What a tangled web we weave poem Arashitilar / 23.02.202123.02.2021 What A Tangled Web We Weave Poems - Poems about What A Tangled Web We Weave The background of the poem is the battle at Flodden in Northumberland in , in which James IV of Scotland was defeated by the Earl of Surrey. Lord Marmion pays a visit to Castle Norham and. Oh, what a tangled web we weave, When first we practise to deceive! A Palmer too!—no wonder why I felt rebuked beneath his eye: I might have known there was but one Whose look could quell Lord Marmion." XVIII. Stung with these thoughts, he urged to speed His troop, and reached, at eve, the Tweed, Where Lennel's convent closed their march;. Don't have an account? Register Here! Sir Walter Scott once stated, "oh what a tangled web we weave" I have to wonder if he envisioned someone like you when he stated this; and it's a shame he never elaborated on the fact that liars always stumble into the dangling web they have created and eventually trip over their own laces. Our story reminds what is strength training exercises of the wilting rose that was the focus in the classic of Beauty and the Beast. For love is delicate; only over time you stopped caring and allowed it to die a painstakingly slow death, and I could do nothing except stand and watch as each petal slowly withered, and fell to the ground. Trust died first, one petal gone-forever. Admiration followed soon after, fading slowly like the shades on the petals. Respect was gone way before these two, we just pretended it was still there, like the lone petal that clings to sunlight yet knowing; always knowing, the final breath was only moments away. And we couldn't admit it, instead we clung onto what had once been instead of accepting the reality -that what was once so good had turned to ashes and debris. Like ships passing in the night, our love was only that of lingering ghosts, what a tangled web we weave poem fearful to let go and begin the next part of their journey. But reality always comes to pass, eventually. No matter how much you may try to deny the inevitable; and eventually I had to admit, you were not the person I thought for so long that you were. They say beauty comes from within. You are not beautiful. Prompts: Ghost ship beautiful boy delicate rose true lies the spider's web. Love is the strongest feeling in the world, and when a relationship ends in such a way, its effects can be devastating for you. It's just as if you were attempting to keep hold of sand with your hands, no matter how hard you hold it, it will eventually fall to the ground leaving its hand empty and powerless But have no fear, the wind of life will wash the road and carry that sand and dust away in a place where you can no longer see it, just like an invitation for you to go forward and accept the new sceneries that life will bring forth. And no matter how many lies, how much suffering I did not see that coming either! I love how much development this poem had, from being introduced to this person who spun a web of lies to knowing even the petal knows fate- that this man does not have beauty within. Amazing write, especially with the sad undertones of the truth of this person. Reality showed this love's true colors, how trust no longer was part of their life as well as caring to preserve this love. Beautifully expressed! WOW, I never expected this, yes, it was I that challenged you, and when I received the list of the prompts I had given you, I was intrigued as to what you would pen, and in which direction you would flow the ink what a tangled web we weave poem I love that you didn't use these prompts directly, you didn't use what effects does cell differentiation have as they were but turned them around and made them your own, very carefully placing them, subtly but effectively How one person can change your perception, change lives, and cast doubt on the most natural thing we have Love Great write Jen xx. Email or Username :. Password :. Remember Me. Forgot Your Password? Prompts: Ghost ship beautiful boy delicate rose true lies the spider's web report violation. Like 0 Dislike Add to Favorite s. Did You Like This Poem? Post A Comment. Latest Comments. Read All Comments 3. Jenni Marie. More Poems By Jenni Marie. What is ms stand for in states simple solution. Shaping 1. In Our Garden. Distant Dreams. Post A Reply. Did You Like This Poem? What A Tangled Web We Weave Poems - Examples of all types of poems about what a tangled web we weave to share and read. This list of new poems is composed of the works of modern poets of PoetrySoup. Read short, long, best, and famous examples for what a tangled web we weave. CarolDesjarlais - When you write free verse, there is such plentitude of metaphors and figures of speechto use, ways to add depth and SHOW, not tell what you are trying to say. That belt buckle was a great place to start and you could have used more along . Jul 27, · What A Tangled Web We Weave by Jenni Marie Jul 27, category: Love, romance / lost love Sir Walter Scott once stated, "oh what a tangled web we weave" I have to. He came of the Border family, the Scotts of Harden, an offshoot from the house of