En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Land of Promise

Although the faiths to which we fearful clung
Fall from us, or no more have might to save;
Although the past, recalling gifts it gave,
O'er lost delights a doleful knell have rung;
Although the present, forth from ashes sprung,
Postpone from day to day what most we crave,
And, promising, beguile us to the grave,—
Yet, toward the Future, we are always young!
It smiles upon us in last lingering hours,
If with less radiance, with a light as fair,
As tender, pure, as in our childish years:
It is the fairy realm of fadeless flowers,
Of songs and ever-springing fountains, where
No heart-aches come, no vain regrets, no tears!

poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A flower for a fairy princess

When set out to
Write this poem I
Was lost in the blue
Mists of the mean blues
Years ago in
The years gone by
And the sorrow of
My lonely fairy situation
Was filling my soul with
The stormy wild tones
Of lonely abandon
But then a mighty fairy
Princes filled with
The mighty rhapsodies
Of your promising love
Came to gladden
My poor lonely heart
And a fairy priestess
Who sang like a goddess
With The Lustre Of Your Eyes
She cried the Tears Of An Angel
For my soul
And I was healed
Because evrywhere I go
I carry the beautiful
Picture of your pretty face
And Cupid And The Butterflies
Gave me The Lost Picture
My angel
Now I feel
Romantic again
My fairy princess
All this long ago where
I was sojourning
In Swaziland
And I am happy here
As I muse about how
Romantic I would feel
In the present years were
You here
To muse with me
As we once did in
The years gone by
In fair Swaziland

poem by Ngaka Motaung
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The Bride

SHE is standing by her loved one's side,
A young and a fair and a gentle bride,
But mournfulness hath crost her face
Like shadows in a sunny place,
And wistfully her eye doth strain
Across the blue and distant main.
My home! my home!-I would I were
Again in joyous gladness there!
My home! my home!-I would I heard
The singing voice, like some small bird,
Of him, our mother's youngest child,
With light soft step, and features mild.-
I would I saw that dear one now,
With the proud eye and noble brow,

Whose very errors were more loved
Than all our reason most approved.
And she, my fairy sister, she,
Who was the soul of childish glee;
Who loved me so-oh, let me hear
Once more those tones familiar, dear,
Which haunt my rest; and I will smile
Even as I used to do erewhile.
I know that some have fall'n asleep-
I know that some have learnt to weep-
But my heart never feels the same
As when those light steps round me came:
And sadness weighs my heavy eye
Beneath this cheerless stranger sky:
Tho' fewer now might round me come-
It is my home-my own old home!

She is back again in her sunny home,
And thick and fast the beatings come
Of that young heart, as round she sees
The same sweet flowers, the same old trees;
But they, the living flowers she loved,
Are they the same? are they unmoved?-
No-time which withers leaf and stem
Hath thrown his withering change o'er them.

Where there was mirth, is silence now-
Where there was joy, a darkened brow-
The bounding step hath given place
To the slow stealing mournful pace;
The proud bright eye is now less proud,
By time, and thought, and sickness bowed.
And the light singing voice no more
Its joyful carols echoes o'er,
But whispers; fearful some gay tone
May wake the thought of pleasures gone.
It is her home-but all in vain
Some lingering things unchanged remain:
The present wakes no smile-the past
Hath tears to bid its memory last.
She knew that some were gone-but oh!
She knew not-youth can never know
How furrowed o'er with silent thought
Are brows which grief and time have taught.
The murmuring of some shadowy word,
Which was a name-which now, unheard,
May wander thro' the clear cold sky,
Or wake the echo for reply:
The lingering pause in some bright spot
To dream of those who now are not:
The gaze that vainly seeks to trace
Lost feelings beaming on a face

Where time and sorrow, guilt and care,
Have past and left their withering there:-
These are her joys; and she doth roam
Around her dear but desert home;
Peopling the vacant seats, till tears arise,
And blot the dim sweet vision from her eyes.

poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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A Cave Like A Grave

I've put your love in a cage
I've held your love and your pain
With both of my hands with my regrets
I've dumped your love and my regrets in the cage

Since the day that you've gone
Journey for me has begun
I've hidden your love and It's pain
I've dug the cave like a grave

I've held the memories with my hand
I've touched the pain, Ah I cried vain
One by one I've added them to the cave
All your promises were undone
You've gone.
I've put the cave like a grave
Upon my shoulders I held your ache unaware
Years long years you were there
Inside my heart never went

I've held you with me in rough
I cried, I suffered pain, oh in vain
I held you with me all these years. Never could leaving the past years
I've held them like a bag
filled with fires and with pain
Since the day that you've gone The misery of love for me was begun
Today I want you to know
I've thrown away the cage including all your aches
I left my soul free, out of the grave of your love
The journey for me has found an end.

poem by Sossi Khachadourian
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Requiem

NOW veiled in the inviolable past
Love lies asleep, who never more will wake;
Nor would you wake him, even for my sake
Who for your sake pray he sleep sound at last.

