Do you know that charming part of our country which has been called the garden of France - that spot where, amid verdant plains watered by wide streams, one inhales the purest air of heaven?
quote by Alfred de Vigny
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There is a Little Peice of Heaven
there is a little peice of heaven,
a peice for everyone,
a peice that is safe,
a place that is yours,
a place that brings you peace,
a place that gives you happiness,
a little peice of heaven.
there is a little peice of heaven,
on earth,
on the seas,
in tears,
in eyes,
in loneliness,
in love,
in hatred,
in death,
in life,
in everything,
is that little peice of heaven.
there is a little peice of heaven,
in a soul,
for so many people,
a spot that everyone deserves,
a spot that everyone on earth needs,
a spot where hunger vanishes,
a little peice of heaven.
there is a little peice of heaven,
over roads,
through trees,
in forests,
in the seas,
under waterfalls,
on rooves,
between rocks,
between booz,
a little peice of heaven.
there is a little peice of heaven,
in towns,
in cities,
on isleands,
on boats,
in boxes,
in cars,
in vans,
in trucks,
there is this little peice of heaven.
there is this little peice of heaven,
we all know well.
this little peice of heaven,
is actually...
this little place called...HOME.
poem by Sindal Benson
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Purest Feeling
Purest feeling
Purest feeling
Well I think Im gonna push it
As far as it will go
Give in to desire
Only you will know
So tell me all your secrets
Ill stick it in your head
I wish I could remember
Everything she said
Purest feeling
Purest feeling
Purest feeling
Purest feeling
Well she could be a saviour
With everything she does
Or some kind of punishment
For people just like us
I dont really believe she understands
Whats happening to me
The sooner that she gets it
The better it will be
Purest feeling
Purest feeling
Purest feeling
Purest feeling
I have got to figure it out
I just want to know
I cant live with it
Purest feeling
Written and performed by: trent reznor
song performed by by Nine Inch Nails
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poetry
One spot of green, watered by hidden streams,
Makes summer in the desert where it gleams;
And mortals, gazing on thy heavenly face,
Forget the woes of earth, and share thy dreams!
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Life's Garden
We all grow up in this Garden called Life,
There are many inner and outer strifes,
In the silence, in the silence,
In this beautiful Garden called Life!
There are weeds and pests in this Garden called Life,
They are know as ignorance, greed, and vice.
In the silence, in the silence,
In this beautiful Garden called Life.
Every garden needs sunshine and rain,
In this garden you will find joy and pain.
In this silence, in the silence,
In this beautiful Garden called Life!
Plant sparsely, your harvest will be a pittance,
Plant bountifully, your harvest will be munificence,
In this silence, in the silence,
In this beautiful Garden called Life!
Did you plant deeds of joy, love and peace?
Or did you drop seeds of hatred, conflict, and gloom?
The world will know by the plants' bloom.
In the silence, in the silence,
In this beautiful Garden called Life!
poem by Anna B. Kurzweil
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Our Marriage Is Our Garden
Our marriage is our garden.
I want our garden to be beautiful.
With lush green grass,
With fragrant and colourful flowers.
A place of solace.
A place of peace.
A place of love.
Our garden must be watered.
Not watered too much.
As that would saturate the ground.
Not watered too little.
As that would leave the plants wilted.
And our grass barren.
But regularly.
So the flowers can stand tall
It must be weeded.
It must be maintained.
It must be loved.
We will plant seeds in our garden.
For new life makes any garden more beautiful and diverse.
We can harvest the fruit trees, but our harvest is limited
If we eat all the fruit too quick,
Then we must wait until the next harvest to eat again.
If we don't pick the fruit when it is right, it will spoil.
Our harvest is for our family.
If I eat all the fruit myself, then they will starve.
If we eat too much we will get sick.
If we eat what we are supposed to, then we will be healthy.
If we do not monitor the fruit,
Then someone might eat more than their share.
If we do not stand guard in our garden,
A thief might come into the garden to steal our fruit.
The fruit for our family.
For their garden must be barren and their crops have spoiled.
Our garden will stand the test of all seasons.
As all gardens do.
Another garden will also experience the same seasons.
Just at different times.
All gardens face rain.
All gardens get sun.
It is the rain that nourishes the garden and helps it's life to grow.
But our garden must be maintained regularly.
Only artificial things require no maintenance.
The artificial has no life.
It is fake, it is plastic.
Our garden needs to be real.
So life may grow and continue to grow.
So one day our children can enjoy a garden of their own.
For them and their children.
May their garden be overflowing with life and love.
And be the most beautiful garden in the world.
poem by Ryan Lee Morris
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Christmas For Cowboys
Tall in the saddle, we spend christmas day, driving the cattle on the snow
Covered-plains.
All of the good gifts given today, ours is the sky and the wide open range.
Back in the city they have different ways, football and eggnog and christmas
Parades.
Ill take the blanket, Ill take the reins, christmas for cowboys and wide-open
Plains.
A campfire for warmth as we stop for the night, the stars overhead are
Christmas tree lights.
The wind sings a hymn as we bow down to pray, christmas for cowboys and
Wide-open plains.
