Beyond the pasture's withered bents
Beyond the pasture's withered bents,
Upstanding hop, recumbent fleece,
And sheaves of wheat, like weathered tents,
A twilight bivouac of peace.
poem by Alfred Austin
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Related quotes
Outside The Village Church
``The old Church doors stand open wide,
Though neither bells nor anthems peal.
Gazing so fondly from outside,
Why do you enter not and kneel?
``It is the sunset hour when all
Begin to feel the need to pray,
Upon our common Father call
To guard the night, condone the day.
``Is it proud scorn, or humble doubt,
That keeps you standing, lingering, there;
Half in the Church, and half without,
Midway betwixt the world and prayer?
``No meeter moment could there be
For man to talk alone with God.
The careless sexton has, you see,
Shouldered his spade, and homeward trod.
``The Vicar's daily round is done;
His back just sank below the brow.
He passed the porches, one by one,
That line the hamlet street, and now
``He, in his garden, cons the page,
And muses on to-morrow's text.
The homebound rustic counts his wage,
The same last week, the same the next.
``Nor priest nor hind are you, but each
Alike is welcome here within;
Both they who learn, and they who teach,
Have secret sorrow, secret sin.
``Enter, and bare your inmost sore;
Enter, and weep your stain away;
Leave doubt and darkness at the door;
Come in and kneel, come in and pray.''
Such were the words I seemed to hear,
By no one uttered, but alack!
The voice of many a bygone year,
Striking the church, and echoing back.
I entered not, but on a stone
Sate, that recorded some one's loss;
But name and date no more were shown,
The deep-cut lines were smooth with moss.
Below were longsome tags of rhyme,
But what, you could not now surmise.
Alas! alas! that death and time
Should overgrow love's eulogies.
Round me was Death that plainly spoke
The hopes and aims that life denied;
The curious pomp of simple folk,
The pedantry of rustic pride.
Some slept in square sepulchral caves,
Some were stretched flat, and some inurned;
And there were fresh brown baby graves,
Resembling cradles overturned.
From where I sate I still could watch
The old oak pews, the altar white.
Gable and oasthouse, tile and thatch,
Smiled softly in the sunset light.
From here and there a cottage roof,
Spires of blue vapour 'gan to steal;
To eyes of love a heavenly proof
The mother warmed the evening meal.
No more the mill-stream chafed and churned;
The wheel hung still, the meal lay whole;
From marsh and dyke the rooks returned,
And circled round and round the toll.
The lambs were mute, the sheep were couched,
The hop-poles bent 'neath leaf and bine;
Adown the road the vagrant slouched,
And glanced up at the alehouse sign.
Again I heard the unseen voice:
``Why do you come not in and rest?
Whether you grieve or you rejoice,
You here will be a welcome guest.
``To Heaven it is the half-way house,
Where hope can feed, and anguish may
Recline its limbs and rest its brows,
With simple thanks for ample pay.
``Was it not here you got the name
Which is of you so close a part,
That, uttered, it hath magic claim
To flush love's cheek, to flood love's heart?
``Here too it was, when youth confessed
The weariness of random ways,
And felt a surging in the breast
For faithful nights and fruitful days,
``You came with one who, conquering fear
When love surprised first thought to fly,
Acknowledged with a tender tear
The sweetness of captivity.
``And here 'twill be when you have ta'en
Last look of love, last look of Spring,
When hearts for you will yearn in vain,
And vain for you the birds will sing,
``That shuffling feet and slow will come,
With cumbrous coffin, gloomy pall,
And, while within you moulder dumb,
That prayers will rise and tears will fall.
``And should Death haply prove your friend,
And what in life was scorned should save,
Hither it is that feet will wend,
To read the name upon your grave.''
I heard the voice no more. The rooks
Had ceased to float, had ceased to caw;
The sunlight lingered but in nooks,
And, gazing toward the west, I saw,
Beyond the pasture's withered bents,
Upstanding hop, recumbent fleece,
And sheaves of wheat, like weathered tents,
A twilight bivouac of peace.
Into itself the voice withdrew.
A something subtle all around
Came floating on the rising dew,
And sweetness took the place of sound.
No word of mine, although my heart
Rebelled, the scented stillness shook;
But silence seemed to take my part,
Thus mildly answering mild rebuke:
``'Tis true I have to you not brought
My eager or despondent mood,
But still by wood and stream have sought
The sanctity of solitude.
