The Fog
The fog slunk down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow,
Southwardly shifting, far inshore, so never a man might know
How the sea it trod with feet soft-shod, watching the distance dim.
Where the fishing-fleet to the eastward beat, white dots on the ocean’s rim.
Feeling the sands with its furtive hands, fingering cape and cove.
Where the sweet salt smells of the nearer swells up the sloping hillside rove;
Where the whimpering sea-gulls swoop and soar, and the great king-herons go,
The fog slunk down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow!
Then a stillness fell on crag and cliff, on beach and breaker fell,
As the sea-breeze brought on its final whiff the note of a distant bell,
One faint, far sound, and the fog unwound its mantle across the lea.
Joined hand in hand with a wind from land, and the twain went out to sea.
And the wind that rose spoke soft, of those who watch on the cliffs at dawn,
And the fog’s white lips, of sinking ships where the tortured tempests spawn,
As, each to each, they told once more such things as fishers know,
When the fog slinks down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow !
Oh, the wan, white hours go limping by, when that pall comes in between
The great, blue bell of the cloudless sky and the ocean’s romping green!
Nor sane young day, nor swirl of spray, as the cat’s-paws lunge and lift;—
On sad, slow waves, like the mounds of graves, the fishermen’s dories drift.
For the fishing-craft that leapt and laughed are swallowed in ghostly gray:
Only God’s eyes may see where lies the lap of the sheltered bay,
So their dories grope, for lost their lore, witlessly to and fro,
When the fog slinks down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow !
Oh, men of the fleet, ’t is ye who learn, of the white fog’s biting breath,
That life may hang on the way ye turn, or the way ye turn be death!
Though they on the lea look out to sea for the woe or the weal of you,
The ominous East, like a hungry beast, is waiting your tidings, too.
A night and a day, mayhap, ye stray; a day and a night, perchance,
The dory is led toward Marblehead, or pointed away for France;
The shore may save, or the sea may score, in the unknown final throw,
When the fog slinks down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow!
Ah, God of the Sea, what joy there lies in that first faint hint of sun!—
When the pallid curtains sulking rise, and the reaches wider run,
When a wind from the west on the sullen breast of the waters shoulders near,
And the blessed blue of the sky looks through, as the fog-wreaths curl and clear.
Ah, God, what joy when the gallant buoy, swung high on a sudden swell,
Puts fear to flight like a dream of night with its calm, courageous bell,
And the dory trips the sea’s wide floor with the verve ’t was wont to know,
And the fog slinks back to Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow!
poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1901)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Related quotes
Slow Dancing
My love is cruel as the night
She steals the sun, and shuts out the light
All of my colors, they turn to blue
Win or lose
She does it slow dancing
Slow dancing
She does it slow...dancing
All night long
Scarlet eyes and a see-through heart
She saw me coming right from the start
She picked me up, but had me down on my knees
Just a beggin her, beggin her please
Take me slow dancing
Slow dancing
She took me slow...dancing
All night long
And I dont know a man
Search for himself in his lovers eyes
No I dont know why a man
Sees the truth but needs the lies
My love is restless as the wind
She moves like a shadow across my skin
She left with my conscience, I dont want it back
It just gets in the way
If you wanna go slow dancing
Slow dancing
She took me slow...dancing
All night long
Slow...dancing
Slow...dancing
Slow...
song performed by by U2
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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How Slow
How slow the time passes
On hot summer days,
How heavy the air,
And the heat, and the haze.
How slow the sun's creeping
In reaching for noon,
How long now the day-time
Belonging to June.
How dry lies the earth
In the farmer's old hands,
How slow plod the herds
As they stroll off his land.
How sweet the bird sings
In the old apple tree,
How slow the leaves falling
O'er pathway and lea.
How far the bell tolls
Over green evening fields,
How close now the haymakers'
Singing and reels.
How slow the time passes
In twilight's night shade,
How slow fell the footsteps
True lovers once made.
Written March 1995
poem by John Carter Brown
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Flow of Love
Yeah!
