Poems · 1424 pieces
आस्था
raaja raamm tu aisa nirbhav taran taaran raamm raaya jab ham hote tab tum naahi ab tum hahu ham naahi ab ham tum ek bhaye hahi ekai dekhti man patiyaahi jab budhi hoti tab bal kaisa ab budhi bal na khataai
I ASK good things that I detest, With speeches fair; Heed not, I pray Thee, Lord, my breast, But hear my prayer.
Whate'er we leave to God, God does, And blesses us; The work we choose should be our own, God leaves alone.
A scene, which 'wildered fancy viewed In the soul's coldest solitude, With that same scene when peaceful love Flings rapture's colour o'er the grove,
All overgrown by cunning moss, All interspersed with weed, The little cage of 'Currer Bell,' In quiet Haworth laid.
I READ the "Christabel;" Very well: I read the "Missionary;" Pretty--very:
jam-kari-munh-tarahri paryau ihin dharahri chit laau vishay-trisha parihri ajaun narahri ke gun gaau
ab raheem muskil pari, gaarhe dou kaam saanche tain to jag nahin, jhoothe milain na raam
'Twas on the 18th of August in the year of 1798, That Nelson saw with inexpressible delight The City of Alexandria crowded with the ships of France, So he ordered all sail to be set, and immediately advance.
Fee, faw, fum! bubble and squeak! Blessedest Thursday's the fat of the week. Rumble and tumble, sleek and rough, Stinking and savoury, smug and gruff,
A dark unfathomed tide Of interminable pride-- A mystery, and a dream, Should my early life seem;
The Saviour, what a noble flame Was kindled in his breast, When hasting to Jerusalem, He march'd before the rest.
MY lov’d, my honour’d, much respected friend! No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end, My dearest meed, a friend’s esteem and praise:
Yes. Why do we бll, seeing of a soldier, bless him? bless Our redcoats, our tars? Both these being, the greater part, But frail clay, nay but foul clay. Here it is: the heart, Since, proud, it calls the calling manly, gives a guess
What was he doing, the great god Pan, Down in the reeds by the river? Spreading ruin and scattering ban, Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
Send but a song oversea for us, Heart of their hearts who are free, Heart of their singer, to be for us More than our singing can be;
What if this present were the world's last night? Mark in my heart, O soul, where thou dost dwell, The picture of Christ crucified, and tell Whether that countenance can thee affright,
'Quid vetat et nosmet Lucilî scripta legentes Quaerere, num illius, num rerum dura negârit Versiculos natura magis factos, et euntes Mollius?' HOR. THE SATIRES OF DR JOHN DONNE, DEAN OF ST PAUL'S, VERSIFIED.
1 COME up from the fields, father, here’s a letter from our Pete; And come to the front door, mother—here’s a letter from thy dear son. 2
The Rose was sick, and smiling died; And, being to be sanctified, About the bed, there sighing stood The sweet and flowery sisterhood.
Our tongues were made to bless the Lord, And not speak ill of men: When others give a railing word, We must not rail again.
Oh King of grief! (a title strange, yet true, To thee of all kings only due) Oh King of wounds! how shall I grieve for thee, Who in all grief preventest me?
The expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action: and till action, lust Is perjur'd, murderous, bloody, full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;
THE knell of death, that on the twilight gale, Swells its deep murmur to the pensive ear; In awful sounds repeats a mournful tale, And claims the tribute of a tender tear.
