SHEPHERD’S TALE, breaking point

WHEN you gave me the love to please,
With laughter and a boundless kiss,
Forth came my heart’s happy content,
So borne, by nature’s own consent.

I did see you in gowns antique,
Often worn with garlands unique,
And a pair of fair sandals to match,
Your gentle walks, a marvel to watch.

Then you met truths in my designs,
That glimpse of apples and goodly pines,
All distant hills, all twilights pale,
All gleaming valleys, all the dale.

And to the mellowed greens we made,
Where we stood in the evening shade,
Before the skies and sunsets red,
And then a joyous life we led.

But things do change as the seasons move,
And this to me your coldness prove;
Upon you I spot no delight,
And pale stars no more greet a night.

Where be the mellowed looks supplied?
Those warming songs by evening tide?
The soft-borne kisses by each twilight?
And gentle whisperings in the night?

A poem by Lancelot


SHEPHERD’S TALE, the reply

ALL the rhymes and songs are only sweet,
And thy world with faeries compete,
How then will I not tread and rove,
To glance with thee at the seasons move?

I see portraits of thy designs,
A glimpse of apples and goodly pines,
Distant hills, and the twilight pale,
A gleaming valley and the dale!

Now take me to a boundless world,
Where thrives the flock and shepherds bold,
And the mellows of summer day,
All of that which delight my stay.

Those birds which tread on lilies bright,
And a swarm of bees ‘pon roses white!
All pleasures of the boundless shore
And the pretty pastures we adore.

But those stars do yet greet a night,
And so gild my brow with the light!
Then I tread with thee on the rove
To glance with thee at the seasons move.

I shall afford thee time to prove,
All thy sweet tales and boundless love.
Now take my hand o’ lovely night,
To win me and make me delight.

A poem by Lancelot


And this is my own piece,I shall not say it is an imitation,but rather, a poem inspired by Marlowe’s masterpiece.I hope it is not as lousy as I think it is.

LEARN me of better rhymes to make,
And tell me how long it should take
For me to be thy lovely knight,
To win thee and make thee delight.

I shall tread with thee on a rove,
And glance with thee at the seasons move,
And take thee to a boundless world
Where lie so many a bliss held.

We shall watch all rams and ewes graze,
And little lambs cuddle in the sun’s blaze,
And both see legless ticks of day
When we delve into a gold ray.

Sweet butterflies will paint the air,
And two nightingales hum as pair!
But sweet falcons make tender moan,
Bent on merriment palms alone.

Roaming lark steps on lilies bright,
As doth bees ‘pon knots of roses white:
Thus sweet pleasures,of blushful spring
Whose pretty yields across gardens cling.

Who else could perhaps afford thee
These lofty delights thy eyes see?
Whose hands be gentle as the shepherd’s?
Who be sweet as the sweetest bards?

A poem by Lancelot


Now I give you Walter Raleigh’s imitation of Marlowe’s poem,the nymph’s direct response to the passionate shepherd.

If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleasures might be move
To live with thee and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complain of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter’s reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe,in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.

Lol, Ouch!

A poem by Sir Walter Raleigh


This is one of the most treasured love poems in the English language,a pastoral beauty written in the 1590s by Christopher Marlowe.It was so well loved that it was imitated by most well-known poets,including Shakespeare and Sir Walter Raleigh.

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all pleasures prove,
That hills and valleys,dales and fields,
And all the craggy mountains yields.

There we will sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds do sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses
With 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.

A poem by Christopher Marlowe

And did those days of light and gloom

While still on the theme of song and praise,I decided to imitate the first eight lines of Blake’s hymn that I posted earlier this day.I hope I do justice to the piece.

And did those days of light and gloom
Fade so fast like a dying wind?
And was the very hand of time
Too patient on the mankind?
And did a plethora of nights
Shed piles of nightmares and dreams?
And were prayers yielding delights
Amid those satanic r’gimes?

A poem by Lancelot


And did those feet in ancient time

So the new year is finally here,a time for new beginnings and renewed hopes.My single and high-most wish is for the Maker to grant me wisdom.Let this be a year full of love and contentment,and I do wish every reader of mine,peace and prosperity.

I shall start my posting with Blake’s song,a very famed hymn at that.

AND did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England’s mountain green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England pleasant pastures seen?
And did the countenance divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among those dark satanic mills?

Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear!O clouds,unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have builded Jerusalem
In England’s green and pleasant land.

A poem by William Blake