Antinous
Stretched on a sunny bank he lay at rest,
Ferns at his elbow, lilies round his knees,
With sweet flesh patterned where the cool turf pressed,
Flowerlike crept o'er with emerald aphides.
Single he couched there, to his circling flocks
Piping at times some happy shepherd's tune,
Nude, with the warm wind in his golden locks,
And arched with the blue Asian afternoon.
Past him, gorse-purpled, to the distant coast
Rolled the clear foothills. There his white-walled town,
There, a blue band, the placid Euxine lay.
Beyond, on fields of azure light embossed
He watched from noon till dewy eve came down
The summer clouds pile up and fade away
poem by Alan Seeger
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Related quotes
A Noon Song
There are songs for the morning and songs for the night,
For sunrise and sunset, the stars and the moon;
But who will give praise to the fulness of light,
And sing us a song of the glory of noon?
Oh, the high noon, the clear noon,
The noon with golden crest;
When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns
With his face to the way of the west!
How swiftly he rose in the dawn of his strength;
How slowly he crept as the morning wore by;
Ah, steep was the climbing that led him at length
To the height of his throne in the wide summer sky.
Oh, the long toil, the slow toil,
The toil that may not rest,
Till the sun looks down from his journey's crown,
To the wonderful way of the west!
Then a quietness falls over meadow and hill,
The wings of the wind in the forest are furled,
The river runs softly, the birds are all still,
The workers are resting all over the world.
Oh, the good hour, the kind hour,
The hour that calms the breast!
Little inn half-way on the road of the day,
Where it follows the turn to the west!
There's a plentiful feast in the maple-tree shade,
The lilt of a song to an old-fashioned tune,
The talk of a friend, or the kiss of a maid,
To sweeten the cup that we drink to the noon.
Oh, the deep noon, the full noon,
Of all the day the best!
When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns
To his home by the way of the west.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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This Day Will Not Come Again
'A sweet summer afternoon. Cool breezes and a clear sky. This day will not come again.
The young bulls lie under a tree in the corner of their field. Quiet afternoon. Blue hills.
Day lilies nod in the wind. This day will not come again. '
Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander
I expected the slight rise
in the east, the sky
growing slate, then
blushing pink and
suddenly blue.
The winter tree
is often
bathed in gold,
and the familiar song
of thrush and jay,
woodpecker's rapid tapping
brash geese
shouting,
are often the same
from one to another day.
But this sudden breeze,
freshening breath
of the butterfly,
the warmth
the joyful cry!
My God is here!
I breathe,
I sigh.
poem by Steven Federle
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Elegiac II.
Trunks the forest yielded with gums ambrosial oozing,
Boughs with apples laden beautiful, Hesperian,
Golden, odoriferous, perfume exhaling about them,
Orbs in a dark umbrage luminous and radiant;
To the palate grateful, more luscious were not in Eden,
Or in that fabled garden of Alcinoüs;
Out of a dark umbrage sounds also musical issued,
Birds their sweet transports uttering in melody
Thrushes clear piping, wood-pigeons cooing, arousing
Loudly the nightingale, loudly the sylvan echoes;
Waters transpicuous flowed under, flowed to the list’ning
Ear with a soft murmur, softly soporiferous;
Nor, with ebon locks too, there wanted, circling, attentive
Unto the sweet fluting, girls, of a swarthy shepherd;
Over a sunny level their flocks are lazily feeding,
They of Amor musing rest in a leafy cavern.
poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
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Memories of Eighty-Five
I. ‘A macramé plant hangs close to her bed
A macramé plant hangs close to her bed
on the eiderdown she lays stretched out,
at times as in deep thought or prayer
when the swimming pool draws you through the window
with dull blue water covering it,
inside lays burned brown a sun goddess
and her eyes swallow me alive
when she understands, knows me for whom I am,
loving me with passion from the start,
loving me through light and darkness.
II. The summer sun hangs white and hot over the sea
The summer sun hangs white and hot over the sea,
the sand is white and soft where the sea washes out
her smile and conversations carries me off
when I am caught in her beauty
and later the water is lovely cool
before a big wave knocks off her bikini top,
I have got to hurry to the beach
to get her a big towel,
later it’s a big joke for us both,
far too quickly summer sweeps past.
III. At sunrise we drive past Chapman’s peak
At sunrise we drive past Chapman’s peak,
along the sea on a twisting road
and she’s very much in love with me,
far away a ship is only a small dot
and her smile and her face sparkles
when we stop to look at nature,
with her light blue blouse clinging tight fitting on to her
and I kiss her above the emerald sea,
holding her for moments tightly against me,
and she enchants my heart, are doing things to me.