Beccleuch. His childhood was passed for the most part at Sandyknowe, the farm of his Father in Roxburghshire. In , he went to the University. Add to list. Sir Walter Scott Follow. Marmion: Canto VI. While great events were on the gale, And each hour brought a varying tale, And the demeanour, changed and cold, Of Douglas fretted Marmion bold, And, like the impatient steed of war He snuffed the battle from afar; And hopes were none, that back again Herald should come from Terouenne, Where England's king in leaguer lay, Before decisive battle-day; Whilst these things were, the mournful Clare Did in the dame's devotions share: For the good countess ceaseless prayed To Heaven and saints, her sons to aid, And with short interval did pass From prayer to book, from book to mass, And all in high baronial pride - A life both dull and dignified; Yet as Lord Marmion nothing pressed Upon her intervals of rest, Dejected Clara well could bear The formal state, the lengthened prayer, Though dearest to her wounded heart The hours that she might spend apart. I said, Tantallon's dizzy steep Hung o'er the margin of the deep. Many a rude tower and rampart there Repelled the insult of the air, Which, when the tempest vexed the sky, Half breeze, half spray, came whistling by. Above the rest, a turret square Did o'er its Gothic entrance bear, Of sculpture rude, a stony shield; The bloody heart was in the field, And in the chief three mullets stood, The cognisance of Douglas blood. The turret held a narrow stair, Which, mounted, gave you access where A parapet's embattled row Did seaward round the castle go. Sometimes in dizzy steps descending, Sometimes in narrow circuit bending, Sometimes in platform broad extending, Its varying circle did combine Bulwark, and bartisan, and line, And bastion, tower, and vantage-coign: Above the booming ocean leant The far projecting battlement; The billows burst in ceaseless flow Upon the precipice below. Where'er Tantallon faced the land, Gateworks and walls were strongly manned; No need upon the sea-girt side; The steepy rock, and frantic tide, Approach of human step denied; And thus these lines, and ramparts rude, Were left in deepest solitude. And, for they were so lonely, Clare Would to these battlements repair, And muse upon her sorrows there, And list the sea-bird's cry; Or slow, like noontide ghost, would glide Along the dark grey bulwark's side, And ever on the heaving tide Look down with weary eye. Oft did the cliff, and swelling main, Recall the thoughts of Whitby's fane - A home she ne'er might see again; For she had laid adown, So Douglas bade, the hood and veil, And frontlet of the cloister pale, And Benedictine gown: It were unseemly sight, he said, A novice out of convent shade. Now her bright locks, with sunny glow, Again adorned her brow of snow; Her mantle rich, whose borders round, A deep and fretted broidery bound, In golden foldings sought the ground; Of holy ornament, alone Remained a cross with ruby stone; And often did she look On that which in her hand she bore, With velvet bound, and broidered o'er, Her breviary book. In such a place, so lone, so grim, At dawning pale, or twilight dim, It fearful would have been To meet a form so richly dressed, With book in hand, and cross on breast, And such a woeful mien. Fitz-Eustace, loitering with his bow, To practise on the gull and crow, Saw her, at distance, gliding slow, And did by Mary swear - Some lovelorn fay she might have been, Or, in romance, some spell-bound queen; For ne'er, in work-day world, was seen A form so witching fair. Once walking thus, at evening tide, It chanced a gliding sail she spied, And, sighing, thought—"The Abbess, there, Perchance, does to her home repair; Her peaceful rule, where Duty, free, Walks hand in hand with Charity; Where oft Devotion's tranced glow Can such a glimpse of heaven bestow, That the enraptured sisters see High vision, and deep mystery; The very form of Hilda fair, Hovering upon the sunny air, And smiling on her votaries' prayer. Was it that, seared by sinful scorn, My heart could neither melt nor burn? Or lie my warm affections low, With him, that taught them first to glow? Yet, gentle Abbess, well I knew, To pay thy kindness grateful due, And well could brook the mild command, That ruled thy simple maiden band. How different now! But Marmion has to learn, ere long, That constant mind, and hate of wrong, Descended to a feeble girl, From Red De Clare, stout Gloucester's Earl: Of such a stem, a sapling weak, He ne'er shall bend, although he break. Thus, Wilton! It might have seemed his passing ghost, For every youthful grace was lost; And joy unwonted, and surprise, Gave their strange wildness to his eyes. Expect not, noble dames and lords, That I can tell such scene in words: What skilful limner e'er would choose To paint the rainbow's varying hues, Unless to mortal it were given To dip his brush in dyes of heaven? Far less can my weak line declare Each changing passion's shade: Bright'ning to rapture from despair, Sorrow, surprise, and pity there, And joy, with her angelic air, And hope, that paints the future fair, Their varying hues displayed: Each o'er