Alone I sat; the summer day
Alone I sat; the summer day
Had died in smiling light away;
I saw it die, I watched it fade
From the misty hill and breezeless glade.
And thoughts in my soul were rushing,
And my heart bowed beneath their power;
And tears within my eyes were gushing
Because I could not speak the feeling,
The solemn joy around me stealing,
In that divine, untroubled hour.
I asked myself, O why has Heaven
Denied the precious gift to me,
The glorious gift to many given,
To speak their thoughts in poetry?
Dreams have encircled me, I said,
From careless childhood's sunny time;
Visions by ardent fancy fed
Since life was in its morning prime.
But now, when I had hoped to sing,
My fingers strike a tuneless string;
And still the burden of the strain—
I strive no more, 'tis all in vain.
poem by Emily Brontë from The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë (1908)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Vesper Hour
Soft and holy Vesper Hour—
Precursor of the night—
How I love thy soothing power,
The hush, the fading light;
Raising those vain thoughts of ours
To higher, holier things—
Mingling gleams from Eden’s bowers
With earth’s imaginings!
How thrilling in some grand old fane
To hear the Vesper prayer
Rise, with the organ’s solemn strain,
On incense-laden air;
While the last dying smiles of day
Athwart the stained glass pour—
Flooding with red and golden ray
The shrine and chancel floor.
Who, at such moment, has not felt
Those yearnings, vague, yet sweet,
For Heaven’s joys at last to melt,
Into fruition meet;
And wished, as with rapt soul he viewed
That glorious Home above,
That earth’s vain thoughts would ne’er intrude
On visions of God’s love?
To this calm hour belongs a sway
The bright day cannot wield—
Sweet as the evening star’s first ray,
Transforming wood and field;
Soft’ing gay flowers else too bright
And silvering hill and dell;
And clothing earth in that mild light
The sad heart loves so well.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I don't often write
I don't often write about the seasons
how the newly budding flowers melt my heart.
I seldom dwell on heat or summer madness,
of how long warm evenings mellow darker thoughts.
Autumnal leaves blow gently over parchment
just like the summer kisses we once shared
and so I dare not speak about the Autumn
for I know that I would cry and that I'm scared.
Winter is so cold and brings the darkness,
within it, misty days and frosty nights,
bringing thoughts of you, my precious lover
and dreams about your sunny face at night.
I don't often write about the seasons
and now I realise why I never do.
It's because with every season comes a memory
and that memory, most often, is of you.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Burgeoning Love
To this I was unprepared
Yet I accept it as a truth
My heart has been inspired
And caught by your beauty
To this end I have fallen
You are my muse my desire
How fair and gentle you stand
Growing in my thoughts daily
Is this love or infatuation
When words of romance speak
To tell me of how we would kiss
How we would lay together
Held in each others arms
And those words we would speak
How meaningful they sound
You are beautiful and more besides
You have been woven to my life
I’d gift you my heart and soul
If you gift me your hand to hold
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Properzia Rossi
Tell me no more, no more
Of my soul's lofty gifts! Are they not vain
To quench its haunting thirst for happiness?
Have I not lov'd, and striven, and fail'd to bind
One true heart unto me, whereon my own
Might find a resting-place, a home for all
Its burden of affections? I depart,
Unknown, tho' Fame goes with me; I must leave
The earth unknown. Yet it may be that death
Shall give my name a power to win such tears
As would have made life precious.
I.
ONE dream of passion and of beauty more!
And in its bright fulfillment let me pour
My soul away! Let earth retain a trace
Of that which lit my being, tho' its race
Might have been loftier far. Yet one more dream!
From my deep spirit one victorious gleam
Ere I depart! For thee alone, for thee!
May this last work, this farewell triumph be,
Thou, lov'd so vainly! I would leave enshrined
Something immortal of my heart and mind,
That yet may speak to thee when I am gone,
Shaking thine inmost bosom with a tone
Of lost affection; something that may prove
What she hath been, whose melancholy love
On thee was lavish'd; silent pang and tear,
And fervent song, that gush'd when none were near,
And dream by night, and weary thought by day,
Stealing the brightness from her life away,
While thou, Awake! not yet within me die,
Under the burden and the agony
Of this vain tenderness my spirit, wake!
