Tag: poetry

“On Children”

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

― Khalil Gibran, The Prophet, “On Children”

“On Marriage”

You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days.
Ay, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

Love one another, but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.

― Khalil Gibran, The Prophet, “On Marriage”

“Loving and Beloved”

There never yet was honest man
That ever drove the trade of love;
It is impossible, nor can
Integrity our ends promove:
For Kings and Lovers are alike in this
That their chief art in reigne dissembling is.

Here we are lov’d, and there we love,
Good nature now and passion strive
Which of the two should be above,
And laws unto the other give.
So we false fire with art sometimes discover,
And the true fire with the same art do cover.

What Rack can Fancy find so high?
Here we must Court, and here ingage,
Though in the other place we die.
Oh! ‘tis torture all, and cozenage;
And which the harder is I cannot tell,
To hide true love, or make false love look well.

Since it is thus, God of desire,
Give me my honesty again,
And take thy brands back, and thy fire;
I’me weary of the State I’me in:
Since (if the very best should now befall)
Loves Triumph, must be Honours Funeral.

– Sir John Suckling, “Loving and Beloved”

Stance

Remorse seeps into my heart
Displacing the warmth of happiness

Trust, I do not
Love, I am afraid to
Sacrifice, I refuse to

The mind is unreasonable
And endlessly protects its reservations

I revel in the self-imposed exile
From the chaos of dichotomy

Kindness, I need to offer
Friendship, I turn to
Hope, I must give

The heart is always hopeful
And offers love unconditionally

© Sharon Kaur-Schuelke

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“Sonnet 116”

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments; Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no, it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although highth be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

– William Shakespeare, “Sonnet 116”

“Song”

How many times do I love thee, dear?
Tell me how many thoughts there be
In the atmosphere
Of a new fallen year,
Whose white and sable hours appear
The latest flake of Eternity –
So many times do I love thee, dear.

How many time do I love thee, dear?
Tell me how many beads there are
In a silver chain
Of evening rain
Unravelled from the tumbling main,
And threading the eye of a yellowstar
So many times do I love again.

– Thomas Love Peacock, “Song”