"unwearied" poems
The world was young, the mountains green,
No stain yet on the Moon was seen,
No words were laid on stream or stone
When Durin woke and walked alone.
He named the nameless hills and dells;
He drank from yet untasted wells;
He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,
And saw a crown of stars appear,
As gems upon a silver thread,
Above the shadow of his head
The world was fair, the mountains tall,
In Elder Days before the fall.
Of mighty kings of Nargothrond
And Gondolin, who now beyond
The Western Seas have passed away;
The world was fair in Durin's Day.
A king he was on carven throne
In many-pillared halls of stone
With golden roof and silver floor,
And runes of power upon the door.
The light of sun and star and moon
In shining lamps of crystal hewn
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night
There shone for ever fair and bright.
There hammer on the anvil smote,
There chisel clove, and graver wrote,
There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;
The delver mined, the mason built,
There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,
And metal wrought like fishes' mail,
Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,
And shining spears were laid in hoard.
Unwearied then were Durin's folk;
Beneath the mountains music woke:
The harpers harped, the minstrels sang
And at the gates the trumpets rang.
The world is grey, the mountains old,
The forge's fire is ashen cold;
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls,
The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;
The shadow lies upon his tomb
In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.
But still the sunken stars appear
In dark and windless Mirrormere;
There lies his crown in water deep,
Till Durin wakes again from sleep.
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This is the quiet hour; the theaters
Have gathered in their crowds, and steadily
The million lights blaze on for few to see,
Robbing the sky of stars that should be hers.
A woman waits with bag and shabby furs,
A somber man drifts by, and only we
Pass up the street unwearied, warm and free,
For over us the olden magic stirs.
Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights
We live a little ere the charm is spent;
This night is ours, of all the golden nights,
The pavement an enchanted palace floor,
And Youth the player on the viol, who sent
A strain of music through an open door.
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Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden ****
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
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Out of the noise of tired people working,
Harried with thoughts of war and lists of dead,
His beauty met me like a fresh wind blowing,
Clean boyish beauty and high-held head.
Eyes that told secrets, lips that would not tell them,
Fearless and shy the young unwearied eyes —
Men die by millions now, because God blunders,
Yet to have made this boy he must be wise.
2.4k
Under the mountain
The dragon does sleep
His silver and gold
Under guard does he keep
Make haste, flee away
From his fiery breath
For his eyes they see far
And his claws they bring death
He flies through the sky
With a vengeance filled mind
An anger undulled
And unwearied by time
His enemies burn
From the flames of his tongue
He slays one and all
From the old to the young
And once he is sated
He slumbers once more
And pray ne'er again
Will we hear his great roar
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 3:00 AM UTC
222
When Katie walks, this simple pair accompany her side,
When Katie runs unwearied they follow on the road,
When Katie kneels, their loving hands still clasp her pious knee—
Ah! Katie! Smile at Fortune, with two so knit to thee!
2.3k
YOUR hooves have stamped at the black margin of the wood,
Even where horrible green parrots call and swing.
My works are all stamped down into the sultry mud.
I knew that horse-play, knew it for a murderous thing.
What wholesome sun has ripened is wholesome food to eat,
And that alone; yet I, being driven half insane
Because of some green wing, gathered old mummy wheat
In the mad abstract dark and ground it grain by grain
And after baked it slowly in an oven; but now
I bring full-flavoured wine out of a barrel found
Where seven Ephesian topers slept and never knew
When Alexander's empire passed, they slept so sound.
Stretch out your limbs and sleep a long Saturnian sleep;
I have loved you better than my soul for all my words,
And there is none so fit to keep a watch and keep
Unwearied eyes upon those horrible green birds.
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179
If I could bribe them by a Rose
I’d bring them every flower that grows
From Amherst to Cashmere!
I would not stop for night, or storm—
Or frost, or death, or anyone—
My business were so dear!
If they would linger for a Bird
My Tambourin were soonest heard
Among the April Woods!
Unwearied, all the summer long,
Only to break in wilder song
When Winter shook the boughs!
What if they hear me!
Who shall say
That such an importunity
May not at last avail?
That, weary of this Beggar’s face—
They may not finally say, Yes—
To drive her from the Hall?
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HE stood among a crowd at Dromahair;
His heart hung all upon a silken dress,
And he had known at last some tenderness,
Before earth took him to her stony care;
But when a man poured fish into a pile,
It Seemed they raised their little silver heads,
And sang what gold morning or evening sheds
Upon a woven world-forgotten isle
Where people love beside the ravelled seas;
That Time can never mar a lover's vows
Under that woven changeless roof of boughs:
The singing shook him out of his new ease.
He wandered by the sands of Lissadell;
His mind ran all on money cares and fears,
And he had known at last some prudent years
Before they heaped his grave under the hill;
But while he passed before a plashy place,
A lug-worm with its grey and muddy mouth
Sang that somewhere to north or west or south
There dwelt a gay, exulting, gentle race
Under the golden or the silver skies;
That if a dancer stayed his hungry foot
It seemed the sun and moon were in the fruit:
And at that singing he was no more wise.