Slow and Slow
ye stare
with eyes-
eyes innocent
as doe
Slow and Slow
you emptied
my cup
A cup
of woe
Slow and Slow
ye vanquished
my foes
hidden
inner foes
Slow and Slow
Ye pour
A wine of joy
in a goblet
with glow
Slow and Slow
Ye stamp
my cells
from
head to toe
Slow and slow
Ye weed out
ignorance
with your
divine hoe
Slow and slow
Ye open
petals
of my mind
for glorious show
Slow and slow
you rescued
me from claws
A dangerous
Maya's claws
Slow and slow
you weeded
out my flaws
habitual
mortal flaws
Slow and slow
Ye brought me
under yoke
A yoke
of divine law
Slow and slow
please come
in my life
with your
majestic flow
Because
Our separation
waiting on death row
our rendezvous
hot desert in a
storm of snow
Dr Hitesh C Sheth
26/01/2009
poem by Hitesh Sheth
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Alternative Song For The Severd head In "The King Of The Great Clock Tower"
SADDLE and ride, I heard a man say,
Out of Ben Bulben and Knocknarea,
i{What says the Clock in the Great Clock Tower?}
All those tragic characters ride
But turn from Rosses' crawling tide,
The meet's upon the mountain-side.
i{A slow low note and an iron bell.}
What brought them there so far from their home.
Cuchulain that fought night long with the foam,
i{What says the Clock in the Great Clock Tower?}
Niamh that rode on it; lad and lass
That sat so still and played at the chess?
What but heroic wantonness?
i{A slow low note and an iron bell.}
Aleel, his Countess; Hanrahan
That seemed but a wild wenching man;
i{What says the Clock in the Great Clock Tower?}
And all alone comes riding there
The King that could make his people stare,
Because he had feathers instead of hair.
i{A slow low note and an iron bell.}
poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Slow Jam
(Usher)
I was all alone
I was feeling rather low
I needed someone to lift my spirits up
So I dropped in on a dance
Just to take a glance
And there this lovely thing was
She was more than enough
I asked her for her hand
Said would you like to dance
So pleased that I had asked
She quickly took my hand
And we danced and fell in love
On a slow jam
Ohhh
Hook
Play another slow jam
This time make it sweet
On a slow jam
for my baby and for me
Play another slow jam
This time make it sweet
On a slow jam
for my baby and for me
Seems what you say is true
I feel the same way too
I waited all night long just to dance with you
And when you touced my hand
I knew you were the man
To turn my world around
And make my dreams come true
The magic in your eyes
song performed by by Usher from My Way
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Silent Battle
(In Memory of J. W. T. Jr.)
He was a soldier in that fight
Where there is neither flag nor drum,
And without sound of musketry
The stealthy foemen come.
Year in, year out, by day and night
They forced him to a slow retreat,
And for his gallant fight alone
No fife was blown, and no drum beat.
In winter fog, in gathering mist
The gray grim battle had its end --
And at the very last we knew
His enemy had turned his friend.
poem by Sara Teasdale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Bay Of Seven Islands
FROM the green Amesbury hill which bears the name
Of that half mythic ancestor of mine
Who trod its slopes two hundred years ago,
Down the long valley of the Merrimac,
Midway between me and the river's mouth,
I see thy home, set like an eagle's nest
Among Deer Island's immemorial pines,
Crowning the crag on which the sunset breaks
Its last red arrow. Many a tale and song,
Which thou bast told or sung, I call to mind,
Softening with silvery mist the woods and hills,
The out-thrust headlands and inreaching bays
Of our northeastern coast-line, trending where
The Gulf, midsummer, feels the chill blockade
Of icebergs stranded at its northern gate.
To thee the echoes of the Island Sound
Answer not vainly, nor in vain the moan
Of the South Breaker prophesying storm.
And thou hast listened, like myself, to men
Sea-periled oft where Anticosti lies
Like a fell spider in its web of fog,
Or where the Grand Bank shallows with the wrecks
Of sunken fishers, and to whom strange isles
And frost-rimmed bays and trading stations seem
Familiar as Great Neck and Kettle Cove,
Nubble and Boon, the common names of home.
So let me offer thee this lay of mine,
Simple and homely, lacking much thy play
Of color and of fancy. If its theme
And treatment seem to thee befitting youth
Rather than age, let this be my excuse
It has beguiled some heavy hours and called
Some pleasant memories up; and, better still,
Occasion lent me for a kindly word
To one who is my neighbor and my friend.
. . . . . . . . . .
