O human fate
Wind blew, birds flew,
Left the nest vacant
In search of a safe place
To lay the eggs: nascent
In a deep dense forest,
Peacefully lay and rest,
Wait till new arrivals fest
Sylvan to greet innocent
Air, birds, water and cloud
They can move freely
Without visa and passport
We are caged in, we can't
Who has made the Nations
And why are we caged?
Who raised the unseen wall,
With guns that stops even saint?
Is peace a social, political,
Religious, monstrous cant?
Or we are all to follow and accept
The follies of our madness: A faint
"O human fate! Thou meanest of animals"
poem by Aftab Alam Khursheed
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Related quotes
What Goes Around . . .
In position and out of sight,
hiding until the time was right,
the cat crawled forward with such skill,
the bird could not escape the "kill." It happened almost every day.
The cat would never miss its prey.
So many kills against its name,
it loved to play that "pouncing" game. But then one day, the cat outside,
not chasing birds, no need to hide,
just lying in the grass to rest,
and dreaming of that new found nest. But suddenly, an angry cry,
the sound of many birds nearby.
Like bombers on a bombing run,
they started "swooping" one by one. The battle on, surprise attack,
the cat "pinned down," could not fight back.
The "message" on that battleground,
what goes around does come around.
poem by Art Milkes
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What the Birds Said
The birds against the April wind
Flew northward, singing as they flew;
They sang, "The land we leave behind
Has swords for corn-blades, blood for dew."
"O wild-birds, flying from the South,
What saw and heard ye, gazing down?"
"We saw the mortar's upturned mouth,
The sickened camp, the blazing town!
"Beneath the bivouac's starry lamps,
We saw your march-worn children die;
In shrouds of moss, in cypress swamps,
We saw your dead uncoffined lie.
"We heard the starving prisoner's sighs
And saw, from line and trench, your sons
Follow our flight with home-sick eyes
Beyond the battery's smoking guns."
"And heard and saw ye only wrong
And pain," I cried, "O wing-worn flocks?"
"We heard," they sang, "the freedman's song,
The crash of Slavery's broken locks!
"We saw from new, uprising States
The treason-nursing mischief spurned,
As, crowding Freedom's ample gates,
The long-estranged and lost returned.
"O'er dusky faces, seamed and old,
And hands horn-hard with unpaid toil,
With hope in every rustling fold,
We saw your star-dropt flag uncoil.
"And struggling up through sounds accursed,
A grateful murmur clomb the air;
A whisper scarcely heard at first,
It filled the listening heavens with prayer.
"And sweet and far, as from a star,
Replied a voice which shall not cease,
Till, drowning all the noise of war,
It sings the blessed song of peace!"
So to me, in a doubtful day
Of chill and slowly greening spring,
Low stooping from the cloudy gray,
The wild-birds sang or seemed to sing.
They vanished in the misty air,
The song went with them in their flight;
But lo! they left the sunset fair,
And in the evening there was light.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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The Caged Bird Cries...
i do not know why a caged bird sings?
or shall it sing when caged?
or shall it cry instead?
i know cages, and i have met some birds,
i have seen birds on cages
and i have heard them sing on trees
i have listened them when caged
it is not a song, but a cry,
it is not a dance, but a struggle,
it is not a poem, but the saddest prose.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Why the Jackass Laughs
The Boastful Crow and the Laughing Jack
Were telling tales of the outer back:
"I've just been travelling far and wide,
At the back of Bourke and the Queensland side;
There isn't a bird in the bush can go
As far as me," said the old black crow.
"There isn't a bird in the bush can fly
A course as straight or a course as high.
Higher than human eyesight goes.
There's sometimes clouds -- but there's always crows,
Drifting along for a scent of blood
Or a smell of smoke or a sign of flood.
For never a bird or a beast has been
With a sight as strong or a scent as keen.
At fires and floods I'm the first about,
For then the lizards and mice run out:
And I make my swoop -- and that's all they know --
I'm a whale on mice," said the Boastful Crow.
The Bee-birds over the homestead flew
And told each other the long day through
"The cold has come, we must take the track."
"Now, I'll make you a bet," said the Laughing Jack,
"Of a hundred mice, that you dare not go
With the little Bee-birds, by Boastful Crow."
Said the Boastful Crow, "I could take my ease
And fly with little green birds like these.
If they went flat out and they did their best
I could have a smoke and could take a rest."
And he asked of the Bee-birds circling round:
"Now, where do you spike-tails think you're bound?"
"We leave tonight, and out present plan
is to go straight on till we reach Japan.
