William Shakespeare

A Lover's Complaint

 
From off a hill whose concave womb reworded

A plaintful story from a sistering vale,

My spirits to attend this double voice accorded,

And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale;

Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,

Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain,

Storming her world with sorrow's wind and rain.

Upon her head a platted hive of straw,

Which fortified her visage from the sun,

Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw

The carcass of beauty spent and done:

Time had not scythed all that youth begun,

Nor youth all quit; but, spite of heaven's fell rage,

Some beauty peep'd through lattice of sear'd age.

Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne,

Which on it had conceited characters,

Laundering the silken figures in the brine

That season'd woe had pelleted in tears,

And often reading what contents it bears;

As often shrieking undistinguish'd woe,

In clamours of all size, both high and low.

Sometimes her levell'd eyes their carriage ride,

As they did battery to the spheres intend;

Sometime diverted their poor balls are tied

To the orbed earth; sometimes they do extend

Their view right on; anon their gazes lend

To every place at once, and, nowhere fix'd,

The mind and sight distractedly commix'd.

Her hair, nor loose nor tied in formal plat,

Proclaim'd in her a careless hand of pride

For some, untuck'd, descended her sheaved hat,

Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside;

Some in her threaden fillet still did bide,

And true to bondage would not break from thence,

Though slackly braided in loose negligence.

A thousand favours from a maund she drew

Of amber, crystal, and of beaded jet,

Which one by one she in a river threw,

Upon whose weeping margent she was set;

Like usury, applying wet to wet,

Or monarch's hands that let not bounty fall

Where want cries some, but where excess begs all.

Of folded schedules had she many a one,

Which she perused, sigh'd, tore, and gave the flood;

Crack'd many a ring of posied gold and bone

Bidding them find their sepulchres in mud;

Found yet moe letters sadly penn'd in blood,

With sleided silk feat and affectedly

Enswathed, and seal'd to curious secrecy.

These often bathed she in her fluxive eyes,

And often kiss'd, and often 'gan to tear:

Cried 'O false blood, thou register of lies,

What unapproved witness dost thou bear!

Ink would have seem'd more black and damned here!'

This said, in top of rage the lines she rents,

Big discontent so breaking their contents.

A reverend man that grazed his cattle nigh--

Sometime a blusterer, that the ruffle knew

Of court, of city, and had let go by

The swiftest hours, observed as they flew--

Towards this afflicted fancy fastly drew,

And, privileged by age, desires to know

In brief the grounds and motives of her woe.

So slides he down upon his grained bat,

And comely-distant sits he by her side;

When he again desires her, being sat,

Her grievance with his hearing to divide:

If that from him there may be aught applied

Which may her suffering ecstasy assuage,

'Tis promised in the charity of age.

'Father,' she says, 'though in me you behold

The injury of many a blasting hour,

Let it not tell your judgment I am old;

Not age, but sorrow, over me hath power:

I might as yet have been a spreading flower,

Fresh to myself, If I had self-applied

Love to myself and to no love beside.

'But, woe is me! too early I attended

A youthful suit--it was to gain my grace--

Of one by nature's outwards so commended,

That maidens' eyes stuck over all his face:

Love lack'd a dwelling, and made him her place;

And when in his fair parts she did abide,

She was new lodged and newly deified.

'His browny locks did hang in crooked curls;

And every light occasion of the wind

Upon his lips their silken parcels hurls.

What's sweet to do, to do will aptly find:

Each eye that saw him did enchant the mind,

For on his visage was in little drawn

What largeness thinks in Paradise was sawn.

'Small show of man was yet upon his chin;

His phoenix down began but to appear

Like unshorn velvet on that termless skin

Whose bare out-bragg'd the web it seem'd to wear:

Yet show'd his visage by that cost more dear;

And nice affections wavering stood in doubt

If best were as it was, or best without.

'His qualities were beauteous as his form,

For maiden-tongued he was, and thereof free;

Yet, if men moved him, was he such a storm

As oft 'twixt May and April is to see,

When winds breathe sweet, untidy though they be.

His rudeness so with his authorized youth

Did livery falseness in a pride of truth.

'Well could he ride, and often men would say

'That horse his mettle from his rider takes:

Proud of subjection, noble by the sway,

What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop

he makes!'