Ev'n for thy sorrowful affection's sake,
Live! in thy work breathe out! that he may yet
Feeling sad mastery there, perchance regret
Thine unrequited gift.
II.
It comes, the power
Within me born, flows back; my fruitless dower
That could not win me love. Yet once again
I greet it proudly, with its rushing train
Of glorious images: they throng they press
A sudden joy lights up my loneliness,
I shall not perish all!
The bright work grows
Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose,
Leaf after leaf, to beauty; line by line,
I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine,
Thro' the pale marble's veins. It grows and now
I give my own life's history to thy brow,
Forsaken Ariadne! thou shalt wear
My form, my lineaments; but oh! more fair,
Touched into lovelier being by the glow
Which in me dwells, as by the summer-light
All things are glorified. From thee my wo
Shall yet look beautiful to meet his sight,
When I am pass'd away. Thou art the mould,
Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, th' untold,
The self-consuming! Speak to him of me,
Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea,
With the soft sadness of thine earnest eye,
Speak to him, lorn one, deeply, mournfully,
Of all my love and grief! Oh! could I throw
Into thy frame a voice, a sweet, and low,
And thrilling voice of song! when he came nigh,
To send the passion of its melody
Thro' his pierced bosom on its tones to bear
My life's deep feeling as the southern air
Wafts the faint myrtle's breath, to rise, to swell,
To sink away in accents of farewell,
Winning but one, one gush of tears, whose flow
Surely my parted spirit yet might know,
If love be strong as death!
III.
Now fair thou art,
Thou form, whose life is of my burning heart!
Yet all the vision that within me wrought,
I cannot make thee! Oh! I might have given
Birth to creations of far nobler thought,
I might have kindled, with the fire of heaven,
Things not of such as die! But I have been
Too much alone; a heart, whereon to lean,
With all these deep affections that o'erflow
My aching soul, and find no shore below,
An eye to be my star; a voice to bring
Hope o'er my path like sounds that breathe of spring,
These are denied me dreamt of still in vain,
Therefore my brief aspirings from the chain,
Are ever but as some wild fitful song,
Rising triumphantly, to die ere long
In dirge-like echoes.
IV.
Yet the world will see
Little of this, my parting work, in thee,
Thou shalt have fame! Oh, mockery! give the reed
From storms a shelter, give the drooping vine
Something round which its tendrils may entwine,
Give the parch'd flower a rain-drop, and the meed
Of love's kind words to woman! Worthless fame!
That in his bosom wins not for my name
Th' abiding place it ask'd! Yet how my heart,
In its own fairy world of song and art,
Once beat for praise! Are those high longings o'er?
That which I have been can I be no more?
Never, oh! never more; tho' still thy sky
Be blue as then, my glorious Italy!
And tho' the music, whose rich breathings fill
Thine air with soul, be wandering past me still,
And tho' the mantle of thy sunlight streams
Unchang'd on forms instinct with poet-dreams;
Never, oh! never more! Where'er I move,
The shadow of this broken-hearted love
Is on me and around! Too well they know,
Whose life is all within, too soon and well,
When there the blight hath settled; but I go
Under the silent wings of Peace to dwell;
From the slow wasting, from the lonely pain,
The inward burning of those words 'in vain',
Sear'd on the heart I go. 'Twill soon be past,
Sunshine, and song, and bright Italian heaven,
And thou, oh! thou, on whom my spirit cast
Unvalued wealth, who know'st not what was given
In that devotedness, the sad, and deep,
And unrepaid farewell! If I could weep
Once, only once, belov'd one! on thy breast,
Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest!
But that were happiness, and unto me
Earth's gift is fame. Yet I was form'd to be
So richly bless'd! With thee to watch the sky,
Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh:
With thee to listen, while the tones of song
Swept ev'n as part of our sweet air along,
To listen silently; with thee to gaze
On forms, the deified of olden days,
This had been joy enough; and hour by hour,
From its glad well-springs drinking life and power,
How had my spirit soar'd, and made its fame
A glory for thy brow! Dreams, dreams! the fire
Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name?
As a deep thrill may linger on the lyre
When its full chords are hush'd?awhile to live,
And one day haply in thy heart revive
Sad thoughts of me: I leave it, with a sound,
A spell o'er memory, mournfully profound;
I leave it, on my country's air to dwell,
Say proudly yet?'
'Twas hers who lov'd me well!