What good thing had we of him--we who bore
So long his yoke? what pleasant thing had we
That we should weep his deathlong sleep to see,
Or call on Life to waken him once more?

A little joy he gave, and much of pain,
A little pleasure, and enduring grief,
One flower of joy, and pain piled sheaf on sheaf,
Harvests of loss, for every bud of gain.

Yet where he lies in this deserted place
Divided by his narrow grave we sit,
Welded together by the depths of it,
Watching the years pass, with averted face.

We do not mourn for him, for here is peace;
The old unrest frets not these empty years;
With him went smiles a few, and many tears,
And peace is sweeter far than those or these.

Only--we owe him nothing. If he gave,
We too gave gifts--his gifts were less than ours:
We gave the world, that held so many flowers
For this--the world that only holds his grave.

poem by Edith Nesbit
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Three Coins

In the fountains of our youth
are scattered three coins of our life.
The past, the present and the future
all of them lay there.
As we dip into the waters,
we try to pluck out each coin.
We may grab the past,
maybe even the present,
but the future lies beyond our reach
elusive, as it will always be.
We have lived the past,
the present we are living.
However, the future
is never ours to see
and so we leave the three coins
in the fountains of our youth
where they will always be.

19 August 2009

poem by David Harris
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For The New Year

FLUSHED with a crimson sunrise beauty,
The fair new year its promise gave;
Such dreams we had of love, of duty,
Of heights to scale, of foes to brave!
Oh, how hope's fire our future lighted--
How much to do, how much to know,
Yet on its brink we shrank affrighted
A year ago.

And now the year is done--its pleasure
So brief, so bright--its hours of pain;
Some moments' memories we treasure,
Some recollections loathe in vain.
Oh, for a brain where could not waken
Remembrances of purpose crossed,
Of trusts abandoned, aims forsaken,
And chances lost!

The changing seasons thrust upon us
Another year, fair-faced and new;
What evil have the old years done us
That this in its turn will not do?
This, too, will die, and leave us grieving
For all the ills its arms enfold--
For faiths betrayed, for friends deceiving,
And love grown cold.

We have been fooled. The hopes that fooled us--
We know them now--have been a lie;
The star that led, the light that ruled us--
We scorn them, and we pass them by.
Shut out hope's light; past is the season
When rose-red glow seemed good to see.
Look--by the cold white light of reason,
These things shall be:

A long, dim vista, blank and dreary--
The same hard failure, small success;
The same tired heart, the brain still weary
Of its intense self-consciousness;
The old despair, the old repining,
And, through the future's deepest night,
Down life's untrodden ways still shining,
The old hope's light!

poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Past

Thou unrelenting Past!
Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain,
And fetters, sure and fast,
Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.

Far in thy realm withdrawn
Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom,
And glorious ages gone
Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb.

Childhood, with all its mirth,
Youth, Manhood, Age, that draws us to the ground,
And last, Man's Life on earth,
Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.

Thou hast my better years,
Thou hast my earlier friends--the good--the kind,
Yielded to thee with tears--
The venerable form--the exalted mind.

My spirit yearns to bring
The lost ones back--yearns with desire intense,
And struggles hard to wring
Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence.

In vain--thy gates deny
All passage save to those who hence depart;
Nor to the streaming eye
Thou giv'st them back--nor to the broken heart.

In thy abysses hide
Beauty and excellence unknown--to thee
Earth's wonder and her pride
Are gathered, as the waters to the sea;

Labours of good to man,
Unpublished charity, unbroken faith,--
Love, that midst grief began,
And grew with years, and faltered not in death.

Full many a mighty name
Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered;
With thee are silent fame,
Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared.

Thine for a space are they--
Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last;
Thy gates shall yet give way,
Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past!

All that of good and fair
Has gone into thy womb from earliest time,
Shall then come forth to wear
The glory and the beauty of its prime.

They have not perished--no!
Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet,
Smiles, radiant long ago,
And features, the great soul's apparent seat.

All shall come back, each tie
Of pure affection shall be knit again;
Alone shall Evil die,
And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.

