Destiny Poems - Poems For Destiny
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Destiny - Poem by Emma Lazarus
Paris, from throats of iron, silver, brass,
Joy-thundering cannon, blent with chiming bells,
And martial strains, the full-voiced pæan swells.
The air is starred with flags, the chanted mass
Throngs all the churches, yet the broad streets swarm
With glad-eyed groups who chatter, laugh, and pass,
In holiday confusion, class with class.
And over all the spring, the sun-floods warm!
In the Imperial palace that March morn,
The beautiful young mother lay and smiled;
For by her side just breathed the Prince, her child,
Heir to an empire, to the purple born,
Crowned with the Titan's name that stirs the heart
Like a blown clarion--one more Bonaparte.
Born to the purple, lying stark and dead,
Transfixed with poisoned spears, beneath the sun
Of brazen Africa! Thy grave is one,
Fore-fated youth (on whom were visited
Follies and sins not thine), whereat the world,
Heartless howe'er it be, will pause to sing
A dirge, to breathe a sigh, a wreath to fling
Of rosemary and rue with bay-leaves curled.
Enmeshed in toils ambitious, not thine own,
Immortal, loved boy-Prince, thou tak'st thy stand
With early doomed Don Carlos, hand in hand
With mild-browed Arthur, Geoffrey's murdered son.
Louis the Dauphin lifts his thorn-ringed head,
And welcomes thee, his brother, 'mongst the dead.
Comments about Destiny by Emma Lazarus
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They deliver the edicts of God without delay And are exempt from apprehension from detention And with their God-given Petasus, Caduceus, and Talaria ferry like bolts of lightning unhindered between the tribunals of Space & Time The Messenger-Spirit in human flesh is assigned a dependable, self-reliant, versatile, thoroughly poet existence upon its sojourn in life It does not knock or ring the bell or telephone When the Messenger-Spirit comes to your door though locked It'll enter like an electric midwife and deliver the message There is no tell throughout the ages that a Messenger-Spirit ever stumbled into darkness
It was my destiny to die, and no matter how much you try, it is everyones destiny to die, no matter old or young, death will break the needle on which you're life is strung, death cares not that you're in love, death will push you death will shove, till you're life is on the edge, then death the sealer of you're destiny, will steal you're soul, and let you be, for it truly is our destiny, no matter how hard it is to see, to live to die to simply be.
A Journey Without Destiny
The voices of hope...... Screaming for lives.. Were not fulfilled The truth is We can't handle the truth Take me to the place... Where the weather Is fine all around We could live Till the world Is no longer exists... and remember The arts of love Implies to flirtation Your longing.... Is descriptive Well painted onto the canvas of psychopath A journey without destiny... Is a long lost destination Only the determined Would understand and nodded
This Was Not Our Destiny
This was not our destiny, that union with the beloved would take place. If we had kept on living longer, then would have been kept waiting If I lived on your promise, then know this that I knew it to be false For would I not have died of happiness, if I had had trust [in it]? From your delicacy I knew that the vow had been bound loosely You could never have broken it, if it had been firm Let someone ask my heart about your half-drawn arrow Where would this anxiety/ pain have come from, if it had gone through the liver? What kind of friendship is this, that friends have become Advisors? If someone had been a healer, if someone had been a sympathizer! From the rock-vein would drip that blood which would never have stopped If this which you are considering 'grief' this were just a spark Although grief is life-threatening, how would we escape, while there is a heart? If there were not the grief of passion, there would be the grief of livelihood To whom might I say what it is- the night of sadness is a bad disaster! Why would I have minded dying, if it took place one time? Since upon having died, I became disgraced- why were I not drowned in the ocean? Neither a funeral procession would ever been formed, nor would there anywhere be a tomb Who can see him? for that Oneness is unique If there were even a whiff of twoness, then somehow [He] would be two or four These problems of mysticism! this discourse of yours, Ghalib! We would consider you a saint- if you weren't a wine-drinker.