Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere
LIKE souls that balance joy and pain,
With tears and smiles from heaven again
The maiden Spring upon the plain
Came in a sun-lit fall of rain.
In crystal vapour everywhere
Blue isles of heaven laugh'd between,
And far, in forest-deeps unseen,
The topmost elm-tree gather'd green
From draughts of balmy air.
Sometimes the linnet piped his song:
Sometimes the throstle whistled strong:
Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel'd along,
Hush'd all the groves from fear of wrong:
By grassy capes with fuller sound
In curves the yellowing river ran,
And drooping chestnut-buds began
To spread into the perfect fan,
Above the teeming ground.
Then, in the boyhood of the year,
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere
Rode thro' the coverts of the deer,
With blissful treble ringing clear.
She seem'd a part of joyous Spring:
A gown of grass-green silk she wore,
Buckled with golden clasps before;
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore
Closed in a golden ring.
Now on some twisted ivy-net,
Now by some tinkling rivulet,
In mosses mixt with violet
Her cream-white mule his pastern set:
And fleeter now she skimm'd the plains
Than she whose elfin prancer springs
By night to eery warblings,
When all the glimmering moorland rings
With jingling bridle-reins.
As she fled fast thro' sun and shade,
The happy winds upon her play'd,
Blowing the ringlet from the braid:
She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd
The rein with dainty finger-tips,
A man had given all other bliss,
And all his worldly worth for this,
To waste his whole heart in one kiss
Upon her perfect lips.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
College love lost
She came to the class of physics
And sat by a tall white pillar never alone
An angle watching the board of elongated equations with no lyrics
I sat few rows behind her carved with stone
And once, but once she turned lifting her eyes
And suddenly, sweetly, strangely blushed
To find they were met by my own
And suddenly, sweetly strangely my heart beat stronger
My blood throbbed thicker until I heard no longer
The Thermo dynamic transformations laws
I was long gone under a pensive dream, an utterly estranged show
The bell’s ring pealed up the vaulted hall
What untimely abrupt call
I stood up on my feet stunned like a child
Would she remember it the passionate dual of our eyes’ meet
Ah well, very well, I might have been beguiled
By some coquettish deceit
Yet if she were not a cheat
If she were all that she seemed
And her smile had all that I dreamed
Then the world were not so shakily bitter
And her gracious smile would have sunken on me so much sweeter
What vile winds had scudded away the war
Of roses and daisies at her garden door
As she fled fast through sun and shade
The happy pine trees winds upon her played
Blowing the ringlet from the braid
She looked so lovely as she swayed
I stood watching her a man in his pride
Or a puppet on a string
The rein with dainty finger-tips
A man who would give all other bliss
And all his worldly worthy for this
To waste his whole heart in one kiss
Upon her perfect lips
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Glen Song
There's a green glen in Eirinn,
A green glen in Eirinn!
Do you remember yet, a gradh, the sunshine of that day,
How the the river ran before us, and the fleckless blue hung o'er us,
And against the purple heather gleamed the yellow of the hay?
There's a green glen in Eirinn,
A green glen in Eirinn!
Where on a dew-wet swinging spray brown throstles trilled above,
And the blackbird carolled after in a silver rain of laughter,
And the little linnet piped its song that has no theme but Love.
There's a green glen in Eirinn,
A green glen in Eirinn!
'Twas sweet with you beside me in a world of harvest gold:
The sallaghs made a shadow in a corner of the meadow,
And your eyes were wells of kindness, and my hand lay in your hold.
There's a green glen in Eirinn,
A green glen in Eirinn!
The voice of Spring comes on the winds like cuckoo calling clear
She bids us fare together, nor heed the fitful weather–
And seek in yon green glen the joy that waits our hearts, my Dear.
poem by Anna Johnston MacManus
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Gippsland Hills
The hills of Gippsland were so green but that was in September
And songbirds piping happy songs as well I might remember
But now the Gippsland hills are gray since sun changed the grass colour
And though the sun shines hot today this countryside looks duller.
The Gippsland hills were green in Spring and grass growing winds were blowing
And all along the sunlit hills the wildering flowers were showing
And bell magpie piped his joyful notes and butcherbird was singing
And through those hills those happy hills the bushlark's voice went ringing.