its rival's ground extending, Alternate conquering, shifting, blending. Till all, fatigued, the conflict yield, And mighty Love retains the field. Shortly I tell what then he said, By many a tender word delayed, And modest blush, and bursting sigh, And question kind, and fond reply:- VI. Thence dragged—but how I cannot know, For, sense and recollection fled, I found me on a pallet low, Within my ancient beadsman's shed. Austin—remember'st thou, my Clare, How thou didst blush, when the old man, When first our infant love began, Said we would make a matchless pair? Menials and friends and kinsmen fled From the degraded traitor's bed - He only held my burning head, And tended me for many a day, While wounds and fever held their sway But far more needful was his care, When sense returned to wake despair; For I did tear the closing wound, And dash me frantic on the ground, If e'er I heard the name of Clare. At length, to calmer reason brought, Much by his kind attendance wrought, With him I left my native strand, And, in a palmer's weeds arrayed. My hated name and form to shade I journeyed many a land; No more a lord of rank and birth, But mingled with the dregs of earth. Oft Austin for my reason feared, When I would sit, and deeply brood On dark revenge, and deeds of blood, Or wild mad schemes upreared. My friend at length fell sick, and said, God would remove him soon: And, while upon his dying bed, He begged of me a boon - If e'er my deadliest enemy Beneath my brand should conquered lie, Even then my mercy should awake, And spare his life for Austin's sake. Fame of my fate made various sound, That death in pilgrimage I found, That I had perished of my wound - None cared which tale was true: And living eye could never guess De Wilton in his palmer's dress; For now that sable slough is shed, And trimmed my shaggy beard and head, I scarcely know me in the glass. A chance most wondrous did provide That I should be that baron's guide - I will not name his name! And ne'er the time shall I forget, When, in a Scottish hostel set, Dark looks we did exchange: What were his thoughts I cannot tell; But in my bosom mustered Hell Its plans of dark revenge. I borrowed steed and mail, And weapons, from his sleeping band; And, passing from a postern door, We met, and countered hand to hand - He fell on Gifford Moor. For the death-stroke my brand I drew - Oh, then my helmdd head he knew, The palmer's cowl was gone - Then had three inches of my blade The heavy debt of vengeance paid - My hand the thought of Austin stayed; I left him there alone. O good old man! Perchance you heard the Abbess tell Of the strange pageantry of Hell, That broke our secret speech - It rose from the infernal shade, Or featly was some juggle played, A tale of peace to teach. Appeal to Heaven I judged was best, When my name came among the rest. Won by my proofs, his falchion bright This eve anew shall dub me knight. These were the arms that once did turn The tide of fight on Otterburne, And Harry Hotspur forced to yield, When the dead Douglas won the field. These Angus gave—his armourer's care, Ere morn, shall every breach repair; For naught, he said, was in his halls, But ancient armour on the walls, And aged chargers in the stalls, And women, priests, and grey-haired men; The rest were all in Twisel Glen. And now I watch my armour here, By law of arms, till midnight's near; Then, once again a belted knight, Seek Surrey's camp with dawn of light. This baron means to guide thee there; Douglas reveres his king's command, Else would he take thee from his band And there thy kinsman Surrey, too, Will give De Wilton justice due. Now meeter far for martial broil, Firmer my limbs, and strung by toil, Once more"—"O Wilton! And is there not an humble glen, Where we, content and poor, Might build a cottage in the shade, A shepherd thou, and I to aid Thy task on dale and moor? Clare bids thee go! Clare can a warrior's feelings know, And weep a warrior's shame; Can Red Earl Gilbert's spirit feel, Buckle the spurs upon thy heel, And belt thee with thy brand of steel, And send thee forth to fame! That night, upon the rocks and bay, The midnight moonbeam slumbering lay, And poured its silver light, and pure, Through loophole, and through embrazure, Upon Tantallon's tower and hall; But chief where arched windows wide Illuminate the chapel's pride, The sober glances fall. Much was there need; though, seamed with scars, Two veterans of the Douglas' wars, Though two grey priests were there, And each a blazing torch held high, You could not by their blaze descry The chapel's carving fair. Amid that dim and smoky light, Chequering the silvery moonshine bright, A bishop by the altar stood, A noble lord of Douglas blood, With mitre sheen, and rocquet white. Yet showed his meek and thoughtful eye But little pride of prelacy; More pleased that, in a barbarous age, He gave rude Scotland Virgil's page, Than that beneath his rule he held The bishopric of fair Dunkeld. Beside him ancient Angus stood, Doffed his furred gown, and sable hood: O'er his huge form and visage pale He wore a cap and shirt of mail; And leaned his large and wrinkled hand Upon the