A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
quote by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poet And The Bird
Said a people to a poet---' Go out from among us straightway!
While we are thinking earthly things, thou singest of divine.
There's a little fair brown nightingale, who, sitting in the gateways
Makes fitter music to our ears than any song of thine!'
The poet went out weeping---the nightingale ceased chanting;
'Now, wherefore, O thou nightingale, is all thy sweetness done?'
I cannot sing my earthly things, the heavenly poet wanting,
Whose highest harmony includes the lowest under sun.'
The poet went out weeping,---and died abroad, bereft there---
The bird flew to his grave and died, amid a thousand wails:---
And, when I last came by the place, I swear the music left there
Was only of the poet's song, and not the nightingale's.
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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Bird Raptures
The sunrise wakes the lark to sing,
The moonrise wakes the nightingale.
Come darkness, moonrise, everything
That is so silent, sweet, and pale,
Come, so ye wake the nightingale.
Make haste to mount, thou wistful moon,
Make haste to wake the nightingale:
Let silence set the world in tune
To hearken to that wordless tale
Which warbles from the nightingale.
O herald skylark, stay thy flight
One moment, for a nightingale
Floods us with sorrow and delight.
To-morrow thou shalt hoist the sail;
Leave us tonight the nightingale.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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In the strips of woods [În arcane de pădure]
In the strips of woods, the darkness in a scary way is clinging.
Both the crowded leaves are silent and the slender trees, so high;
Night is dumb, and sad, and dying, sheltered by the opaque sky,
But the nightingale is singing, but the nightingale is singing.
In the strips of woods, the tempest in a scary way is spinning,
Sending down a flood of water and a crimson bolt of flame;
Why is harmony a nuisance and a fury without aim,
But the nightingale is singing, but the nightingale is singing.
In the strips of woods, the terror with the quietness is mingling,
Late aurora under foliage cannot come to light the moss,
For in front of it the darkness blocks the way and lies across –
But the nightingale is singing, but the nightingale is singing.
poem by Alexandru Macedonski, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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The Nightingale
sweet solitude, silent and soulful,
The nightingale swooning to its own melancholy overtures,
a rustle of leaves, the squirell hoarding for the winter break,
The wooded glaze beyond sings to natures hauntingly beautiful tune.
Nature isn't party to the tough times man faces,
It is a gift all year round that even the poorest souls can afford,
All it asks is that we care for it like we do for our own,
The heavenly child, vulnerable, frightened and merely mortal,
Natures beauty isnt eternal, but we need to act as one to help it survive,
A morally corrupt and bankrupt society,
seeping into everything we hold dear and making it rotton,
If we all unite, we can secure the future for our blessed children.
The nightingale will sing again.....
poem by Simon Thorpe
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Accademia Dei Solinghi
KANTATE IHR VOELKER HOERT
IT is her alone
Now singing
Her lonely song
As though
She is on a very
High tower
On a very
High mountaintop.
WHAT I admire
most is her skill
Of singing
Solitude as though
It is a common
Piece
That any maiden
Of the town
Can sing
and
Sing it well.
A perfect voice
Of solitude
Singing
Alleluia
Alleluia
The God
On High
Shall come
And the
Bride must
Be ready
for the
God-groom
She sings so
Skillfully
And the mountains
And valleys and
All the people
Of the town
Listen and
They cannot
Tell what time
Is it because
All they do
Is listen to
Her as she
sings
Skillfully the
song of solitude
I too was sleepless
I learned the art
Of simply be
Myself
of simply
Be
in solitude
Unknown
to all
She sings
Because she
Is sleepy
and
She did not
Believe
in the
Power of solitude
In fact
what she
Really
believed
In and
what made
Her sing is
The power
of
Her song
It was
her
Projection
Of solitude
Which they
Really mistook
as
solitude
Her song
May be about
Solitude
She was not.
she was not really
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Seraph and Poet
THE seraph sings before the manifest
God-One, and in the burning of the Seven,
And with the full life of consummate
Heaving beneath him like a mother's
Warm with her first-born's slumber in that
The poet sings upon the earth grave-riven,
Before the naughty world, soon self-forgiven
For wronging him,--and in the darkness prest
From his own soul by worldly weights.
Even so,
Sing, seraph with the glory ! heaven is high;
Sing, poet with the sorrow ! earth is low:
The universe's inward voices cry
' Amen ' to either song of joy and woe:
Sing, seraph,--poet,--sing on equally !