The Gippsland hills the sunburnt hills grown lonelier and quieter
And like the shades of old man's hair they've turned a gray type whiter
The nearby creek in trickle flow, the birds have lost their voices
And not one of Nature's minstrels now on Gippsland hills rejoices.
The Gippsland hills the sunburnt hills have lost their Spring like colour
And though the sun shines hot today the Gippsland hills look duller
But Spring bring green to Gippsland hills Spring rains and soft winds blowing
And birds will sing on Gippsland hills and Gippsland creeks fast flowing.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Green Green Grass Of Home
The old hometown looks the same
As I step down from the train
And there to meet me is my mama and papa
And down the road I look and there runs Mary
Her golden lips like cherries
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes, they've all come to meet me
Arms reaching, smiling sweetly
It's so good to touch the
Green, green grass of home.
The old house is still standing
Though the paint is cracked and dry
And there's that old oak tree that I used to play on
Down the lane I'd walk with my sweet Mary
Her golden lips like cherries
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home.
Yesm they've all come
Arms reaching, smiling sweetly
It's so good to touch the
Green, green grass of home.
Then I awake and look around me
At the gray walls that surround me
And I realized that I was only dreaming
For there's a guard and there's a sad old padre
Arm in arm, we'll walk at daybreak
Again I'll touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes they'll all come to see me
In the shade of that old oak tree
As they lay me neath the
Green, green grass of home...
song performed by by Kenny Rogers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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May Song
BIRDS in the green of my garden
Blackbirds and throstle and wren,
Wet your dear wings in the tears that are Spring's
And so to your singing again!
Birds in my blossoming orchard,
Chaffinch and goldfinch and lark,
Preen your bright wings, little happy live things;
The May trees grow white in the park!
Birds in the leafy wet woodlands,
Cuckoo and nightingale brown,
Sing to the sound of the rain on green ground--
The rain on green leaves dripping down!
Fresh with the rain of the May-time,
Rich with the promise of June,
Deep in her heart, where the little leaves part,
Love, like a bird, sings in tune!
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pastoral
It's the Spring.
Earth has conceived, and her bosom,
Teeming with summer, is glad.
Vistas of change and adventure,
Thro' the green land
The grey roads go beckoning and winding,
Peopled with wains, and melodious
With harness-bells jangling:
Jangling and twangling rough rhythms
To the slow march of the stately, great horses
Whistled and shouted along.
White fleets of cloud,
Argosies heavy with fruitfulness,
Sail the blue peacefully. Green flame the hedgerows.
Blackbirds are bugling, and white in wet winds
Sway the tall poplars.
Pageants of colour and fragrance,
Pass the sweet meadows, and viewless
Walks the mild spirit of May,
Visibly blessing the world.
O, the brilliance of blossoming orchards!
O, the savour and thrill of the woods,
When their leafage is stirred
By the flight of the Angel of Rain!
Loud lows the steer; in the fallows
Rooks are alert; and the brooks
Gurgle and tinkle and trill. Thro' the gloamings,
Under the rare, shy stars,
Boy and girl wander,
Dreaming in darkness and dew.
It's the Spring.
A sprightliness feeble and squalid
Wakes in the ward, and I sicken,
Impotent, winter at heart.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Final Door.......
Brown house
Grey smiles
Green green grass
Black shoes
Crystal tears with heart felt whispers
Hugs
Blue sky with cream teeth
Green green grass
(hold that thought)
Glassed water grasped
Taut innards
Flowers brought
White horses
Braided manes
White lilies
Window pane
White carriage
To carry forth
Green green grass
Hold that thought
Passing traffic
Collars grasped
Blurry images
Tend then pass
Crystal tears
Smart black tie
Shake and smile
Avoid the eye
Deep breath enter in
Listen watch
Let them begin
Then stare at the floor
'Bye bye darling'
Open door
poem by Karen Sinclair
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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How still, how happy!
How still, how happy! Those are words
That once would scarce agree together;
I loved the plashing of the surge -
The changing heaven the breezy weather,
More than smooth seas and cloudless skies
And solemn, soothing, softened airs
That in the forest woke no sighs
And from the green spray shook no tears.
How still, how happy! now I feel
Where silence dwells is sweeter far
Than laughing mirth's most joyous swell
However pure its raptures are.
Come, sit down on this sunny stone:
'Tis wintry light o'er flowerless moors -
But sit - for we are all alone
And clear expand heaven's breathless shores.