The skipper sailed out of the harbor mouth,
Leaving the apple-bloom of the South
For the ice of the Eastern seas,
In his fishing schooner Breeze.
Handsome and brave and young was he,
And the maids of Newbury sighed to see
His lessening white sail fall
Under the sea's blue wall.
Through the Northern Gulf and the misty screen
Of the isles of Mingan and Madeleine,
St. Paul's and Blanc Sablon,
The little Breeze sailed on,
Backward and forward, along the shore
Of lorn and desolate Labrador,
And found at last her way
To the Seven Islands Bay.
The little hamlet, nestling below
Great hills white with lingering snow,
With its tin-roofed chapel stood
Half hid in the dwarf spruce wood;
Green-turfed, flower-sown, the last outpost
Of summer upon the dreary coast,
With its gardens small and spare,
Sad in the frosty air.
Hard by where the skipper's schooner lay,
A fisherman's cottage looked away
Over isle and bay, and. behind
On mountains dim-defined.
And there twin sisters, fair and young,
Laughed with their stranger guest, and sung
In their native tongue the lays
Of the old Provencal days.
Alike were they, save the faint outline
Of a scar on Suzette's forehead fine;
And both, it so befell,
Loved the heretic stranger well.
Both were pleasant to look upon,
But the heart of the skipper clave to one;
Though less by his eye than heart
He knew the twain apart.
Despite of alien race and creed,
Well did his wooing of Marguerite speed;
And the mother's wrath was vain
As the sister's jealous pain.
The shrill-tongued mistress her house forbade,
And solemn warning was sternly said
By the black-robed priest, whose word
As law the hamlet heard.
But half by voice and half by signs
The skipper said, 'A warm sun shines
On the green-banked Merrimac;
Wait, watch, till I come back.
'And when you see, from my mast head,
The signal fly of a kerchief red,
My boat on the shore shall wait;
Come, when the night is late.'
Ah! weighed with childhood's haunts and friends,
And all that the home sky overbends,
Did ever young love fail
To turn the trembling scale?
Under the night, on the wet sea sands,
Slowly unclasped their plighted hands
One to the cottage hearth,
And one to his sailor's berth.
What was it the parting lovers heard?
Nor leaf, nor ripple, nor wing of bird,
But a listener's stealthy tread
On the rock-moss, crisp and dead.
He weighed his anchor, and fished once more
By the black coast-line of Labrador;
And by love and the north wind driven,
Sailed back to the Islands Seven.
In the sunset's glow the sisters twain
Saw the Breeze come sailing in again;
Said Suzette, 'Mother dear,
The heretic's sail is here.'
'Go, Marguerite, to your room, and hide;
Your door shall be bolted!' the mother cried:
While Suzette, ill at ease,
Watched the red sign of the Breeze.
At midnight, down to the waiting skiff
She stole in the shadow of the cliff;
And out of the Bay's mouth ran
The schooner with maid and man.
And all night long, on a restless bed,
Her prayers to the Virgin Marguerite said
And thought of her lover's pain
Waiting for her in vain.
Did he pace the sands? Did he pause to hear
The sound of her light step drawing near?
And, as the slow hours passed,
Would he doubt her faith at last?
But when she saw through the misty pane,
The morning break on a sea of rain,
Could even her love avail
To follow his vanished sail?
Meantime the Breeze, with favoring wind,
Left the rugged Moisic hills behind,
And heard from an unseen shore
The falls of Manitou roar.
On the morrow's morn, in the thick, gray weather
They sat on the reeling deck together,
Lover and counterfeit,
Of hapless Marguerite.
With a lover's hand, from her forehead fair
He smoothed away her jet-black hair.
What was it his fond eyes met?
The scar of the false Suzette!
Fiercely he shouted: 'Bear away
East by north for Seven Isles Bay!'
The maiden wept and prayed,
But the ship her helm obeyed.
Once more the Bay of the Isles they found
They heard the bell of the chapel sound,
And the chant of the dying sung
In the harsh, wild Indian tongue.
A feeling of mystery, change, and awe
Was in all they heard and all they saw
Spell-bound the hamlet lay
In the hush of its lonely bay.
And when they came to the cottage door,
The mother rose up from her weeping sore,
And with angry gestures met
The scared look of Suzette.
'Here is your daughter,' the skipper said;
'Give me the one I love instead.'