IV. At Hout Bay we sail out of the harbour
At Hout Bay we sail out of the harbour
and the wind is blowing her auburn hair around,
the sea lays stretched out from the boat,
on rocks an otter snorts like a dog,
others swarm wild around him,
when the boat rocks to and fro we get nauseas,
wish for the trip to be over,
see a big shark circling,
are happy when we are sailing away,
with the small boat dropping us at the shore.
V. In Kirstenbosh we were really lost
In Kirstenbosh we were really lost,
still I wonder about her gleaming lips,
her green-brown eyes descending into my heart,
feelings creeping deeper into me,
that is still living as a spectre,
as if forever she is part of me,
I am not really able to free me from her,
she still calls me unexpectedly,
I do not want it to end
and forever I am yearning for her.
poem by Gert Strydom
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I Remember the Snows in the Summer's Light
I remember the snows in the summer's light
Thinking of winter in summer;
When I see the blue, I see white;
I see the fume over roofs so bright,
Feel the warm air caressed by azure,
I remember the snows in the summer's light.
Summers are lazy in my inner sight,
Winters, lazy on the outside, are sure to secure
The blue when I sense the cold of white.
Winter takes me on a summer's flight
To visit the summer and endure
Snows and remember the light.
Perhaps I like spring and fall best,
But winter is spring in summer to allure
Me to feel the fall and see blue in white.
I keep remembering, seeing the bright;
Everything is just a thought you conjure;
I always remember the snows hiding in the light;
When I see the blue, I also see the white.
poem by Dejan Stojanovic
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Love Come To Me
Love, come to me in rose of red,
to lie upon my loveless bed ~
now filled with thorns of passions past,
into the wind, the thorns I cast.
Love, come to me in lilac hue,
with scented breath of lilac blue
and essence of love's lost repast ~
into the wind, lost love I cast.
Love, come to me in leaves of green,
with greening leaves of emerald sheen ~
awaiting in the brambling bough,
into the wind, I cast love now.
Love, come to me in yellowed fields,
lined with the golden daffodils ~
awaiting love to come along,
into the wind, I cast love's song.
Love, come to me in rose of red,
to rest and dream upon my bed ~
with scented breath of lilac blue
and daffodils of golden hue.
Love, come to me in nature's light.
It pleasures me with every sight ~
of red, and blue, and golden hue,
into the wind, I cast love true.
