Joined: 22 Nov 2005
Location: Westwego LA
Currently Reading: American Archery by Robert P Elmer; How the Post Office Created America by Winifred Gallagher
|Posted: Sunday, 29 April 2012, 13:08 PM Post subject: Thorns Without Blossoms
|Thorns without Blossoms
She gives me no pleasure, she withholds hope
My words of love for her
Fall on deaf ears, my hope has no hope.
At one time, it was my joy to serve her
As a loyal vassal would serve his queen, I served her alas, to no avail.
She is capricious; she pays more attention to flatterers.
She seeks praise from the multitude for her to listen to the council of true friends
is impossible, she must hear the praise of all, she must have the praise everyone so
has no ear for those who speak to her from the heart. She has a hunger for fame.
She ignores those few who would tell her true those who hold her sacred.
For despite protestations to the contrary she seeks flattery, her head is turned by flattery.
Flattery feeds her soul, she believes she has a multitude of friends but most are merely flatterers.
Flatterers, like sweetmeats, please the palate but hold no substance. It is her
true friends that fill the soul, fill the mind, fill the heart, that
fill the entire being of the loved one with an affection that flatterers cannot emulate.
I am chained to her by love, an indifferent Cupid hast made me fast to her
For me any other existence would become certain death.
Happiness would become a chimera, a mirage.
My Love for her has brought forth no sweet blossoms, only thorns without blossoms
When we met, I took joy in our gentle tete a tetes her laugher rang sweet
in my ears, musical were her words, her smile I likened to the sun.
But she has said that she cannot do as I wish,
become my bride. It is not because
she cares not for me, it is not
that she has given her heart to another.
But because she has given herself
over to the meaningless words
and shallow praises of fair weather friends.
Cyrille "A poet when he writes is like a lover in his lady's arms. All seems true, you understand---that's half the joy of writing"
(from the Play "Cyrano De Bergerac," by Edmumd Rostand"
Joined: 10 Aug 2005
Location: Eastern USA
Currently Reading: "Snippets of Life" by Peggy Harwood
|Posted: Sunday, 18 November 2012, 8:18 AM Post subject:
|I missed this one, Cyrille. Oh the pain of love when that love isn't returned! Good poem!!!
"Then he thinks he knows/ The hills where his life rose/ And the sea where it goes." from the "Buried Life" by Matthew Arnold