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Sonnet IV: Bright Star of Beauty

Bright star of beauty, on whose eyelids sit
A thousand nymph-like and enamour'd Graces,
The Goddesses of Memory and Wit,
Which there in order take their several places;
In whose dear bosom sweet delicious Love
Lays down his quiver, which he once did bear,
Since he that blessed Paradise did prove,
And leaves his mother's lap to sport him there.
Let others strive to entertain with words;
My soul is of a braver metal made;
I hold that vile which vulgar wit affords;
In me's that faith which Time cannot invade.
Let what I praise be still made good by you;
Be you most worthy, whilst I am most true.

poem by Michael Drayton
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Astrophel and Stella: LXIV

No more, my dear, no more these counsels try;
Oh, give my passions leave to run their race;
Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace;
Let folk o'ercharg'd with brain against me cry;
Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye;
Let me no steps but of lost labour trace;
Let all the earth with scorn recount my case,
But do not will me from my love to fly.
I do not envy Aristotle's wit,
Nor do aspire to Caesar's bleeding fame;
Nor aught do care though some above me sit;
Nor hope nor wish another course to frame,
But that which once may win thy cruel heart:
Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art.

poem by Philip Sidney
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Sonnet LXIV: No More, My Dear

No more, my dear, no more these counsels try;
Oh, give my passions leave to run their race;
Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace;
Let folk o'ercharg'd with brain against me cry;
Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye;
Let me no steps but of lost labour trace;
Let all the earth with scorn recount my case,
But do not will me from my love to fly.
I do not envy Aristotle's wit,
Nor do aspire to Caesar's bleeding fame;
Nor aught do care though some above me sit;
Nor hope nor wish another course to frame,
But that which once may win thy cruel heart:
Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art.

poem by Philip Sidney
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Sonnet 26: Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage…

Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit;
To thee I send this written embassage
To witness duty, not to show my wit.
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it;
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
In thy soul's thought (all naked) will bestow it:
Till whatsoever star that guides my moving,
Points on me graciously with fair aspect,
And puts apparel on my tattered loving,
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect,
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee,
Till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove me.

poem by William Shakespeare
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Ang tubag ni Dr. Dante Antigua sa akong balak nga white-breasted bird

SA DIHANG MIANTUG AKO NIINING BALAK
KABAHIN SA white breasted bird, to wit:

a white-breasted bird
sits on a twig
of the champaca tree

alone
always alone always

MIBALOS BAYA DAYON si Dante ug
Siya miingon, to wit:

Started reading a crony's poem
excited and determined
in the middle of nowhere
Stopped.
Eyes became heavier
tedium overpowered
the mind in turmoil

[...] Read more

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Love (I)

Immortal love, authour of this great frame,
Sprung from that beautie which can never fade;
How hath man parcel’d out thy glorious name,
And thrown it on that dust which thou hast made,

While mortall love doth all the title gain!
Which siding with invention, they together
Bear all the sway, possessing heart and brain,
(Thy workmanship) and give thee share in neither.

Wit fancies beautie, beautie raiseth wit:
The world is theirs; they two play out the game,
Thou standing by: and though thy glorious name
Wrought our deliverance from th’ infernall pit,

Who sings thy praise? onely a skarf or glove
Doth warm our hands, and make them write of love.

poem by George Herbert
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On Stella's Birth-Day, 1719

Stella this Day is thirty four,
(We shan't dispute a Year or more)
However Stella, be not troubled,
Although thy Size and Years are doubled,
Since first I saw Thee at Sixteen
The brightest Virgin on the Green,
So little is thy Form declin'd
Made up so largely in thy Mind.
Oh, woud it please the Gods to split
Thy Beauty, Size, and Years, and Wit,
No Age could furnish out a Pair
Of Nymphs so graceful, Wise and fair
With half the Lustre of your Eyes,
With half your Wit, your Years and Size:
And then before it grew too late,
How should I beg of gentle Fate,
(That either Nymph might have her Swain,)
To split my Worship too in twain.

poem by Jonathan Swift
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Stella's Birthday March 13, 1719

Stella this day is thirty-four,
(We shan't dispute a year or more:)
However, Stella, be not troubled,
Although thy size and years are doubled,
Since first I saw thee at sixteen,
The brightest virgin on the green;
So little is thy form declin'd;
Made up so largely in thy mind.

Oh, would it please the gods to split
Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit;
No age could furnish out a pair
Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair;
With half the lustre of your eyes,
With half your wit, your years, and size.
And then, before it grew too late,
How should I beg of gentle Fate,
(That either nymph might have her swain,)
To split my worship too in twain.

poem by Jonathan Swift
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What It Takes to Lead

Can one completely lost of wit,
Be held accountable...
For not having an independent thought,
At all.

Everyone born...
Isn't always guaranteed,
Common sense.
And those ignorantly involved in 'their' nonsense,
Have not a clue they are not well.
Even a barrage of thrown hints,
Would go left unaddressed.
Those folks are focused on their greed.
With a twisted ego to keep them fixed.

Can one completely lost of wit,
Be held accountable...
For not having an independent thought,
At all.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Oh! Patience, My Love.

Both, my eyes; have hit an unknown storm -
the undoer of my marry Spring,
beneath my brow, is a gushing form,
did a drench'd cheek -to a yearner bring.
my auguries, that once blessed with love,
have gales become, for a trial of;
the touchstone of my faithful shape -
the loyal shadow, when future rake,
does my pain emit, a cunning drape,
that when praise of love, the evils shake;
still, endure this I, to phase submit,
but, wit, my wit -is my patience fit,
are my gardens, for these storms to reave,
the fruits to come -of better degree;
Or will steadfast be love, if believe,
in shade of the fruitless, standing tree.
Maybe, the grandeur of love is not grand
unless we bear -our share of pains at hand.

R.N.Khan, © 2011

poem by Raja Nosherwan
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