Fragments of a dream

I have seen the long told demise of man
With barren fields,where a river past ran,
And bare heavens where mighty gospel lies,
And the golden gate of fair paradise.

A poem by Lancelot


A thought

But should I ever loathe the dawn of day,
Then I would be swift to cancel my breath
And forget the dumbest scenes I dared play,
All stages,and everything upon this earth.

A poem by Lancelot

To a dead poet

I recently paid a little visit down the years,when I made my stop at the Renaissance period,browsing the works of most extraordinary bards,from the likes of sir Phillip Sydney,Edmund Spenser and sir Walter Raleigh to the wily Ben Johnson and from the tragic Christopher Marlowe to the irreplaceable William Shakespeare.Those were indeed golden days of poetry.So I went on and on and on,admiring along the way,the topmost verse of John Donne and even the remarkable penmanship,demonstrated by mr George Chapman,until I stumbled upon the poem,’forget not yet,’ by one sir Thomas Wyatt.

I instantly fell in love with the piece,so much so,that I decided to imitate it.The following are Wyatt’s four opening lines!

“Forget not yet the tried intent
Of such a truth as I have meant
My great travail so gladly spent
Forget not yet.”

And next up,is my own lousy piece.

To a dead poet(imitating sir Thomas Wyatt)

Forget me not dear friend of merry time
When you leave and rise to the afterlife,
Forget not the name of companion prime
Nor rewards,nor merriments borne of strife.
Forget me not dear friend of sterling verse
When your name fades with a whispering wind,
Forget not the earth and her ways diverse
Nor all that you knew dearest to mankind.
And forget me not friend of noblest muse
When you take your seat upon the hallowed,
Forget not the rhyme nor couplets to use,
Nor that crown which was upon you bestowed.
Remember yet,the year and her seasons four,
The mellows in spring,and the rains to pour.

A poem by Lancelot

Remembering Lord Byron

Let me praise that which heavens keep
And express in verse my simple gratitude
To the gifted-most and the ever young,
The restless,and the maddest to rhyme.
Let me hail you natural bard,
One child of England and poet of the world,
Who sings so bright and evermore,
A friend of sweet things and glorious time.
No more shall your verse ever sleep,
Nor the shine,nor power of topics bold.