And controversy hence a question takes,

Whether the horse by him became his deed,

Or he his manage by the well-doing steed.

'But quickly on this side the verdict went:

His real habitude gave life and grace

To appertainings and to ornament,

Accomplish'd in himself, not in his case:

All aids, themselves made fairer by their place,

Came for additions; yet their purposed trim

Pieced not his grace, but were all graced by him.

'So on the tip of his subduing tongue

All kinds of arguments and question deep,

All replication prompt, and reason strong,

For his advantage still did wake and sleep:

To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep,

He had the dialect and different skill,

Catching all passions in his craft of will:

'That he did in the general bosom reign

Of young, of old; and sexes both enchanted,

To dwell with him in thoughts, or to remain

In personal duty, following where he haunted:

Consents bewitch'd, ere he desire, have granted;

And dialogued for him what he would say,

Ask'd their own wills, and made their wills obey.

'Many there were that did his picture get,

To serve their eyes, and in it put their mind;

Like fools that in th' imagination set

The goodly objects which abroad they find

Of lands and mansions, theirs in thought assign'd;

And labouring in moe pleasures to bestow them

Than the true gouty landlord which doth owe them:

'So many have, that never touch'd his hand,

Sweetly supposed them mistress of his heart.

My woeful self, that did in freedom stand,

And was my own fee-simple, not in part,

What with his art in youth, and youth in art,

Threw my affections in his charmed power,

Reserved the stalk and gave him all my flower.

'Yet did I not, as some my equals did,

Demand of him, nor being desired yielded;

Finding myself in honour so forbid,

With safest distance I mine honour shielded:

Experience for me many bulwarks builded

Of proofs new-bleeding, which remain'd the foil

Of this false jewel, and his amorous spoil.

'But, ah, who ever shunn'd by precedent

The destined ill she must herself assay?

Or forced examples, 'gainst her own content,

To put the by-past perils in her way?

Counsel may stop awhile what will not stay;

For when we rage, advice is often seen

By blunting us to make our wits more keen.

'Nor gives it satisfaction to our blood,

That we must curb it upon others' proof;

To be forbod the sweets that seem so good,

For fear of harms that preach in our behoof.

O appetite, from judgment stand aloof!

The one a palate hath that needs will taste,

Though Reason weep, and cry, 'It is thy last.'

'For further I could say 'This man's untrue,'

And knew the patterns of his foul beguiling;

Heard where his plants in others' orchards grew,

Saw how deceits were gilded in his smiling;

Knew vows were ever brokers to defiling;

Thought characters and words merely but art,

And bastards of his foul adulterate heart.

'And long upon these terms I held my city,

Till thus he gan besiege me: 'Gentle maid,

Have of my suffering youth some feeling pity,

And be not of my holy vows afraid:

That's to ye sworn to none was ever said;

For feasts of love I have been call'd unto,

Till now did ne'er invite, nor never woo.

''All my offences that abroad you see

Are errors of the blood, none of the mind;

Love made them not: with acture they may be,

Where neither party is nor true nor kind:

They sought their shame that so their shame did find;

And so much less of shame in me remains,

By how much of me their reproach contains.

''Among the many that mine eyes have seen,

Not one whose flame my heart so much as warm'd,

Or my affection put to the smallest teen,

Or any of my leisures ever charm'd:

Harm have I done to them, but ne'er was harm'd;

Kept hearts in liveries, but mine own was free,

And reign'd, commanding in his monarchy.

''Look here, what tributes wounded fancies sent me,

Of paled pearls and rubies red as blood;

Figuring that they their passions likewise lent me

Of grief and blushes, aptly understood

In bloodless white and the encrimson'd mood;

Effects of terror and dear modesty,

Encamp'd in hearts, but fighting outwardly.

''And, lo, behold these talents of their hair,

With twisted metal amorously impleach'd,

I have received from many a several fair,

Their kind acceptance weepingly beseech'd,

With the annexions of fair gems enrich'd,

And deep-brain'd sonnets that did amplify

Each stone's dear nature, worth, and quality.

''The diamond,--why, 'twas beautiful and hard,

Whereto his invised properties did tend;

The deep-green emerald, in whose fresh regard

Weak sights their sickly radiance do amend;

The heaven-hued sapphire and the opal blend

With objects manifold: each several stone,

With wit well blazon'd, smiled or made some moan.

