"tuneful" poems
If rightly tuneful bards decide,
If it be fix’d in Love’s decrees,
That Beauty ought not to be tried
But by its native power to please,
Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell—
What fair can Amoret excel?
Behold that bright unsullied smile,
And wisdom speaking in her mien:
Yet—she so artless all the while,
So little studious to be seen—
We naught but instant gladness know,
Nor think to whom the gift we owe.
But neither music, nor the powers
Of youth and mirth and frolic cheer,
Add half the sunshine to the hours,
Or make life’s prospect half so clear,
As memory brings it to the eye
From scenes where Amoret was by.
This, sure, is Beauty’s happiest part;
This gives the most unbounded sway;
This shall enchant the subject heart
When rose and lily fade away;
And she be still, in spite of Time,
Sweet Amoret in all her prime.
7.6k
LOVELY Semiramis
Closes her slanting eyes:
Dead is she long ago.
From her fan, sliding slow,
Parrot-bright fire's feathers,
Gilded as June weathers,
Plumes bright and shrill as grass
Twinkle down; as they pass
Through the green glooms in Hell
Fruits with a tuneful smell,
Grapes like an emerald rain,
Where the full moon has lain,
Greengages bright as grass,
Melons as cold as glass,
Piled on each gilded booth,
Feel their cheeks growing smooth.
Apes in plumed head-dresses
Whence the bright heat hisses,--
Nubian faces, sly
Pursing mouth, slanting eye,
Feel the Arabian
Winds floating from the fan.
4.9k
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
Those evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells,
Of youth and home and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime.
Those joyous hours are passed away;
And many a heart that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.
And so 'twill be when I am gone;
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!
~Thomas Moore: 1779--1852~
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 10:46 PM UTC
You cannot exactly describe a person's laugh
to those unfortunate enough to miss it, but
when she smiles
and her eyes brighten up, rippling sapphire,
nothing else exists.
The sweet, tuneful melody escaping her lips draws
a smile onto my face, no matter what my mood.
I feel her body shake beside me, and I watch her perfect smile,
outlined with natural temptation.
While perfection may never exist,
love lies within this girl, and
to me, that love is perfect.
Her eyes reflect a better me, and in her
heartbeat, I feel a piece of myself
as we become one in each other's
arms. That embrace that always
leads the way back
to sanity and incomprehensible peace.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 8:13 PM UTC
Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the ****** starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.
And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.
All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.
And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the **** on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise.
And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace.
Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would
take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
3.3k
The old oak tree grew at the edge,
of an orchard where little ones play,
and there lived a mage,
who hears trees on a windy day,
Rushing wind rustles leaves,
on that one day brilliant and bright,
With amber gold autumn grandeur on display,
singing tuneful songs delightfully light and gay,
Apple trees trilling events as mysterious as night,
Of love found and lost last May.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 8:12 AM UTC
O Venus, beauty of the skies,
To whom a thousand temples rise,
Gaily false in gentle smiles,
Full of love-perplexing wiles;
O goddess, from my heart remove
The wasting cares and pains of love.
If ever thou hast kindly heard
A song in soft distress preferred,
Propitious to my tuneful vow,
A gentle goddess, hear me now.
Descend, thou bright immortal guest,
In all thy radiant charms confessed.
Thou once didst leave almighty Jove
And all the golden roofs above:
The car thy wanton sparrows drew,
Hovering in air they lightly flew;
As to my bower they winged their way
I saw their quivering pinions play.
The birds dismissed (while you remain)
Bore back their empty car again:
Then you, with looks divinely mild,
In every heavenly feature smiled,
And asked what new complaints I made,
And why I called you to my aid?
What frenzy in my ***** raged,
And by what cure to be assuaged?
What gentle youth I would allure,
Whom in my artful toils secure?
Who does thy tender heart subdue,
Tell me, my Sappho, tell me who?
Though now he shuns thy longing arms,
He soon shall court thy slighted charms;
Though now thy offerings he despise,
He soon to thee shall sacrifice;
Though now he freezes, he soon shall burn,
And be thy victim in his turn.
Celestial visitant, once more
Thy needful presence I implore.
In pity come, and ease my grief,
Bring my distempered soul relief,
Favour thy suppliant's hidden fires,
And give me all my heart desires.