"Every year, on the self-same day,
We call our children and start away,
Twittering, travelling day and night,
Over the ocean we take our flight;
And we rest a day on some lonely isles
Or we beg a ride for a hundred miles
On a steamer's deck,* and away we go:
We hope you'll come with us, Mister Crow."
But the old black crow was extremely sad.
Said he: "I reckon you're raving mad
To talk of travelling night and day,
And how in the world do you find your way?"
And the Bee-birds answered him, "If you please,
That's one of our own great mysteries".
Now these things chanced in the long ago
And explain the fact, which no doubt you know,
That every jackass high and low
Will always laugh when he sees a crow.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Harbury
All the men of Harbury go down to the sea in ships,
The wind upon their faces, the salt upon their lips.
The little boys of Harbury when they are laid to sleep,
Dream of masts and cabins and the wonders of the deep.
The women-folk of Harbury have eyes like the sea,
Wide with watching wonder, deep with mystery.
I met a woman: "Beyond the bar," she said,
"Beyond the shallow water where the green lines spread,
"Out beyond the sand-bar and the white spray,
My three sons wait for the Judgment Day."
I saw an old man who goes to sea no more,
Watch from morn till evening down on the shore.
"The sea's a hard mistress," the old man said;
"The sea is always hungry and never full fed.
"The sea had my father and took my son from me --
Sometimes I think I see them, walking on the sea!
"I'd like to be in Harbury on the Judgment Day,
When the word is spoken and the sea is wiped away,
"And all the drowned fisher boys, with sea-weed in their hair,
Rise and walk to Harbury to greet the women there.
"I'd like to be in Harbury to see the souls arise,
Son and mother hand in hand, lovers with glad eyes.
"I think there would be many who would turn and look with me,
Hoping for another glimpse of the cruel sea!
"They tell me that in Paradise the fields are green and still,
With pleasant flowers everywhere that all may take who will,
"And four great rivers flowing from out the Throne of God
That no one ever drowns in and souls may cross dry-shod.
"I think among those wonders there will be men like me,
Who miss the old salt danger of the singing sea.
"For in my heart, like some old shell, inland, safe and dry,
Any one who harks will still hear the sea cry."
poem by Louise Driscoll
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Nils Finn
Now little Nils Finn had away to go;
The skis were too loose at both heel and toe.
--"That's too bad!" rumbled yonder.
Then little Nils Finn in the snow set his feet:
"You ugliest troll, you shall never me cheat!"
--"Hee-ho-ha!" rumbled yonder.
Nils Finn with his staff beat the snow till it blew
"Your trollship, now saw you how hapless it flew?"
--"Hit-li-hu!" rumbled yonder.
Nils Finn pushed one ski farther forward with might;
The other held fast,--he reeled left and right.
--"Pull it up!" rumbled yonder.
Nils' tears wet the snow, while he kicked and he struck;
The more that he kicked there, the deeper he stuck.
--"That was good!" rumbled yonder.
The birch-trees, they danced, and the pine-trees said "Hoo!"
They more were than one,--were a hundred and two.
--"Know your way?" rumbled yonder.
A laugh shook the ridge till it made the snow fly;
But Nils clenched his fists and he swore 't was a lie.
--"Now beware!" rumbled yonder.
The snow-field yawned wide, and the heavens came low;
Nils thought 't was now time for him also to go.
--"Is he gone?" rumbled yonder.--
Two skis in the snow looked about everywhere,
But saw nothing much; for there was nothing there.
--"Where is Nils?" rumbled yonder.
poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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Michael Furey
That night was cold,
The wind was biting.
All over Ireland
the snow was falling
"I was packing
my trousseau,
To Dublin town
I was to go."
"I heard a pebble
strike my pane.
A moment passed,
then, there, again."
"I looked out
On the snow filled lane.
That's when I saw him,
Saw my Michael.
His pale face raised
toward my light.
Like an angel
lost in contemplation."
"Michael's health was not the best.
His lungs were weak
and fluid filled."
"Soon after I had left the West,
I heard that he had fallen ill."
"He's buried now near Sligo town,
between Ben Bulben and the sea.
'May my Michael rest in peace,
I think he died for love of me.'
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Abou Ben Adhem
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said
"What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still, and said "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
Anonymous Submission
poem by James Henry Leigh Hunt
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Ch 02 The Morals Of Dervishes Story 26
I remember having once walked all night with a caravan and then slept on the edge of the desert. A distracted man who had accompanied us on that journey raised a shout, ran towards the desert and took not a moment’s rest. When it was daylight, I asked him what state of his that was. He replied: "I saw bulbuls commencing to lament on the trees, the partridges on the mountains, the frogs in the water and the beasts in the desert so I bethought myself that it would not be becoming for me to sleep in carelessness while they all were praising God."
