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.
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A Week of Stolen Kisses

A week of stolen kisses

and subtly intense glances with eyes flicking away at the last moment

was the most difficult challenge.

The SAT, my exams, interviews-

nothing could hold a candle to it.

Oh how I wanted to wrap you up in my arms

and kiss you until the stars came out.

I stole kisses where I could,

in the coolness of the basement

far from prying eyes,

beside the bonfire

with flickering flames to hide our faces,

on the balcony hidden in shadows

beneath the midnight moon.

Heart racing in the moments of near capture

and stifled giggles muffled in pillows.

I’m curled against you when I wake,

your arm pulled tight around my waist

intertwined with dreams and reality

and begging the sun to wait

just 15 minutes more.

Poetry Sunday: Kahlil Gibran

Reason and Passion XV by Khalil Gibran

And the priestess spoke again and said: “Speak to us of Reason and Passion.”

And he answered saying:

Your soul is oftentimes a battlefield, upon which your reason and your judgment wage war against passion and your appetite.

Would that I could be the peacemaker in your soul, that I might turn the discord and the rivalry of your elements into oneness and melody.

But how shall I, unless you yourselves be also the peacemakers, nay, the lovers of all your elements?

Your reason and your passion are the rudder and the sails of your seafaring soul.

If either your sails or our rudder be broken, you can but toss and drift, or else be held at a standstill in mid-seas.

For reason, ruling alone, is a force confining; and passion, unattended, is a flame that burns to its own destruction.

Therefore let your soul exalt your reason to the height of passion; that it may sing;

And let it direct your passion with reason, that your passion may live through its own daily resurrection, and like the phoenix rise above its own ashes.

I would have you consider your judgment and your appetite even as you would two loved guests in your house.

Surely you would not honour one guest above the other; for he who is more mindful of one loses the love and the faith of both.

Among the hills, when you sit in the cool shade of the white poplars, sharing the peace and serenity of distant fields and meadows – then let your heart say in silence, “God rests in reason.”

And when the storm comes, and the mighty wind shakes the forest, and thunder and lightning proclaim the majesty of the sky, – then let your heart say in awe, “God moves in passion.”

And since you are a breath In God’s sphere, and a leaf in God’s forest, you too should rest in reason and move in passion.

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.

My Wild Heart

I owned my heart for 19 years

built up walls like Camelot

filled the moats

and raised the bridges.

Then you appeared

bright and glorious on the horizon

and piece by piece you beganto take apart my barriers.

You stripped down the insecurities

and the painful past.

My soul stood naked and unashamed

before you,

then your lips touched mine

and that was the last moment I ever owned my heart.

My wild heart was drawn to yours,

and now my untameable heart 

runs free with your passionate soul.

Poetry Sunday: Charlotte Brontë

Passion by Charlotte Brontë

SOME have won a wild delight,
By daring wilder sorrow;
Could I gain thy love to-night,
I’d hazard death to-morrow.

Could the battle-struggle earn
One kind glance from thine eye,
How this withering heart would burn,
The heady fight to try !

Welcome nights of broken sleep,
And days of carnage cold,
Could I deem that thou wouldst weep
To hear my perils told.

Tell me, if with wandering bands
I roam full far away,
Wilt thou, to those distant lands,
In spirit ever stray ?

Wild, long, a trumpet sounds afar;
Bid me­bid me go
Where Seik and Briton meet in war,
On Indian Sutlej’s flow.

Blood has dyed the Sutlej’s waves
With scarlet stain, I know;
Indus’ borders yawn with graves,
Yet, command me go !

Though rank and high the holocaust
Of nations, steams to heaven,
Glad I’d join the death-doomed host,
Were but the mandate given.

Passion’s strength should nerve my arm,
Its ardour stir my life,
Till human force to that dread charm
Should yield and sink in wild alarm,
Like trees to tempest-strife.

If, hot from war, I seek thy love,
Darest thou turn aside ?
Darest thou, then, my fire reprove,
By scorn, and maddening pride ?

No­my will shall yet control
Thy will, so high and free,
And love shall tame that haughty soul­
Yes­tenderest love for me.

I’ll read my triumph in thine eyes,
Behold, and prove the change;
Then leave, perchance, my noble prize,
Once more in arms to range.

I’d die when all the foam is up,
The bright wine sparkling high;
Nor wait till in the exhausted cup
Life’s dull dregs only lie.

Then Love thus crowned with sweet reward,
Hope blest with fulness large,
I’d mount the saddle, draw the sword,
And perish in the charge !