``But as a youth who quits his home
To range in tracts of freër fame,
However far or wide he roam,
Dwells fondly on his mother's name;
``So bear me witness, dear old Church,
Although apart our ritual be,
I ne'er have breathed one word to smirch
The Creed that bore and suckled me.
``Not mine presumptuous thought to cope
With sage's faith, with saint's belief,
Or proudly mock the humble hope
That solaced the Repentant Thief.
``I do not let the elms, that shut
My garden in from world without,
Exclude your sacred presence, but
I lop them when they shoot and sprout;
``That I at eve, that I at dawn,
That I, when noons are warm and still,
Lying or lingering on the lawn,
May see your tower upon the hill.
``But when Faith grows a sophist's theme,
And chancels ring with doubt and din,
I sometimes think that they who seem
The most without, are most within.
``The name you gave, that name I bear;
The bond you sealed, I sacred keep;
And, when my brain is dust and air,
Let me within your precincts sleep.''
The sexton came and scanned once more
The neat square pit of smooth blue clay,
Then turned the key and locked the door,
And so, like him, I went my way.
I had the summons not obeyed;
I had nor knelt nor uttered word;
But somehow felt that I had prayed,
And somehow felt I had been heard.
poem by Alfred Austin
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Bringing Our Sheaves with Us
The time for toil is past, and night has come,--
The last and saddest of the harvest-eves;
Worn out with labor long and wearisome,
Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home,
Each laden with his sheaves.
Last of the laborers thy feet I gain,
Lord of the harvest! and my spirit grieves
That I am burdened not so much with grain
As with a heaviness of heart and brain;--
Master, behold my sheaves!
Few, light, and worthless,--yet their trifling weight
Through all my frame a weary aching leaves;
For long I struggled with my hapless fate,
And staid and toiled till it was dark and late,--
Yet these are all my sheaves.
Full well I know I have more tares than wheat,--
Brambles and flowers, dry stalks, and withered leaves
Wherefore I blush and weep, as at thy feet
I kneel down reverently, and repeat,
"Master, behold my sheaves!"
I know these blossoms, clustering heavily
With evening dew upon their folded leaves,
Can claim no value nor utility,--
Therefore shall fragrancy and beauty be
The glory of my sheaves.
So do I gather strength and hope anew;
For well I know thy patient love perceives
Not what I did, but what I strove to do,--
And though the full, ripe ears be sadly few,
Thou wilt accept my sheaves.
poem by Elizabeth Chase Allen from The Atlantic Monthly, vol. 2
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Camps Of Green
NOT alone those camps of white, O soldiers,
When, as order'd forward, after a long march,
Footsore and weary, soon as the light lessen'd, we halted for the
night;
Some of us so fatigued, carrying the gun and knapsack, dropping
asleep in our tracks;
Others pitching the little tents, and the fires lit up began to
sparkle;
Outposts of pickets posted, surrounding, alert through the dark,
And a word provided for countersign, careful for safety;
Till to the call of the drummers at daybreak loudly beating the
drums,
We rose up refresh'd, the night and sleep pass'd over, and resumed
our journey,
Or proceeded to battle. 10
Lo! the camps of the tents of green,
Which the days of peace keep filling, and the days of war keep
filling,
With a mystic army, (is it too order'd forward? is it too only
halting awhile,
Till night and sleep pass over?)
Now in those camps of green--in their tents dotting the world;
In the parents, children, husbands, wives, in them--in the old and
young,
Sleeping under the sunlight, sleeping under the moonlight, content
and silent there at last,
Behold the mighty bivouac-field, and waiting-camp of all,
Of corps and generals all, and the President over the corps and
generals all,
And of each of us, O soldiers, and of each and all in the ranks we
fought, 20
(There without hatred we shall all meet.)
For presently, O soldiers, we too camp in our place in the bivouac-
camps of green;
But we need not provide for outposts, nor word for the countersign,
Nor drummer to beat the morning drum.
poem by Walt Whitman
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By The Bivouac's Fitful Flame
BY the bivouac's fitful flame,
A procession winding around me, solemn and sweet and slow;--but first
I note,
The tents of the sleeping army, the fields' and woods' dim outline,
The darkness, lit by spots of kindled fire--the silence;
Like a phantom far or near an occasional figure moving;
The shrubs and trees, (as I lift my eyes they seem to be stealthily
watching me;)
While wind in procession thoughts, O tender and wondrous thoughts,
Of life and death--of home and the past and loved, and of those that
are far away;
A solemn and slow procession there as I sit on the ground,
By the bivouac's fitful flame. 10
poem by Walt Whitman
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Give me October's meditative haze
Give me October's meditative haze,
Its gossamer mornings, dewy-wimpled eves,
Dewy and fragrant, fragrant and secure,
The long slow sound of farmward-wending wains,
When homely Love sups quiet 'mid his sheaves,
Sups 'mid his sheaves, his sickle at his side,
And all is peace, peace and plump fruitfulness.
poem by Alfred Austin
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Scotch Song
Oh, forth she went like a braw, braw bride
To meet her winsome groom,
When she was aware of twa bonny birds
Sat biggin' in the broom.
