Nothing is so beautiful as spring - when weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring the ear, it strikes like lightning to hear him sing.
quote by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Spring
Nothing is so beautiful as spring --
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;
The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush
The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush
With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.
What is all this juice and all this joy?
A strain of the earth's sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden. -- Have, get, before it cloy,
Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,
Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,
Most, O maid's child, thy choice and worthy the winning.
poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins
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Hope
O thrush, is it true?
Your song tells
Of a world born anew,
Of fields gold with buttercups, woodlands all blue
With hyacinth bells;
Of primroses deep
In the moss of the lane,
Of a Princess asleep
And dear magic to do.
Will the sun wake the princess? O thrush, is it true?
Will Spring come again?
Will Spring come again?
Now at last
With soft shine and rain
Will the violet be sweet where the dead leaves have lain?
Will Winter be past?
In the brown of the copse
Will white wind-flowers star through
Where the last oak-leaf drops?
Will the daisies come too,
And the may and the lilac? Will Spring come again?
O thrush, is it true?
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Why The Spring Is Late
To Miss Eva Russell.
The spring time is deaf to our pleading,
The meadows are brown as can be.
The hilltops are bleak and unlovely,
No thrush sits and sings on the tree.
I hear many practical people
Explain why the spring loiters so,
But, dear one, they all are mistaken:
The true reason I alone know.
The South-wind, Spring's hand-maiden, told me
Her mistress declared, o'er and o'er,
That, till you were here to give greeting,
She'd visit our prairies no more.
And all her vast household stand by her!
The thrush says he cannot come here
And sing the old songs that you loved so,
Unless you are lingering near.
The wild pinks that rival your blushes,
The violets blue as the sky,
Declare it no pleasure to blossom
Unseen by your beautiful eye.
Oh darling! I'm loath to upbraid you,
So come without further delay.
Each moment you linger, remember
You are keeping the spring time away.
Then come! we are waiting to welcome
The birds and the flowers, 'tis true;
But warmer than all is the welcome,
Fair girl, that is waiting for you.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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On Hearing A Grey Shrike Thrush Singing In The Rain
The grey thrush sing on branch of mountain gray
At twilight of a most Unspring like day
On October evening made damp by drizzling rain
And grey bird sing his same song o'er again.
And freshening wind has breath of winter sting
Seems more like Winter now than middle Spring
And wind driven rain fall from the darkening sky
And still the grey thrush pipes his notes of joy.
I wonder why he sing so merrily
On low down branch of noble gray gum tree
Could it be that he can tell from inner eye
That tomorrow's weather will be warm and dry?
Or could he sing that in some nearby tree
His wife on nest shelter new family?
And he tell his neighbours this my territory
And I'm now a dad 'oh lucky happy me'.
And why he sing should it matter anyway
His song at close of wet October day?
The weather dreary for the time of year
But grey thrush's notes sweet music to my ears.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Come In
As I came to the edge of the woods,
Thrush music -- hark!
Now if it was dusk outside,
Inside it was dark.
Too dark in the woods for a bird
By sleight of wing
To better its perch for the night,
Though it still could sing.
The last of the light of the sun
That had died in the west
Still lived for one song more
In a thrush's breast.
Far in the pillared dark
Thrush music went --
Almost like a call to come in
To the dark and lament.
But no, I was out for stars;
I would not come in.
I meant not even if asked;
And I hadn't been.
poem by Robert Frost
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Far Out In The Wilderness (Terzanelle)
Far out in the wilderness
I have come upon a thrush
far from its nest, singing in happiness
where knee high grass brush,
where grass is bristling
I have come upon a thrush
While some weeds do sting
where it with joy does sing
where grass is bristling
in a sound that is sweet and clearly does ring
with a blessing that is serene and profound
where it with joy does sing
in the most beautiful sound
as if it's praising the creator
with a blessing that is serene and profound
I heard the little great orator
far out in the wilderness
as if it's praising the creator
far from its nest, singing in happiness.
poem by Gert Strydom
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On Hearing A Grey Shrike Thrush
The grey shrike thrush on branch of mountain gray
At twilight of a most Unspring like day
On October eve made damp by drizzling rain
And grey bird sing his same song o'er again
And freshening wind has breath of winter sting
Seems more like Winter now than middle Spring
And wind driven rain fall from the darkening sky
And still the gray thrush pipes his notes of joy.