And then shall I behold
Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung,
And her, who, still and cold,
Fills the next grave--the beautiful and young.

poem by William Cullen Bryant
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O death, rock me on sleep

O death! rock me on sleep,
Bring me on quiet rest;
Yet pass my guiltless ghost
Out of my careful breast:
Toll on the passing bell,
Ring out the doleful knell,
Let the sound of my death tell,
For I must die,
There is no remedy,
For now I die.

My pains who can express?
Alas! they are so strong,
My dolor will not suffer strength
My life for to prolong:
Toll on the passing bell, etc.

Alone, in prison strong,
I wail my destiny,
Wo worth this cruel hap that I
Should taste this misery:
Toll on the passing bell, etc.

Farewell my pleasures past,
Welcome my present pain;
I feel my torments so increase
That life cannot remain.
Cease now the passing bell,
Rung is my doleful knell,
For the sound my death doth tell,
Death doth draw nigh,
Sound my end dolefully,
For now I die.

poem by Anne Boleyn (1536)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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The Fall of Usher

An elegy on Edgar Allan Poe

"Thou wert the Morning Star among the living,
Ere thy fair light had fled;
But, having died, thou art like Hesperus giving
New splendor to the dead." - Plato's Aster.

"Thou art gone to the grave!" but thy spirit is shining,
And singing afar in the Realms of the Blest ;
While the living are left by thy cold grave reclining,
And mourning for thee while they long for thy rest---
Left mourning for thee while they long for thy rest!

"Thou art gone to the grave!" thou art gone where thy slumber
No more shall be broken by sorrow or pain---
Soon to rise with that host which no mortal can number,
To lie down no more in that Valley again!
No more to lie down in that Valley again!

"Thou art gone to the grave!" there is none can restore thee,
Or bring thee again from that Silent Abode !
But the Conqueror of Death went to dwell there before thee,
And He has prepared thee the way to thy God!
Prepared thee the way to thy Beautiful God !

"Thou art gone to the grave!" thou art silently sleeping
A sleep which no sorrow shall ever molest;
And, in longing for which, my poor heart now is keeping
This silent lament in its grave in my breast!
Like Shelley for Keats, in its grave in my breast!

"Thou art gone to the grave!" let the dark Weeping Willow
Bend over thy grave where thy beauty was laid!
While thy form, thus reclined on the earth for its pillow,
Shall live in the Spring-flowers which bloom at thy head---
To feed the young Butterflies born at thy head.

"Thou art gone to the grave!" where the Violets are springing,
And feeding upon thee above the damp sod,
Now thy Pandemos mourns, while thy spirit is singing,
And drinking delight from the Fountains of God ---
With thine Ullalume lost from the Fountains of God.

poem by Thomas Holley Chivers
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To the one I'm waiting for [Aşteptatei]

I'm thirsty for a new romance!
I long for its delights, it's true,
As wilting flowers crave the dew
Which gives them all a second chance.

I'm weary of the phony kiss,
That sightless lie which takes its toll...
In vain the dames who lost their soul
Have tried to make me feel the bliss!

Because the things that I adore
Are buried in my heart for sure,
Big gems of love sincere and pure
Like all the kisses sweet of yore.

I keep them there for you alone
And you'll receive them with much glee
When you some day are sent to me,
My wife, who now you're still unknown!

poem by Cincinat Pavelescu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by anonym
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The Lost One

COME to the grave--the silent grave! and dream
Of a light, happy voice--so full of joy,
That those who heard her laugh, would laugh again,
Echoing the mirth of such an innocent spirit;
And pause in their own converse, to look round,
Won by the witchery of that gleesome tone.
Come to the grave--the lone dark grave! and dream
Of eyes whose brilliancy was of the soul,
Eyes which, with one bright flash from their dark lids,
Seemed at a glance to read the thoughts of others;
Or, with a full entire tenderness,
The pure expression of all-perfect love,
(Of woman's love, which is for you alone,
While your's is for yourself)--gave in that look
The promise of a life of meek affection.
Come to the grave--the mouldering grave! and dream
Of a fair form that glided over earth
One of its happiest creatures:--to her cheek

The lightest word might bring the blushing blood
In pure carnation;--down her graceful neck,
The long rich curls of jet hung carelessly,
Untortured by the cunning hand of art:
And on her brow, bright purity and joy,
Twin sisters, sate,--as on a holy throne.
Come yet unto the grave--the still, damp grave!
And dream of a young heart that beat with life,
And all life's best affections; of a heart
Where sorrow never came, nor fear, nor sin--
Nor aught save innocence, and perfect love:
And, having dreamed of such a lovely being--
So gay, so bright, so pure, so fond, so meek--
Having thus conjured up a form of love
In thine own pausing and regretful mind;--
A vision will be present to thy soul,
A faint, but faithful portraiture, of one
Most dearly loved, and now for ever lost!

poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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I hear and Reflect

A bell tolls sonorously
one single chime. Then silence reigns
It wakes me from my reverie.
Conscious again of aches and pains.

