Poetry Sunday: Christopher Marlowe

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love by Christopher Marlowe

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

 

And we will sit upon the Rocks,
Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow Rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing Madrigals.

 

And I will make thee beds of Roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;

 

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty Lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

 

A belt of straw and Ivy buds,
With Coral clasps and Amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

 

The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

Quote-spiration: C.S. Lewis

 In life we face so many difficulties that make no sense in the moment and that really challenge our resolve. It has taken me a long time to get to this place, but I feel like each challenge I face is preparing me for something even more difficult in the future or is giving me the tools to help someone else. 

Also, it’s Christmas Eve! What are some favorite holiday traditions you’re looking forward this season?

 

Your Dawn Beauty Leaves Me Breathless

I woke up in your arms

surrounded by your warmth

and snuggled next to your heart.

Rain fell softly outside the window,

nearly lulling me back to sleep

and casting a pale glow across your sleep laden face.

I could hear your heartbeat

Strong and steady,

and your soft breathing

Balanced out the pattering on the windowpanes.

The early morning light dances over your

Face. The gentle curve of your cheeks,

your faintly creased brow

and slightly parted lips.

And I fall in love

all over again.

Your dawn beauty leaves me breathless.

Sleep tousled hair

And an untroubled face.

I am wonderstruck by you,

and I have not even begun to describe your 

dazzling soul.

I cup your face and your eyes open unhurriedly. 

They are full of splendor

and I am at the mercy of their opulence.

Poetry Sunday: Edmund Spenser

Sonnet LXXII by Edmund Spenser

 OFt when my spirit doth spred her bolder winges,
In mind to mount vp to the purest sky:
it down is weighd with thoght of earthly things:
and clogd with burden of mortality,
Where when that souerayne beauty it doth spy,
resembling heauens glory in her light:
drawne with sweet pleasures bayt, it back doth fly,
and vnto heauen forgets her former flight.
There my fraile fancy fed with full delight,
doth bath in blisse and mantleth most at ease:
ne thinks of other heauen, but how it might
her harts desire with most contentment please,
Hart need not with none other happinesse,
but here on earth to haue such heuens blisse.

Writers Get Distracted

Writers save these moments,

the quiet moments among the chaos of life.

The shape of a lover’s lips after they’ve been kissed,

the smell of a scarf that holds a weekend of memories,

the color of their eyes in the waking of the day.

Writers get distracted

by seemingly insignificant things

because we have made it a mission 

to watch for the beauty in our every day lives.

We get distracted by the colors in the sky,

the feeling of the breeze on our skin,

the taste of something sweet and scrumptious.

Writers might forget

exactly what was said

but never will the way you made them see or think or feel

ever be lost.

Writers save these moments

along life’s rugged path

so that when the road gets bumpy

we have a reservoir of exquisite memories 

to keep us going in the end.