huge and sweeping brand Which wont of yore, in battle fray, His foeman's limbs to shred away, As wood-knife lops the sapling spray. He seemed as, from the tombs around Rising at Judgment-Day, Some giant Douglas may be found In all his old array; So pale his face, so huge his limb, So old his arms, his look so grim. Then at the altar Wilton kneels, And Clare the spurs bound on his heels; And think what next he must have felt At buckling of the falchion belt! And judge how Clara changed her hue, While fastening to her lover's side A friend, which, though in danger tried, He once had found untrue! Arise, Sir Ralph, De Wilton's heir! For king, for church, for lady fair, See that thou fight. I have two sons in yonder field; And, if thou meet'st them under shield Upon them bravely—do thy worst; And foul fall him that blenches first! Not far advanced was morning day, When Marmion did his troop array, To Surrey's camp to ride; He had safe-conduct for his band, Beneath the royal seal and hand, And Douglas gave a guide: The ancient earl, with stately grace, Would Clara on her palfrey place, And whispered in an under-tone, "Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown. My castles are my king's alone, From turret to foundation-stone - The hand of Douglas is his own; And never shall in friendly grasp The hand of such as Marmion clasp. Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, And shook his very frame for ire, And—"This to me! And, first, I tell thee, haughty peer, He who does England's message here, Although the meanest in her state, May well, proud Angus, be thy mate: And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, Even in thy pitch of pride, Here in thy hold, thy vassals near - Nay, never look upon your lord, And lay your hands upon your sword - I tell thee, thou'rt defied! And hop'st thou thence unscathed to go: No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no! Up drawbridge, grooms—what, warder, ho Let the portcullis fall. The steed along the drawbridge flies, Just as it trembled on the rise; Nor lighter does the swallow skim Along the smooth lake's level brim: And when Lord Marmion reached his band, He halts, and turns with clenched hand, And shout of loud defiance pours, And shook his gauntlet at the towers. A letter forged! Saint Jude to speed! Did ever knight so foul a deed! At first in heart it liked me ill, When the King praised his clerkly skill. Thanks to St. Bothan, son of mine, Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line: So swore I, and I swear it still, Let my boy-bishop fret his fill. Saint Mary mend my fiery mood! Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood, I thought to slay him where he stood. The day in Marmion's journey wore; Yet, ere his passion's gust was o'er, They crossed the heights of Stanrig Moor. His troop more closely there he scanned, And missed the Palmer from the band. And next I saw them saddled lead Old Cheviot forth, the earl's best steed; A matchless horse, though something old, Prompt in his paces, cool, and bold. I heard the sheriff Sholto say, The earl did much the master pray To use him on the battle-day; But he preferred"—"Nay, Henry, cease Thou sworn horse-courser, hold thy peace. Eustace, thou bear'st a brain—I pray What did Blount see at break of day? O dotage blind and gross! How stand we now? Will Surrey dare to entertain, 'Gainst Marmion, charge disproved and vain? Small risk of that, I trow. Yet Clare's sharp questions must I shun; Must separate Constance from the nun - Oh, what a tangled web we weave, When first we practise to deceive! A Palmer too! Stung with these thoughts, he urged to speed His troop, and reached, at eve, the Tweed, Where Lennel's convent closed their march; There now is left but one frail arch, Yet mourn thou not its cells: Our time a fair exchange has made; Hard by, in hospitable shade, A reverend pilgrim dwells, Well worth the whole Bernardine brood That e'er wore sandal, frock, or hood. Next morn the baron climbed the tower, To view afar the Scottish power, Encamped on Flodden edge: The white pavilions made a show, Like remnants of the winter snow, Along the dusky ridge. Long Marmion looked: at length his eye Unusual movement might descry Amid the shifting lines: The Scottish host drawn out appears, For, flashing on the edge of spears The eastern sunbeam shines. Their front now deepening, now extending Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending, Now drawing back, and now descending, The skilful Marmion well could know, They watched the motions of some foe, Who traversed on the plain below. Even so it was. High sight it is, and haughty, while They dive into the deep defile; Beneath the caverned cliff they fall, Beneath the castle's airy wall. By rock, by oak, by hawthorn tree, Troop after troop are disappearing; Troop after troop their banners rearing; Upon the eastern bank you see. Still pouring down the rocky den, Where flows the sullen Till, And rising from the dim-wood glen, Standards on stardards, men on men, In slow succession still, And, sweeping o'er the Gothic arch, And pressing on, in ceaseless march, To gain the opposing hill.