''Lo, all these trophies of affections hot,

Of pensived and subdued desires the tender,

Nature hath charged me that I hoard them not,

But yield them up where I myself must render,

That is, to you, my origin and ender;

For these, of force, must your oblations be,

Since I their altar, you enpatron me.

''O, then, advance of yours that phraseless hand,

Whose white weighs down the airy scale of praise;

Take all these similes to your own command,

Hallow'd with sighs that burning lungs did raise;

What me your minister, for you obeys,

Works under you; and to your audit comes

Their distract parcels in combined sums.

''Lo, this device was sent me from a nun,

Or sister sanctified, of holiest note;

Which late her noble suit in court did shun,

Whose rarest havings made the blossoms dote;

For she was sought by spirits of richest coat,

But kept cold distance, and did thence remove,

To spend her living in eternal love.

''But, O my sweet, what labour is't to leave

The thing we have not, mastering what not strives,

Playing the place which did no form receive,

Playing patient sports in unconstrained gyves?

She that her fame so to herself contrives,

The scars of battle 'scapeth by the flight,

And makes her absence valiant, not her might.

''O, pardon me, in that my boast is true:

The accident which brought me to her eye

Upon the moment did her force subdue,

And now she would the caged cloister fly:

Religious love put out Religion's eye:

Not to be tempted, would she be immured,

And now, to tempt, all liberty procured.

''How mighty then you are, O, hear me tell!

The broken bosoms that to me belong

Have emptied all their fountains in my well,

And mine I pour your ocean all among:

I strong o'er them, and you o'er me being strong,

Must for your victory us all congest,

As compound love to physic your cold breast.

''My parts had power to charm a sacred nun,

Who, disciplined, ay, dieted in grace,

Believed her eyes when they to assail begun,

All vows and consecrations giving place:

O most potential love! vow, bond, nor space,

In thee hath neither sting, knot, nor confine,

For thou art all, and all things else are thine.

''When thou impressest, what are precepts worth

Of stale example? When thou wilt inflame,

How coldly those impediments stand forth

Of wealth, of filial fear, law, kindred, fame!

Love's arms are peace, 'gainst rule, 'gainst sense,

'gainst shame,

And sweetens, in the suffering pangs it bears,

The aloes of all forces, shocks, and fears.

''Now all these hearts that do on mine depend,

Feeling it break, with bleeding groans they pine;

And supplicant their sighs to you extend,

To leave the battery that you make 'gainst mine,

Lending soft audience to my sweet design,

And credent soul to that strong-bonded oath

That shall prefer and undertake my troth.'

'This said, his watery eyes he did dismount,

Whose sights till then were levell'd on my face;

Each cheek a river running from a fount

With brinish current downward flow'd apace:

O, how the channel to the stream gave grace!

Who glazed with crystal gate the glowing roses

That flame through water which their hue encloses.

'O father, what a hell of witchcraft lies

In the small orb of one particular tear!

But with the inundation of the eyes

What rocky heart to water will not wear?

What breast so cold that is not warmed here?

O cleft effect! cold modesty, hot wrath,

Both fire from hence and chill extincture hath.

'For, lo, his passion, but an art of craft,

Even there resolved my reason into tears;

There my white stole of chastity I daff'd,

Shook off my sober guards and civil fears;

Appear to him, as he to me appears,

All melting; though our drops this difference bore,

His poison'd me, and mine did him restore.

'In him a plenitude of subtle matter,

Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives,

Of burning blushes, or of weeping water,

Or swooning paleness; and he takes and leaves,

In either's aptness, as it best deceives,

To blush at speeches rank to weep at woes,

Or to turn white and swoon at tragic shows.

'That not a heart which in his level came

Could 'scape the hail of his all-hurting aim,

Showing fair nature is both kind and tame;

And, veil'd in them, did win whom he would maim:

Against the thing he sought he would exclaim;

When he most burn'd in heart-wish'd luxury,

He preach'd pure maid, and praised cold chastity.

'Thus merely with the garment of a Grace

The naked and concealed fiend he cover'd;

That th' unexperient gave the tempter place,

Which like a cherubin above them hover'd.

Who, young and simple, would not be so lover'd?

Ay me! I fell; and yet do question make

What I should do again for such a sake.