poem by Hazelmarie Elliott
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The Camp of Souls
1 My white canoe, like the silvery air
2 O'er the River of Death that darkly rolls
3 When the moons of the world are round and fair,
4 I paddle back from the 'Camp of Souls.'
5 When the wishton-wish in the low swamp grieves
6 Come the dark plumes of red 'Singing Leaves.'
7 Two hundred times have the moons of spring
8 Rolled over the bright bay's azure breath
9 Since they decked me with plumes of an eagle's wing,
10 And painted my face with the 'paint of death,'
11 And from their pipes o'er my corpse there broke
12 The solemn rings of the blue 'last smoke.'
13 Two hundred times have the wintry moons
14 Wrapped the dead earth in a blanket white;
15 Two hundred times have the wild sky loons
16 Shrieked in the flush of the golden light
17 Of the first sweet dawn, when the summer weaves
18 Her dusky wigwam of perfect leaves.
19 Two hundred moons of the falling leaf
20 Since they laid my bow in my dead right hand
21 And chanted above me the 'song of grief'
22 As I took my way to the spirit land;
23 Yet when the swallow the blue air cleaves
24 Come the dark plumes of red 'Singing Leaves.'
25 White are the wigwams in that far camp,
26 And the star-eyed deer on the plains are found;
27 No bitter marshes or tangled swamp
28 In the Manitou's happy hunting-ground!
29 And the moon of summer forever rolls
30 Above the red men in their 'Camp of Souls.'
31 Blue are its lakes as the wild dove's breast,
32 And their murmurs soft as her gentle note;
33 As the calm, large stars in the deep sky rest,
34 The yellow lilies upon them float;
35 And canoes, like flakes of the silvery snow,
36 Thro' the tall, rustling rice-beds come and go.
37 Green are its forests; no warrior wind
38 Rushes on war trail the dusk grove through,
39 With leaf-scalps of tall trees mourning behind;
40 But South Wind, heart friend of Great Manitou,
41 When ferns and leaves with cool dews are wet,
42 Bows flowery breaths from his red calumet.
43 Never upon them the white frosts lie,
44 Nor glow their green boughs with the 'paint of death';
45 Manitou smiles in the crystal sky,
46 Close breathing above them His life-strong breath;
47 And He speaks no more in fierce thunder sound,
48 So near is His happy hunting-ground.
49 Yet often I love, in my white canoe,
50 To come to the forests and camps of earth:
51 'Twas there death's black arrow pierced me through;
52 'Twas there my red-browed mother gave me birth;
53 There I, in the light of a young man's dawn,
54 Won the lily heart of dusk 'Springing Fawn.'
55 And love is a cord woven out of life,
56 And dyed in the red of the living heart;
57 And time is the hunter's rusty knife,
58 That cannot cut the red strands apart:
59 And I sail from the spirit shore to scan
60 Where the weaving of that strong cord began.
61 But I may not come with a giftless hand,
62 So richly I pile, in my white canoe,
63 Flowers that bloom in the spirit land,
64 Immortal smiles of Great Manitou.
65 When I paddle back to the shores of earth
66 I scatter them over the white man's hearth.
67 For love is the breath of the soul set free;
68 So I cross the river that darkly rolls,
69 That my spirit may whisper soft to thee
70 Of thine who wait in the 'Camp of Souls.'
71 When the bright day laughs, or the wan night grieves,
72 Come the dusky plumes of red 'Singing Leaves.'
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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An Old Lesson From The Fields
Even as I watched the daylight how it sped
From noon till eve, and saw the light wind pass
In long pale waves across the flashing grass,
And heard through all my dreams, wherever led,
The thin cicada singing overhead,
I felt what joyance all this nature has,
And saw myself made clear as in a glass,
How that my soul was for the most part dead.
Oh, light, I cried, and, heaven, with all your blue,
Oh, earth, with all your sunny fruitfulness,
And ye, tall lillies, of the wind-vexed field,
What power and beauty life indeed might yield,
Could we but cast away its conscious stress,
Simple of heart, becoming even as you.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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Thank You
Azure soul true and blue as feathers
We sigh like lovers with fine wings
Breathe love like a warm spring day
Apples red as her kiss
Soft zephyrs
Placid streams
Replete with solemn strength
Refreshed in waters of life
My darling is a golden river
I drink her sweet fountains
In this insane world I have found you
Lets watch the clouds amidst the blue
Love is vital
Love makes it all worthwhile
Love is a gift beyond measure
Summer winds fill with gracious portent
She dreams of my warm arms
Golden meadows where prayer smiles
Moonlight sweet as honey
Silence drenched in deep passion
Fire always burning
Desire always awakening
Dreams amidst antique lamps
The kitchen bright with little kisses
We flow from all the ages
Let the clocks chime
My love ravages my lonely life
The bed burns both day and night
Out the window the stars shine
She sleeps in timeless dreams
Thank you my love for finding me
Thank you my God for blessing me
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Lake Leman
It is the sacred hour: above the far
Low emerald hills that northward fold,
Calmly, upon the blue the evening star
Floats, wreathed in dusky gold.
The winds have sung all day; but now they lie
Faint, sleeping; and the evening sounds awake.
The slow bell tolls across the water: I
Am haunted by the spirit of the lake.
It seems as though the sounding of the bell
Intoned the low song of the water-soul,
And at some moments I can hardly tell
The long-resounding echo from the toll.
O thou mysterious lake, thy spell
Holds all who round thy fruitful margin dwell.
Oft have I seen home-going peasants' eyes
Lit with the peace that emanates from thee.
Those who among thy waters plunge, arise
Filled with new wisdom and serenity.
Thy veins are in the mountains. I have heard,
Down-stretched beside thee at the silent noon,
With leaning head attentive to thy word,
A secret and delicious mountain-tune,
Proceeding as from many shadowed hours
In ancient forests carpeted with flowers,
Or far, where hidden waters, wandering
Through banks of snow, trickle, and meet, and sing.
Ah, what repose at noon to go,
Lean on thy bosom, hold thee with wide hands,
And listen for the music of the snow!
But most, as now,
When harvest covers thy surrounding lands,
I love thee, with a coronal of sheaves
Crowned regent of the day;
And on the air thy placid breathing leaves
A scent of corn and hay.
For thou hast gathered (as a mother will
The sayings of her children in her heart)
The harvest-thoughts of reapers on the hill,
When the cool rose and honeysuckle fill
The air, and fruit is laden on the cart.