I had lost temporarily
in contemplation of the past
That single knell reminding me
Of the long years which quickly passed.

Before the years caught up with me
For old age does not come alone
It brings along infirmity.
Which hitherto you have not known.

When you are young you do not know
What future lies ahead of you
but as you live and learn and grow
You will become as others do.

Much more aware than what you were
of how your body will re- act.
To the stress and strain you bear.
That you must think before you act.

Gone is the energy of youth
You used to waste without a thought
You slowly come to learn the truth
That rude health can’t be sold or bought.

As long as I can hear that chime
which has disturbed my reverie
I can be certain that this time
The death knell does not ring for me.

Each day an opportunity
To do things I can still do
although slow and steadily.
My body still allows me to.

Although I pay in aches and pains
I do not think the price too high.
My interest in life remains.
I am too busy far, to die.

I know I will eventually
but do not let it worry me
It is the only certainty
the bell will toll one day for me.

23-Nov-08

http: //
blog.mypace.com/poeticpiers

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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A Golden Day

The subtle beauty of this day
Hangs o'er me like a fairy spell,
And care and grief have flown away,
And every breeze sings, "all is well."
I ask, "Holds earth or sin, or woe?"
My heart replies, "I do not know."

Nay! all we know, or feel, my heart,
Today is joy undimmed, complete;
In tears or pain we have no part;
The act of breathing is so sweet,
We care no higher joy to name.
What reck we now of wealth or fame?

The past--what matters it to me?
The pain it gave has passed away.
The future--that I cannot see!
I care for nothing save today--
This is a respite from all care,
And trouble flies--I know not where.

Go on, oh noisy, restless life!
Pass by, oh, feet that seek for heights!
I have no part in aught of strife;
I do not want your vain delights.
The day wraps round me like a spell
And every breeze sings, "All is well."

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Be ever enthused to be in touch with future

Be ever enthused to be in touch with future

Future
Philosophers say
Is an illusion
For each second that is in the coming
Is uncertain
Hazy and a mirage

Past is lost
And it is spilt milk
Nothing can be done
With the past
Each previous second is as past
As the previous century

They suggest
For keeping up with the pace of time
It would be wise
Not to dream of the future
And not to lament on the past
Enjoy the present

It is easier said than done
We keep busy thinking
Either about the future
Or keep grumbling with the past
Memory and acquired experience
Will not allow us
To thoughtfully digest
Events occurring at the present

It is also not debatable
The quality of the present second
Depends on
The quality of the efforts
Made in the previous second

Where we are and
What we are
All because of our
Struggle or otherwise
In the past

Past experience and
Our present standing
Take us where we will be tomorrow

It will not be unwise
To a dream a future
Matching our skills
And the present position

We often dwell in a future
That is not achievable
With our present standing
And our capabilities

Unrealized future
Makes us feel sad

Be ever be in touch future
As the present second only
Manifests itself as a future
Know what you do
Know what you have as means
To take you into
The dreamt future

A colourful future is not an impossible realm
To be scaled
If you take seriously the means
To be there

Your present actions
Are executed only
To be sure that
You are
There in that wonder tomorrow

That dream keeps you
Motivated in going ahead
That dream keeps you
On the path of learning
That dream keeps you
Innovating new solutions
That dream keeps you
Enjoy what you do
That dream keeps you
Enthused in living
That dream keeps you
Looking for opportunities for improvement
Be in touch with dream ever
And

Be ever enthused to be in touch with future
Though philosophically non-existent
Which only helps you realize your potential

poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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Thrush In The Fairycastle

In the fairy castle in the back,
A pair of thrushes dwelt.
For wondrous songs I did not lack,
The most beauteous, heartfelt.

Peeking inside of their domain,
You'd see the passing of the years.
You'd see nests if your neck you'd crane,
There they could nestle without fear.

Ever higher the levels went,
As the fairy castle grew in age.
And it seemed as their fledgelings out they sent,
The fairy castle turned a page.

Then just last week I saw one morn,
A single solitary thrush.
Singing on the fairy castle lost and forlorn,
I felt his songs my heart would crush.

All day all night he sang away,
But it was all for naught.
And there I see him everyday,
Lost is the one he sought.

It breaks my heart, to see him so,
His heart like mine is torn in two.
His songs all day and night do flow,
I wish I knew what to do.

They were my companions for so many years,
When I left, they remained.
They sang to me through joy and tears,
Through sunshine, and through rain.

