Recollection
Awawe-worn boulder, with green sea-moss wrapping
A silken mantle o'er its jagged sides;
And silvery, seething waters softly lapping
Through gulfs and channels hollow'd by the tides:
A lime-cliff overhead, o'erhanging grimly,
A dash of sunlight on its breast of snow;
The white line of the breakers, stretching dimly
Along the narrow sea-beach down below:
The grey waste of the waters, with one slender,
Glimmering, golden ripple far away;
The haze of summer twilight, sweet and tender,
Veiling the fair face of the dying day:
The measured plash of surf upon the shingle,
The ceaseless gurgle through the rocks and stones;
No sound of struggling human life, to mingle
With those mysterious and eternal tones!
No sound—no sound,—a hungry sea-mew only
Breaking the stillness with her little cry;
And the low whisper, when 'tis all so lonely,
Of soft south breezes as they wander by:—
I see it all; sweet dreams of it are thronging
In full floods back upon my weary brain;
To-night, in my dark chamber, the old longing
Almost fulfils its very self again.
The dying sunbeams, on the far waves glinting,
Come like warm kisses to my lips and brow,
Soothing my spirit—all its grey thoughts tinting
With tender shades of golden colour now.
Alone and still, I sit, and think, and listen,
Looking out westward o'er the darkening sea;
My seat the boulder, where the spray-drops glisten;
The tall, white cliffs my regal canopy.
And, as I sit, the fretting cares and sorrows,
Weighing so heavy when the work is done,
The gloomy yesterdays and dim to-morrows,
They slip away and vanish one by one,—
Slip backward to the world that lies behind me,
Ever by sinful footsteps overtrod;
And in this unstain'd world leave nought to bind me,
This sweet world, fillèd with the peace of God!
poem by Ada Cambridge
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An Autumn Evening At Murray Bay
Darkly falls the autumn twilight, rustles by the crisp leaf sere,
Sadly wail the lonely night-winds, sweeping sea-ward, chill and drear,
Sullen dash the restless waters ’gainst a bleak and rock-bound shore,
While the sea-birds’ weird voices mingle with their surging roar.
Vainly seeks the eye a flow’ret ’mid the desolation drear,
Or a spray of pleasant verdure which the gloomy scene might cheer;
Nought but frowning crags and boulders, and long sea-weeds, ghastly, dank,
With the mosses and pale lichens, to the wet rocks clinging rank.
See, the fog clouds thickly rolling o’er the landscape far and wide,
Till the tall cliffs look like phantoms, seeking ’mid their shrouds to hide;
On they come, the misty masses of the wreathing vapour white,
Filling hill and mead and valley, blotting earth and heaven from sight.
Silent, mournful, am I standing, gazing from the window pane,
Dimmed and blurred with heavy plashes of the fast descending rain,
While thoughts chiming with the hour my weary brain are passing through,
Till the shadows of the evening on my brow are mirrored too.
Rise, although uncalled, within me, memories of the distant past,
Of the dreams, the hopes, the fancies, that round life sweet sunshine cast;
Whilst the moan of winds and waters, with a strange, mysterious art,
Seem to awaken drear forebodings in the listening gazer’s heart.
Ah! it needs yon pleasant tapers with enlivening, home-like ray,
And the sound of voices sharing, each in turn, in converse gay,
And the flash of fire-light, making happy faces still more glad,
To dispel the mournful thoughts that make the evening hour so sad.