Yesterday at dawn a bird lamented,
Depriving me of sense, patience, strength and consciousness.
One of my intimate friends who
Had perhaps heard my distressed voice
Said: "I could not believe that thou
Wouldst be so dazed by a bird’s cry."
I replied: "It is not becoming to humanity
That I should be silent when birds chant praises."
The Tree
Ready with leaves and with buds stood the tree.
"Shall I take them?" the frost said, now puffing with glee.
"Oh my, no, let them stand,
Till flowers are at hand!"
All trembling from tree-top to root came the plea.
Flowers unfolding the birds gladly sung.
"Shall I take them?" the wind said and merrily swung.
"Oh my, no, let them stand,
Till cherries are at hand!"
Protested the tree, while it quivering hung.
The cherries came forth 'neath the sun's glowing eye.
"Shall I take them?" a rosy young girl's eager cry.
"Oh my, yes, you can take,
I've kept them for your sake!"
Low bending its branches, the tree brought them nigh.
poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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A Robins Call
As the Robins cherps in the early morning light,
the female comes into nets to relieved her mate,
the male goes of to find some food to eat,
as then the the female begins to tweet,
"the egg is cold you lazy baster,
I should peck your dairy after,
I will have to sit here way to long,
as your lazy ass is gone,
she chirps I need to eat,
and repeats I need to eat, "
The male comes back into the nest,
a chance for him to rest,
to keep all the eggs warm,
he sounds out a alarm,
"I see Cat, I see Cat,
may it get go away,
unit another day,
it leaves, then nest is safe,
as he calls to his mate,
you slut, you slut these eggs are not mine,
all of this is a waste of my time,
come back to keep these eggs warm,
you slut, you bitch, I will sound the alarm."
this is the fruit of life,
bare it but think twice,
poem by Walter C. Edwards
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Four Winds
"Four winds blowing through the sky,
You have seen poor maidens die,
Tell me then what I shall do
That my lover may be true."
Said the wind from out the south,
"Lay no kiss upon his mouth,"
And the wind from out the west,
"Wound the heart within his breast,"
And the wind from out the east,
"Send him empty from the feast,"
And the wind from out the north,
"In the tempest thrust him forth;
When thou art more cruel than he,
Then will Love be kind to thee."
poem by Sara Teasdale
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Two Husbands
Unpenitent, I grieve to state,
Two good men stood by heaven's gate,
Saint Peter coming to await.
The stopped the Keeper of the Keys,
Saying: "What suppliants are these,
Who wait me not on bended knees?
"To get my heavenly Okay
A man should have been used to pray,
Or suffered in some grievous way."
"Oh I have suffered," cried the first.
"Of wives I had the wicked worst,
Who made my life a plague accurst.
"Such martyrdom no tongue can tell;
In mercy's name it is not well
To doom me to another hell."
Saint Peter said: "I comprehend;
But tribulations have their end.
The gate is open, - go my friend."
Then said the second: "What of me?
More I deserve to pass than he,
For I've been wedded twice, you see."
Saint Peter looked at him a while,
And then he answered with a smile:
"Your application I will file.
"Yet twice in double yoke you've driven . . .
Though sinners with our Saints we leaven,
We don't take IMBECILES in heaven."
poem by Robert William Service
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Sympathy
I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals--
I know what the caged bird feels!
I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting--
I know why he beats his wing!
I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,--
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings--
I know why the caged bird sings!
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Hide and Seek
All the trees are sleeping, all the winds are still,
All the flocks of fleecy clouds have wandered past the hill;
Through the noonday silence, down the woods of June,
Hark, a little hunter's voice comes running with a tune.
"Hide and seek!
"When I speak,
"You must answer me:
"Call again,
"Merry men,
"Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!"
Now I hear his footsteps, rustling through the grass:
Hidden in my leafy nook, shall I let him pass?
Just a low, soft whistle,--quick the hunter turns,
Leaps upon me laughing, rolls me in the ferns.
"Hold him fast,
"Caught at last!
"Now you're it, you see.
"Hide your eye,
"Till I cry,
"Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!"
II
Long ago he left me, long and long ago:
Now I wander through the world and seek him high and low;
Hidden safe and happy, in some pleasant place,--
Ah, if I could hear his voice, I soon should find his face.
Far away,
Many a day,
Where can Barney be?
Answer, dear,
Don't you hear?
Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!
Birds that in the spring-time thrilled his heart with joy,
Flowers he loved to pick for me, mind me of my boy.
Surely he is waiting till my steps come nigh;
Love may hide itself awhile, but love can never die.