'
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Teacher's Monologue
The room is quiet, thoughts alone
People its mute tranquillity;
The yoke put on, the long task done,
I am, as it is bliss to be,
Still and untroubled. Now, I see,
For the first time, how soft the day
O'er waveless water, stirless tree,
Silent and sunny, wings its way.
Now, as I watch that distant hill,
So faint, so blue, so far removed,
Sweet dreams of home my heart may fill,
That home where I am known and loved:
It lies beyond; yon azure brow
Parts me from all Earth holds for me;
And, morn and eve, my yearnings flow
Thitherward tending, changelessly.
My happiest hours, aye ! all the time,
I love to keep in memory,
Lapsed among moors, ere life's first prime
Decayed to dark anxiety.
Sometimes, I think a narrow heart
Makes me thus mourn those far away,
And keeps my love so far apart
From friends and friendships of to-day;
Sometimes, I think 'tis but a dream
I measure up so jealously,
All the sweet thoughts I live on seem
To vanish into vacancy:
And then, this strange, coarse world around
Seems all that's palpable and true;
And every sight, and every sound,
Combines my spirit to subdue
To aching grief, so void and lone
Is Life and Earthso worse than vain,
The hopes that, in my own heart sown,
And cherished by such sun and rain
As Joy and transient Sorrow shed,
Have ripened to a harvest there:
Alas ! methinks I hear it said,
'Thy golden sheaves are empty air.'
All fades away; my very home
I think will soon be desolate;
I hear, at times, a warning come
Of bitter partings at its gate;
And, if I should return and see
The hearth-fire quenched, the vacant chair;
And hear it whispered mournfully,
That farewells have been spoken there,
What shall I do, and whither turn?
Where look for peace? When cease to mourn?
'Tis not the air I wished to play,
The strain I wished to sing;
My wilful spirit slipped away
And struck another string.
I neither wanted smile nor tear,
Bright joy nor bitter woe,
But just a song that sweet and clear,
Though haply sad, might flow.
A quiet song, to solace me
When sleep refused to come;
A strain to chase despondency,
When sorrowful for home.
In vain I try; I cannot sing;
All feels so cold and dead;
No wild distress, no gushing spring
Of tears in anguish shed;
But all the impatient gloom of one
Who waits a distant day,
When, some great task of suffering done,
Repose shall toil repay.
For youth departs, and pleasure flies,
And life consumes away,
And youth's rejoicing ardour dies
Beneath this drear delay;
And Patience, weary with her yoke,
Is yielding to despair,
And Health's elastic spring is broke
Beneath the strain of care.
Life will be gone ere I have lived;
Where now is Life's first prime?
I've worked and studied, longed and grieved,
Through all that rosy time.
To toil, to think, to long, to grieve,
Is such my future fate?
The morn was dreary, must the eve
Be also desolate?
Well, such a life at least makes Death
A welcome, wished-for friend;
Then, aid me, Reason, Patience, Faith,
To suffer to the end!
poem by Charlotte Brontë from Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (1846)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Shine On
The greatest gift, the gift of life
The gift of love divine
God gave us all a special gift
He meant for it to shine
He meant for it to shine
The darkest night can be made light
By one bright word or smile
If wed put on our neighbors shoes
And choose to walk a mile
God gave us all our own free will
To choose the paths we take
No greater deed could eer be done
Than for anothers sake
The greatest gift, the gift of life
The gift of love divine
God gave us all a special gift
He meant for it to shine
He meant for it to shine
Shine on, shine on, for all to see
Gods light inside your soul
Shine on, shine on, let love flow free
Warm others in its glow
Shine on, shine on, shine on
So hide it not or it will fade
Shine on, shine on, shine on
Shine on, shine on, shine on
The greatest gift, the gift of life
The gift of love divine
God gave us all a special gift
He meant for it to shine
Shine on, shine on, shine on
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fountain
O gushing crescendo
Thy silent stealth
A cool and misty
Watery wealth
Oh glorious liberty,
Down the rocky graves
So calm yet spritely
Bright and brave
My sacred wash
My life my dreams
O swelling thoughts
And wholesome themes
O blissful luxuries,
By thy side
When melancholy
Or in pensive sights
My head
Thou washeth
In baptism clean
My sins of Adam
And of Eve
That original sin
That blast
A cast to loosen
To secure
a placeof reason
That paradise
Thy heaven
O you fountain of love
Elemental divine
Lodged in your mystical deep ravines
The knowledge, the truth,
The unfinished period falls
No voice be hushed,
No life treads deep
In true silence
And sleep profound
As I in childhood sweetly sleep
Untroubled where I lay
Beside thee
Above the vaulted skies
Dr Hitesh C Sheth
14/03/2009
poem by Hitesh Sheth
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Dark Hours: The Drunkard's Mother
Dark hours of tearless, sleepless grief,
Of woe, denied the soft relief
Of tears, to soothe the burning smart
That throbs and festers in my heart.
