https://sonett.fontane-place.de/ Fri, 26 Jun 2026 22:57:36 +0000 MyBB https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=19863 Sun, 09 Jan 2011 14:19:14 +0100 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=19863 Sir Robert Ayton
1569 - 1638


Forsaken of all comforts but these two,
My faggott and my pipe, I sitt and muse
On all my crosses and almost accuse
The heavens for dealing with me as they doe.
Then hope steps in and, with a smyling brow,
Such chearfull expectations doth infuse
As make me think ere long I cannot chuse
But be some Grandie, whatsoever I'm now.
But having spent my pype, I then perceive
That hopes and dreames are couzens, both deceive.
Then make I this conclusion in my minde,
Its all one thing, both tends unto one scope
To live upon tobacco and on hope,
The ones but smoake, the other is but winde.]]> Sir Robert Ayton
1569 - 1638


Forsaken of all comforts but these two,
My faggott and my pipe, I sitt and muse
On all my crosses and almost accuse
The heavens for dealing with me as they doe.
Then hope steps in and, with a smyling brow,
Such chearfull expectations doth infuse
As make me think ere long I cannot chuse
But be some Grandie, whatsoever I'm now.
But having spent my pype, I then perceive
That hopes and dreames are couzens, both deceive.
Then make I this conclusion in my minde,
Its all one thing, both tends unto one scope
To live upon tobacco and on hope,
The ones but smoake, the other is but winde.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=19862 Sun, 09 Jan 2011 14:13:05 +0100 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=19862 Sir Robert Ayton
1569 - 1638


Faire famous flood, which sometyme did devyde
But now conjoynes two diadems in one,
Suspend thy pace and some more softly slyde;
Since wee have made the trinchman of our mone
And since non's left but thy report alone
To show the world our captaines last farewell
That courtesye I knowe when wee are gon
Perhapps your lord the sea will it reveale
And you againe the same will not conceale
But straight proclaim't through all his bremish bounds
Till his high tydes these flowing tydeings tell
And soon will send them with his murmering sounds
To that religious place, whose stately walls
Does keepe the heart which all our hearts inthralls.]]> Sir Robert Ayton
1569 - 1638


Faire famous flood, which sometyme did devyde
But now conjoynes two diadems in one,
Suspend thy pace and some more softly slyde;
Since wee have made the trinchman of our mone
And since non's left but thy report alone
To show the world our captaines last farewell
That courtesye I knowe when wee are gon
Perhapps your lord the sea will it reveale
And you againe the same will not conceale
But straight proclaim't through all his bremish bounds
Till his high tydes these flowing tydeings tell
And soon will send them with his murmering sounds
To that religious place, whose stately walls
Does keepe the heart which all our hearts inthralls.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=19861 Sun, 09 Jan 2011 14:06:52 +0100 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=19861 Sir Robert Ayton
1569 - 1638


To veiw thy beauty well, if thou be wise,
Come not to gaze upon this glass of thyne
But come and looke upon these eyes of myne,
Where thou shalt see thy true resemblance twyce,
Or if thou thinkes that thou profaines thy eyes
When on my wretched eyes they daigne to shyne,
Looke on my heart wherein, as in a shryne,
The lively picture of thy beauty lyes,
Or if thy harmeless modesty thinkes shame
To gaze upon the horrous of my heart,
Come read those lynes and reading see in them
The trophies of thy beautie and my smart,
Or if to none of those thou'l daigne to come,
Weepe eyes, breake heart and you my verse be dumbe.]]> Sir Robert Ayton
1569 - 1638


To veiw thy beauty well, if thou be wise,
Come not to gaze upon this glass of thyne
But come and looke upon these eyes of myne,
Where thou shalt see thy true resemblance twyce,
Or if thou thinkes that thou profaines thy eyes
When on my wretched eyes they daigne to shyne,
Looke on my heart wherein, as in a shryne,
The lively picture of thy beauty lyes,
Or if thy harmeless modesty thinkes shame
To gaze upon the horrous of my heart,
Come read those lynes and reading see in them
The trophies of thy beautie and my smart,
Or if to none of those thou'l daigne to come,
Weepe eyes, breake heart and you my verse be dumbe.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=19860 Sun, 09 Jan 2011 12:17:34 +0100 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=19860 Sir Robert Ayton
1569 - 1638


I bid farewell unto the world and thee,
To the because thou art extreame unkinde,
Unto the world, because the world to me
is nothing, since I cannott move thy minde.
were any mercy in thy soule inshrin'd,
Could sighes or teares make soft thy flinty heart,
I could perhapps more easily be inclin'd
To spend my dayes with the then to depart.
But since thou knowes not Cupids golden dart
But hath been wounded with a shaft of lead,
It is but folly to pretend his art
To sue for favour, when I finde but feade.
Soe farewell Nimph, farewell for aye as now
And wel'come death more mercifull then thou.]]> Sir Robert Ayton
1569 - 1638