Thou breathest the delight
Of summer evening at the deep-roofed farm
And meditation of the summer night,
When the enravished earth is lying warm
From the recent kisses of the conquering sun.
Dwell as a spirit in me, O thou one
Sweet natural presence. In the years to be
When all the mortal loves perchance are done,
Them I will bid farewell, but, oh, not thee.
I love thee. When the youthful visions fade,
Fade thou not also in the hopeless past.
Be constant and delightful, as a maid
Sought over all the world, and found at last.
poem by Harold Monro
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0137 Around Botticelli's Primavera - For E E Cummings
so the blue-with-cold wind came from
onto the country-awkward girl who spoke florally with
stepping easter-dressed towards
while Cupid aimed an arrow without
and hit Chastity of course since
while Apollo reached with his wand for
and the clouds revealed
while the golden apples waited with
and all the while Love for
in the centre of the merry-go-round when
all lovers love to
looking modestly not mary-blue as if
extended a toe delicately in a dance describing how
the blue-with-cold wind came from
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Very Early Spring
The fields are snowbound no longer;
There are little blue lakes and flags of tenderest green.
The snow has been caught up into the sky--
So many white clouds--and the blue of the sky is cold.
Now the sun walks in the forest,
He touches the bows and stems with his golden fingers;
They shiver, and wake from slumber.
Over the barren branches he shakes his yellow curls.
Yet is the forest full of the sound of tears....
A wind dances over the fields.
Shrill and clear the sound of her waking laughter,
Yet the little blue lakes tremble
And the flags of tenderest green bend and quiver.
poem by Katherine Mansfield
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Rubber Band
Rubber band
Theres a rubber band that plays tunes out of tune
In the library garden sunday afternoon
While a little chappie waves a golden wand
Rubber band
In 1910 I was so handsome and so strong
My moustache was stiffly waxed and one foot long
And I loved a girl while you played teatime tunes
Dear rubber band, youre playing my tune out of tune
Oh
Rubber band
Wont you play a haunting theme again to me
While I eat my scones and drink my cup of tea
The sun is warm but its a lonely afternoon
Oh, play that theme
Rubber band
How I wish that I could join your rubber band
We could play in lively parks throughout the land
And one sunday afternoon, Id find my love
Rubber band,
In the 14-18 war I went to sea
Thought my sunday love was waiting home for me
And now shes married to the leader of the band, oh
Oh yeah... I hope you break your baton
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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River Lilies
Saw a boy three lilies white,
Lilies in the river,
Half heart-open to the light,
Full of golden arrows bright,
Each a silver quiver.
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
Said the boy, “I’ll pluck you there,
Lilies in the river!”
Said the lilies, “If you dare
You shall drown, or homeward fare
Dripping and a-shiver!”
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
Wilful still the boy would clasp
Lilies in the river;
Tumbled in ere he could grasp,
Scrambled out with puff and gasp,
Plucked no lilies ever.
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Savoring The Images Of An Early Morning Sunshine
needles of light
pricking your face like Chinese
acupuncture
blue and white butterfly-clouds
gray crab-stones
beetle-pebbles
showers of golden-dusts
emerald mountains
ruby-twilight
turquoise-blue-drea ms
diamond hopes
platinum-self.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Always marry a summer girl
Summer is forever sunny
like the smile on your face,
wet at times when a storm brews
like the drops on your cheek
in the movies,
lovely pleasant evenings
like I have with you.
Great the feast of summer’s splendour,
green the grass
and fruit everywhere.
Sweet the kisses,
that you give me
and sweeter still that you truly love me.
Cool the water of the pool
when the sun is high,
in a blue summer sky.
Still more cool,
is when you’re with me
and the pleasure of being with you.
Toss confetti and a bunch
of pure white roses or two,
since I want to marry you.
Do not yet give an answer,
since time will tell the right moment
and I love you and I love summer too.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Blue Summer
blue summer
outside sun is shinning to it’s height
children playing water games
down the street dogs playing same
blue summer, alone the most i have been
afternoon sunsets are great
yellow, orange and blue
but none greater without you
blue summer. i wish you are here
blue summer night
a brisk of hot air from dusks leftovers
sitting by the window, nothing to do
but think of you, and no other just you
blue summer, here i lay
with cold iced tea
a toss to you, conversing imaginarily
take my hand make this cold
blue summer day away from me
blue summer, alone the most I have been
poem by Azmayu Azmayu
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La Nue
Oft when sweet music undulated round,
Like the full moon out of a perfumed sea
Thine image from the waves of blissful sound
Rose and thy sudden light illumined me.