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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My Interrupted Solitude
Look at all the lights
all the cars
in this night
they interrupt my darkness
bring light to my solitude
i need it to be spark less
but they bring light
to my darkness
my solitude interrupted
I want to be in peace but
these sparks have to interrupt it
I'm very displeased
i want the solitude of this darkness
but these lights hold up their fists
they fight through the air
to shine down on me
when all i want
is to be alone
in the darkness
poem by Audrey Marie Kay
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Lost, Then By Love Found
I once was cold as a stone.
I once was lost and all alone.
Then by love I was found.
This lonely heart was taught of love.
No longer am I a prisoner of solitude, Bound…
The cold darkness is now filled with warming light, From the heavens above!
This heart once singing a lonely song, Now sings love’s sweet symphony!
This once lonely heart no longer alone!
Now I have found a lover to call my own!
And from the chains of solitude, I am set free!
poem by Philip Alarie
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To Lydia Maria Child
ON READING HER POEM IN 'THE STANDARD.'
The sweet spring day is glad with music,
But through it sounds a sadder strain;
The worthiest of our narrowing circle
Sings Loring's dirges o'er again.
O woman greatly loved! I join thee
In tender memories of our friend;
With thee across the awful spaces
The greeting of a soul I send!
What cheer hath he? How is it with him?
Where lingers he this weary while?
Over what pleasant fields of Heaven
Dawns the sweet sunrise of his smile?
Does he not know our feet are treading
The earth hard down on Slavery's grave?
That, in our crowning exultations,
We miss the charm his presence gave?
Why on this spring air comes no whisper
From him to tell us all is well?
Why to our flower-time comes no token
Of lily and of asphodel?
I feel the unutterable longing,
Thy hunger of the heart is mine;
I reach and grope for hands in darkness,
My ear grows sharp for voice or sign.
Still on the lips of all we question
The finger of God's silence lies;
Will the lost hands in ours be folded?
Will the shut eyelids ever rise?
O friend! no proof beyond this yearning,
This outreach of our hearts, we need;
God will not mock the hope He giveth,
No love He prompts shall vainly plead.
Then let us stretch our hands in darkness,
And call our loved ones o'er and o'er;
Some day their arms shall close about us,
And the old voices speak once more.
No dreary splendors wait our coming
Where rapt ghost sits from ghost apart;
Homeward we go to Heaven's thanksgiving,
The harvest-gathering of the heart.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Evensong
It is late, on a cold, dark, wintry afternoon;
Up high in a tree, a small bird merrily croons.
Trade in the town, has now begun to wind down,
And taking centre stage, is the bird’s sweet sound.
Like an operatic singer, his voice soars high,
And his song delights many, as they pass by.
Your ears can not help, but hear his loud call,
As the sun, once again, sets and darkness falls.
He sings for joy, at the very top of his voice;
To listen to his song, you have little choice.
He sits at the very top of the tallest tree,
Singing so loudly; his heart full of glee.
His plaintive call pierces the cool air,
As he sings his song, without a care.
A pure quality, his sweet song holds,
And he sings it out, so bright and bold.
His singsong attracts many a nice comment;
His performance appears to be Heaven sent.
Of his captivated audience, he is unaware;
His song boasts beauty, beyond compare.
Like a church choir, as they sing evensong,
This small bird sings so very keen and strong.
Through the dark streets, home, I wearily wind;
Sad to be leaving the bird’s sweet song behind.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Poet Is A Poet/Wherever He Goes
A POET IS A POET/ WHEREVER HE GOES
A poet is a poet
Wherever he goes
He can stop and sit on a bench anywhere
And write a poem
The poems come from without often
But what is within is the poetry-
Like a dream like a fire like a small light
That never goes out
A poet sits anywhere and writes his dream-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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From The Break The Nightingale
From the brake the Nightingale
Sings exulting to the Rose;
Though he sees her waxing pale
In her passionate repose,
While she triumphs waxing frail,
Fading even while she glows;
Though he knows
How it goes -
Knows of last year's Nightingale
Dead with last year's Rose.
Wise the enamoured Nightingale,
Wise the well-beloved Rose!
Love and life shall still prevail,
Nor the silence at the close
Break the magic of the tale
In the telling, though it shows -
Who but knows
How it goes! -
Life a last year's Nightingale,
Love a last year's Rose.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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River Of Love
(Sommers)
All of my life I've been so happy while I have had you by my side.