Oft has this grief my soul o'erspread,
Like funeral pall above the dead.
Ah, me! beneath the coffin-lid
Of murdered hopes for ever hid,
My promised joys of love and trust
With them lie mouldering in the dust.
Ah! not in sentimental strain
Of love-sick maid and sighing swain
I sing, who, crossed in hapless love,
The tender anguish deeply prove-
Nor that fierce grief when loss of fame,
Of wealth, of power, the baffled aim
Of worldly schemes, sends to the heart
Keen disappointment's venom'd dart.
Is such thy grief? you ask.-Ah, no!
A darker, deeper, deadlier woe
Is mine. Within its poisonous folds
My writhing heart a serpent holds;
I vainly struggle in the toils,
More closely wind the crushing coils.
No hand but His, to whom is given
All power in earth, all power in heaven,
The hideous reptile can unwind,
My crushed and broken heart upbind.
Lord, speak with power, I Thee implore,
As when, by lone Gennesaret's shore,
As God, Thou gave the high command,
That legion fiends might not withstand.
Oh, speak the words of power again,
All power, all words but Thine are vain;
This demoniac, fiercely driven,
Assaulting man, defying heaven,
'Twere joy ineffable, complete,
To see him sitting at Thy feet,
Renewed in heart, in mind restored,
Oh, speak the word; oh, save him, Lord!
poem by Janet Hamilton
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Sunshine Summer Day
Sunshine summer day
Everything is glowing
Life seems so okay
In every footstep on going
Dreams of your heart
In a breathtaking singing
From fresh morning start
That now daybreak’s bringing
Have a wonderful day
In your way and time
As the hours on play
One by one to their prime
There is nothing wrong
When thoughts are freshly new
In a summer time song
When I´m in love with you
Sunshine summer day
As my feeling are burning
In a wonderful way
With a heart that´s yearning
poem by Peter S. Quinn
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Tears are tears
Tears are tears
When the heart is torn
They flow without any fear
They come in pain
Doesn’t matter
Emotional or physical
In meeting or departing
What the mouth cannot speak
The tears say
What the heart cannot express
The tears express
A precious gift of god
To humans
Never hold them
Let them flow
They clean the eyes
And heart alike
A man without tears
Is a human without soul?
poem by Nirantar Dr.Rajendra Tela
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The Knots That Bind
I've loved as I will never love again,
A precious lovely gift, my life with you.
Although I know I search for you in vain,
I'll look back to a love that was so true.
If I could only hold your hand once more,
And speak with words that say how much I care,
Then my lonely heart would really start to soar,
And I would find a sweetness, Oh, so rare.
I feel your presence still, you are so near,
And if I cry a tear, then that's okay,
For when with me, you were so very dear,
A piercing pain struck deep, on your leaving day.
Cherished are the thoughts I have within,
No separation can cut the knots that bind,
You were the greatest, how can I begin,
There's no communication. I'm left behind.
Lord, give me courage to face the way ahead,
To raise my face and look towards the sun,
And keep on smiling, thinking not of dread,
But eternal days with you, when my life is done.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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To The New-Born
A BLESSING on thy head, thou child of many hopes and fears!
A rainbow-welcome thine hath been, of mingled smiles and tears.
Thy father greets thee unto life, with a full and chasten'd heart,
For a solemn gift from God thou com'st, all precious as thou art!
I see thee not asleep, fair boy, upon thy mother's breast,
Yet well I know how guarded there shall be thy rosy rest;
And how her soul with love, and prayer, and gladness, will o'erflow,
While bending o'er thy soft-seal'd eyes, thou dear one, well I know!