But the woman sternly spake;
'Go, see if the dead will wake!'
He looked. Her sweet face still and white
And strange in the noonday taper light,
She lay on her little bed,
With the cross at her feet and head.
In a passion of grief the strong man bent
Down to her face, and, kissing it, went
Back to the waiting Breeze,
Back to the mournful seas.
Never again to the Merrimac
And Newbury's homes that bark came back.
Whether her fate she met
On the shores of Carraquette,
Miscou, or Tracadie, who can say?
But even yet at Seven Isles Bay
Is told the ghostly tale
Of a weird, unspoken sail,
In the pale, sad light of the Northern day
Seen by the blanketed Montagnais,
Or squaw, in her small kyack,
Crossing the spectre's track.
On the deck a maiden wrings her hands;
Her likeness kneels on the gray coast sands;
One in her wild despair,
And one in the trance of prayer.
She flits before no earthly blast,
The red sign fluttering from her mast,
Over the solemn seas,
The ghost of the schooner Breeze!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Grim Seasons
The sea shore is the gods lap
Where the timeless meet,
The grey ditch by the hedgerow
Is my heart’s slow beat,
The dark sky and the crow’s cry
And the gulls, slow wheeling,
Are sleep’s shroud in a gold cloud
On my eyes, drawn stealing.’
She turned, splintering crystal
In the dawn’s brisk chill,
The sharp scatter of silence
By the rook’s slow trill;
‘I left you for the grey day,
For the cliff’s grim seasons,
For the crisp breath, or a life’s quest
Of my own small reasons.’
‘The long shade of the sundial
For a day’s lost thought,
The moon, beamed in a cold room
Where a shadow’s caught.
I took flight for the still night
And the earth’s slow turning,
For the green hills and the clear rills
And the dream you’re torn in.’
21 February 1978
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Church-Bell
As I was lying in my bed
I heard the church-bell ring;
Before one solemn word was said
A bird began to sing.
I heard a dog begin to bark
And a bold crowing cock;
The bell, between the cold and dark,
Tolled. It was five o'clock.
The church-bell tolled, and the bird sang,
A clear true voice he had;
The cock crew, and the church-bell rang,
I knew it had gone mad.
A hand reached down from the dark skies,
It took the bell-rope thong,
The bell cried "Look! Lift up your eyes!"
The clapper shook to song.
The iron clapper laughed aloud,
Like clashing wind and wave;
The bell cried out "Be strong and proud!"
Then, with a shout, "Be brave!"
The rumbling of the market-carts,
The pounding of men's feet
Were drowned in song; "Lift up your hearts!"
The song was loud and sweet.
Slow and slow the great bell swung,
It hung in the steeple mute;
And people tore its living tongue
Out by the very root.
poem by Elinor Morton Wylie
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Slow Love
Young is the night
It feels so right
Now that ure mine
Lets take our time
The man in the moon is smiling
4 he knows what Im dreaming of
Tonight is the night 4 making slow love
The gentle breeze
It blows with ease
Lets make it slow
Just like the wind blows
Lets make it last forever
For a hundred times wont be enough
Tonight is the night 4 making slow love
Slow love
So much better when we take it easy
Slow love
So much better when we take our time
Loves in your eyes (in your eyes)
Eyes never lie
Dont rush the feelin
Youve got me reelin
U can see through race car drivers
Let me show u what Im made of
Tonight is the night 4 making slow love
[repeated to fade]
Slow love
So much better when we take it easy
Slow love
So much better when we take our time
song performed by by Prince
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Too High
Oh your bones are brittle
Inside you
Wrap so soft your blood is running
Ill be there
If youre moving slowly
Will you still get there
Ill be there
Such a strong desire
Hunger
All you need
To hope you keep your head yeah
As the slow hand quickens
What youve done with all those around you
Hope for always that someone
Will come and see you
Well Ill be there
To watch you saltry turning
Seething
Ill be there
Minutes hold on to hours
Gets you twisting
All you need
To hope you keep your head yeah oh
The slow hand quickens
Howd you leave it
With the love you lost
You made them crawl to be without you
The slow hand quickens
Yes
Sand is empty
In the hourglass
Ill be there
To turn it over and over
In your head
So you keep the hope
You get your day yeah oh
As the slow hand quickens
Oh you see
Too hard to break
Too cold to burn
Afraid your chance is gone
The wires are crossed
Your mouth is lost
You fear youve left it far too long
The minutes pass
The hours are gone
So hard to find your way alone
As the slow hands quicken
The slow hands quicken
These slow hands quicken
song performed by by Dave Matthews Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This Twilight Garden
I lift my lips from kissing you
To kiss the sky
Cloud soft and blue
And slow the sun melts down
Into your golden words for me
I lift my hands from touching you
To touch the wind that whispers through
This twilight garden
Turns into a world
Where dreams are real
No-one will ever take your place
I am lost in you
No-one will ever take your place
So in love with you
I lift my eyes from watching you
To watch the star rise shine onto
Your dreaming face and dreaming smile
You're dreaming worlds
For me
I lift my lips from kissing you
And kiss the sky wide deepest blue
And slow the moon swims up
Into your golden words
For me
No-one will ever take your place
I am lost in you
No-one will ever take your place
So in love with you
song performed by by Cure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ebb-Tide
NOW the vexed clouds, wind-driven, spread wings of white,
Long leaning wings across the sea and land.