2.7k
Long I followed happy guides,—
I could never reach their sides.
Their step is forth, and, ere the day,
Breaks up their leaguer, and away.
Keen my sense, my heart was young,
Right goodwill my sinews strung,
But no speed of mine avails
To hunt upon their shining trails.
On and away, their hasting feet
Make the morning proud and sweet.
Flowers they strew, I catch the scent,
Or tone of silver instrument
Leaves on the wind melodious trace,
Yet I could never see their face.
On eastern hills I see their smokes
Mixed with mist by distant lochs.
I meet many travellers
Who the road had surely kept,—
They saw not my fine revellers,—
These had crossed them while they slept.
Some had heard their fair report
In the country or the court.
Fleetest couriers alive
Never yet could once arrive,
As they went or they returned,
At the house where these sojourned.
Sometimes their strong speed they slacken,
Though they are not overtaken:
In sleep, their jubilant troop is near,
I tuneful voices overhear,
It may be in wood or waste,—
At unawares 'tis come and passed.
Their near camp my spirit knows
By signs gracious as rainbows.
I thenceforward and long after
Listen for their harplike laughter,
And carry in my heart for days
Peace that hallows rudest ways.—
2.2k
The rhyme of the poet
Modulates the king's affairs,
Balance-loving nature
Made all things in pairs.
To every foot its antipode,
Each color with its counter glowed,
To every tone beat answering tones,
Higher or graver;
Flavor gladly blends with flavor;
Leaf answers leaf upon the bough,
And match the paired cotyledons.
Hands to hands, and feet to feet,
In one body grooms and brides;
Eldest rite, two married sides
In every mortal meet.
Light's far furnace shines,
Smelting ***** and bars,
Forging double stars,
Glittering twins and trines.
The animals are sick with love,
Lovesick with rhyme;
Each with all propitious Time
Into chorus wove.
Like the dancers' ordered band,
Thoughts come also hand in hand,
In equal couples mated,
Or else alternated,
Adding by their mutual gage
One to other health and age.
Solitary fancies go
Short-lived wandering to and fro,
Most like to bachelors,
Or an ungiven maid,
Not ancestors,
With no posterity to make the lie afraid,
Or keep truth undecayed.
Perfect paired as eagle's wings,
Justice is the rhyme of things;
Trade and counting use
The serf-same tuneful muse;
And Nemesis,
Who with even matches odd,
Who athwart space redresses
The partial wrong,
Fills the just period,
And finishes the song.
Subtle rhymes with ruin rife
Murmur in the house of life,
Sung by the Sisters as they spin;
In perfect time and measure, they
Build and unbuild our echoing clay,
As the two twilights of the day
Fold us music-drunken in.
2.2k
You are my heart and upon it
I have etched my secret hopes for you:
My hope that you burn brightly, and long—
That your most heartfelt desires lash themselves
Upon the winds of passion
And that your heart’s love flows
Out of eyes and mouth to the tuneful ears
Of those who surround you.
That hope survives and blooms in the inclement weather
Of disappointment—
That you find and etch your secret desires
For your own child—
And that when I am gone,
That in a flowering corner of your soul
That you feel my love for you—
Copyright/All Rights Reserved Audrey Howitt 2011
Oct 6, 2011
Oct 6, 2011 at 9:50 PM UTC
From dark abodes to fair etherial light
Th’ enraptur’d innocent has wing’d her flight;
On the kind ***** of eternal love
She finds unknown beatitude above.
This known, ye parents, nor her loss deplore,
She feels the iron hand of pain no more;
The dispensations of unerring grace,
Should turn your sorrows into grateful praise;
Let then no tears for her henceforward flow,
No more distress’d in our dark vale below,
Her morning sun, which rose divinely bright,
Was quickly mantled with the gloom of night;
But hear in heav’n’s blest bow’rs your Nancy fair,
And learn to imitate her language there.
“Thou, Lord, whom I behold with glory crown’d,
“By what sweet name, and in what tuneful sound
“Wilt thou be prais’d? Seraphic pow’rs are faint
“Infinite love and majesty to paint.
“To thee let all their graceful voices raise,
“And saints and angels join their songs of praise.”
Perfect in bliss she from her heav’nly home
Looks down, and smiling beckons you to come;
Why then, fond parents, why these fruitless groans?
