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Her Poetic Countenance

An unfamiliar beauty, so beautiful, she dulled mine charm
A rich man I was with word, so poor I am now
For all my wit and my wit's gravity her beauty doth disarm
For her sensation animates my treasure on her dainty brow.
How beautiful doth beauty perceive thee
Painted by the stokes of spirit, spiritual rapture
So extraordinary doth passion play its delightful symphony;
Singing my poetry on thy countenance for mine hand to capture.
Blushing like a girl, for a girl my poem be
I want to pluck it charm and pen its sweet ink
Into the language of love that my heart doth see
Thine intelligence is beauty my poetry mine heart me think
I beg thee with elegance set foot into my sonnet and plant thy seed
So in my words thy countenance in my poetry one shall forever read.

poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Ανεμωλια

Go, foolish thoughts, and join the throng
Of myriads gone before;
To flutter and flap and flit along
The airy limbo shore.

Go, words of sport and words of wit,
Sarcastic point and fine,
And words of wisdom, wholly fit
With folly’s to combine.

Go, words of wisdom, words of sense,
Which, while the heart belied,
The tongue still uttered for pretence,
The inner blank to hide.

Go, words of wit, so gay, so light,
That still were meant express
To soothe the smart of fancied slight
By fancies of success.

[...] Read more

poem by Arthur Hugh Clough (1850)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I Know 'She' Nosy

I know 'she' nosy.
She know she nosy too.
I know 'she' nosy.
She know she nosy too.

All up in my biz'ness...
Like its hers
And she aint got 'that' wit me.

Oh no...
No-no.

Everytime I see her,
She wanna stop...
To give me her 3rd degree.

She believes I'm hers,
'Cuz I was once...
And wanted to be.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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To The Right Hon. The Earl of Orrery, On His Promise To Sup With The Author.

Tho' the Muse had deny'd me so often before,
I ventur'd this Day to invoke her once more.
She ask'd what I wanted; I said, with Delight,
Your Lordship had promis'd to sup here To--night;
That on an Occasion so much to my Honour,
I hop'd she'd excuse me for calling upon her.

To this she reply'd, with Disdain in her Looks:
If that be the Case, go summon your Cooks.
I told her in Answer, How little you eat;
That in vain I should hope to regale you with Meat;
That she knew, Wit and Humour to you were a Feast,
Who had, tho' no Stomach, an excellent Taste.

This calm'd her Resentment; she paus'd for a while--
Then the Goddess, propitious, reply'd with a Smile:
If with Humour and Wit you would have him delighted.
What need I be call'd?--Let the Dean be invited.
The Bus'ness is done, if with him you prevail;
For a Boyle, and a Swift, will each other regale.

poem by Mary Barber
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The Trouble With Pain

As I cut my wrists,
And clench my fists,
All I can think about is the pain,
and the fact that I cut my vain,
I am just screaming inside
Oh how I want to run and hide.
I wanted you there to help me cope
and jus give me the hope
that everything will be okay,
and how you will jus say
What was you thinking,
And you saw me sinking
Sinking into a pool of my own blood and tears
How the pain helps me with all of my fears.
Oh how I am ruining my life,
With this very sharp knife.
I hope I will make it to be your wife,
Cuz I wanna be wit you for the rest of my life.
Oh please god help me wit the pain
For i dont wanna cut my vain anymore,

[...] Read more

poem by Jade Smith
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The Wish

Would but indulgent Fortune send
To me a kind, and faithful Friend,
One who to Virtue's Laws is true,
And does her nicest Rules pursue;
One Pious, Lib'ral, Just and Brave,
And to his Passions not a Slave;
Who full of Honour, void of Pride,
Will freely praise, and freely chide;
But not indulge the smallest Fault,
Nor entertain one slighting Thought:
Who still the same will ever prove,
Will still instruct ans still will love:
In whom I safely may confide,
And with him all my Cares divide:
Who has a large capacious Mind,
Join'd with a Knowledge unconfin'd:
A Reason bright, a Judgement true,
A Wit both quick, and solid too:
Who can of all things talk with Ease,
And whose Converse will ever please:

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poem by Lady Mary Chudleigh
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Love

Love is a gamble,
It leaves your thinking in a scramble,
The brain was once in control,
Now everything is different because you love with all your heart and soul.

Thinking with the mind,
Loving with the heart,
A beautiful feeling I find myself difficult to part.
Making decisions wit your heart.
It got your brain telling you that wasn't smart.

A prisoner of love never want to break free,
I was never looking for love but it found me.
Blinded by love, it's amazing because I am able to see things differently.
So now I'm holding it at hostage,
Reaping all the benefits.
I realised love possess great demands,
There are some ups and downs and they always go hand in hand.

I love forever and ever,

[...] Read more

poem by Anita Khelawan
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So Sorry : (

i hurt you
which means i hurt myself
i wish i could turn back the time and stop you from feeling
what you have felt
stop what i have done
but you still remain number one
you still remain the main part of my life
and wit out you i mine as well die
im sorry and i know you can't believe me
im sorry
without you i can't breathe
im sorry i never meant to cause detriment to you
im sorry
im not sure what i should do
i can't forgive what i have done
why should you be the one
why should i get another chance?
because you're the only one i want to be my man
you held my hand
in the darkness and brought me to light

[...] Read more

poem by Shilesha Johnson
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Mount Of Olives (I)

1.
SWEET, sacred hill ! on whose fair brow
My Saviour sate, shall I allow
Language to love,
And idolize some shade, or grove,
Neglecting thee ? such ill-plac'd wit,
Conceit, or call it what you please,
Is the brain's fit,
And mere disease.
2.
Cotswold and Cooper's both have met
With learn褠swains, and echo yet
Their pipes and wit ;
But thou sleep'st in a deep neglect,
Untouch'd by any ; and what need
The sheep bleat thee a silly lay,
That heard'st both reed
And sheepward play ?

3.

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poem by Henry Vaughan
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Ay Me, Ay Me, I Sigh the Scythe A-field

Ay me, ay me, I sigh to see the scythe a-field;
Down goeth the grass, soon wrought to wither'd hay:
Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, that beauty needs must yield,
And princes pass, as grass doth fade away.

Ay me, ay me, that life can not have lasting leave,
Nor gold take hold of everlasting joy:
Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, that time hath talents to receive,
And yet no time can make a suer stay.

Ay me, ay me, that wit can not have wished choice,
Nor wish can win that will desires to see:
Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, that mirth can promise no rejoice,
Nor study tell what afterward shall be.

Ay me, ay me, that no sure staff is given to age,
Nor age can give sure wit that youth will take:
Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, that no counsel wise and sage
Will shun the show that all doth mar and make.

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Americas
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