I wonder why he sing so merrily
On low down branch of noble gray gum tree
Could it be that he can tell from inner eye
That tomorrow's weather will be warm and dry? .
Or could he sing that in some nearby tree
His wife on nest shelter new family
And he tell his neighbours this my territory
And I'm now a dad 'oh lucky happy me'? .
And why he sing should it matter anyway
His song at close of wet October day
The weather dreary for the time of year
But grey thrush's notes sweet music to the ear.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I Wish I Could Sing Of The Beauty I See
I wish I could sing of the beauty I see
The beauty of Nature that's all around me
In the warmth of November of the Southern Spring
The blackbird and magpie and shrike thrush do sing.
Of singing Nature's praises the poets never tire
And her beauty the Nature artist does inspire
To paint and frame a beautiful picture to hang on a gallery wall
When it comes to beauty Nature the most beautiful of all.
The buzzing of flying insects the flies and the bees
The soughing of the wind in the bushes and trees
The babble of the river and birdsong I hear
The voices of Nature are everywhere near.
The roar of the ocean when the tide is in
As the huge waves crash on the beach they do make a loud din
The howling of the storm, thunder cracks in the sky
When Nature feels angry to scream she's not shy.
Yet the beauty of Nature is lovely to behold
What is more beautiful than the parrots in their blue, red, green and gold
And the flowers of the parkland that bloom naturally
I wish I could write of the beauty I see.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Song Of Exile
My homeland has many palm-trees
and the thrush-song fills its air;
no bird here can sing as well
as the birds sing over there.
We have fields more full of flowers
and a starrier sky above,
we have woods more full of life
and a life more full of love.
Lonely night-time meditations
please me more when I am there;
my homeland has many palm-trees
and the thrush-song fills its air.
Such delights as my land offers
Are not found here nor elsewhere;
lonely night-time meditations
please me more when I am there;
My homeland has many palm-trees
and the thrush-song fills its air.
Don't allow me, God, to die
without getting back to where
I belong, without enjoying
the delights found only there,
without seeing all those palm-trees,
hearing thrush-songs fill the air.
poem by Antônio Gonçalves Dias
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For To See One More Spring
How marvellous to live for to see one more Spring
To feel the sun's warmth and to hear the birds sing
The sweet scents of Nature of pollen and hay
That wafts in the breeze of a beautiful day.
In search of water surface insects young ducklings are out
With their mums in the Townpark lake quietly swimming about
And the pipe of the shrike thrush is so pleasant to hear
In Nature Spring is such a nice time of year.
Were I a poet of such beauty I would write
A poem others would happily read and recite
Of Spring in her glory when flowers are in bloom
And the gardens are scenting of Nature's perfume.
Into the last month of Spring and young birds learning how to fly
And butterflies dancing in the sunny sky
I hear the familiar voice of the pee wee
And wild birds are whistling on bush and on tree.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Thor
I'm flying high through the clouds
On top of my wheels of steel
You're trying to hide away from me
I'm wearing my belt of strength
Along with my iron-gloves
My power is strong and glorious
Why the heavens scream my name I will tell You now
Cause I am Thor (The ThunderGod)
And I decide where the lightning strikes
If You don't believe it
My hammer will show You how
When You sail through the seas
In search for glory and gold
Winds carrying You away from home
You better pray for You're life's
And sacrifice to me now
You better watch out cause I am near
Why the heavens scream my name I will tell You now
Cause I am Thor (The ThunderGod)
And I decide where the lightning strikes
If You don't believe it
My hammer will show You how
When You see clouds ahead
And rain is pouring down
There is no time for You to pray
I'm raising my hammer high
To swing it with all my might
My power is strong and glorious
Why the heavens scream my name I will tell You now
Cause I am Thor (The ThunderGod)
And I decide where the lightning strikes
If You don't believe it
My hammer will show You how
song performed by by Zonata
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Hen and the Wren
The lovely, laying hen said to the itsy-bitsy wren.