Restrain your tears, and cease your plaintive moans.
Freed from a world of sin, and snares, and pain,
Why would you wish your daughter back again?
No—bow resign’d. Let hope your grief control,
And check the rising tumult of the soul.
Calm in the prosperous, and adverse day,
Adore the God who gives and takes away;
Eye him in all, his holy name revere,
Upright your actions, and your hearts sincere,
Till having sail’d through life’s tempestuous sea,
And from its rocks, and boist’rous billows free,
Yourselves, safe landed on the blissful shore,
Shall join your happy babe to part no more.
1.9k
They say that before every step
You take in life,
You flick a mental coin
Then go left or right
Turn or keep straight on.
In your own universe you go left,
Pop into a café,
Go home and have a nap.
Then carry on those humdrum days.
But that was close!
So close that in an alternative realm
You go right,
Go into a shop,
Buy a lottery ticket
And Win Millions!
For every possibility, the scientists claim,
Is played out
In an Infinite Multiverse.
Somewhere you are King or Queen,
And somewhere else you are about to be shot!
Somewhere you are a fly
Or a bear.
Somewhere my parents are still alive
And everyone is free of ill.
That tuneful Rainbow springs to mind.
Maybe there’s even a Universe
Where everyone is Immortal.
Where God calls in for a cup of tea.
And what we’ve read as fiction
Is all true.
These possibilities are endless and
My imagination strains to picture
All that might just happen.
Somewhere.
We can but Hope.
Paul Butters
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 6:03 AM UTC
Can this be the time once more
Of utter giving up of our control
The simple folliwing of commercial madness
Our desire for the day when food and wine
Have to be gathered about us like the defences of yore
Headlong we run from mid-summer until
We are exhausted in body, spirit or credit
The desperate worry of what to buy whom
Or when to order the especially fattened bird for your table
The ridiculous overspending on presents
When time could be the finest present you could give
Yule tide is a special period for Druids and all pagans alike,
The wonder of simplicity of reflection of our past year
The elements of sleep as mother earth regenerates herself
Resting often under the warmth of a blanket of snow
Gathering of families and loved ones
Blessings of the solstice as the wheel of the year turns
Once more into the light as the sun begins it's journey
Returning to the northern hemisphere
Our birds and native animals preparing for the winter
Storing their food, digging deep as they look for vitals
Likewise the land is resting,
The soil teems with dormant life, every insect and worm
Every root, form and bulb
Slowing right down as the degrees fall to freezing
The frosty and rime ridden mornings giving the flora
A lift of white dusting and sparkling light reflecting
The weak, beautiful winter sun
Heaves itself onto the low glancing position
Just making it to the tree tops before retiring once more to sleep
Leaving glorious swathes of orange and red
Painting the sky as it falls and rises.
Yule tide comes as all seasons, times and periods
But once a year in our short lives
The earthy sounds, the images and emotion
The smell of the newly fallen snow and woodsmoke
The foraging birds and squirrels
The warbling and tuneful song of the blackbird
And the tut tut of Mr Robin resplendent in his
Bright red waistcoat bobbing around in the crisp frost
Our lifetime of Yules is a wonder to enjoy,
I know as I look from my window where my heart is
As the distant tree bare in it's winter shroud speaks
To me as a friend and anchor within this beautiful planet.
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 5:22 AM UTC
Once there was vernal sunshine all around
With plants and blooms in color and scent abound
Butterflies here n’ there and from all corners unseen
Flitted back and forth in iridescent sheen
Birds sang tuneful songs of contentment
Squirrels and bunnies hopped in spirits buoyant
But all along now I see trees, leafless and bare
Nakedly shivering in winter’s chilly air
Even when the Earth adorns in full glory
Here I bide alone, so dull and dreary
Oh! Dear! Why have you so hurriedly left me?
Was it to make me drift aimless in this turbulent sea?