Heart, be glad,
The little lad
Will call some day to thee:
"Father dear,
"Heaven is here,
"Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!"
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Under the Pines
"LIFE is sad," says the wind in the pines
To the still soul listening,
While the pale, pale day declines
Like a white bird on the wing.
"Life is sad," says the quiet earth
5
Under the churchyard wall,
Where the spring flowers have their birth
And the autumn leaflets fall.
"Life is sad," say the daisies that blow there
And stretch out their heads to the sun;
10
"Life is sad," say the poor hearts that go there
To weep when the day's work is done.
"Life is sad," from below, from on high,
From forest and meadow and tree,
From the clouds that drift over the sky
15
And the days that die into the sea.
Then up and be brave with thy sorrow,
Like a man with his face to the blast;
Not from hope of the joys of to-morrow,
Nor rest when the warfare is past;
20
But strong that weak souls may grow strong,
That men may take heart by the way,
Till the heavens break forth with the song
That will herald eternal day.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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Us Two
Wherever I am, there's always Pooh,
There's always Pooh and Me.
Whatever I do, he wants to do,
"Where are you going today?" says Pooh:
"Well, that's very odd 'cos I was too.
Let's go together," says Pooh, says he.
"Let's go together," says Pooh.
"What's twice eleven?" I said to Pooh.
("Twice what?" said Pooh to Me.)
"I think it ought to be twenty-two."
"Just what I think myself," said Pooh.
"It wasn't an easy sum to do,
But that's what it is," said Pooh, said he.
"That's what it is," said Pooh.
"Let's look for dragons," I said to Pooh.
"Yes, let's," said Pooh to Me.
We crossed the river and found a few-
"Yes, those are dragons all right," said Pooh.
"As soon as I saw their beaks I knew.
That's what they are," said Pooh, said he.
"That's what they are," said Pooh.
"Let's frighten the dragons," I said to Pooh.
"That's right," said Pooh to Me.
"I'm not afraid," I said to Pooh,
And I held his paw and I shouted "Shoo!
Silly old dragons!"- and off they flew.
"I wasn't afraid," said Pooh, said he,
"I'm never afraid with you."
So wherever I am, there's always Pooh,
There's always Pooh and Me.
"What would I do?" I said to Pooh,
"If it wasn't for you," and Pooh said: "True,
It isn't much fun for One, but Two,
Can stick together, says Pooh, says he. "That's how it is," says Pooh.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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Three little birds in a row
Three little birds in a row
Sat musing.
A man passed near that place.
Then did the little birds nudge each other.
They said, "He thinks he can sing."
They threw back their heads to laugh.
With quaint countenances
They regarded him.
They were very curious,
Those three little birds in a row.
poem by Stephen Crane
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Camouflage
Beside the bare and beaten track of travelling flocks and herds
The woodpecker went tapping on, the postman of the birds,
"I've got a letter here," he said, "that no one's understood,
Addressed as follows: 'To the bird that's like a piece of wood.'
"The soldier bird got very cross -- it wasn't meant for her;
The spurwing plover had a try to stab me with a spur:
The jackass laughed, and said the thing was written for a lark.
I think I'll chuck this postman job and take to stripping bark."
Then all the birds for miles around came in to lend a hand;
They perched upon a broken limb as thick as they could stand,
And just as old man eaglehawk prepared to have his say
A portion of the broken limb got up and flew away.
Then, casting grammar to the winds, the postman said, "That's him!
The boobook owl -- he squats himself along a broken limb,
And pokes his beak up like a stick; there's not a bird, I vow,
Can tell you which is boobook owl and which is broken bough.
"And that's the thing he calls his nest -- that jerry-built affair --
A bunch of sticks across a fork; I'll leave his letter there.
A cuckoo wouldn't use his nest, but what's the odds to him --
A bird that tries to imitate a piece of leaning limb!"
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Legends
I
A MAN builded a bugle for the storms to blow.
The focused winds hurled him afar.
He said that the instrument was a failure.
II
When the suicide arrived at the sky, the people there asked him: "Why?"
He replied: "Because no one admired me."
III
A man said: "Thou tree!"
The tree answered with the same scorn: "Thou man!
Thou art greater than I only in thy possibilities."
IV
A warrior stood upon a peak and defied the stars.
A little magpie, happening there, desired the soldier's plume, and so plucked it.
V
The wind that waves the blossoms sang, sang, sang from age to age.
The flowers were made curious by this joy.
"Oh, wind," they said, "why sing you at your labour, while we, pink beneficiaries, sing not, but idle, idle, idle from age to age?"
poem by Stephen Crane
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