Tall in the saddle we spend christmas day, driving the cattle on the
Snow-covered plains.
So many gifts have been opened today, ours is the sky and the wide open range.
Its christmas for cowboys and wide open plains.
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Child's Garden
R. L. Stevenson
Now there is nothing wrong with me
Except -- I think it's called T.B.
And that is why I have to lay
Out in the garden all the day.
Our garden is not very wide
And cars go by on either side,
And make an angry-hooty noise
That rather startles little boys.
But worst of all is when they take
Me out in cars that growl and shake,
With charabancs so dreadful-near
I have to shut my eyes for fear.
But when I'm on my back again,
I watch the Croydon aeroplane
That flies across to France, and sings
Like hitting thick piano-strings.
When I am strong enough to do
The things I'm truly wishful to,
I'll never use a car or train
But always have an aeroplane;
And just go zooming round and round,
And frighten Nursey with the sound,
And see the angel-side of clouds,
And spit on all those motor-crowds!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Au Jardin
O you away high there,
you that lean
From amber lattices upon the cobalt night,
I am below amid the pine trees,
Amid the little pine trees, hear me!
'The jester walked in the garden.'
Did he so?
Well, there's no use your loving me
That way, Lady;
For I've nothing but songs to give you.
I am set wide upon the world's ways
To say that life is, some way, a gay thing,
But you never string two days upon one wire
But there'll come sorrow of it.
And I loved a love once,
Over beyond the moon there,
I loved a love once,
And, may be, more times,
But she danced like a pink moth in the shrubbery.
Oh, I know you women from the 'other folk',
And it'll all come right,
O' Sundays.
'The jester walked in the garden.'
Did he so?
poem by Ezra Pound
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In The Wide Brown Country
To the wide brown country the Seasons come and go
South in South Australia where the Murray flow
Through the wide brown country where the brown dust fly
When the gales are rushing down the southern sky.
In the wide brown country woods not there to see
Where the mighty Murray crawls on towards the sea
Through the bone dry paddocks that are never green
Mother Nature in this landscape in her brown only seen.
Where the black tribes fished and hunted centuries ago
Little of their culture others seem to know
Through the wide brown country they travelled far and wide
And theirs was a great culture but their culture with them died.
In the wide brown country wildering flowers are rare
And the sun parched paddocks always looking bare
And where only the hardiest can hope to survive
Emu, wombat and wallaby and grey roo seem to thrive.
In the wide brown country where the Murray flow
Onwards towards the ocean onwards ever slow
And the grass is growing brown even where the rains have been
In that brown old country that man has failed to green.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Green Energy
I was born only yesterday and i know nothing!
For my life is like a shadow to you;
But, deep down in my heart, i do love you.
I am like a watered plant in the garden of love,
And with the sunshine watching over me always;
But, i will spread around my branches of love over you.
I love my country and you love your country,
I love my stew and your love your stew,
I love my home and you love your home,
So search for me with your love and i will be there! !
And, come with your Green Energy to touch my muse.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Eighteenth-Nineteenth Century Verse
France is the country of poems and prose
the lovely French language tells us so.
Romantic love in classical verse
dates back to Voltaire from days long ago.
The 18th century brought poets from Paris
writing about France and the Seine,
and so many other Parisian wonders
that lie in that fertile plain.
Yes France was a country of talent
In England, Wordsworth stole the scene
whilst Coleridge, another fine English poet
wrote lyrical verse about Pastures Green.
poem by Joyce Hemsley
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Hunger For
Wherever she lived,
Whatever she did,
Her spirit's on right flight.
For citizens, for country,
Sweat and blood are ready
For democracy to bright.
Never part the public,
Never neglect the promise,
Like a river to get the peace
Like a razor to cut the greed
Like a mother indeed.
No strike and curtly gash.
No noise of pushy crash.
Instead..., guys giggle,
Song-birds whistle
In wriggle-fancy,
We all feel ecstasy.
Enchanting mountains! Charming streams!
In hopeful dreams,
Stars are blinking!
Flowers are blooming!
Hey, men! for tender future not to false
Welcome a fighter peacock.
poem by Aung Si Myanmar
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Canada First
To home and Country shouts we raise I
For Home and Land to Heaven we cry !
In Home and Country let us live
For Home and Land we stand to die !
This Land us bred : these Hills are ours :
These Mighty Floods that seaward roll
We know no masters but ourselves
We know no bounds this side the pole !
God gave to us these Reaching Woods :
The Spreading Lakes we sail upon ;
We hold them for our children's right
And who is he intrudes thereon?
And we shall till the Rolling Plains
That reach into the setting sun ;
'Tis our Dominion to extend
To coasts that lave the Great Ocean.
To Home and Country shouts we raise !
For Home and Land to Heaven we cry !