A blessing on thy gentle head! and bless'd thou art in truth,
For a home where God is felt, awaits thy childhood and thy youth:
Around thee pure and holy thoughts shall dwell as light and air,
And steal unto thine heart, and wake the germs now folded there.
Smile on thy mother! while she feels that unto her is given,
In that young day-spring glance the pledge of a soul to rear for heaven!
Smile! and sweet peace be o'er thy sleep, joy o'er thy wakening shed!
Blessings and blessings evermore, fair boy! upon thy head.
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Scarabæus Sisyphus
I've watched thee, Scarab! Yea, an hour in vain
I've watched thee, slowly toiling up the hill,
Pushing thy lump of mud before thee still
With patience infinite and stubborn strain.
Strive as thou mayst, spare neither time nor pain,
To screen thy burden from all chance of ill;
Push, push, with all a beetle's force of will,
Thy ball, alas! rolls ever down again.
Toil without end! And why? That after thee
Dim hosts of groping Scarabs too shall climb
This self-same height? Accursèd progeny
Of Sisyphus, what antenatal crime
Has doomed us too to roll incessantly
Life's Stone, recoiling from the Alps of time?
poem by Mathilde Blind
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Life's A Gift
Life’s a gift for you to send
Life’s a gift for god to end
Life’s a gift now you’re with me
Life’s a gift for all to see
Life’s a gift when love is true
Life’s a gift when times look blue
Life’s a gift with the one you trust
Life’s a gift even if UN just
Life’s a gift a ray of sun
Life’s a gift though your heads held to a gun
Life’s a gift when its handed on a tray
Life’s a gift even though it’s always on display
Life’s a gift it’s hard to understand how
Life’s a gift so take advantage of it now
poem by SharonAnn Dawson
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A reluctant speech
A reluctant speech
~
I’ll make you a gift of my heart
My hand and soul an added option
I am reluctant to speak such words
For fear I may lose what little we share
You carry an extraordinary beauty
One of which very few possess
And there you stand in full abundance
Delighting my heart with ease
What beautiful thoughts are found
When I think to dream of you
I’d gift you the world, if I could take it
Rejoice in your smile and happiness
Protect you, when you are in need
How my heart would serve to honour
The romantic impulses I feel
This is all through you, a beauty felt
These words I reluctantly speak
For fear we may lose
What little we share together
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Self-Congratulation
Ellen, you were thoughtless once
Of beauty or of grace,
Simple and homely in attire,
Careless of form and face;
Then whence this change? and wherefore now
So often smooth your hair?
And wherefore deck your youthful form
With such unwearied care?
Tell us - and cease to tire our ears
With that familiar strain -
Why will you play those simple tunes
So often, o'er again?
'Indeed, dear friends, I can but say
That childhood's thoughts are gone;
Each year its own new feelings brings,
And years move swiftly on:
'And for these little simple airs -
I love to play them o'er
So much - I dare not promise, now,
To play them never more.'
I answered - and it was enough;
They turned them to depart;
They could not read my secret thoughts,
Nor see my throbbing heart.
I've noticed many a youthful form,
Upon whose changeful face
The inmost workings of the soul
The gazer well might trace;
The speaking eye, the changing lip,
The ready blushing cheek,
The smiling, or beclouded brow,
Their different feelings speak.
But, thank God! you might gaze on mine
For hours, and never know
The secret changes of my soul
From joy to keenest woe.
Last night, as we sat round the fire
Conversing merrily,
We heard, without, approaching steps
Of one well known to me!
There was no trembling in my voice,
No blush upon my cheek,
No lustrous sparkle in my eyes,
Of hope, or joy, to speak;
But, oh! my spirit burned within,
My heart beat full and fast!
He came not nigh - he went away -
And then my joy was past.
And yet my comrades marked it not:
My voice was still the same;
They saw me smile, and o'er my face
No signs of sadness came.
They little knew my hidden thoughts;
And they will never know
The aching anguish of my heart,
The bitter burning woe!
poem by Anne Brontë from Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (1846)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Gift From Me To You
I am sending you all
a gift for Christmas.
The gift isn’t big at all,
but when it blossoms,
it is the biggest gift of all.
It comes with love and hugs
that are just for you to keep
for a rainy day
to chase the blues away.
You won’t see the gift
as it is invisible to see,
but you will know its there
and everyone will see.
