fandomsecrets | [ SECRET POST #3047 ]

[ SECRET POST #3047 ]

⌈ Secret Post #3047 ⌋

Warning: Some secrets are NOT worksafe and may contain SPOILERS.

01.

__________________________________________________

02.

__________________________________________________

03.

[Suzanne from Orange is the New Black]

__________________________________________________

04.

[Soul Caliber V]

__________________________________________________

05.

(Rick and Morty)

__________________________________________________

06.

[Love The Way You Lie - Eminem feat. Rihanna]

__________________________________________________

07.

[Bones]

__________________________________________________

08.

__________________________________________________

09.

__________________________________________________

10.

__________________________________________________

11. [SPOILERS for Grimm]
[WARNING for rape]

__________________________________________________

12. [WARNING for rape]

[Eddie Murphy, Bill Cosby]

__________________________________________________

13. [WARNING for incest/underage]

Notes:

Secrets Left to Post: 00 pages, 000 secrets from Secret Submission Post #435.
Secrets Not Posted: [ 0 - broken links ], [ 0 - not!secrets ], [ 0 - not!fandom ], [ 0 - too big ], [ 1 - repeat ].
Current Secret Submissions Post: here.
Suggestions, comments, and concerns should go here.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Go! You can just link to really long ones, or copy and paste the shorter ones in your comment.

Sonnet 18 by Shakespeare because I had to memorize that damn thing for a class. So it is the only one I know. :(

lol

'The Highwayman' by Alfred Noyes is a really heart breaking poem.

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

PART TWO

He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.
But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shouting a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.
Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

. . .

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

That is a beautiful poem. I had to memorize it for class back in 7th grade, and I still remember almost all of it.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

"Bite me, alien boi!" (Sorry. Couldn't resist.)

I was gonna put up my Donna icon, but I very much don't ship Ten/Donna. Although it still fits. :)

Catherine Tate thing, not a Donna thing, I think.

Yeah I know, but I was gonna put up my Donna icon in reference to the Catherine Tate Show. ;)

this is one of my favorites too!

I also love #29:

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

That one is really wonderful too. Shakespeare's love sonnets are somewhat hit or miss for me, some are just kinda empty romantic mooning that sound good, but others are just so beautiful in both content and wording.

Yeah, I've probably read them all here and there over the years, but only 29 and 130 have stayed with me.

i like my body

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which I will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh...And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you quite so new

by E. E. Cummings

[shoutout to R, if you see this]

Oh man, I'm way too obsessed with this game (Spec Ops: The Line), but I really love one of the pieces of intel in the game.

John Konrad's "Poem for Elizabeth"

I've been forgetting when I am.
You should know,
You're always there.

I keep repeating,
The next time, time next time.
You won't.

I hate this lie the most.
Mostly I just hate
The want.

(Yes, I'm hopelessly pimping this game. I know it's annoying.)

Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
—Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!

IDK about romantic (or even Romantic) but here is basically a love song for/to/about wisdom.

Truly there is a mine for silver, and a place where gold is washed out. Iron is taken out of the earth, and stone is changed into brass by the fire.

Man puts an end to the dark, searching out to the farthest limit the stones of the deep places of the dark. He makes a deep mine far away from those living in the light of day; when they go about on the earth, they have no knowledge of those who are under them, who are hanging far from men, twisting from side to side on a cord.

As for the earth, bread comes out of it; but under its face it is turned up as if by fire. Its stones are the place of sapphires, and it has dust of gold.

No bird has knowledge of it, and the hawk's eye has never seen it. The great beasts have not gone over it, and the cruel lion has not taken that way.

Man puts out his hand on the hard rock, overturning mountains by the roots. He makes deep ways, cut through the rock, and his eye sees everything of value. He keeps back the streams from flowing, and makes the secret things come out into the light.

But where may wisdom be seen? and where is the resting-place of knowledge? Man has not seen the way to it, and it is not in the land of the living. The deep waters say, It is not in me: and the sea says, It is not with me.

Gold may not be given for it, or a weight of silver in payment for it. It may not be valued with the gold of Ophir, with the onyx of great price, or the sapphire. Gold and glass are not equal to it in price, and it may not be exchanged for jewels of the best gold.

There is no need to say anything about coral or crystal; and the value of wisdom is greater than that of pearls. The topaz of Ethiopia is not equal to it, and it may not be valued with the best gold.

From where then does wisdom come, and where is the resting-place of knowledge?

For it is kept secret from the eyes of all living, unseen by the birds of the air.

Job 28

W Yeats.
When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
And bending down beside the glowing bars
Murmus, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Lovely.

For C.G.B.

When she came on, you couldn't keep your seat;
Fighting your way up through the orchestra,
Tup-heavy bumpkin, you confused your feet,
Fell in the drum - how we went ha ha ha!
But once you gained her side and started waltzing
We all began to cheer; the way she leant
Her cheek on yours and laughed was so exalting
We thought you were stooging for the management.

But no. What you did, any of us might.
And saying so I see our difference:
Not your aplomb (I used mine to sit tight),
But fancying you improve her. Where's the sense
In saying love, but meaning indifference ?
You'll only change her. Still, I'm sure you're right.

- Philip Larkin

(for a less cynical answer, An Arundel Tomb)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ SECRET POST #3047 ]

Favorite Romantic Poems

Re: Favorite Romantic Poems

Re: Favorite Romantic Poems

Re: Favorite Romantic Poems

Re: Favorite Romantic Poems

Re: Favorite Romantic Poems

Re: Favorite Romantic Poems

Re: Favorite Romantic Poems

Re: Favorite Romantic Poems

Re: Favorite Romantic Poems

Re: Favorite Romantic Poems

Re: Favorite Romantic Poems

Re: Favorite Romantic Poems

Re: Favorite Romantic Poems

Re: Favorite Romantic Poems

Re: Favorite Romantic Poems

Re: Favorite Romantic Poems

Re: Favorite Romantic Poems

Re: Favorite Romantic Poems

Re: Favorite Romantic Poems

He Hears That His Beloved Has Become Engaged