'O, that infected moisture of his eye,

O, that false fire which in his cheek so glow'd,

O, that forced thunder from his heart did fly,

O, that sad breath his spongy lungs bestow'd,

O, all that borrow'd motion seeming owed,

Would yet again betray the fore-betray'd,

And new pervert a reconciled maid!'

William Shakespeare

O Mistress Mine
O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low:
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.
What is love? 'Tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies not plenty;
Then, come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

Take, O Take
TAKE, O take those lips away  
That so sweetly were forsworn,  
And those eyes, the break of day,  
Lights that do mislead the morn:  
But my kisses bring again,         
      Bring again—  
Seals of love, but seal’d in vain,  
      Seal’d in vain!

Love Sonnet 1
From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding:
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

Love Sonnet 2
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow   
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field,   
Thy youth’s proud livery, so gaz’d on now,   
Will be a tatter’d weed, of small worth held:   
Then being ask’d, where all thy beauty lies,          
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,   
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,   
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.   
How much more praise deserv’d thy beauty’s use,   
If thou couldst answer ‘This fair child of mine   
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,’   
Proving his beauty by succession thine!   
  This were to be new made when thou art old,   
  And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold.

Love Sonnet 18
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

Love Sonnet 29
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

Love Sonnet 40
Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all; 
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before? 
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call; 
All mine was thine before thou hadst this more. 
Then if for my love thou my love receivest, 
I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest; 
But yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivest 
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest. 
I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief, 
Although thou steal thee all my poverty; 
And yet, love knows, it is a greater grief 
To bear love's wrong than hate's known injury. 
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows, 
Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes.

Love Sonnet 44
If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
Injurious distance should not stop my way.
For then, despite of space, I would be brought
From limits far remote where thou dost stay.
No matter then although my foot did stand
Upon the farthest earth removed from thee.
For nimble thought can jump both sea and land
As soon as think the place where he would be.
But, ah, thought kills me, that I am not thought,
To leap large length of miles when thou art gone,
But that, so much of earth and water wrought,
I must attend times leisure with my moan,
Receiving naught by elements so slow
But heavy tears, badges of either's woe.

Love Sonnet 55
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments 
   Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; 
But you shall shine more bright in these contents 
   Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time. 
When wasteful war shall statues overturn, 
   And broils root out the work of masonry, 
Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn 
   The living record of your memory. 
'Gainst death and all oblivious enmity 
   Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room, 
Even in the eyes of all posterity 
   That wear this world out to the ending doom. 
So, till the judgment that yourself arise, 
   You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.

Love Sonnet 63
Against my love shall be as I am now,
With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'erworn;
When hours have drain'd his blood and fill'd his brow
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travelled on to age's steepy night;
And all those beauties whereof now he's king
Are vanishing, or vanished out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring; 
For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age's cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life:
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
And they shall live, and he in them still green.

Love Sonnet 105
Let not my love be called idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,
Still constant in a wondrous excellence;
Therefore my verse to constancy confined,
One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument,
Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words;
And in this change is my invention spent,
Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone,
Which three till now, never kept seat in one.

Love Sonnet 109
O, never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seemed my flame to qualify.
As easy might I from my self depart
As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie.
That is my home of love; if I have ranged,
Like him that travels I return again,
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
So that myself bring water for my stain.
Never believe though in my nature reigned
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stained
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;
For nothing this wide universe I call
Save thou, my rose, in it thou art my all 

Love Sonnet 116
Let me not to the marriage of true minds 
Admit impediments; love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no, it is an ever-fixèd mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his heighth be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 

Love Sonnet 130
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare. 

Love Sonnet 138
When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutored youth,
Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed:
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O! love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love, loves not to have years told:
Therefore I lie with her, and she with...

Love Sonnet 147
My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as mad men's are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed.
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night. 

Love Sonnet 148
O ME! what eyes hath love put in my head,  
Which have no correspondence with true sight:  
Or if they have, where is my judgment fled  
That censures falsely what they see aright?  
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,          
What means the world to say it is not so?  
If it be not, then love doth well denote  
Love’s eye is not so true as all men’s: No,  
How can it? O how can love’s eye be true,  
That is so vex’d with watching and with tears?          
No marvel then though I mistake my view:  
The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.  
O cunning Love! with tears thou keep’st me blind,  
Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find!