You see the gift
I am giving you for Christmas
is something from the heart.
It is too big
to fit in any box.
The gift is the gift of friendship,
the most precious treasure
I can give,
it comes from a loving heart
for as long as I may live.
So please accept my gift
as it comes from me to you.
poem by David Harris
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Dreams, Dreams, Dreams
Most children want to copy adults fast;
They try to dress and talk and walk like one;
They want to do the things what adults do;
But children can’t be adults before time!
Adults dream of their childhood years at times;
They cannot move or speak or walk child-like;
They cannot be innocent like children;
They can’t become children again in life.
The elderly have dreams of their own too;
Oh, how they wish they were younger in age!
They recollect the things they did when young;
Their frames and minds are weaker than they think!
All human beings live in dreams galore;
Most dreams cannot become reality;
Our dreams must be something we can well do;
Too much of dreams don’t help to dash ahead.
Each stage of life can be lived only once;
One cannot go back or ahead in time;
Be happy with whatever you’ve achieved;
Life is so wonderful they way it is!
Just keep your mind and heart as per your age;
Be aware of the limits, risks, you take;
Life shouldn’t be lost even through accidents;
Life is the greatest gift of God to you!
Thank God for whatever you are in life;
Thank Him for gift of human life and soul;
Thank Him for all the things, He’d done for you;
Thank Him for all His love and kindness shown!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 10-12-2008
poem by John Celes
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A Fragment
Maiden, thou wert thoughtless once
Of beauty or of grace,
Simple and homely in attire
Careless of form and face.
Then whence this change, and why so oft
Dost smooth thy hazel hair?
And wherefore deck thy youthful form
With such unwearied care?
'Tell us - and cease to tire our ears
With yonder hackneyed strain -
Why wilt thou play those simple tunes
So often o'er again?'
'Nay, gentle friends, I can but say
That childhood's thoughts are gone.
Each year its own new feelings brings
And years move swiftly on,
And for these little simple airs,
I love to play them o'er -
So much I dare not promise now
To play them never more.'
I answered and it was enough;
They turned them to depart;
They could not read my secret thoughts
Nor see my throbbing heart.
I've noticed many a youthful form
Upon whose changeful face
The inmost workings of the soul
The gazer's eye might trace.
The speaking eye, the changing lip,
The ready blushing cheek,
The smiling or beclouded brow
Their different feelings speak.
But, thank God! you might gaze on mine
For hours and never know
The secret changes of my soul
From joy to bitter woe.
Last night, as we sat round the fire
Conversing merrily,
We heard without approaching steps
Of one well known to me.
There was no trembling in my voice,
No blush upon my cheek,
No lustrous sparkle in my eyes,
Of hope or joy to speak;
But O my spirit burned within,
My heart beat thick and fast.
He came not nigh - he went away
And then my joy was past.
And yet my comrades marked it not,
My voice was still the same;
They saw me smile, and o'er my face -
No signs of sadness came;
They little knew my hidden thoughts
And they will never know
The anguish of my drooping heart,
The bitter aching woe!
poem by Anne Brontë
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Ultima Thule: The Iron Pen
I thought this Pen would arise
From the casket where it lies--
Of itself would arise and write
My thanks and my surprise.
When you gave it me under the pines,
I dreamed these gems from the mines
Of Siberia, Ceylon, and Maine
Would glimmer as thoughts in the lines;
That this iron link from the chain
Of Bonnivard might retain
Some verse of the Poet who sang
Of the prisoner and his pain;
That this wood from the frigate's mast
Might write me a rhyme at last,
As it used to write on the sky
The song of the sea and the blast.
But motionless as I wait,
Like a Bishop lying in state
Lies the Pen, with its mitre of gold,
And its jewels inviolate.
Then must I speak, and say
That the light of that summer day
In the garden under the pines
Shall not fade and pass away.
I shall see you standing there,
Caressed by the fragrant air,
With the shadow on your face,
And the sunshine on your hair.
I shall hear the sweet low tone
Of a voice before unknown,
Saying, 'This is from me to you--
From me, and to you alone.'
And in words not idle and vain
I shall answer and thank you again
For the gift, and the grace of the gift,
O beautiful Helen of Maine!
And forever this gift will be
As a blessing from you to me,
As a drop of the dew of your youth
On the leaves of an aged tree.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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