And in the country, leaf and flower and air
Would alter and the eternal shape emerge;
Because they spoke of thee the fields seemed fair,
And Joy to wait at the horizon's verge.
The little cloud-gaps in the east that filled
Gray afternoons with bits of tenderest blue
Were windows in a palace pearly-silled
That thy voluptuous traits came glimmering through.
And in the city, dominant desire
For which men toil within its prison-bars,
I watched thy white feet moving in the mire
And thy white forehead hid among the stars.
Mystical, feminine, provoking, nude,
Radiant there with rosy arms outspread,
Sum of fulfillment, sovereign attitude,
Sensual with laughing lips and thrown-back head,
Draped in the rainbow on the summer hills,
Hidden in sea-mist down the hot coast-line,
Couched on the clouds that fiery sunset fills,
Blessed, remote, impersonal, divine;
The gold all color and grace are folded o'er,
The warmth all beauty and tenderness embower, --
Thou quiverest at Nature's perfumed core,
The pistil of a myriad-petalled flower.
Round thee revolves, illimitably wide,
The world's desire, as stars around their pole.
Round thee all earthly loveliness beside
Is but the radiate, infinite aureole.
Thou art the poem on the cosmic page --
In rubric written on its golden ground --
That Nature paints her flowers and foliage
And rich-illumined commentary round.
Thou art the rose that the world's smiles and tears
Hover about like butterflies and bees.
Thou art the theme the music of the spheres
Echoes in endless, variant harmonies.
Thou art the idol in the altar-niche
Faced by Love's congregated worshippers,
Thou art the holy sacrament round which
The vast cathedral is the universe.
Thou art the secret in the crystal where,
For the last light upon the mystery Man,
In his lone tower and ultimate despair,
Searched the gray-bearded Zoroastrian.
And soft and warm as in the magic sphere,
Deep-orbed as in its erubescent fire,
So in my heart thine image would appear,
Curled round with the red flames of my desire.
poem by Alan Seeger
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Old Times
Friend of my youth, let us talk of old times;
Of the long lost golden hours.
When "Winter" meant only Christmas chimes,
And "Summer" wreaths of flowers.
Life has grown old, and cold, my friend,
And the winter now, means death.
And summer blossoms speak all too plain
Of the dear, dead forms beneath.
But let us talk of the past to-night;
And live it over again,
We will put the long years out of sight,
And dream we are young as then.
But you must not look at me, my friend,
And I must not look at you,
Or the furrowed brows, and silvered locks,
Will prove our dream untrue.
Let us sing of the summer, too sweet to last,
And yet too sweet to die.
Let us read tales, from the book of the past,
And talk of the days gone by.
We will turn our backs to the West, my friend,
And forget we are growing old.
The skies of the Present are dull, and gray,
But the Past's are blue, and gold.
The sun has passed over the noontide line
And is sinking down the West.
And of friends we knew in days Lang Syne,
Full half have gone to rest.
And the few that are left on earth, my friend
Are scattered far, and wide.
But you and I will talk of the days
Ere any roamed, or died.
Auburn ringlets, and hazel eyes
Blue eyes and tresses of gold.
Winds joy laden, and azure skies,
Belong to those days of old.
We will leave the Present's shores awhile
And float on the Past's smooth sea.
But I must not look at you, my friend,
And you must not look at me.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Where Are the Birds of Wenzhou, Bei Bei
‘The skies are empty and grey at dawn,
They’re empty and brown at noon,
Where are the birds of Wenzhou, Bei Bei
Deep in the afternoon?
Even at dusk when the air is still
Or the cool breath heaves from the sea,
I wait for the beat of wings then, Bei Bei
Rushing to comfort me.’
‘The birds were once when the paddy fields
Ran down by the river tides,
When the sky was blue and the air was clean
And the trees reached up to the stars.
The birds were here when the skies were clear
No buildings blocked the view...’
‘But where are the birds of Wenzhou, Bei Bei
Why have they gone from you? ’
‘They left when the smog came rolling in
And the insects died on the ground,
When the grass turned white and the acid rain
Caused all the trees to drown.
They left when the river turned yellow mud
And the fields died under the road,
When men built towers of thirty floors,
They left the town in droves.’
The skies are empty and grey at dawn,
They’re empty and brown at noon.
‘The birds of Wenzhou took their nests
And travelled to old Hangzhou.
They went to live by a wondrous lake
That tales will tell, is blue...’
‘Where are the birds of Wenzhou, Bei Bei...
Have they forsaken you? ’
8 November 2005
poem by David Lewis Paget
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