In Home and Country let us live
For Home and Land we stand to die !
poem by Robert Kirkland Kernighan
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The Garden
I saw the spot where our first parents dwelt;
And yet it wore to me no face of change,
For while amid its fields and groves I felt
As if I had not sinned, nor thought it strange;
My eye seemed but a part of every sight,
My ear heard music in each sound that rose,
Each sense forever found a new delight,
Such as the spirit's vision only knows;
Each act some new and ever-varying joy
Did by my Father's love for me prepare;
To dress the spot my ever fresh employ,
And in the glorious whole with Him to share;
No more without the flaming gate to stray,
No more for sin's dark stain the debt of death to pay.
poem by Jones Very
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~Green~
The Ivy grows
It climbs the wall
As if reaching
For sunbeams
Of gentle Ole' Sol
Nuture O' nature
Garden Green
Chlorophil
Watered and
Fertilized
Exquisitly alive
Still
Hibiscus garden
Near the water
Fall
Dancing moisture
Dropps
Rainbow colour
Neath' Ole' Sol
Magnifience 'tis
Reigning O'er
Garden's Divine
Special touch
Divinity
God's very own
Design
poem by Theodora Onken
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Far West Emigrant .
I.
Mine eye is weary of the plains
Of verdure vast and wide
That stretch around me—lovely, calm,
From morn till even-tide;
And I recall with aching heart
My childhood’s village home;
Its cottage roofs and garden plots,
Its brooks of silver foam.
II.
True glowing verdure smiles around,
And this rich virgin soil
Gives stores of wealth in quick return
For hours of careless toil;
But oh! the reaper’s joyous song
Ne’er mounts to Heaven’s dome,
For unknown is the mirth and joy
Of the merry “Harvest Home.”
III.
The solemn trackless woods are fair,
And bright their summer dress;
But their still hush—their whisprings vague,
My heart seem to oppress;
And ’neath their shadow could I sit,
And think the livelong day
On my country’s fields and hedges green,
Gemmed with sweet hawthorn spray.
IV.
The graceful vines and strange bright flow’rs,
I meet in every spot,
I’d give up for a daisy meek,
A blue forget-me-not;
And from the brilliant birds I turn,
Warbling the trees among;
I know them not—and breathe a sigh
For lark or linnet’s song.
V.
But useless now those vain regrets!
My course must finish here;
In dreams alone I now can see
Again my home so dear,
Or those fond loving friends who clung
Weeping unto my breast;
And bade “God speed me” when I left,
To seek the far, far West.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Whose Country?
This is the Earth we all brlong to,
In the beginning were Adam and Eve created;
My Earth,
Your Earth,
Our Earth,
Their Earth,
This is the Earth that we all belong to.
My country,
Your country,
Our country,
Their country,
Whose country is the best?
Adam and Eve were placed in the Garden of Eden.
We are in tne same garden today,
This garden is now called Earth;
So did they increased and multiplied.
Whose country is this?
Spreading all over the Earth we came.
From Eden to what we have today,
Whose world?
This is the Earth that we all belong to.
My world,
Your world,
Our world,
Their world,
We are the same people from the same source;
We came from Adam and Eve.
From generations unto generations,
The same people into different colours today;
This is the Earth that we all belong to.
Of many colours taday to enhance the beauty os Earth,
The same homan race from the beginning;
Whose people are they?
My people,
Your people,
Their people,
From one language to many languages today;
So, why worry about the colour of one's skin?
Without Adam and Eve,
Could we have been here today?
Why then create the boundaries?
We are the same people.
This is the Earth that we all belong to,
Why can't we see the truth and live?
This is my home,
This is your home,
This is our home,
This is their home,
The very Earth that we all live in.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Amid The Roses
There was laughter 'mid the Roses,
For it was their natal day;
And the children in the garden were
As light of heart as they.
There were sighs amid the Roses,
For the night was coming on;
And the children-weary now of play-
Were ready to be gone.
There are tears amid the Roses,
For the children are asleep;
And the silence of the garden makes
The lonely blossoms weep.
poem by John Bannister Tabb
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Humble as a bird
I entered the garden
Like a humble bird
Looking for a song-
A song to sing
And there amid the petals
I heard an angels tread
A bee on the mantle-
Heaven fed
And there I saw the nodding cloud
Dispensing in the ray
A rainbow proud-
As any marching day
So sang my heart this poem
That entered in this joy
A garden for tomorrow,
A poem for today
poem by Mark Heathcote
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The Red House
On the wide fields the water gleams like snow,
And snow like water pale beneath pale sky,
When old and burdened the white clouds are stooped low.
Sudden as thought, or startled near bird's cry,
The whiteness of first light on hills of snow
New dropped from skiey hills of tumbling white
Streams from the ridge to where the long woods lie;
And tall ridge-trees lift their soft crowns of white
Above slim bodies all black or flecked with snow.
By the tossed foam of the not yet frozen brook
Black pigs go straggling over fields of snow;
The air is full of snow, and starling and rook
Are blacker amid the myriad streams of light.
Warm as old fire the Red House burns yet bright
Beneath the unmelting snows of pine and larch,
While February moves as slow, as slow
As Spring might never come, never come March.
Amid such snows, by generations haunted,
By echoes, memories and dreams enchanted,
Firm when dark winds through the night stamp and shout,
Brightest when time silvers the world all about,
That old house called _The Heart_ burns, burns, and still
Outbraves the mortal threat of the hanging hill.
poem by John Freeman
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