'Good morning. It's nice to see you now and then.'
The itsy-bitsy wren said, 'Thank you Mrs. Hen.
I haven't seen you for awhile and don't remember when.'
The laying hen said to the itsy-bitsy wren, 'If you recall,
The last time we were together was a bit before last fall.'
The wren smiled and said, 'Oh yes I should have guessed.
It's spring again so I'm back to build another nest.'
The hen said, 'Soon we both will be sitting on our eggs.
Not long after that there'll be babies ‘neath our legs.'
The itsy-bitsy wren said, 'I wish my eggs weren't so small.
Your eggs are so large that your babies will be tall.'
Well the lovely laying hen said, 'Your eggs are just right.
And that song you sing brings everyone delight.'
From spring to fall wherever hens and wrens reside,
There'll be nests, eggs and babies chirping far and wide.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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Wild Geese
(A Lament for the Irish Jacobites.)
I have heard the curlew crying
On a lonely moor and mere;
And the sea-gull's shriek in the gloaming
Is a lonely sound in the ear:
And I've heard the brown thrush mourning
For her children stolen away;--
But it's O for the homeless Wild Geese
That sailed ere the dawn of day!
For the curlew out on the moorland
Hath five fine eggs in the nest;
And the thrush will get her a new love
And sing her song with the best.
As the swallow flies to the Summer
Will the gull return to the sea:
But never the wings of the Wild Geese
Will flash over seas to me.
And 'tis ill to be roaming, roaming
With homesick heart in the breast!
And how long I've looked for your coming,
And my heart is the empty nest!
O sore in the land of the stranger
They'll pine for the land far away!
But day of Aughrim, my sorrow,
It was you was the bitter day!
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Lightning Strikes
Wont you listen cos Im at it again
Lightning striking and on that you can depend
They say that lightning never strikes the same place twice
Gods of thunder sit and watch the event
You know I take no prisoners
My backs to the wall
You know I must be going
When destiny calls
Until I feel that thunder shattering my brain
I wont stop
Rockin all night rockin all night
Until the lightning strikes again
Rockin all night rockin all night
Until the lightning strikes again
Tell your mama that youre gonna be late
But not to worry well just be rockin all night
The lightning strikes before you hear the thunder roar
Were becoming the children of the night
Im not apologizing
I am what I am
There is no compromising
I dont give a damn
Until I feel the thunder boiling in my veins
I wont stop
Rockin all night rockin all night
Until the lightning strikes again
Rockin all night rockin all night
Until the lightning strikes again
Oh no Ive lost control
Here we got its only rock n roll
The silver light is flashing
As all turns to gold
In my head voices screaming
And Im being told
If you will only listen you will hear them too
I wont stop
Rockin all night rockin all night
Until the lightning strikes again
Rockin all night rockin all night
Until the lightning strikes again
song performed by by Ozzy Osbourne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sweetly Sings the Thrush
Sweetly sings the thrush
among the meadows fair.
All whose senses hear her
wish to wander there.
To be in tune with her fair voice
brings joy into your heart.
She sings of love for what she sees
of which you are a part.
Sweetly sings the thrush
before the night has come.
All the creatures of the day
are saddened when she's done.
To hear the silence of the night
you must wait for another ‘morrow.
For her song that permeates the air
to take away your sorrow.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Echoing Green
The Sun does arise,
And make happy the skies;
The merry bells ring
To welcome the Spring;
The skylark and thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around
To the bells’ cheerful sound,
While our sports shall be seen
On the Echoing Green.
Old John, with white hair,
Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk.
They laugh at our play,
And soon they all say:
‘Such, such were the joys
When we all, girls & boys,
In our youth time were seen
On the echoing green.’
Till the little ones, weary,
No more can be merry;
The sun does descend,
And our sports have an end.
Round the laps of their mothers
Many sisters and brothers,
Like birds in their nest,
Are ready for rest,
And sport no more seen
On the darkening Green.
poem by William Blake from Songs of Innocence (1789)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Chain Lightning
Sometimes when I'm thinkin that love's not around
My heart begins sinkin, I don't hear a sound
And the world is in blackness, no light shines on me
I suffer no blindness, no one can I see
Then a flash from the heavens, like loud jagged wire
And the silence is broken, and the night is on fire.