He mused beside the well of Scanavin,
He mused upon his mockers: without fail
His sudden vengeance were a country tale,
When earthy night had drunk his body in;
But one small knot-grass growing by the pool
Sang where -- unnecessary cruel voice --
Old silence bids its chosen race rejoice,
Whatever ravelled waters rise and fall
Or stormy silver fret the gold of day,
And midnight there enfold them like a fleece
And lover there by lover be at peace.
The tale drove his fine angry mood away.
He slept under the hill of Lugnagall;
And might have known at last unhaunted sleep
Under that cold and vapour-turbaned steep,
Now that the earth had taken man and all:
Did not the worms that spired about his bones
proclaim with that unwearied, reedy cry
That God has laid His fingers on the sky,
That from those fingers glittering summer runs
Upon the dancer by the dreamless wave.
Why should those lovers that no lovers miss
Dream, until God burn Nature with a kiss?
The man has found no comfort in the grave.
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You. The Judy O'Grady
Who's constantly waiting
For ubiquitous flattery and lust
A cold-blooded lady
Untruly be gaining
The trust of those gullible hearts
My ****** oh Mary,
Let your heartstrings vary
From ruthless and violent ******
The sorrow that's buried
Within you and harried
Someday will ground you into dust
Be wise, my old lady,
The truth may be heavy
And somehow might seem so unjust
The power that's carried
By love so unwearied
To seize and inherit you must
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 10:41 AM UTC
The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine-and-fifty swans.
The nineteenth autumn has come upon me
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
Upon their clamorous wings.
I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All's changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.
Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.
But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?
1.3k
While you slept
I wandered
to meet you in the still waters
of the dark night
shaping your dreams
into coherent fishes
And in the deep warm
crevice of your mind
beyond the
labyrinth of gray matter
I live there
Wet and eyeless
Unwearied and waiting
For you to swim
into the center
this raging heart
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 9:58 PM UTC
In haste
I free flow
Towards the
luminescence.
I can see my guardian
Protectors,
I see their
Unearthly
Care
T
A
K
E
R
Essence.
I'm gleeful
And pleased
As next to them
Is God's presence.
This to me is a
Present.
As amor
And vim
Overtakes me.
I rest unwearied
Easily,
H2o through me
Shows
The banner of my
Existence.
I thank my guardian
Angels
For their hovering over me
And their loving kindness,
Keeping me on the path
To fufiill
Gods mission-
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 12:47 PM UTC
every night i lay in bed
restless and unwearied-
intoxicated with the
cluttered thoughts of your
sole existence and
overtaken by the memories that
no longer bring joy;
hung up on old
undying memories
all these sad and restless
nights are all worth the
grief and longing
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 2:40 AM UTC
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
I felt the rain coming.
A persistent wind
took swing
after swing
at my lashes
leaving behind
the occasional
hint of mist
(just on the tips).
In that moment there,
through then-rosy cheeks,
I began to experience
an unfelt appreciation
for something
I couldn't quite
put into words.
I felt a feeling
of sheer delight—
a feeling of comfort
and of good measure.
In that very moment there,
as I looked up
beyond the clouds
that now eclipsed
what no one else could see,
I felt peace.
I could hear, faintly,
the chilling rasp
of the far-off winds
that approached me.
Though I felt my body,
weak and frail,
I felt my soul
digging for truth,
steadily unearthing
something abstract
and nameless.
Reality then made
a swift pass
over my eyes.
I stood there
now galvanized,
though it all
left me feeling
a bit faint.
A surge
of blood rushed
to my head
like waters
through the cleaving
of a river dam.
I looked down
to see that I stood
on a spot of bare dirt
where the centipede grass
dared not grow.
My fleeting bewilderment
streaked lightly across
what I saw there.
The feeling
in that moment
had become a vapor,
which quickly escaped
the purgatory
into which
it was invoked.
I found myself
back home,
and though I was not
fully satisfied,
I smiled.
The cold rain
now covered my hands;
my wet fingers
were like bait
to the breeze.
I slid them
in the pockets
of my black leather jacket
as my smile
quickly turned to
‘brrr’
and a sudden
uncontrollable shiver.
“Was that it?"
I turned about
and hurled
a fervent wish
across that fluid sea
of sod grass.
I heaved
an unwearied sigh
as I then fell back
on the tin siding
of the wall
behind me.
I looked down
at my feet again.
One of my shoes
was untied;
its left lace
did lie atop
a muddy graze
upon the ground.
I looked up
and stared off
into the void
above the horizon.
I listened
to the sound
of the rain,
still so eager
to fall lightly
on the centipede.
I listened
to the sound
of the wind,
still so resentful
of restriction.
I listen
to the sound
of the automatons
that patiently
raze the forest
not too far
from where
I stand.
I wonder
what I could say.
The words
come to me:
"*Thus
abounds
the nature
of wolves!*"
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
The Wild Swans at Coole.
BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine-and-fifty swans.
The nineteenth autumn has come upon me
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
Upon their clamorous wings.
I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All's changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.
Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.
But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?
Mar 25, 2019
Mar 25, 2019 at 7:30 AM UTC