We were once a happy pair of doves
Seeking warmth under each other’s wings
By sundown, we flew to our evening nest
Under temple spires, we sought easeful rest
We walked the meadows, gathering spring flowers
We roamed aimless through ocean strands
We watched life’s ceaseless ebb and flow
We waited eager to grab life’s evanescent glow
We knew sorrow’s depth and worth
Each morn, for us, was love’s rebirth
We walked close to paths supernal
And lived ever in love eternal
Now I have lost the rhyme n’ rhythm of life
I see the world around with sorrows rife
I am a broken reed far beyond repair
With no songs to be played now or ever
Once we danced to the rising and lilting measure
Each synchronized step, we took with such pleasure
Oh! I hear from far, your anklets rhyme and chime
They ring in my ears through the time
Each wayside flower to me recalls your lovelorn face
The wind swayed lilacs reflect your grace
Deep in silent night the odor of your flowing hair
Comes wafting, and for a while, I feel you near
A boundless emptiness often fills my space
The question –‘What next’ stares at my face
Yet never shall I yield, but shall bravely sail
Hoping, we together shall meet at the Golden Dale
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 5:49 AM UTC
XIII
To Mr. H. Lawes, on his Aires.
Harry whose tuneful and well measur’d Song
First taught our English Musick how to span
Words with just note and accent, not to scan
With Midas Ears, committing short and long;
Thy worth and skill exempts thee from the throng,
With praise enough for Envy to look wan;
To after age thou shalt be writ the man,
That with smooth aire couldst humor best our tongue
Thou honour’st Verse, and Verse must send her wing
To honour thee, the Priest of Phoebus Quire
That tun’st their happiest lines in Hymn or Story
Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher
Then his Casella, whom he woo’d to sing
Met in the milder shades of Purgatory.
1.3k
Finding you is like loss my phone
Crazy, miserable and unlivable
Missing you is like trying to get you out of my head
Hard, hurt and pain
Seeing you is like saw a rainbow in a sky
Happy, love and excited
Talking to you is like hearing a song
Melodious, tuneful and sirenic
Touching you is like holding a feather
Soft, warm and cold
Loving you is like addicted to drug
Addicted, loss and non-stop.
(m.i)
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 5:07 AM UTC
No servile little fear shall daunt my will
This morning. I have courage steeled to say
I will be lazy, conqueringly still,
I will not lose the hours in toil this day.
The roaring world without, careless of souls,
Shall leave me to my placid dream of rest,
My four walls shield me from its shouting ghouls,
And all its hates have fled my quiet breast.
And I will loll here resting, wide awake,
Dead to the world of work, the world of love,
I laze contented just for dreaming's sake
With not the slightest urge to think or move.
How tired unto death, how tired I was!
Now for a day I put my burdens by,
And like a child amidst the meadow grass
Under the southern sun, I languid lie
And feel the bed about me kindly deep,
My strength ooze gently from my hollow bones,
My worried brain drift aimlessly to sleep,
Like softening to a song of tuneful tones.
1.2k
for Beau
this mixte bag of nutty facts,
compote of this's and that's,
fragrant but yucky tasting potpourri,
sordid assortment of
seemingly unseemly
random collection of
facts, whoppers,
recipes and formulae, and his 'n her
stories (my fav!)
useless motorized drivel,
running around my head
that you have with me creme-filled,
data conglomerated,
transformed by mongol hordes of grey cells
urged on, nay transformed,
by **** and beer into
a magnificent miscellaneous mile of jumble,
virtuous and verifiable grab bag of
ever so humble,
tuneful melodies of a medley of
snatches and patches
of Jagger and Liszt,
a verifiable pastiche of
vital and downright dumb
Factors and Factoids,
I thank you suchly muchly
musta taken years, maybe even
decades to collect and codify,
this assemblage of verifiable factoids,
after-all, took you twelve to
feed me in eye dropper ingestible quantities!
though with Wiki this and Wiki that,
I coulda save us all some time,
and since it is all on the Internet,
and any way 99% I forgot
like a cell phone number
no matter, I can reads and counts
and writes term papers downloaded,
but caught my eye you wrote
of a mutton stew denominated as
hotchpotch,
but we variant truants,
ici, aux Etats-Unis, on dit
and spell our salmagundi as
hodgepodge
but in summary summation,
thanks for teaching me creative thinking,
for without this skill,
I would but be,
a tool
of Wikipedia
and not its creator
P.S. It's gadzooks,
not gad zooks,
according to Wikitionary,
even them Oxford fellas agree,
tee hee,
you could look it up
on the internetsky,
Teach....