I could think in the withered grass
Spring's budding wreaths we might discern;
The violet's eye might shyly flash
And young leaves shoot among the fern.
It is but thought - full many a night
The snow shall clothe those hills afar
And storms shall add a drearier blight
And winds shall wage a wilder war,
Before the lark may herald in
Fresh foliage twined with blossoms fair
And summer days again begin
Their glory - haloed crown to wear.
Yet my heart loves December's smile
As much as July's golden beam;
Then let us sit and watch the while
The blue ice curdling on the stream -
poem by Emily Jane Brontë
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Thomas the Rhymer
True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;
A ferlie he spied wi' his e'e;
And there he saw a ladye bright
Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.
Her skirt was o' the grass-green silk,
Her mantle o' the velvet fyne;
At ilka tett o' her horse's mane,
Hung fifty siller bells and nine.
True Thomas he pu'd aff his cap,
And louted low down on his knee
'Hail to thee Mary, Queen of Heaven!
For thy peer on earth could never be.'
'O no, O no, Thomas' she said,
'That name does not belang to me;
I'm but the Queen o' fair Elfland,
That am hither come to visit thee.
'Harp and carp, Thomas,' she said;
'Harp and carp along wi' me;
And if ye dare to kiss my lips,
Sure of your bodie I will be.'
'Betide me weal; betide me woe,
That weird shall never daunten me.'
Syne he has kiss'd her rosy lips,
All underneath the Eildon Tree.
'Now ye maun go wi' me,' she said,
'True Thomas, ye maun go wi' me;
And ye maun serve me seven years,
Thro' weal or woe as may chance to be.'
She 's mounted on her milk-white steed,
She 's ta'en true Thomas up behind;
And aye, whene'er her bridle rang,
The steed gaed swifter than the wind.
O they rade on, and farther on,
The steed gaed swifter than the wind;
Until they reach'd a desert wide,
And living land was left behind.
'Light down, light down now, true Thomas,
And lean your head upon my knee;
Abide ye there a little space,
And I will show you ferlies three.
'O see ye not yon narrow road,
So thick beset wi' thorns and briers?
That is the Path of Righteousness,
Though after it but few inquires.
'And see ye not yon braid, braid road,
That lies across the lily leven?
That is the Path of Wickedness,
Though some call it the Road to Heaven.
'And see ye not yon bonny road
That winds about the fernie brae?
That is the Road to fair Elfland,
Where thou and I this night maun gae.
'But, Thomas, ye sall haud your tongue,
Whatever ye may hear or see;
For speak ye word in Elfyn-land,
Ye'll ne'er win back to your ain countrie.'
O they rade on, and farther on,
And they waded rivers abune the knee;
And they saw neither sun nor moon,
But they heard the roaring of the sea.
It was mirk, mirk night, there was nae starlight,
They waded thro' red blude to the knee;
For a' the blude that 's shed on the earth
Rins through the springs o' that countrie.
Syne they came to a garden green,
And she pu'd an apple frae a tree:
'Take this for thy wages, true Thomas;
It will give thee the tongue that can never lee.'
'My tongue is my ain,' true Thomas he said;
'A gudely gift ye wad gie to me!
I neither dought to buy or sell
At fair or tryst where I might be.
'I dought neither speak to prince or peer,
Nor ask of grace from fair ladye!'—
'Now haud thy peace, Thomas,' she said,
'For as I say, so must it be.'
He has gotten a coat of the even cloth,
And a pair o' shoon of the velvet green;
And till seven years were gane and past,
True Thomas on earth was never seen.
poem by by unknown author
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Thomas the Rhymer
True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;
A ferlie he spied wi' his e'e;
And there he saw a ladye bright
Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.
Her skirt was o' the grass-green silk,
Her mantle o' the velvet fyne;
At ilka tett o' her horse's mane,
Hung fifty siller bells and nine.
True Thomas he pu'd aff his cap,
And louted low down on his knee
'Hail to thee Mary, Queen of Heaven!
For thy peer on earth could never be.'
'O no, O no, Thomas' she said,
'That name does not belang to me;
I'm but the Queen o' fair Elfland,
That am hither come to visit thee.
'Harp and carp, Thomas,' she said;
'Harp and carp along wi' me;
And if ye dare to kiss my lips,
Sure of your bodie I will be.'
'Betide me weal; betide me woe,
That weird shall never daunten me.'