I bid farewell unto the world and thee,
To the because thou art extreame unkinde,
Unto the world, because the world to me
is nothing, since I cannott move thy minde.
were any mercy in thy soule inshrin'd,
Could sighes or teares make soft thy flinty heart,
I could perhapps more easily be inclin'd
To spend my dayes with the then to depart.
But since thou knowes not Cupids golden dart
But hath been wounded with a shaft of lead,
It is but folly to pretend his art
To sue for favour, when I finde but feade.
Soe farewell Nimph, farewell for aye as now
And wel'come death more mercifull then thou.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17694 Mon, 23 Jun 2008 21:45:06 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17694 Benjamin Parke Avery
1828-1875 USA

A WILD NOSEGAY.

SWEET-SCENTED messengers from landscape green,
Thy presence is a blessing in my cot,
A still memento of each sunny spot,
Or shaded, where my wandering feet have been
In search of thee. The winding, wet ravine,
Luxuriant with golden flowers; the grot
Beneath the live-oak, where small blossoms dot
The mossy rock, and humming-birds are seen
To flash and quiver through the tremulous leaves
Of snowy buckeye; and the mountain steep
Or wooded summit, where sad zephyr grieves
Forever through the branches of the pine;--
All helped to form thee, and thou still dost keep
Their charms before me, which I blend with thine.]]> Benjamin Parke Avery
1828-1875 USA

A WILD NOSEGAY.

SWEET-SCENTED messengers from landscape green,
Thy presence is a blessing in my cot,
A still memento of each sunny spot,
Or shaded, where my wandering feet have been
In search of thee. The winding, wet ravine,
Luxuriant with golden flowers; the grot
Beneath the live-oak, where small blossoms dot
The mossy rock, and humming-birds are seen
To flash and quiver through the tremulous leaves
Of snowy buckeye; and the mountain steep
Or wooded summit, where sad zephyr grieves
Forever through the branches of the pine;--
All helped to form thee, and thou still dost keep
Their charms before me, which I blend with thine.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=14216 Mon, 30 Apr 2007 13:12:26 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=14216
Brook, happy brook, that glidest through my dell;
That trippest with soft feet across the mead;
That, laughing on, a mazy course dost lead,
O'er pebble beds, and reeds, and rushy swell;
Go by that cottage where my love doth dwell.
Ripple thy sweetest ripple, sing the best
Of melodies thou hast; lull her to rest
With such sweet tales as thou dost love to tell.
Say, "One is sitting in your wood to-night,
O maiden rare, to catch a glimpse of you;
A shadow fleet, or but a window-light,
Shall make him glad, and thrill his spirit through."
Brook, happy brook, I pray, go lingering;
And underneath the rosy lattice sing.]]>
Brook, happy brook, that glidest through my dell;
That trippest with soft feet across the mead;
That, laughing on, a mazy course dost lead,
O'er pebble beds, and reeds, and rushy swell;
Go by that cottage where my love doth dwell.
Ripple thy sweetest ripple, sing the best
Of melodies thou hast; lull her to rest
With such sweet tales as thou dost love to tell.
Say, "One is sitting in your wood to-night,
O maiden rare, to catch a glimpse of you;
A shadow fleet, or but a window-light,
Shall make him glad, and thrill his spirit through."
Brook, happy brook, I pray, go lingering;
And underneath the rosy lattice sing.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=14210 Mon, 30 Apr 2007 13:07:28 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=14210 When my task here is done, the oak's green crest
Shall rise above my grave--a little mound,
Raised in some cheerful village cemetery.
And I could wish that, with unceasing sound,
A lonely mountain rill was murmuring by
In music through the long soft twilight hours.
And let the hand of her whom I love best
Plant round the bright green grave those fragrant flowers
In whose deep bells the wild-bee loves to rest;
And should the robin from some neighbouring tree
Pour his enchanted song-oh softly tread!
For sure if aught of earth can soothe the dead
He still must love that pensive melody.]]> When my task here is done, the oak's green crest
Shall rise above my grave--a little mound,
Raised in some cheerful village cemetery.
And I could wish that, with unceasing sound,
A lonely mountain rill was murmuring by
In music through the long soft twilight hours.
And let the hand of her whom I love best
Plant round the bright green grave those fragrant flowers
In whose deep bells the wild-bee loves to rest;
And should the robin from some neighbouring tree
Pour his enchanted song-oh softly tread!
For sure if aught of earth can soothe the dead
He still must love that pensive melody.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=14189 Mon, 30 Apr 2007 12:49:18 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=14189 Dead Men
To a Metaphysician