The waves creep back bequeathing to our sight
The treasure-house of their deserted sand,
And where the nearer waves curl white and low,
Knee-deep in swirling brine the slow-foot shrimpers go.
Pale breadth of sand, where clamorous gulls confer,
Marked with broad arrows by their planted feet;
White rippled pools, where late deep waters were
And ever the white waves marshalled in retreat
And the grey wind in sole supremacy
O'er opal and amber cold of darkening sky and sea.
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Slow Dawn
midnight people rushing for a downtown train
watching and wasting away
empty hearts beat free
cool frequency
and I don't know what it is
I'm gonna run
the slow dawn
seeking sigh
oh so faint
I'm gonna run
the slow dawn
away
it's best undone
[hard to hear this part]
and I'm not sure what it is
but I'm sure that I can give
away the slow dawn
slow dawn moves by your side
takes your silent sleep
slow dawn
midnight people washing down here
song performed by by Smashing Pumpkins from Machina II / Friends and Enemies of Modern Music
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gettysburg
Though the winds be strong that lash along the steeds of the charging sea,
With lunge and urge of assaulting surge yet seeking a further goal,
God in His pleasure hath set a measure, the bound of their boast to be,
Where, pile upon pile, and mile on mile, are the cliffs of calm control.
But the Lord of Hosts who guardeth the coasts yet loveth each sieging swell,
And He who is Brother to surge and smother is Brother to cliff as well:
He giveth the word if the shore be stirred, He biddeth the sea subside,
And this is our trust, that His will is just, however He turn the tide!
As night went gray at the touch of day and the slow dawn mounted higher,
On the Federal right the third day’s fight was born in a sheet of fire:
Gun upon gun to the front was run, and each in its turn spoke forth
From fevered mouth to the waiting South the word of the watching North:
And the wraith of Death with withering breath o’er the wide arena played,
As across the large swept on the charge of the old Stonewall brigade;
But the first great wave on a sudden gave, retreating across the slain—
Gave and broke, as the rifles spoke from the long blue line of Kane!
Then silence sank on the double rank deployed on the sullen hill,
And, across the plain of the early slain, the hosts of the South were still,
Waiting, each, till further speech from the guns should dart and din—
Sign to the brave that the final wave of the tide was rolling in.
Adown the line like a draught of wine the presence of Hancock came,
And eyes grew bright in the steadfast light of his own that blazed to flame;
For the Federals knew, where his banner blew—and they saw their leader ride,
That a righteous God on that sea of sod had decreed a turn of tide!
So came one, when a signal gun awoke on the Southern side,
And Hunt’s brigade with a cannonade to the challenge of Lee replied,
Like arrows sent from a bow well bent to the heart of a distant targe,
Virginia’s hope rode down the slope, with Pickett leading the charge!
Steady and slow, as soldiers go in some serried dress parade,
With flags a-dance in their cool advance came the gallant gray brigade,
And steady and slow, as if no foe on the frowning heights abode,
To the cannon’s breath, to the scythe of Death, Pickett, their leader, rode.
God! what a mile he led them! From the slope they sought to scale,
Sullen and hot, the swingeing shot was hurling its awful hail:
Where a long ravine ploughed through the green they halted, anew to form,
And then, with a cheer, to the ridge’s sheer they swept like a summer storm.