Turning from this lonely musing, wilful nursing of dark care,
I will join the joyous circle of the dear ones gathered there,
Who with smiles will greet my advent, and in that delightful room
Shake aside the dreary shadows of this scene of autumn gloom.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Sweet Old World
(lucinda williams)
See what you lost when you left this world, this sweet old world
See what you lost when you left this world, this sweet old world
The breath from your own lips, the touch of fingertips
A sweet and tender kiss
The sound of a midnight train, wearing someones ring
Someone calling your name
Somebody so warm cradled in your arm
Didnt you think you were worth anything
See what you lost when you left this world, this sweet old world
See what you lost when you left this world, this sweet old world
Millions of us in love, promises made good
Your own flesh and blood
Looking for some truth, dancing with no shoes
The beat, the rhythm, the blues
The pounding of your hearts drum together with another one
Didnt you think anyone loved you
See what you lost when you left this world, this sweet old world
See what you lost when you left this world, this sweet old world
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Shell-Music
YOU with the shell to your ear,
What do you hear,
Slim and so white
In the moonlight?
'Oh, I hear surging and shouting and singing,
The sea-folk at market — their little bells ringing,
The tall weeds about them, the green world above!
Oh, blithe are the pedlars of ribbons and laces,
Yet blither and sweeter upon the wide spaces
The footfalls of Love!'
You with the shell to your ear,
What do you hear,
Waves at your feet,
White and so sweet?
'Oh, I hear cooing and kissing and cooing,
The sound of sea-folk in their coral groves wooing,
The red branches round them, the green world above!
Oh, sweet are the songs of the witching sea-daughters,
But sweeter, far sweeter, upon the wide waters,
The footfalls of Love!'
You with the shell to your ear,
What do you hear,
Large eyes aglow,
Forehead of snow?
'Oh, I hear shouting and sobbing and sighing,
The sounds of the sea-folk in battle-rage vieing,
The torn weeds about them, the green world above!
The merman may shout as he stumbles and slaughters,
But, ever and ever, I hear on the waters
The footfalls of Love!'
You with the shell to your ear,
What do you hear,
As you stand there,
Pale and so fair?
'Oh, as frost on the seaways the foam-spaces glisten;
My heart is the shell, to its echoes I listen;
Red petals, rose petals around and above!
Oh sweeter, far sweeter, than little bells ringing
Or market-men shouting, or mermaidens singing,
The footfalls of Love!'
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Alma Mater
A haunted town thou art to me.
-- Andrew Lang
To-day in Florence all the air
Is soft with spring, with sunlight fair;
In the tall street gay folks are met;
Duomo and Tower gleam overhead,
Like jewels in the city set,
Fair-hued and many-faceted.
Against the old grey stones are piled
February violets, pale and sweet,
Whose scent of earth in woodland wild
Is wafted up and down the street.
The city's heart is glad ; my own
Sits lightly on its bosom's throne.
* * * * * * *
Why is it that I see to-day,
Imaged as clear as in a dream,
A little city far away,
A churlish sky, a sluggish stream,
Tall clust'ring trees and gardens fair,
Dark birds that circle in the air,
Grey towers and fanes ; on either hand,
Stretches of wind-swept meadow-land?
* * * * * * *
Oh, who can sound the human breast?
And this strange truth must be confessed;
That city do I love the best
Wherein my heart was heaviest!
The Dawn
All the wild waves rock'd in shadow,
And the world was dim and grey,
Dark and silent, hush'd and breathless,
Waiting calmly for the day.
And the golden light came stealing
O'er the mountain-tops at last—
Flooding vale and wood and upland,—
It was morning—night was past.
There they lay—the silvery waters,
Fruitful forests, glade and lawn,—
All in beauty, new-created
By the angel of the dawn.
* * * * *
So my spirit slept in twilight;—
All was quiet, grey, and still,
Till the dawn of Love came stealing,
Over Hope's snow-crested hill.
Then the dim world woke in glory,
And the iris-dyes grew bright
On the waves and woods and valleys,
In a morning flood of light.
Ah! the vineyards and the gardens!—
Ah! the treasures, rich and rare,
Full of endless life and beauty,
Which that dawn created there!
poem by Ada Cambridge
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Autumn
So still—so still! Only the endless sighing
Of sad Æolian harp-notes overhead;
Only the soft mass-music for the dying;
Only the requiem for the newly dead!