Syne he has kiss'd her rosy lips,
All underneath the Eildon Tree.
'Now ye maun go wi' me,' she said,
'True Thomas, ye maun go wi' me;
And ye maun serve me seven years,
Thro' weal or woe as may chance to be.'
She 's mounted on her milk-white steed,
She 's ta'en true Thomas up behind;
And aye, whene'er her bridle rang,
The steed gaed swifter than the wind.
O they rade on, and farther on,
The steed gaed swifter than the wind;
Until they reach'd a desert wide,
And living land was left behind.
'Light down, light down now, true Thomas,
And lean your head upon my knee;
Abide ye there a little space,
And I will show you ferlies three.
'O see ye not yon narrow road,
So thick beset wi' thorns and briers?
That is the Path of Righteousness,
Though after it but few inquires.
'And see ye not yon braid, braid road,
That lies across the lily leven?
That is the Path of Wickedness,
Though some call it the Road to Heaven.
'And see ye not yon bonny road
That winds about the fernie brae?
That is the Road to fair Elfland,
Where thou and I this night maun gae.
'But, Thomas, ye sall haud your tongue,
Whatever ye may hear or see;
For speak ye word in Elfyn-land,
Ye'll ne'er win back to your ain countrie.'
O they rade on, and farther on,
And they waded rivers abune the knee;
And they saw neither sun nor moon,
But they heard the roaring of the sea.
It was mirk, mirk night, there was nae starlight,
They waded thro' red blude to the knee;
For a' the blude that 's shed on the earth
Rins through the springs o' that countrie.
Syne they came to a garden green,
And she pu'd an apple frae a tree:
'Take this for thy wages, true Thomas;
It will give thee the tongue that can never lee.'
'My tongue is my ain,' true Thomas he said;
'A gudely gift ye wad gie to me!
I neither dought to buy or sell
At fair or tryst where I might be.
'I dought neither speak to prince or peer,
Nor ask of grace from fair ladye!'—
'Now haud thy peace, Thomas,' she said,
'For as I say, so must it be.'
He has gotten a coat of the even cloth,
And a pair o' shoon of the velvet green;
And till seven years were gane and past,
True Thomas on earth was never seen.
Thomas the Rhymer
True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;
A ferlie he spied wi' his e'e;
And there he saw a ladye bright
Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.
Her skirt was o' the grass-green silk,
Her mantle o' the velvet fyne;
At ilka tett o' her horse's mane,
Hung fifty siller bells and nine.
True Thomas he pu'd aff his cap,
And louted low down on his knee
'Hail to thee Mary, Queen of Heaven!
For thy peer on earth could never be.'
'O no, O no, Thomas' she said,
'That name does not belang to me;
I'm but the Queen o' fair Elfland,
That am hither come to visit thee.
'Harp and carp, Thomas,' she said;
'Harp and carp along wi' me;
And if ye dare to kiss my lips,
Sure of your bodie I will be.'
'Betide me weal; betide me woe,
That weird shall never daunten me.'
Syne he has kiss'd her rosy lips,
All underneath the Eildon Tree.
'Now ye maun go wi' me,' she said,
'True Thomas, ye maun go wi' me;
And ye maun serve me seven years,
Thro' weal or woe as may chance to be.'
She 's mounted on her milk-white steed,
She 's ta'en true Thomas up behind;
And aye, whene'er her bridle rang,
The steed gaed swifter than the wind.
O they rade on, and farther on,
The steed gaed swifter than the wind;
Until they reach'd a desert wide,
And living land was left behind.
'Light down, light down now, true Thomas,
And lean your head upon my knee;
Abide ye there a little space,
And I will show you ferlies three.
'O see ye not yon narrow road,
So thick beset wi' thorns and briers?
That is the Path of Righteousness,
Though after it but few inquires.
'And see ye not yon braid, braid road,
That lies across the lily leven?
That is the Path of Wickedness,
Though some call it the Road to Heaven.
'And see ye not yon bonny road
That winds about the fernie brae?
That is the Road to fair Elfland,
Where thou and I this night maun gae.
'But, Thomas, ye sall haud your tongue,
Whatever ye may hear or see;
For speak ye word in Elfyn-land,
Ye'll ne'er win back to your ain countrie.'
O they rade on, and farther on,
And they waded rivers abune the knee;
And they saw neither sun nor moon,
But they heard the roaring of the sea.