Hand to hand at the guns they manned, the Federals fought and fell,
Where Armistead his regiment led up the cannister-harrowed swell,
He touched a gun—for a breath he won the crest of the Union’s pride—
Then over the hill Jehovah’s will decreed the turn of the tide!
Taken in flank each gallant rank of Pickett’s battalions gave,
Trampled and tossed, since hope was lost, there was left but life to save;
Beaten back on the travelled track, they faltered, and broke, and fled,
And, swinging his scythe, Death claimed his tithe in the pale and patient dead!
For the arm of the Lord had raised the sword that man may not gainsay,
’Twixt the cause of the Free and the cause of Lee the issue no longer lay;
For the word of the Lord had gone abroad that the strife of the right had won,
And Freedom’s foe at the call bowed low and answered “Thy will be done!”
Pickett, ah, Pickett, the staunchest heart in the Southern host that day,
Hail to the brave in the last great wave of the long and fearful fray,
That broke in foam on the trampled loam of that tempest trampled mount—
In the glory born of a hope forlorn they passed to their last account!
Meade, ah, Meade, there are hearts that bleed for your host that fought and fell,
When the final charge broke on the marge of a hillside turned to Hell!
Yet this the speech on the crag-girt beach that the sea proclaims for aye,
And this the word that the cliffs unstirred through the ages still reply:
Though the winds be strong that lash along the steeds of the charging sea,
With lunge and urge of assaulting surge yet seeking a further goal,
God in His pleasure hath set a measure, the bound of their boast to be,
Where, pile upon pile, and mile on mile, are the cliffs of calm control.
But the Lord of Hosts who guardeth the coasts yet loveth each sieging swell,
And He who is Brother to surge and smother is Brother to cliff as well:
He giveth the word if the shore be stirred, He biddeth the sea subside,
And this is our trust, that His will is just, however He turn the tide!
poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1898)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Churchyard
HOW slowly creeps the hand of Time
On the old clock’s green-mantled face!
Yea, slowly as those ivies climb,
The hours roll round with patient pace;
The drowsy rooks caw on the tower,
The tame doves hover round and round;
Below, the slow grass hour by hour
Makes green God’s sleeping-ground.
All moves, but nothing here is swift;
The grass grows deep, the green boughs shoot;
From east to west the shadows drift;
The earth feels heavenward underfoot;
The slow stream through the bridge doth stray
With water-lilies on its marge,
And slowly, pil’d with scented hay,
Creeps by the silent barge.
All stirs, but nothing here is loud:
The cushat broods, the cuckoo cries;
Faint, far up, under a white cloud,
The lark trills soft to earth and skies;
And underneath the green graves rest;
And through the place, with slow footfalls,
With snowy cambric on his breast,
The old gray Vicar crawls.
And close at hand, to see him come,
Clustering at the playground gate,
The urchins of the schoolhouse, dumb
And bashful, hang the head and wait;
The little maidens curtsey deep,
The boys their forelocks touch meanwhile,
The Vicar sees them, half asleep,
And smiles a sleepy smile.
Slow as the hand on the clock’s face,
Slow as the white cloud in the sky,
He cometh now with tottering pace
To the old vicarage hard by:
Smother’d it stands in ivy leaves,
Laurels and yews make dark the ground;
The swifts that build beneath the eaves
Wheel in still circles round.
And from the portal, green and dark,
He glances at the church-clock old—
Gray soul! why seek his eyes to mark
The creeping of that finger cold?
He cannot see, but still as stone
He pauses, listening for the chime,
And hears from that green tower intone
The eternal voice of Time.
poem by William Cosmo Monkhouse
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Slow Boat To China
Lets take a slow boat to china. leave from south carolina
Lets take our time and go the long way
On a junk boat to thailand with your hand in mine hand
I sure hope we got something to say
Well, this old boats go no sail so wont you please hold our mail-
For awhile
Thanks anyway pal but the suez canal -
Aint our style
Lets take a slow boat to china and maybe well find a
New way to play those same old games
The stars just might show us and the captain will know us
Shake our hands and call us by our first names
Well send a postcard to grandpa of a vase or rickshaw-
He dont care
Well buy mom a kimono or maybe well just phone her -
When were there
Well drink sake at night beneath the soft harbor lights-
On the bay
Well build house on the hill next to shangri-li bill -
And well stay
Lets take that slow boat to china (lets go)
Slow boat to china (real slow)
Slow boat to china (lets go)
Slow boat to china (real slow)
Lets go real slow
song performed by by John Prine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Song Of A Mad Girl, Whose Lover Has Died At Sea
Under the green white blue of this and that and the other,
That and the other, and that and the other, for ever and ever,
Under the up and down and the swaying ships swingswonging,
There they flung him to sleep who will never come back to my longing.