So strangely dim!—the grey mist on the heather,
The chill cloud-twilight in the wind-stripped bowers,
Where gold and scarlet sunlights lay together
On harvest fruit and summer wealth of flowers.
So empty now!—only the dead leaves sifting
The dead brown berries underneath the trees;
Only my fair dead treasures idly drifting
About my footsteps in the autumn breeze.
All over now! No flowers that must be tended
Are left to grow upon the open plain;
No fruits to ripen; for the harvest's ended—
There's no more need for either sun or rain.
The infinite hope, the boundless, strong endeavour,
The love and joy I never thought to sum,
The precious things that were to last for ever—
All gather'd now, and nothing more to come!
Only the shroud of snow, the white star-tapers,
The passionate storm-winds, wailing in the air;
Only the icy rain and tearful vapours,
Only the winter darkness of despair!
* * * * *
So still, so sweet! with tender breezes blowing
Amongst the hills and o'er the Lowland sod,
And golden drifts of dead leaves softly strowing
The seed-graves hollow'd by the hands of God.
So grey and calm! the crimson glory faded
From this low sky, pale blue and purple-barred—
This placid sea, with steel and silver shaded—
This fair earth, now with autumn furrows scarred.
In the decay such chasten'd beauty blending—
Beauty late-born of peace, and hope, and rest,
As in a saintly life when near the ending,
When all its strife and labour has been blest.
The harvest-time is past. But there remaineth
The well-stored treasure-house—the hidden seed
That dead leaves help to nourish, which containeth
The germ of a new life that's life indeed.
poem by Ada Cambridge
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Did Music Sound
Stillness around
Gently
From somewhere
Notes of sweet music sound.
Sound
From surroundings
Or within
Can't pronounce
That huge peak
With white mantle
Or that mantle
With halo of clouds
Or the chill of moon's light
Or the stillness around
Around or stillness within
Music did sound.
poem by Sanjay Mehta
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To Jane: The Recollection
I.
Now the last day of many days,
All beautiful and bright as thou,
The loveliest and the last, is dead,
Rise, Memory, and write its praise!
Up,--to thy wonted work! come, trace
The epitaph of glory fled,--
For now the Earth has changed its face,
A frown is on the Heaven’s brow.
II.
We wandered to the Pine Forest
That skirts the Ocean’s foam,
The lightest wind was in its nest,
The tempest in its home.
The whispering waves were half asleep,
The clouds were gone to play,
And on the bosom of the deep
The smile of Heaven lay;
It seemed as if the hour were one
Sent from beyond the skies,
Which scattered from above the sun
A light of Paradise.
III.
We paused amid the pines that stood
The giants of the waste,
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude
As serpents interlaced;
And, soothed by every azure breath,
That under Heaven is blown,
To harmonies and hues beneath,
As tender as its own,
Now all the tree-tops lay asleep,
Like green waves on the sea,
As still as in the silent deep
The ocean woods may be.
IV.
How calm it was!—the silence there
By such a chain was bound
That even the busy woodpecker
Made stiller by her sound
The inviolable quietness;
The breath of peace we drew
With its soft motion made not less
The calm that round us grew.
There seemed from the remotest seat
Of the white mountain waste,
To the soft flower beneath our feet,
A magic circle traced,--
A spirit interfused around
A thrilling, silent life,--
To momentary peace it bound
Our mortal nature’s strife;
And still I felt the centre of
The magic circle there
Was one fair form that filled with love
The lifeless atmosphere.
V.
We paused beside the pools that lie
Under the forest bough,--
Each seemed as ’twere a little sky
Gulfed in a world below;
A firmament of purple light
Which in the dark earth lay,
More boundless than the depth of night,
And purer than the day--
In which the lovely forests grew,
As in the upper air,
More perfect both in shape and hue
Than any spreading there.
There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn,
And through the dark green wood
The white sun twinkling like the dawn
Out of a speckled cloud.