The tane it built with the green, green moss,
But and the bents sae fine,
And the tither wi' a lock o' lady's hair
Linked up wi' siller twine.
'O whaur gat ye the green, green moss,
O whaur the bents sae fine?
And whaur gat ye the bonny broun hair
That ance was tress o' mine?'
'We gat the moss fra' the elditch aile,
The bents fra' the whinny muir,
And a fause knight threw us the bonny broun hair,
To please his braw new fere.'
'Gae pull, gae pull the simmer leaves,
And strew them saft o'er me;
My token's tint, my love is fause,
I'll lay me doon and dee.'
1847.
poem by Charles Kingsley
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My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane.
quote by Robert Frost
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mayor Of Simpleton
Never been near a university,
never took a paper or a learned degree,
and some of your friends think that's stupid of me,
but it's nothing that I care about.
Well I don't know how to tell the weight of the sun,
and of mathematics well I want none,
and I may be the Mayor of Simpleton,
but I know one thing and that's I love you.
When their logic grows cold and all thinking gets done,
you'll be warm in the arms of the Mayor of Simpleton.
I can't have been there when brains were handed round,
(please be upstanding for the Mayor of Simpleton)
or get past the cover of your books profound,
(please be upstanding for the Mayor of Simpleton)
and some of your friends thinks it's really unsound that
you're ever seen talking to me.
Well I don't know how to write a big hit song,
and all crossword puzzles well I just shun,
and I may be the Mayor of Simpleton,
but I know one thing and that's I love you.
I'm not proud of the fact that I never learned much,
just feel I should say,
what you get is all real I can't put on an act,
it takes brains to do that anyway. (And anyway...)
And I can't unravel riddles, problems and puns,
how the home computer has me on the run,
and I may be the Mayor of Simpleton,
but I know one thing and that's I love you (I love you).
If depth of feeling is a currency,
(please be upstanding for the Mayor of Simpleton)
then I'm the man who grew the money tree.
(no chain of office and no hope of getting one)
Some of your friends are too brainy to see that they're paupers
and that's how they'll stay.
Well I don't know how many pounds make up a ton
of all the Nobel prizes that I've never won,
and I may be the Mayor of Simpleton,
but I know one things and that's I love you.
When all logic grows cold and all thinking gets done,
you'll be warm in the arms of the Mayor of Simpleton.
You'll be warm in the arms of the Mayor of Simpleton.
You'll be warm in the arms of the Mayor.
(Please be upstanding for the Mayor of Simpleton.)
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mayor Of Simpleton
Never been near a university,
never took a paper or a learned degree,
and some of your friends think that's stupid of me,
but it's nothing that I care about.
Well I don't know how to tell the weight of the sun,
and of mathematics well I want none,
and I may be the Mayor of Simpleton,
but I know one thing and that's I love you.
When their logic grows cold and all thinking gets done,
you'll be warm in the arms of the Mayor of Simpleton.
I can't have been there when brains were handed round,
(please be upstanding for the Mayor of Simpleton)
or get past the cover of your books profound,
(please be upstanding for the Mayor of Simpleton)
and some of your friends thinks it's really unsound that
you're ever seen talking to me.
Well I don't know how to write a big hit song,
and all crossword puzzles well I just shun,
and I may be the Mayor of Simpleton,
but I know one thing and that's I love you.
I'm not proud of the fact that I never learned much,
just feel I should say,
what you get is all real I can't put on an act,
it takes brains to do that anyway. (And anyway...)
And I can't unravel riddles, problems and puns,
how the home computer has me on the run,
and I may be the Mayor of Simpleton,
but I know one thing and that's I love you (I love you).
If depth of feeling is a currency,
(please be upstanding for the Mayor of Simpleton)
then I'm the man who grew the money tree.
(no chain of office and no hope of getting one)
Some of your friends are too brainy to see that they're paupers
and that's how they'll stay.