Now you say you're gonna leave me for to become someone else's bride.
Oh, the river of love it has gone muddy and the flowers, they are dying on the shore.
And the blue skies have all turned to darkness and the nightingale will sing no more.
What can I do to hide my sorrow, what can I do to ease the pain?
How can I keep these tears from falling? Oh, darling, won't you come back home again?
Oh, the river of love it has gone muddy and the flowers, they are dying on the shore.
And the blue skies have all turned to darkness and the nightingale will sing no more.
Tomorrow I will take you to the station, I will see that you're safely on that train.
When the Two-Nineteen has parted, I'll never ever see your smile again.
Oh, the river of love it has gone muddy and the flowers, they are dying on the shore.
And the blue skies have all turned to darkness and the nightingale will sing no more.
And the blue skies have all turned to darkness and the nightingale will sing no more.
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Poet Until 21st Century
Alone, solitude
Fresh mornings, afternoons and nights
Solitude, alone
Social confusions, drama of hot desires
Alone, solitude
Among social truths
Among art of phoenix world
Solitude, alone
Among worldly plays of knowledge society
Alone, solitude
In the variety shows of storms, beautiful forests
and on the wonderful and magical mountains
Of the universal truths
poet Nyein Way
“Sweet Sounds of Joy”
Sounds of joy, sounds of joy
Oh how I love to hear sweet sounds
Of joy
Sounds of joy, sounds of joy
Oh how I love to hear momma sing
In her morning voice
Sounds of joy, sounds of joy
Oh how I love to be in the presence
Of these sounds of joy
Sounds of joy, sounds of joy
Oh how I love sweet sounds of joy
poem by Va Rockeya Foy
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Nughtingale And Cuckoo
Yes, nightingale and cuckoo! it was meet
That you should come together; for ye twain
Are emblems of the rapture and the pain
That in the April of our life compete,
Until we know not which is the more sweet,
Nor yet have learned that both of them are vain!
Yet wherefore, nightingale! break off thy strain,
While yet the cuckoo doth his call repeat?
Not so with me. To sweet woe did I cling
Long after echoing happiness was dead,
And so found solace. Now, alas! the sting!
Cuckoo and nightingale alike have fled;
Neither for joy nor sorrow do I sing,
And autumn silence gathers in their stead.
poem by Alfred Austin
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The Three Maidens
There were three maidens met on the highway;
The sun was down, the night was late:
And two sang loud with the birds of May,
O the nightingale is merry with its mate.
Said they to the youngest, Why walk you there so still?
The land is dark, the night is late:
O, but the heart in my side is ill,
And the nightingale will languish for its mate.
Said they to the youngest, Of lovers there is store;
The moon mounts up, the night is late:
O, I shall look on man no more,
And the nightingale is dumb without its mate.
Said they to the youngest, Uncross your arms and sing;
The moon mounts high, the night is late:
O my dear lover can hear no thing,
And the nightingale sings only to its mate.
They slew him in revenge, and his true-love was his lure;
The moon is pale, the night is late:
His grave is shallow on the moor;
O the nightingale is dying for its mate.
His blood is on his breast, and the moss-roots at his hair;
The moon is chill, the night is late:
But I will lie beside him there:
O the nightingale is dying for its mate.
poem by George Meredith
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Before a Poetry Reading
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I'm feeling nervous but I mustn't show it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I hope to heaven that I won't blow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I mustn't reveal that I'm a second-rate poet!
I'm only a rhymer, but they don't know it!
If you've got no talent you'll have to grow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Such a Sweet Kiss
You blew me such a sweet, sweet
Sweet kiss..
It rode upon the winds to find
My ruby red lips, to fall in love
Once again..
You look down at me as your
Lips spoke the words “I’ve
Found my true love and my
Lips will never kiss another”
Let not our love die in vain
For I’ve seen a nightingale
Perched upon my windowsill,
I heard the nightingale sing
So sweet, so sweet
It sang of my ruby red lips
With,
Lyric were off the chain..
Such harmony cannot will
Not,
Be perfected again..
poem by Carolyn Sears
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Sweet Bird
She, coyly, at the break of dawn, sings.
Her honeyed voice graces my ears.
She flaps, she dances, she plays, she giggles,
All these, I'm left breathless.
Petite, sweet bird, she dresses,
So natural, simple elegance, fresh as flower
She sings, I whistle, she sits,
A top a tree, castle I dream, we hold hands.
poem by Charles Jagongo Ogola
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