Sweet views which in our world above
Can never well be seen,
Were imaged by the water’s love
Of that fair forest green.
And all was interfused beneath
With an Elysian glow,
An atmosphere without a breath,
A softer day below.
Like one beloved the scene had lent
To the dark water’s breast,
Its every leaf and lineament
With more than truth expressed;
Until an envious wind crept by,
Like an unwelcome thought,
Which from the mind’s too faithful eye
Blots one dear image out.
Though thou art ever fair and kind,
The forests ever green,
Less oft is peace in Shelley’s mind,
Than calm in waters, seen.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Written at Tivoli Falls
Sweet Tivoli! upon thy grassy side,
Whene'er I linger through the summer day,
And the soft music of thy silvery tide
So sweetly wiles the lagging hours away,
I cannot deem but thou are e'en as fair
As that Italian vale whose name thy waters bear.
O'er the old rocks thou boundest on thy way,
and wood, and glen, re-echo to thy song;
And then thy waters, weary of their play,
Through the long grass glide silently along,
So slow, and calm, as scarce to break the rest
Of the young flowers that sleep upon thy placid breast.
And sure no flowers are lovelier than these
That bloom so sweetly on thy grassy side,
And none more fair than the young forest trees,
That bathe their branches in thy crystal tide;
No sounds are sweeter than the winds at play
Amid these trembling pines at close of summer day.
Here by thy side I cannot feel alone;
Above my head the sheltering branches bend,
And at my feet the flowers; and thy low tone
Breathes softly in my ear, and, like a friend
Soothing my spirit, comes the perfumed air,
To kiss my fevered brow and play amid my hair.
Oh! when I turn me from the busy throng,
Chilled with their frozen words and heartless smiles,
I wander here, and thy melodious song,
And this sweet scene, my sadder mood beguiles;
And when I mingle with the crowd again,
More calm and holy thoughts flow through my burning brain.
Oft as I wander in these shadowy groves
My wayward fancy spreads her truant wing,
And through the past delightedly she roves,
From its recesses many a scene to bring
Of that far time, when, 'mid the deepening shade,
The Indian lover wooed, and won, his dusky maid.
And then she bears me on through future years,
When her frail prison will have passed away,
And she will look, with eyes undimmed by tears,
Upon the glories of a brighter day;
And still thy waves will glide as soft along;
And still thy praise be sung in many a sweeter song.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Earth Waxeth Old.
When yellow-lock'd and crystal ey'd
I dream'd green woods among;
Where tall trees wav'd from side to side,
And in their green breasts deep and wide,
I saw the building blue jay hide,
O, then the earth was young!
The winds were fresh and brave and bold,
The red sun round and strong;
No prophet voice chill, loud and cold,
Across my woodland dreamings roll'd,
'The green earth waxeth sere and old,
That once was fair and young!'
I saw in scarr'd and knotty bole,
The fresh'ning of the sap;
When timid spring gave first small dole,
Of sunbeams thro' bare boughs that stole,
I saw the bright'ning blossoms roll,
From summer's high pil'd lap.
And where an ancient oak tree lay
The forest stream across,
I mus'd above the sweet shrill spray,
I watch'd the speckl'd trout at play,
I saw the shadows dance and sway
On ripple and on moss.
I pull'd the chestnut branches low,
As o'er the stream they hung,
To see their bursting buds of snow--
I heard the sweet spring waters flow--
My heart and I we did not know
But that the earth was young!
I joy'd in solemn woods to see,
Where sudden sunbeams clung,
On open space of mossy lea,
The violet and anemone,
Wave their frail heads and beckon me--
Sure then the earth was young!
I heard the fresh wild breezes birr,
New budded boughs among,
I saw the deeper tinting stir
In the green tassels of the fir,
I heard the pheasant rise and whirr,
Above her callow young.