Well I don't know how many pounds make up a ton
of all the Nobel prizes that I've never won,
and I may be the Mayor of Simpleton,
but I know one things and that's I love you.
When all logic grows cold and all thinking gets done,
you'll be warm in the arms of the Mayor of Simpleton.
You'll be warm in the arms of the Mayor of Simpleton.
You'll be warm in the arms of the Mayor.
(Please be upstanding for the Mayor of Simpleton.)
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cents
Pennies from heaven
Was a song long ago
We see them in streets
In left over trash
They're kicked to the curb
One cent only cash
The pennie saved
And the pennie earned
Is weathered and beaten
And rather sunburned
Because many a soul
Has not the worth
To bend over
And give it new birth
So flip it over
And see if it's wheat
If not save it
For your piggy to eat.
Twilight
When twilight falls silently
It’s time to meditate,
As daylight drains away
consider thoughtfully.
the events of the day.
When twilight falls silently
the ending of the day
My worries disappear
I sit in solitude
my mind becomes clear.
When twilight falls silently.
The quiet soothes me,
I find I can release
the stress I do not need.
An interlude of peace
When twilight falls silently.
I know what I must do.
Submit to reverie.
no one will disturb me.
At least not easily
18-Mar-09
http: //blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
Monchielle
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Idler's Song
I sit in the twilight dim
At the close of an idle day,
And I list to the soft sweet hymn,
That rises far away,
And dies on the evening air.
Oh, all day long,
They sing their song,
Who toil in the valley there.
But never a song sing I,
Sitting with folded hands,
The hours pass me by -
Dropping their golden sands -
And I list, from day to day,
To the 'tick, tick, tock'
Of the old brown clock,
Ticking my life away.
And I see the twilight fade,
And I see the night come on,
And then, in the gloom and shade,
I weep for the day that's gone -
Weep and wail in pain,
For the misspent day
That has flown away,
And will not come again.
Another morning beams,
And I forget the last,
And I sit in idle dreams
Till the day over - past.
Oh, the toiler's heart is glad!
When the day is gone
And the night comes on,
But mine is sore and sad.
For I dare not look behind!
No shining, golden sheaves
Can I ever hope to find:
Nothing but withered leaves.
Ah! dreams are very sweet!
But will not please
If only these
I lay at the Master's feet.
And what will the Master say
To dreams and nothing more?
Oh, idler, all the day!
Think, ere thy life is o'er!
And when the day grows late,
Oh, soul of sin!
Will He let you in,
There at the pearly gate?
Oh, idle heart, beware!
On, to the field of strife!
On, to the valley there!
And live a useful life!
Up, do not wait a day!
For the old brown clock,
With its 'tick, tick, tock, '
Is ticking your life away.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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#1 Bad Boy
What you heard about me
Was probably right
Im the boy next door
The one you were warned about
Oh yes, indeed
Well, Im no upstanding citizen
But Im standing up just the same
Chorus:
Number one bad boy
Whos to blame
Number one bad boy
Aint that a shame
Yeah, right
All my friends are two faced
And Im a social disgrace
I got no morals
Dont belong in the rat race
Well, Im no upstanding citizen
But Im standing up just the same
Into a lonely world
Where Im lost without a trace
Two faced
Rat race
Disgrace
Will I stand up on my own?
Will I fall on my face?
First verse, pre-chorus, chorus out
song performed by by Poison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lover's Gifts VIII: There Is Room for You
There is room for you. You are alone with your few sheaves of rice.
My boat is crowded, it is heavily laden, but how can I turn you
away? Your young body is slim and swaying; there is a twinkling
smile in the edge of your eyes, and your robe is coloured like the
rain cloud.
The travellers will land for different roads and homes. You
will sit for a while on the prow of my boat, and at the journey's
end none will keep you back.
Where do you go, and to what home, to garner your sheaves? I
will not question you, but when I fold my sails and moor my boat
I shall sit and wonder in the evening, -Where do you go, and to
what home, to garner your sheaves?
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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The Mayor Of Simpleton
Never been near a university,
Never took a paper or a learned degree,
And some of your friends think thats stupid of me,
But its nothing that I care about.
Well I dont know how to tell the weight of the sun,
And of mathematics well I want none,
And I may be the mayor of simpleton,
But I know one thing,
And thats I love you.
When their logic grows cold and all thinking gets done,
Youll be warm in the arms of the mayor of simpleton.
