords Alcæus smote,
Inflamed by sense of wrong;
Woe! woe to Tyrants! from the lyre
Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire
Of fierce vindictive song.
And not unhallowed was the page
By wingèd Love inscribed, to assuage
The pangs of vain pursuit;
Love listening while the Lesbian Maid
With finest touch of passion swayed
Her own æolian lute.
O ye, who patiently explore
The wreck of Herculanean lore,
What rapture! could ye seize
Some Theban fragment, or unroll
One precious, tender-hearted scroll
Of pure Simonides.
That were, indeed, a genuine birth
Of poesy; a bursting forth
Of genius from the dust:
What Horace gloried to behold,
What Maro loved, shall we enfold?
Can haughty Time be just!
2.5k
It was in wander
for not lost was she.
It was in wonder
for without sin
she walked towards
the tree bearing
sweet fruit
enticing her forward
lust sent a lumber puncture
through her spine
upwards it shot to the
brain; cerebral forms
into a beating heart.
It excited her there was
such freedom found
in such innocence.
Pulsating quivers she waited
Adam to her Eve
daisy chains falling from her neck
framing a prepubescent chest
hooks temperately fastening
white knotted cotton hand sewn dress
virginal white
no womanhood in sight
Annabelle’s life, a melody of
melancholic cacophonic raspers
from asylums, former patients
of Briarcliff Manor
residing in her; only misery
innocent running’s from
grave dangers of
stark raving madness.
For, today
she wasn’t embroiled
as Arden’s pet
instead she was the little girl
so born to be before the woman
was stolen, bound by
a physicians sick
nightmarish re-enactments.
For, today
she was free
a starling, passionate
darling.
© Sia Jane
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 7:10 PM UTC
One morning fair, in the month of may,
I awoke afresh and laughed,
for it seemed to me that the time
had come, for a grand adventure,
and a merry day.
I ran down the creaking steps,
down the long and welcoming
stair, and when I came to stair-
wells end, I winded stopped to
rest.
But soon I rose and started on,
running on again, and running
now more temperately, I came
to the store apace.
I stocked my pack with bread
and butter, an apple and some
cheese, and as a welcome
afterthought, I added in some
bees.
I ran out the oaken door,
I ran across the lawn,
and entered in the beechen
woods, full flowered in
Kindly spring.
And I ran and sang, and lost
my way, all through that
laughing, gladden day, and
when at last I ventured home,
my parents were justly, quite
distraught.
But I lay in my bed, and smiled
and sang gladly in my heart,
for though to bed without
supper I'd gone, and my belly
was rumbling sore, I'd gone on a
merry, grand adventure,
and I'd had a merry day.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
It was in wander
For not lost was she
It was in wonder
For without sin she led,
The tree bearing sweet fruit
Enticing her
Forward.
Lust sent a lumber puncture through
her spine.
Upwards it shot
to the brain, cerebral forms
into a red beating heart.
It excited her, the
Freedom found in such innocence
pulsating quivers.
She waited
Adam to her Eve
daisy chains falling from her neck
framing a prepubescent chest.
Such tender collar
Bones, hooks temperately fastening
white knotted cotton,
hand sewn dress virginial
White.
Annabelle's life, a melody of
melancholic cacophonic
raspers,
from asylums.
Former patients; Briarcliff Manor
residing in her; misery.
Innocent runnings from grave
Dangers of,
stark raving madness.
For, today, she wasn't embroiled
as Arden's pet.
Instead she was the little girl so born
to be,
before the woman was stolen
bound by a physicians sick
nightmarish reenactments.
For, today she was
Free.
a starling
passionate
darling.
© Sia Jane
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 8:39 PM UTC
a union is granted a pie
and cleanse their rye
when a tunic can sequester mobs
only cries in these houses pale crumbs
as they succumb to climes in poles
that keep their fry hush in throes
and below the ground frowns peal the town
as ice is temperately bound
whether ponds here roast white supremacy
as rhetoric was xenophobia
and rose from their chaos
now the national street
that sought their limb
and the financier in London
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 11:46 AM UTC
Oh, to be maying this cool sun-snapped day,
Temperately faultless and fair.
Oh, to be roaming, this rare day in May ~
Oh, how I wish you were there.
Oh, to be with you as spring bids its bye
And as summer is saluted, yet still...
Oh, you were with me as often I try
To think of you out on the hill.
I remember you with me, faithful and true,
Oh you, how loyal and sound;
Alert when I whistled and ever I knew
Oh you, a prince of a hound.
Oh, to be maying as memories awaken ~
But do I feel rain in the sky?
Not so, this May day, I must be mistaken;
Oh, 'tis the tear in my eye.
ASJ
May 1, 2020
May 1, 2020 at 1:32 AM UTC
People live in the shadows
Of each other,
People ride on the coattails
Of each other,
People hand out their
Fairweather friendships
To each other,
(But only temperately)
People build walls around
Each other,
And around themselves,
Some people will **** you
With a smile,
Or a kiss,
That drags you down to
The deepest frozen depts,
Until you're at the bottom
Right with all the rest.
- Jamie F. Nugent
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 5:51 AM UTC