I saw the tall fresh ferns prest,
By scudding doe and fawn;
I say the grey dove's swelling breast,
Above the margin of her nest;
When north and south and east and west
Roll'd all the red of dawn.
At eventide at length I lay,
On grassy pillow flung;
I saw the parting bark of day,
With crimson sails and shrouds all gay,
With golden fires drift away,
The billowy clouds among.
I saw the stately planets sail
On that blue ocean wide;
I saw blown by some mystic gale,
Like silver ship in elfin tale,
That bore some damsel rare and pale,
The moon's slim crescent glide.
And ev'ry throb of spring
The rust'ling boughs among,
That filled the silver vein of brook,
That lit with bloom the mossy nook,
Cried to my boyish bosom: 'Look!
How fresh the earth and young!'
The winds were fresh, the days as clear
As crystals set in gold.
No shape, with prophet-mantle drear,
Thro' those old woods came drifting near,
To whisper in my wond'ring ear,
'The green earth waxeth old.'
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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Nocturne
Night of Mid-June, in heavy vapours dying,
Like priestly hands thy holy touch is lying
Upon the world's wide brow;
God-like and grand all nature is commanding
The "peace that passes human understanding";
I, also, feel it now.
What matters it to-night, if one life treasure
I covet, is not mine! Am I to measure
The gifts of Heaven's decree
By my desires? O! life for ever longing
For some far gift, where many gifts are thronging,
God wills, it may not be.
Am I to learn that longing, lifted higher,
Perhaps will catch the gleam of sacred fire
That shows my cross is gold?
That underneath this cross--however lowly,
A jewel rests, white, beautiful and holy,
Whose worth can not be told.
Like to a scene I watched one day in wonder:--
A city, great and powerful, lay under
A sky of grey and gold;
The sun outbreaking in his farewell hour,
Was scattering afar a yellow shower
Of light, that aureoled
With brief hot touch, so marvellous and shining,
A hundred steeples on the sky out-lining,
Like network threads of fire;
Above them all, with halo far outspreading,
I saw a golden cross in glory heading
A consecrated spire:
I only saw its gleaming form uplifting,
Against the clouds of grey to seaward drifting,
And yet I surely know
Beneath the seen, a great unseen is resting,
For while the cross that pinnacle is cresting,
An Altar lies below.
. . . . .
Night of Mid-June, so slumberous and tender,
Night of Mid-June, transcendent in thy splendour
Thy silent wings enfold
And hush my longing, as at thy desire
All colour fades from round that far-off spire,
Except its cross of gold.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Dover Beach
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits;—on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægæan, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
poem by Matthew Arnold (1867)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Golden Land
O SWEET September in the valley
Carved through the green hills, sheer and straight,
Where the tall trees crowd round and sally
Down the slope sides, with stately gait
And sylvan dance: and in the hollow
Silver voices ripple and cry
Follow, O follow!
Follow, O follow!-and we follow
Where the white cottages star the slope,
And the white smoke winds o'er the hollow,
And the blythe air is quick with hope;
Till the Sun whispers, O remember!
You have but thirty days to run,
O sweet September!
-O sweet September, where the valley
Leans out wider and sunny and full,
And the red cliffs dip their feet and dally
With the green billows, green and cool;
And the green billows archly smiling,
Kiss and cling to them, kiss and leave them,
Bright and beguiling:-
Bright and beguiling, as She who glances
Along the shore and the meadows along,
And sings for heart's delight, and dances
Crowned with apples, and ruddy, and strong:-
Can we see thee, and not remember
Thy sun-brown cheek and hair sun-golden,
O sweet September?
poem by Francis Turner Palgrave
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Slumber Song
Thou little child, with tender, clinging arms,
Drop thy sweet head, my darling, down and rest
Upon my shoulder, rest with all thy charms;
Be soothed and comforted, be loved and blessed.
Against thy silken, honey-colored hair
I lean a loving cheek, a mute caress;
Close, close I gather thee and kiss thy fair
White eyelids, sleep so softly doth oppress.