I cant have been there when brains were handed round
(please be upstanding for the mayor of simpleton),
Or get past the cover of your books profound,
(please be upstanding for the mayor of simpleton),
And some of your friends thinks its really unsound,
That youre ever seen talking to me.
Well I dont know how to write a big hit song,
And all crossword puzzles well I just shun,
And I may be the mayor of simpleton,
But I know one thing,
And thats I love you.
Im not proud of the fact that I never learned much,
Just feel I should say,
What you get is all real,
I cant put on an act,
It takes brains to do that anyway. (and anyway...)
And I cant unravel riddles, problems and puns,
How the home computer has me on the run,
And I may be the mayor of simpleton,
But I know one thing,
And thats I love you (I love you).
If depth of feeling is a currency,
(please be upstanding for the mayor of simpleton),
Then Im the man who grew the money tree,
(no chain of office and no hope of getting one).
Some of your friends are too brainy to see,
That theyre paupers and thats how theyll stay.
Well I dont know how many pounds make up a ton,
Of all the nobel prizes that Ive never won,
And I may be the mayor of simpleton,
But I know one thing,
And thats I love you.
When all logic grows cold and all thinking gets done,
Youll be warm in the arms of the mayor of simpleton.
Youll be warm in the arms of the mayor of simpleton.
Youll be warm in the arms of the mayor.
(please be upstanding for the mayor of simpleton.)
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Floral Poems of Delight
A famous poet and artist
~~Cicely Mary Barker~~
born in London eighteen ninety-five
died in London age seventy-eight
produced a very beautiful book
~~The Flower Fairies~~
Unable to attend school because
of ill-health, Cicely worked from
home, taught by a Governess...
A copy of this book was given to
me on my fifth birthday, and was
a first introduction to floral poems.
My young life was absorbed with
Flower Fairies...the Song of the
Poppy was my favourite. I recall
the words until this day. I am sure
that Cicely Mary Barker would be
delighted to see her Poppy Flower
poem brought to light after so
many years...and I quote:
The green wheat's a-growing
The lark sings on high
In scarlet silk a-glowing
Here stand I.
The wheat's turning yellow
Ripening for sheaves
I hear the little fellow
who scares the bird thieves.
Now the harvest's ended
The wheat fields are bare
But still red and splendid
I am there.
by C.M.Barker
Many thanks to the one and
only...the Late Poet and Artist
Cicely Mary Barker.
poem by Joyce Hemsley
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Peaceful Soul
Sitting alone on a green grass
Is what gives me peace,
Watching the birds in a shady clear sky
Is what gives me peace.
Walking slow in pearly raindrops
Is what gives me peace,
Tuning low under the reddish sunset
Is what gives me peace .
Feeding the hungry helping the blind
Is in what I find the innermost peace
Gifting a smile snatching a teary pain
Is in what I find the innermost peace
Peace is in walking in twilight on the riverside
It is in feeling the most eternal reality of life!
poem by mahvash AMU
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Waiting On The Wheat Harvest
as you sow brothers sisters so you wheat harvest reap
as a grain of wheat dies germinates bears fruit to heap
Jesus will completely clean up threshing floor gather his wheat
chaff he will burn up with unquenchable fire hell suffering heat
an enemy came in over sowed weeds in among seed wheat
reapers harvest collect weeds burn them saving only wheat
Satan demands sifts men as wheat to blow away in sifting wind
Son of man will send angels to gather chosen ones from ill wind
a grain of wheat falls into the ground dies then bears fruit new life
so hate soul temptation in this world safeguard soul for eternal life
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Monster
When we might make with happy heart
This world a paradise,
With bombs we blast brave men apart,
With napalm carbonize.
Where we might till the sunny soil,
And sing for joy of life,
We spend our treasure and our toil
In bloody strife.
The fields of wheat are sheening gold,
The flocks have silver fleece;
The signs are sweetly manifold
Of plenty, praise and peace.
Yet see! The sky is like a cowl
Where grimy toilers bore
The shards of steel that feed the foul
Red maw of War.
Instead of butter give us guns;
Instead of sugur, shells.
Devoted mothers, bear your sons
To glut still hotter hells.
Alas! When will mad mankind wake
To banish evermore,
And damn for God in Heaven's sake
Mass Murder--WAR?
poem by Robert William Service
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An answer to the parson
Why of the sheep do you not learn peace
Because I dont want you to shear my fleece
poem by William Blake from Songs and Ballads (1793)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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