If they were shadows walking to and fro
Upon a screen you call reality,
Then, when the light fails, where do shadows go?
This boy enigma rapes philosophy.
But if they really occupied three-square,
And now are only shadows on a screen,
How can the light still cast a shadow there
From shades of shadows that have never been?
Such questions are a mimic pantomime
Of ghosts to utter nothings in dream chairs,
Myopia squinting in a mist of time,
An eye that sees the eye with which it stares.
Your light too clearly shows the ancient stigma
Of questions solved by posing an enigma.]]> Dead Men
To a Metaphysician

If they were shadows walking to and fro
Upon a screen you call reality,
Then, when the light fails, where do shadows go?
This boy enigma rapes philosophy.
But if they really occupied three-square,
And now are only shadows on a screen,
How can the light still cast a shadow there
From shades of shadows that have never been?
Such questions are a mimic pantomime
Of ghosts to utter nothings in dream chairs,
Myopia squinting in a mist of time,
An eye that sees the eye with which it stares.
Your light too clearly shows the ancient stigma
Of questions solved by posing an enigma.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=14188 Mon, 30 Apr 2007 12:48:13 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=14188
When westward low descends the sun’s red car
A lingering woodland note my heart enthralls;
O hark! O list! It is the wood thrush calls
From out the forest dim; and sweet afar

The ripple glides to greet the evening star,
As when upon enchanted mountain walls
Soft wind-harps sound, or fairy music falls
In stilly hours beneath the moon’s pale bar.

O vesper singer in thy sylvan glades,
What gift is thine, how thrills the enraptured air
Beneath the burden of thy song! O, cease

Not while on field and forest deep the shades
Of night are mantling down; but singing there,
To all the hushed and listening earth give peace.]]>
When westward low descends the sun’s red car
A lingering woodland note my heart enthralls;
O hark! O list! It is the wood thrush calls
From out the forest dim; and sweet afar

The ripple glides to greet the evening star,
As when upon enchanted mountain walls
Soft wind-harps sound, or fairy music falls
In stilly hours beneath the moon’s pale bar.

O vesper singer in thy sylvan glades,
What gift is thine, how thrills the enraptured air
Beneath the burden of thy song! O, cease

Not while on field and forest deep the shades
Of night are mantling down; but singing there,
To all the hushed and listening earth give peace.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=14187 Mon, 30 Apr 2007 12:47:24 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=14187
Strange Truth and Beauty are enemies,
Treading forever on each other's toes!
Strange rhymes are always made of that which is
Too false or silly to be said in prose!
Now here's a sonnet by our village poet
"Inscribed to Kate," in most romantic style,
Whereas,--and one with half an eye might know it,--
He means Sophronia Tompkins, all the while.
He sings of "golden curls." If fiery tresses
Had heat to match their hue, her hair would burn;--
He mentions "airy grace,"--while she possesses
A form as shapeless as an old-time churn,
Heavens! after this I never shall inquire
Why people always call the poet's song a LYRE!]]>
Strange Truth and Beauty are enemies,
Treading forever on each other's toes!
Strange rhymes are always made of that which is
Too false or silly to be said in prose!
Now here's a sonnet by our village poet
"Inscribed to Kate," in most romantic style,
Whereas,--and one with half an eye might know it,--
He means Sophronia Tompkins, all the while.
He sings of "golden curls." If fiery tresses
Had heat to match their hue, her hair would burn;--
He mentions "airy grace,"--while she possesses
A form as shapeless as an old-time churn,
Heavens! after this I never shall inquire
Why people always call the poet's song a LYRE!]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=14181 Mon, 30 Apr 2007 12:42:40 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=14181 William Alexander
1824-1911 Irland

Frost-Morning


The morn is cold. A whiteness newly-brought
Lightly and loosely powders every place,
The panes among yon trees that eastward face
Flash rosy fire from the opposite dawning caught,--
As the face flashes with a splendid thought,
As the heart flashes with a touch of grace
When heaven's light comes on ways we cannot trace,
Unsought, yet lovelier than we ever sought.
In the blue northern sky is a pale moon,
Through whose thin texture something doth appear
Like the dark shadow of a branchy tree.--
Fit morning for the prayers of one like me,
Whose life is in midwinter, and must soon
Come to the shortest day of all my year!]]> William Alexander
1824-1911 Irland