(Chorus)
It's like chain lightning, this love that I feel
Who knows where it strikes
Or when it will hit
How long it will last, or when it will quit
In the forest I'm burnin, struck down by the blast
The fever is churnin, and the heat rises fast
And those standing nearest can show their concern
But swear if they touch me, that they too will burn
They fear for their lives, for death will soon dwell
In the warmth of your love is the fire of hell.
(Chorus)
It's like chain lightning, this love that I feel
Who knows where it strikes
Or when it will hit
How long it will last, or when it will quit
And soon the sparks scatter and the wind whips the flame
And love will soon shatter what it cannot tame
And the cycle continues from life into dust
For I am now in you, with the fire of lust
I hear the explosion, and the thunder and rain
The water is falling, and the ashes remain.
(Chorus)
It's like chain lightning, this love that I feel
Who knows where it strikes
Or when it will hit
How long it will last, or when it will quit
The Indians tell us that the phoenix can rise
From teh smoldering ashes that once were my eyes
And watch beautiful colors from black and from grey
Be formed into wings and then take me away
Where evil is darkness and goodness is light
And love is the lightning that cust through the night
And strikes only once in a dark place in time
And forms a fold stairway that all of us climb.
Submitted by C. Cox
song performed by by Don McLean
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Spring (in answer to Gerard Manley Hopkins)
Spring has an own beauty
where grasses and weeds appear with brush
and stem, growing in full lush
and the sky, the air has serenity
and insects, birds and animals are full of activity,
the wind quivers in every bush, bulrush and rush
in the veldt and at the marsh and even the little thrush
sings to its heart’s content with a magic quality
the whole of nature rejoices its joy
as if everything has a new beginning
without any threat or ploy
almost like Eden before the sinning
innocent as the heart of every small girl and boy
where the light of God is brightly shining.
[Reference: Spring by Gerard Manley Hopkins. Note that the rhyme scheme of some Petrach or Italian sonnets was abba/abba/cd/cd/cd and not just abba/abba/cde/cde. Although Hopkins’s verse is viewed as a modern sonnet it meets all the requirements
of a Italian / patrach sonnet.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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In The Prime Of September
The paddocks looking yellow where the capeweed does bloom
And bright golden flowers on the gorse and the broom
And the flute of the shrike thrush is pleasant to hear
In the prime of September in the Spring of the year
At this time of year the musical magpies they sing day and night
How pleasant to hear them piping in the moonlight
And blackbird by his voice you cannot get wrong
He welcomes the dawn of the day with a song
Frisky lambs in the paddocks are frolicking about
When the Goddess of Spring is in the Land of the south
The laughter of the kookaburra the call of the weerloo
The big dark brown bird better known as yellow tail black cockatoo
Fruit bearing trees in blossom and nesting birds sing
In the prime of September in the southern Spring.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Matin-song of Friar Tuck
I.
If souls could sing to heaven's high King
As blackbirds pipe on earth,
How those delicious courts would ring
With gusts of lovely mirth!
What white-robed throng could lift a song
So mellow with righteous glee
As this brown bird that all day long
Delights my hawthorn tree.
Hark! That's the thrush
With speckled breast
From yon white bush
Chaunting his best,
Te Deum! Te Deum laudamus!
II.
If earthly dreams be touched with gleams
Of Paradisal air,
Some wings, perchance, of earth may glance
Around our slumbers there;
Some breaths of may might drift our way
With scents of leaf and loam,
Some whistling bird at dawn be heard
From those old woods of home.
Hark! That's the thrush
With speckled breast
From yon white bush
Chaunting his best,
Te Deum! Te Deum laudamus!
III.
No King or priest shall mar my feast
Where'er my soul may range.
I have no fear of heaven's good cheer
Unless our Master change.
But when death's night is dying away,
If I might choose my bliss,
My love should say, at break of day,
With her first waking kiss:--
Hark! That's the thrush
With speckled breast,
From yon white bush
Chaunting his best,
Te Deum! Te Deum laudamus!
poem by Alfred Noyes
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