Dear little face, that lies in calm content
Within the gracious hollow that God made
In every human shoulder, where He meant
Some tired head for comfort should be laid!
Most like a heavy-folded rose thou art,
In summer air reposing, warm and still.
Dream thy sweet dreams upon my quiet heart;
I watch thy slumber; naught shall do thee ill.
poem by Celia Thaxter
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Dover Beach
The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
poem by Matthew Arnold
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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When I walk om Margate’s beach
When I walk om Margate’s beach
something is caught,
in the sound of the breaking waves
and it echoes there forever more.
The beach is wiped clear
by the rushing waters
of the high tide,
but somehow footprints
walk the beach
as if they were just set there.
In the pleasant summer
golden bodies spreads
right around me
and the waves,
are filled with children
splashing and laughing
at the joy of living.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Table Bay [2]
I can hear the waves roar,
slamming shingle on the rocks, the beach
drawing in and out
on Bloubergstrand
and the cadence is a age old shuddering
of waves breaking, continuing like before
and in the distance Table Bay
lies stretched out specked with
hundreds of little lights
like a enormous crown
with the flat mountain top
on display, etched against the night sky
and its full tide, the moon is full
yellow and magnificent
and the place of good hope,
lies on the shore
with waves breaking forever more
and lonely the beach stretches out before me,
in a long white ribbon
and the dark water goes out to the horizon,
almost as far as I can see
and the sea wind is fresh and new
and there's no light in sight
on the wavering ocean
just a darkness that envelopes me
as the waves
are throwing pebbles out
and drawing them in
before breaking on the beach
and there's nobody to be true to,
nobody to trust, only the reality of the here and now
and all hope, all promises, all joy and pain
remains the same
swept in and out of a confused world
forever breaking, forever rushing in.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Ashore, ashore with the tide’s flow
Ashore, ashore with the tide’s flow
As in a sack some thing washed in:
And lay amidst the shells
And pebbles of the shore
Amidst the lapping of the waters rude
And the sea-waves’ roar.
Ashore, ashore with the tide’s flow
The sea-waves washed her in
One eye was closed the other open
And on her golden hair
Were drops of red:
Wild lapped the sea-waves and the cloud
Frowned on the sea-shore
Amidst the lapping of the waters rude
And the sea-waves’ roar.
How many winters rude have skimmed
Their frozen fingers on the white breast
Of the pale moon-lit lake a-dreaming sound
How many a Spring of green
Has come and gone:
Since that ashore, ashore with the tide’s flow
The sea-waves washed her in
Her clothes that rich were tattered were
Unseemly with the smoke of cigars
And the drunk smell of alcohol
Her look was wild and sad and raw:
Wild lapped the sea-waves and the cloud
Frowned on the sea-shore
Amidst the lapping of the waters rude
And the sea-waves’ roar.
poem by Emmanuel George Cefai
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The House Of Dust: Part 02: 07: Two Lovers: Overtones
Two lovers, here at the corner, by the steeple,
Two lovers blow together like music blowing:
And the crowd dissolves about them like a sea.
Recurring waves of sound break vaguely about them,
They drift from wall to wall, from tree to tree.
'Well, am I late?' Upward they look and laugh,
They look at the great clock's golden hands,
They laugh and talk, not knowing what they say:
Only, their words like music seem to play;
And seeming to walk, they tread strange sarabands.
'I brought you this . . . ' the soft words float like stars
Down the smooth heaven of her memory.
She stands again by a garden wall,
The peach tree is in bloom, pink blossoms fall,
Water sings from an opened tap, the bees
Glisten and murmur among the trees.
Someone calls from the house. She does not answer.
Backward she leans her head,
And dreamily smiles at the peach-tree leaves, wherethrough
She sees an infinite May sky spread
A vault profoundly blue.
The voice from the house fades far away,
The glistening leaves more vaguely ripple and sway . .