Love Sonnet 153
Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep:
A maid of Dian's this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;
Which borrow'd from this holy fire of Love
A dateless lively heat, still to endure,
And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove
Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.
But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired,
The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;
I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,
And thither hied, a sad distemper'd guest,
But found no cure: the bath for my help lies
Where Cupid got new fire--my mistress' eyes.

Love Sonnet 154
The little Love-god lying once asleep
Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,
Whilst many nymphs that vow'd chaste life to keep
Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand
The fairest votary took up that fire
Which many legions of true hearts had warm'd;
And so the general of hot desire
Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarm'd.
This brand she quenched in a cool well by,
Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual,
Growing a bath and healthful remedy
For men diseased; but I, my mistress' thrall,
Came there for cure, and this by that I prove,
Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.

POEMS IN URDU

Autumn Sonnet (for Dennis)

Now autumn's here, winter's not far away.
Already you've attained three score and ten.
We notice now the shortening of the day,
Our spring and summer gone, won't come again.
Although our love is young, we're growing old
So savour mellow fruitfulness a while.
Let's glory in the autumn and be bold,
We'll laugh and greet each new day with a smile.
Give me your hand my love and let us be
Close friends, fond lovers, help-mates to the end,
And best of all to be good company,
Sharing whatever else this life may send.
Come kiss me love and hold me in your arms
Before cold winter freezes all my charms

Archive for the ‘Love Poems’ Category

aadab arz hai first time in shaairy.com

Jan 13, 2009 Author: alitasif | Filed under: Love Poems, Urdu Nazam, Urdu Shair | Poet, Urdu Shairy

toot kar zara dekho,
tum agar bikhar jao,
bay basi may ghir jao,
dil say ik sada dena,
bus mujay bula lena,
may tumhe sumbha longa,
zindagi may chalnay ka,
rasta badalnay ka,
ik hunar sikha donga,
tumko hosla donga,
or jab,
sambhal jao,
roshni may dhal jao,
mujko yun sila dena,
tum mujay bhula dena………..

1 Comment

mushkil tha tanha rehna…..

Jan 13, 2009 Author: md_abu_riz | Filed under: Love Poems

It’s the poem when a lover meets his love after a long time.

The feelings which come from the hearts in terms of words,

When he sees his love smiling towards him to hug her.

Mushkil tha harr lamha tujhse juda rehna,

Mumkin tha bas itna ke tere bin marjaana,

Kaise kahoon mai jaanam,

Tha kaisa mera aalam.

Seene se lagaa ke teri,

Tasveer ko akele me rona,

Mushkil tha askhon ko chupana,

Mum kin tha tere bin marjaana.

Ab jo tum aagayee tow,

Raahat mili hai dil ko,

Ab mujhko sunlo aye jaanam,

Tanhaa kabhee na rehne dena,

Mushkil tha tanhaa rehna,

Mumkin tha tere bin marjaana.

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What I Love About You

May 1, 2008 Author: admin | Filed under: Love Poems

I love the way you look at me,
Your eyes so bright and blue.
I love the way you kiss me,
Your lips so soft and smooth.
I love the way you make me so happy,
And the ways you show you care.
I love the way you say, "I Love You,"
And the way you’re always there.
I love the way you touch me,
Always sending chills down my spine.
I love that you are with me,
And glad that you are mine.
- Crystal Jansen

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one wish

May 1, 2008 Author: admin | Filed under: Love Poems

If I could have just one wish,
I would wish to wake up everyday
to the sound of your breath on my neck,
the warmth of your lips on my cheek,
the touch of your fingers on my skin,
and the feel of your heart beating with mine…
Knowing that I could never find that feeling
with anyone other than you.
- Courtney Kuchta -

5 Comments

gentle word like a spark of light

May 1, 2008 Author: admin | Filed under: Love Poems

A gentle word like a spark of light,
Illuminates my soul
And as each sound goes deeper,
It’s YOU that makes me whole
There is no corner, no dark place,
YOUR LOVE cannot fill
And if the world starts causing waves,
It’s your devotion that makes them still
And yes you always speak to me,
In sweet honesty and truth
Your caring heart keeps out the rain,
YOUR LOVE, the ultimate roof
So thank you my Love for being there,
For supporting me, my life
I’ll do the same for you, you know,
My Beautiful, Darling Wife.