The Father comes back to his child and the son comes back to his Mother,
But neither by land or sea
Will he ever come back to me,
Never, never, never
Will he come back to me.
All day I run by the Cliff, all night I stand in the sand,
All day I furrow and burrow the holmes and the heights.
But whether by night or day
There's never a trace or a track,
Never a word or a breath,
In the swill and the swoop and the flash and the foam and the wind,
Never a fleck or a speck
Coming, coming my way.
The mew comes back to the strand and the ship comes back to the land,
But he will never come back
To all the prayers that I pray thro' the scorching black of the day
And the freezing black of the nights,
Never, never come back
To the ear that harks itself deaf and the eye that strains itself blind,
And the heart that is starving to death.
He was chill and they threw him to cold,
He was dead and they threw him to drown,
He was weary and wanted rest-
They should have laid him on my breast,
He would have slept on my breast,
But they threw him into the boiling boil and bubble,
The wheel and the whirl, the driff and the draff
Of the everlasting trouble.
I swear to you he was mine! I swear to you he was my own.
Madam, if I may make so bold,
Do you know what the dead men do
In the black and blue, in the green and brown?
Deep, deep, you think they sleep
Where the mermen moan and the mermaids weep?
Ah, ah, you make me laugh!
I'm not yet twenty years old,
But lean your ear
And you shall hear
A little thing that I know.
Up and up they come to the top,
Down and down they go down.
To and fro the finny fish go,
But slow and slow, and so and so,
Low over high, high under low,
Up and up they come to the top,
Down and down they go down:
When the sun comes up they come to the top,
When the sun sinks they go down.
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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By The Seaside : Sir Humphrey Gilbert
Southward with fleet of ice
Sailed the corsair Death;
Wild and gast blew the blast,
And the east-wind was his breath.
His lordly ships of ice
Glisten in the sun;
On each side, like pennons wide,
Flashing crystal streamlets run.
His sails of white sea-mist
Dripped with silver rain;
But where he passed there were cast
Leaden shadows o'er the main.
Eastward from Campobello
Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed;
Three days or more seaward he bore,
Then, alas! the land-wind failed.
Alas! the land-wind failed,
And ice-cold grew the night;
And nevermore, on sea or shore,
Should Sir Humphrey see the light.
He sat upon the deck,
The Book was in his hand;
'Do not fear! Heaven is as near,'
He said, 'by water as by land!'
In the first watch of the night,
Without a signal's sound,
Out of the sea, mysteriously,
The fleet of Death rose all around.
The moon and the evening star
Were hanging in the shrouds;
Every mast, as it passed,
Seemed to rake the passing clouds.
They grappled with their prize,
At midnight black and cold!
As of a rock was the shock;
Heavily the ground-swell rolled.
Southward through day and dark,
They drift in cold embrace,
With mist and rain, o'er the open main;
Yet there seems no change of place.
Southward, forever southward,
They drift through dark and day;
And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream
Sinking, vanish all away.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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On a Sunday Morning Sidewalk
On a Sunday morning sidewalk
in a brief, refreshing, rain
I awaken, quite hung over,
My eyes closed against the pain.
The fresh mowed grass of someone's lawn
Damp with the morning dew
Reminds the brain cells I have left
that last night I downed a few.
A dark figure now looms over me-
Is it there to damn or save?
No it's just the barkeeps Labrador
as he gives my face a lave.
I was nearly frightened sober -
And I was still drunk with Grog-
I'd prefer a friendly Saint Bernard
bringing a 'hair of the dog.'
The Labrador looked down on me,
a sodden drunken mess.
In my wife's eyes I would never find
That canines kind forgiveness..
poem by John F. McCullagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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