The tap is closed, the water ceases to hiss . . .
Silence . . . blue sky . . . and then, 'I brought you this . . . '
She turns again, and smiles . . . He does not know
She smiles from long ago . . .
She turns to him and smiles . . . Sunlight above him
Roars like a vast invisible sea,
Gold is beaten before him, shrill bells of silver;
He is released of weight, his body is free,
He lifts his arms to swim,
Dark years like sinister tides coil under him . . .
The lazy sea-waves crumble along the beach
With a whirring sound like wind in bells,
He lies outstretched on the yellow wind-worn sands
Reaching his lazy hands
Among the golden grains and sea-white shells . . .
'One white rose . . . or is it pink, to-day?'
They pause and smile, not caring what they say,
If only they may talk.
The crowd flows past them like dividing waters.
Dreaming they stand, dreaming they walk.
'Pink,—to-day!'—Face turns to dream-bright face,
Green leaves rise round them, sunshine settles upon them,
Water, in drops of silver, falls from the rose.
She smiles at a face that smiles through leaves from the mirror.
She breathes the fragrance; her dark eyes close . . .
Time is dissolved, it blows like a little dust:
Time, like a flurry of rain,
Patters and passes, starring the window-pane.
Once, long ago, one night,
She saw the lightning, with long blue quiver of light,
Ripping the darkness . . . and as she turned in terror
A soft face leaned above her, leaned softly down,
Softly around her a breath of roses was blown,
She sank in waves of quiet, she seemed to float
In a sea of silence . . . and soft steps grew remote . .
'Well, let us walk in the park . . . The sun is warm,
We'll sit on a bench and talk . . .' They turn and glide,
The crowd of faces wavers and breaks and flows.
'Look how the oak-tops turn to gold in the sunlight!
Look how the tower is changed and glows!'
Two lovers move in the crowd like a link of music,
We press upon them, we hold them, and let them pass;
A chord of music strikes us and straight we tremble;
We tremble like wind-blown grass.
What was this dream we had, a dream of music,
Music that rose from the opening earth like magic
And shook its beauty upon us and died away?
The long cold streets extend once more before us.
The red sun drops, the walls grow grey.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Not A Dry Eye In The House
Not a dry eye in the house
After loves curtain comes down
Listen and youll hear the sound
Hear the sound of a heart breaking
I can still see you standing there
Midnight wind blowing through your hair
Kisses sweet in the salty air
When love was forever
Turn the page and we fade to blue
The scene has changed now Im without you
Walked away when the act was through
And the dream was over
It was almost like a movie - the way you said goodbye
You must have a lot of time rehearsing each and every line
Now theres not a dry eye in the house
After loves curtain comes down
Listen and youll hear the sound
Hear the sound of a heart breaking
Not a smile left on my face
The endings just too sad to take
And theres not a dry eye
Not a dry eye in the house
The greatest story was you and me
Had it all we had everything, but now the
Storys done its just history
The last act is over
You every line had the sweetest sound
Your every touch turned my world around
But the light came up and my world crashed down
End of show - its over
It was almost like a movie
Those nights we touched the stars
Time stood still for you and i
Now its sad enough to make you cry
Now theres not a dry eye in the house
After loves curtain comes down
Listen and youll hear the sound
Hear the sound of a heart breaking
Not a smile left on my face
The endings just too sad to take
And theres not a dry eye
Not a dry eye in the house
Act one - the storys just begun
Act two - I fell in love with you
Act three - knew it was meant to be
Act four - you dont love me no more
And theres not a dry eye in the house
After loves curtain comes down
Listen and youll hear the sound
Hear the sound of a heart breaking
Not a smile left on my face
The endings just too sad to take
And theres not a dry eye
Not a dry eye
Not a dry eye in the house
After loves curtain comes down
Listen and youll hear the sound
Hear the sound of a heart breaking
Not a dry eye in the house (3x)
song performed by by Meat Loaf
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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