It was mirk, mirk night, there was nae starlight,
They waded thro' red blude to the knee;
For a' the blude that 's shed on the earth
Rins through the springs o' that countrie.
Syne they came to a garden green,
And she pu'd an apple frae a tree:
'Take this for thy wages, true Thomas;
It will give thee the tongue that can never lee.'
'My tongue is my ain,' true Thomas he said;
'A gudely gift ye wad gie to me!
I neither dought to buy or sell
At fair or tryst where I might be.
'I dought neither speak to prince or peer,
Nor ask of grace from fair ladye!'—
'Now haud thy peace, Thomas,' she said,
'For as I say, so must it be.'
He has gotten a coat of the even cloth,
And a pair o' shoon of the velvet green;
And till seven years were gane and past,
True Thomas on earth was never seen.
poem by Anonymous Americas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Green Month
WHAT of all the colours shall I bring you for your fairing,
Fit to lay your fingers on, fine enough for you ?–
Yellow for the ripened rye, white for ladies' wearing,
Red for briar-roses, or the skies' own blue ?
Nay, for spring has touched the elm, spring has found the willow,
Winds that call the swallow home sway the boughs apart;
Green shall all my curtains be, green shall be my pillow,
Green I'll wear within my hair, and green upon my heart.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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MDCCCXCIII: A Prelude
Sweet days of breaking light,
or yet the shadowy might
and blaze of starry strife
possess’d my life;
sweet dawn of Beauty’s day,
first hint and smiling play
of the compulsive force
that since my course
across the years obeys;
not tho’ all earlier days
in me were buried, not
were ye forgot. –-
The northern kingdom’s dream,
prison’d in crystal gleam,
heard the pale flutes of spring,
her thin bells ring;
the tranced maiden’s eyes
open’d a far surmise,
and heavens and meadows grew
a tender blue
of petal-hearts that keep
thro’ their dark winter-sleep
true memory of delight,
a hidden light.
Then by her well Romance
waiting the fabled chance
dream’d all the forest-scene
in shifting green;
and Melusina’s gaze
lurk’d in the shadow’d glaze
of waters gliding still,
a witching ill;
or lost Undine wept
where the hid streamlet crept,
to the dusk murmuring low
her silvery woe.
Dim breaths in the dim shade
of the romantic glade
told of the timid pain
that hearken’d, fain,
how Beauty came to save
the prison’d life and wave
above the famish’d lands
her healing hands
(Beauty, in hidden ways
walking, a leafy maze
with magic odour dim,
far on life’s rim;
Beauty, sweet pain to kiss,
Beauty, sharp pain to miss,
in sorrow or in joy
a dear annoy;
Beauty, with waiting years
that bind the fount of tears
well-won if once her light
shine, before night).
Then the shy heart of youth
dared know its weening sooth,
then first thy godhead, Sun,
it’s life’s light one,
what time the hour outroll’d
its banner blazon’d gold
and all the honey’d time
rang rich with rhyme—-
rhyme, and the liquid laugh
of girlish spring, to quaff
granted each heart, and shed
about each head
a sound of harping blown
and airs of elfin tone
and gipsy waifs of song,
a dancing throng.
The yellow meads of May
acclaim’d the louder lay,
more rapturously athirst
for that fierce burst
of Summer’s clarioning,
what time his fulgent wing
should cleave the crystal spell
his hot eyes tell
each charm beneath the veil
his eager hands assail
and his red lips be prest
against her breast,
filling her every vein
with the diviner pain
of life beyond all dream
burning, supreme—-
(O natural ecstasy!
O highest grace, to be,
in every pulse to know
the Sungod’s glow!)
Thence the exulting strain
sped onward as a rain
of gold-linked notes
from unseen throats,
till the mad heart, adust,
of August’s aching lust
to do her beauty wrong
broke, and the song;
and in her poppied fate
ken life, grown all too great,
illumed with grateful breath
the lips of death. –-
But those deep fibres hold
the season’s mortal gold,
by silent alchemy
of soul set free,
and woven in vision’d shower
as each most secret hour
sheds the continuing bliss
in song or kiss. –-
O poets I have loved
when in my soul first moved
desire to breathe in one
love, song and sun,
your pages that I turn,
your jewelled phrases burn
richly behind a haze
of golden days. –-
And, O ye golden days,
tho’ since on stranger ways
to some undying war
the fatal star
of unseen Beauty draw
this soul, to occult law
obedient ever, not
are ye forgot.
poem by Christopher John Brennan
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This Is How All Sunny Days Should Be
Green grass grows fast, green grass
I want you to grow so fast
So I can leap up, from the ground
And pretend to fly, soar so high
And then gravity, cruel, vile, unkind
Will drag me down, and shut my laugh
And then, green grass, (grow fast)
I’ll be sad of falling down
But then, my friend you’ll muffle my fall
And ill lie there
……..Calm………..