An Extempore

  When they were come into Faery's Court
They rang -- no one at home -- all gone to sport
And dance and kiss and love as faerys do
For Faries be as human lovers true --
Amid the woods they were so lone and wild
Where even the Robin feels himself exil'd
And where the very books as if affraid
Hurry along to some less magic shade.
'No one at home'! the fretful princess cry'd
'And all for nothing such a dre[a]ry ride
And all for nothing my new diamond cross
No one to see my persian feathers toss
No one to see my Ape, my Dwarf, my Fool
Or how I pace my Otaheitan mule.
Ape, Dwarf and Fool why stand you gaping there
Burst the door open, quick -- or I declare
I'll switch you soundly and in pieces tear.'
The Dwarf began to tremble and the Ape
Star'd at the Fool, the Fool was all agape
The Princess grasp'd her switch but just in time
The Dwarf with piteous face began to rhyme.
'O mighty Princess did you ne'er hear tell
What your poor servants know but too too well
Know you the three great crimes in faery land
The first alas! poor Dwarf I understand
I made a whipstock of a faery's wand
The next is snoring in their company
The next the last the direst of the three
Is making free when they are not at home.
I was a Prince -- a baby prince -- my doom
You see, I made a whipstock of a wand
My top has henceforth slept in faery land.
He was a Prince the Fool, a grown up Prince
But he has never been a King's son since
He fell a snoring at a faery Ball
Your poor Ape was a Prince and he poor thing
But ape -- so pray your highness stay awhile
'Tis sooth indeed we know it to our sorrow --
Persist and you may be an ape tomorrow --
While the Dwarf spake the Princess all for spite
Peal'd the brown hazel twig to lilly white
Clench'd her small teeth, and held her lips apart
Try'd to look unconcerned with beating heart.
They saw her highness had made up her mind
And quaver'd like the reeds before the wind
And they had had it, but O happy chance
The Ape for very fear began to dance
And grin'd as all his uglyness did ache--
She staid her vixen fingers for his sake
He was so very ugly: then she took
Her pocket mirror and began to look
First at herself and [then] at him and then
She smil'd at her own beauteous face again.
Yet for all this -- for all her pretty face
She took it in her head to see the place.
Women gain little from experience
Either in Lovers, husbands or expense.
The more their beauty the more fortune too
Beauty before the wide world never knew.
So each fair reasons -- tho' it oft miscarries.
She thought her pretty face would please the fa[e]ries.
'My darling Ape I wont whip you today
Give me the Picklock sirrah and go play.'
They all three wept but counsel was as vain
As crying cup biddy to drops of rain.
Yet lingeringly did the sad Ape forth draw
The Picklock from the Pocket in his Jaw.
The Princess took it and dismounting straight
Trip'd in blue silver'd slippers to the gate
And touch'd the wards, the Door full courteously
Opened -- she enter'd with her servants three.
Again it clos'd and there was nothing seen
But the Mule grasing on the herbage green.
End of Canto xii.

Canto the xiii.
The Mule no sooner saw himself alone
Than he prick'd up his Ears -- and said 'well done!
At least unhappy Prince I may be free --
No more a Princess shall side saddle me
O King of Othaiete -- tho' a Mule
'Aye every inch a King' -- tho' 'Fortune's fool.'
Well done -- for by what Mr. Dwarfy said
I would not give a sixpence for her head.'
Even as he spake he trotted in high glee
To the knotty side of an old Pollard tree
And rub'd his sides against the mossed bark
Till his Girths burst and left him naked stark
Except his Bridle -- how get rid of that
Buckled and tied with many a twist and plait.
At last it struck him to pretend to sleep
And then the thievish Monkies down would creep
And filch the unpleasant trammels quite away.
No sooner thought of than adown he lay
Sham'd a good snore -- the Monkey-men descended
And whom they thought to injure they befriended.
They hung his Bridle on a topmost bough
And of[f] he went run, trot, or anyhow--

A Thing Of Beauty

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast
That, whether there be shine or gloom o'ercast,
They always must be with us, or we die.

Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I
Will trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the green
Of our own valleys: so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear the city's din;
Now while the early budders are just new,
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write,
Before the daisies, vermeil rimmed and white,
Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of my story.
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end!
And now at once, adventuresome, I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.