Frost-Morning


The morn is cold. A whiteness newly-brought
Lightly and loosely powders every place,
The panes among yon trees that eastward face
Flash rosy fire from the opposite dawning caught,--
As the face flashes with a splendid thought,
As the heart flashes with a touch of grace
When heaven's light comes on ways we cannot trace,
Unsought, yet lovelier than we ever sought.
In the blue northern sky is a pale moon,
Through whose thin texture something doth appear
Like the dark shadow of a branchy tree.--
Fit morning for the prayers of one like me,
Whose life is in midwinter, and must soon
Come to the shortest day of all my year!]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=14180 Mon, 30 Apr 2007 12:41:33 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=14180 For me, my friend, no grave-side vigil keep
With tears that memory and remorse might fill;
Give me your tenderest laughter earth-bound still,
And when I die you shall not want to weep.
No epitaph for me with virtues deep
Punctured in marble pitiless and chill:
But when play time is over, if you will,
The songs that soothe beloved babes to sleep.
No lenten lilies on my breast and brow
Be laid when I am silent; roses red,
And golden roses bring me here instead,
That if you love or bear me I may know;
I may not know, nor care, when I am dead:
Give me your songs, and flowers, and laughter now.]]> For me, my friend, no grave-side vigil keep
With tears that memory and remorse might fill;
Give me your tenderest laughter earth-bound still,
And when I die you shall not want to weep.
No epitaph for me with virtues deep
Punctured in marble pitiless and chill:
But when play time is over, if you will,
The songs that soothe beloved babes to sleep.
No lenten lilies on my breast and brow
Be laid when I am silent; roses red,
And golden roses bring me here instead,
That if you love or bear me I may know;
I may not know, nor care, when I am dead:
Give me your songs, and flowers, and laughter now.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=14101 Mon, 30 Apr 2007 10:59:28 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=14101 Shut in by hills of green and gradual rise,
And beautified with blue inverted skies—
Where not a breeze but comes with softened tone.

And if the waves awake, they only moan
With a low lulling music, like the rills
That make their home among those happy hills;
And let me find--left there by hands unknown—

A bark with mouldering sides and rifted sail,
Just strong enough to bear me from the shore,
But not to reach its tree-girt harbour more—

Oh, happy, happy rest! oh, world of wail!
How calmly I would tempt the peaceful deep,
And sink to death, as if I sank to sleep.]]> Shut in by hills of green and gradual rise,
And beautified with blue inverted skies—
Where not a breeze but comes with softened tone.

And if the waves awake, they only moan
With a low lulling music, like the rills
That make their home among those happy hills;
And let me find--left there by hands unknown—

A bark with mouldering sides and rifted sail,
Just strong enough to bear me from the shore,
But not to reach its tree-girt harbour more—

Oh, happy, happy rest! oh, world of wail!
How calmly I would tempt the peaceful deep,
And sink to death, as if I sank to sleep.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=14100 Mon, 30 Apr 2007 10:58:36 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=14100 What proud emotions rise within my breast!
To thee I owe--from thee derive that fame
Which here may linger when I lie at rest.

When as a youth I landed on thy shore,
How little did I think I e'er could be
Worthy the honours thou hast giv'n to me;
And when the coming storm I did deplore,

Drove me far from thee by its hostile threat--
With feelings which can never be effaced,
I learn'd to commune with those writers old

Who had the deeds of thy great chieftains told;
Departed bards in converse sweet I met,
I'd seen where they had liv'd--the land Camoens grac'd.]]> What proud emotions rise within my breast!
To thee I owe--from thee derive that fame
Which here may linger when I lie at rest.

When as a youth I landed on thy shore,
How little did I think I e'er could be
Worthy the honours thou hast giv'n to me;
And when the coming storm I did deplore,

Drove me far from thee by its hostile threat--
With feelings which can never be effaced,
I learn'd to commune with those writers old

Who had the deeds of thy great chieftains told;
Departed bards in converse sweet I met,
I'd seen where they had liv'd--the land Camoens grac'd.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=14092 Mon, 30 Apr 2007 10:52:24 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=14092
It fell as softly as the winter's snow:
There was no sound of storm nor any stress,
No fevered daring of Death's mightiness,
No struggle for a strong man's overthrow:

Just some few hours of moaning, soft and low,
Some hard-drawn breathing, quickly hushed, ah yes!
And then,--and then,--small white limbs motionless,
While we who wait must whisper as we go.

A face and voice we looked for lovingly
Lost from the fellowship of our small band:
One little ripple of Life's restless sea

Soothed into stillness by the Master's hand,
And missing here:--but a white soul to stand
In the vast Temple of Eternity.]]>
It fell as softly as the winter's snow:
There was no sound of storm nor any stress,
No fevered daring of Death's mightiness,
No struggle for a strong man's overthrow:

Just some few hours of moaning, soft and low,
Some hard-drawn breathing, quickly hushed, ah yes!
And then,--and then,--small white limbs motionless,
While we who wait must whisper as we go.

A face and voice we looked for lovingly
Lost from the fellowship of our small band:
One little ripple of Life's restless sea

Soothed into stillness by the Master's hand,
And missing here:--but a white soul to stand
In the vast Temple of Eternity.]]>