And hide, in the very green, tall,
Great, bed like grass
And then I’ll stare at the sky
(Light blue, immense sky)
And get lost in the clouds
(White, light absorbing clouds)
And then I’ll only hear the birds
And the wind brushing the branches
And the flowers will be dancing
To the rhythm of the air
And then I’ll think
“This is how all sunny days should be”
Perfect Scenery-Cloud's end
Here as i sit with network of green to surround,
the Falcon soaring high in the blue sky,
a blanket of dew drops on the fresh green leaves,
shining a perpetual golden brown.
the silence and tranquility of the blissful air,
blueberry flowers on steep slopes of valley,
causing mystical ravines of my heart to flood with
beauty and sizzling
excitement,
the magic touch of heavenly green spreads all over,
there follows a heavy downpour of tropical rain,
macro droplets of water cascade everywhere,
with the grass blades crying out in anticipation to
swallow the rain drops,
clear and transparent, quenching their thirst for
divine blessings,
leaving them submerged in a river of celestial love.
tall pine trees had their drooping branches covered
with white snow,
shielded the valley in heat with their shade and
warmth,
enriching every inch of soil with their overgrown
root,
as golden rays of the sun shine on their leaves,
displaying vivid contrasts of velvety green and satin
yellow,
obscuring my eyes with film of salty tears,
enjoying this lovely rapturous sight,
fulfilling desires lurking in my soul with vibrant
echoes of ravishing
nature.
(c) (r) copyright-2004, by nikhil parekh. all rights reserved.
poem by Nikhil Parekh
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The Sun Is Out And Shining
The sun is out and shining and there's warmth in the breeze
And the weather rather pleasant around 21 degrees
And pink blossoms on the fruit trees and the wild birds chirp and sing
on this the first day of September and of the calendar Spring.
The poetess is out walking and a song is in her head
And she will write a poem this evening before she goes to bed
Her dedication to September her favourite month of the year
When Spring spreads her green beauty in the Southern Hemisphere.
The lovely golden whistler his song one can't mistake
In backyard on the mirror bush he whistled at daybreak
I'd like to think he piped for Spring though naturalists tell me
That the only reason birds sing is to defend their territory.
The sun is out and shining and Spring is in the air
And blossoms on the fruit trees and parks and gardens wear
Their green cloaks of September and there's warmth in the breeze
And the weather temperatures quite pleasant around 21 degrees.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Spring Again
Red, yellow, blue and green
Everywhere beauty is seen
And once again the colors of Spring
Are filling life in everything
And all these are sent by the God
Who is our creator and the Lord
Who wants to spread smile and hope
And lighten life's road all for a while
Where gentle touch of the breeze
Comes to us to bring us peace
And lovely shine of the sun
Embrace our souls in life's run
And miracles occur for us all
To save from painful and terrible fall
And life rolls out with a magical link
To wipe any stain of any painful stink
And tell us that its spring again
We must get ready to play again
Happiness of this lonely life
Where amazing dream of ours survive
And brings us hope in everything
For here comes life's another spring
And spread beauty of God to be seen
With red, yellow, blue and green.
Happy Spring 2011
poem by Seema Chowdhury
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Romance
MY Love dwelt in a Northern land.
A gray tower in a forest green
Was hers, and far on either hand
The long wash of the waves was seen,
And leagues on leagues of yellow sand,
The woven forest boughs between!
And through the silver Northern night
The sunset slowly died away,
And herds of strange deer, lily-white,
Stole forth among the branches gray;
About the coming of the light,
They fled like ghosts before the day!
I know not if the forest green
Still girdles round that castle gray;
I know not if the boughs between
The white deer vanish ere the day;
Above my Love the grass is green,
My heart is colder than the clay!
poem by Andrew Lang
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