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 5:50 AM UTC
a kid
with the throaty sound
of a tuned engine underfoot
cuts through my sleep
deprived eardrums
an almost tuneful exhaust note
rasps under acceleration
rippling night air outside
God I wish I was young again
when that sound alone
under my command
made me feel alive
Jan 24, 2022
Jan 24, 2022 at 5:47 PM UTC
_He is a child who covers his eyes with peep-hole hands and thinks himself unseen; he talks softly when the multitude shouts out loud, and hums sweet tunes to
block the trembling arpeggios and clashing riffs of humanity in discord.
He is overwhelmed by the silence of life's unspoken words.
He is a listener who also has something to say.
He sees into the hearts of men.
Will you let him
speak?
Speak
if you will, Shy,
of what lies within the hearts
of men - unspoken thoughts and peep-hole
tremblings - the whole of life’s silent and unseen somethings.
Softly now; block out the discordant shouts of the clashing multitude.
Close your sweet eyes and listen to those tuneful arpeggios and undercover
riffs. Talk to me. Can you hear the sweet sound of humanity humming out loud?_
Oct 20, 2019
Oct 20, 2019 at 9:41 PM UTC
A woman, tearful and tuneful, on a trapeze in a silken skirt, balancing the days, she is 51 years old, her hair is wild and red, she wakes up each morning with a hum and a scream; she keeps a diary of forgotten days, of memories not yet remembered; she dreams of burning man, dust swirling all around her, building her own temple of lust and forgiveness; she wears a black lace garter belt with stockings high up her legs; she takes her time when there is none to take, and hurries herself when the days seem endless; in September, she flourishes, dancing in the shadow of the sun, all trees become climbable, each word spoken has meaning; she is not at all in love, but soon will be, she muses, he will be a fiddle player, tall and lean, they may never kiss, they may never make love, but the haunting sounds he weaves in their bed will be more than enough...
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 12:37 PM UTC
Your sound,
(for it is a sound and not a song)
Rides aloft the salty air.
No bells ringing,
No choirs singing,
Only your contented call,
Your calming tuneful screech;
My favourite festive fugue,
A welcome call from familiar shores
To which I return each Christmas.
Dec 22, 2018
Dec 22, 2018 at 10:24 AM UTC
gaiety and happiness
reside in the bush this day
the birds are singing
in a bright and joyful way
their songs so up lift
and do inspire thee
with an enormous amount
of bubbly glee
their tuneful melodies
can be heard everywhere
they are filling the bush land acres
with such sweet fair
thy heart feels so elated
and replete with joviality
thanks to the birds
singing their songs of felicity
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 6:43 PM UTC
On cushioned leather, gently he sits warm;
The window pane faces outside a stirring storm,
Slashed by the whip of rain; protected and cosy
And on imaginative waves, he set sail for Poesy;
Ravelling loose the canvas towards the sky.
With puffy cheeks heavy clouds shed tears,
They grieve wailing cries of moan to tremble ears.
Lightning flashes their woes within his eye,
While Nature's war rages with immense force on high.
Walls built from grimy hands, mother his being;
And with clever mind radiates, heating his breathing.
Ruled by ferocity the wind reveals cold night,
But with tuneful company, his fire burns bright
Miles from the poverty of a starving child,
Which suffers the chilly bite too often; bitter hunger
Greets no fresh grain. Releasing strikes of thunder,
The storm brews the air savage and wild;
At that moment he was well-aware Fortune on him smiled.
So, safe, he stroked the lyre, and with chaos outside
Creating swirling motions of a rodeos hectic ride,
His muses appear, gifting comfort with song; snug
And peaceful, their tender beats, present a loving hug
Which to his soul, stretches far away from harm.
Swiftly his notes return with pace, showing illusion
That duly-matches the flaming intensity of the sun,
When it gallops heaven, in handsome charm,
Bringing with it, searing light, no fear for any alarm.
His gentle maids move him, but weak was his heart,
Deep within his breast, sweet tunes told of Loves art;
No matter where you reside human trouble exists.
Standing close by, a figure as real as Styx's mists,
Touches his neck; he feels stench Ignorance's creep.
Down his spine, all over, upon his shoulders
Add to strong weight, mimicking the boulders,
Which must be pushed aloft on ridges steep
On mount Purgatory; and finally th' storm makes him weep.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 3:30 PM UTC