He never wanders very far,
For the fairy castle is his home.
And he sings away at the sun and stars,
But now he sings alone.

The Fairycastle was planted in my backyard,
About fifteen years ago. It is a member of the,
Genus, Night Blooming Cereus, and it,
Is about twelve to fifteen feet high, and extremely thorny.

3/1/12 Alton Texas

poem by Juan Olivarez
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Dimension Merge

For us the past has gone and the present moves on
into the yesterday of a future’s present time.
Despite living in the future’s past this will not last,
present and future will very soon combine.

Future or dimension, to some a misapprehension,
but they are one in the same.
If there’s more than one, they will follow on
to leave one, with it’s present name.

On merging we’ll realise we’ve no future to recognise,
and the past and present is all we’ll know.
The past will still be renewed, with each day used,
but the future will mean only tomorrow.

poem by Orlando Belo
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His Youth

Dying? I am not dying. Are you mad?
You think I need to ask for heavenly grace?
\I\ think \you\ are a fiend, who would be glad
To see me struggle in death's cold embrace.

'But, man you lie! for I am strong-in truth
Stronger than I have been in years; and soon
I shall feel young again as in my youth,
My glorious youth-life's one great priceless boon.

'O youth, youth, youth! O God, that golden time,
When proud and glad I laughed the hours away.
Why, there's no sacrifice (perhaps no crime)
I'd pause at, could it make me young to-day.

'But I'm not \old\! I grew-just ill, somehow;
Grew stiff of limb, and weak, and dim of sight.
It was but sickness. I am better now,
Oh, vastly better, ever since last night.

'And I could weep warm floods of happy tears
To think my strength is coming back at last,
For I have dreamed of such an hour for years,
As I lay thinking of my glorious past.

'You shake your head? Why, man, if you were sane
I'd strike you to my feet, I would, in truth.
How dare you tell me that my hopes are vain?
How dare you say I have outlived my youth?

''In heaven I may regain it?' Oh, be still!
I want no heaven but what my glad youth gave.
Its long, bright hours, its rapture and its thrill-
O youth, youth, youth! it is my \youth\ I crave.

'There is no heaven! There's nothing but a deep
And yawning grave from which I shrink in fear.
I am not sure of even rest or sleep;
Perhaps we lie and \think\, as I have here.

'Think, think, think, think, as we lie there and rot,
And hear the young above us laugh in glee.
How dare you say I'm dying! \I am not\.
I would curse God if such a thing could be.

'Why, see me stand! why, hear this strong, full breath-
Dare you repeat that silly, base untruth?'
A cry-a fall-the silence known as death
Hushed his wild words. Well, has he found his youth?

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Path Of Time

Whether of present or past
Or future if you please
The time that you portray
Moves only for yourself

Some choose to live in the past
Lost hopes and dreams they share
But time only last
Until they release the burden they bear

Some choose to live in the present
And behold the sights of each day
A balance of decisions for 10 second frames
And everything always seems fair

Some people look towards the future
To see long term effects unfold
However long it takes to get there
They keep persisting towards their goal

I chose to live in the present
Ignore the past and future presence
And live life like I will not see the next day
And still not have to care

But if I provide an example
For past, present, or future
My path is still my own
And moves only for myself

poem by Logan Fulk
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On the death of an infant

Why should we weep for thee,
Since thou hast gone unsullied back to heaven,
No stain upon thy spirit's purity,
No sin to be forgiven?

Love watched thee from thy birth,
Fond hearts around thee tireless vigils kept;
And o'er thy tender soul the storms of earth
Had never rudely swept.

Thou art spared a fearful lore --
A knowledge all attain who linger here;
The changed, the cold, the dead, were words that bore
No import to thine ear.

Methought I saw in thee,
Thus early as I marked by many a token,
A soul that might not war with Destiny,
A heart that could be broken.

But sinless, tearless, gone,
Undimmed, unstained, who would not thus have died!
For thee then let these vain regrets be done,
These selfish tears be dried.

Go to thy little bed!
The verdant turf is springing fresh and fair,
The flowers thou lovedst shall blossom o'er thy head,
The spring birds warble there.

And while to shapeless dust
Thy cherub form is gently mouldering back,
Our thoughts shall upward soar, in hopeful trust,
On thy freed spirit's track.

poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To The Nightingale

Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours
Of winters past or coming, void of care,
Well pleased with delights which present are,
(Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers)
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare:
A stain to human sense in sin that lours,
What soul can be so sick which by thy songs
(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs,
And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven?
Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays.

poem by William Henry Drummond
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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