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Song. Low hung the dark clouds

LOW hung the dark clouds on Plinlimmon's tall peak,
And slowly, yet surely, the winter drew near;
When Ellen, sweet Ellen, a tear on her cheek,
Exclaimed as we parted, 'In May I'll be here.'

How swiftly I ran up the mountain's steep height,
To catch the last glimpse of an object so dear!
And, when I no longer could keep her in sight,
I thought on her promise,....'In May I'll be here.'

Now gladly I mark from Plinlimmon's tall peak
The low-hanging vapours and clouds disappear,
And climb the rough mountain, thence Ellen to seek,
Repeating her promise....'In May I'll be here.'

But vainly I gaze the wide prospect around,
'T is May, yet no Ellen returning is near:
Oh, when shall I see her! when feel my heart bound,
As sweetly she cries, 'It is May, and I'm here!'

poem by Amelia Opie
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Songs Written to Welsh Airs

How fondly I gaze on the fast falling-leaves,
That mark, as I wander, the summer's decline;
And then I exclaim, while my conscious heart heaves,
"Thus early to droop and to perish be mine!"

Yet once I remember, in moments long past,
Most dear to my sight was the spring's opening bloom;
But then my youth's spring sorrow had not o'ercast,
Nor taught me with fondness to look on the tomb.

Fair Spring! now no longer these grief-faded eyes
Thy rich glowing beauties with pleasure can see;
Thy pale sickly hues, chilly Autumn, I prize,
They suit blighted hopes, and are emblems of me.

Where dost thou bide, blessed soul of my love!
Is ether thy dwelling, O whisper me where!
Rapt in remembrance, while lonely I rove,
I gaze on bright clouds, and I fancy thee there.

Or to thy bower when musing I go,
I think, 't is thy voice that I hear in the breeze;
Softly it seems to speak peace to my woe,
And life once again for a moment can please.

If this be phrensy alone, 't is so dear,
That long may the pleasing delusion be nigh;
Still Ellen's voice in the breeze may I hear,
Still see in bright clouds the kind beams of her eye!

Low hung the dark clouds on Plinlimmon's tall peak,
And slowly, yet surely, the winter drew near;
When Ellen, sweet Ellen, a tear on her cheek,
Exclaimed as we parted, "In May I'll be here."

How swiftly I ran up the mountain's steep height,
To catch the last glimpse of an object so dear!
And, when I no longer could keep her in sight,
I thought on her promise,...."In May I'll be here."

Now gladly I mark from Plinlimmon's tall peak
The low-hanging vapours and clouds disappear,
And climb the rough mountain, thence Ellen to seek,
Repeating her promise...."In May I'll be here."

But vainly I gaze the wide prospect around,
'T is May, yet no Ellen returning is near:
Oh, when shall I see her! when feel my heart bound,
As sweetly she cries, "It is May, and I'm here!"

You ask why these mountains delight me no more,
And why lovely Clwyd's attractions are o'er;
Ah! have you not heard, then, the cause of my pain?
The pride of fair Clwyd, the boast of the plain,
We never, no never, shall gaze on again!

What though from her coldness keen anguish I felt,
And vainly, to move her, in agony knelt;
Yet could I restore her, I'd never complain,
Not e'en though she doomed me to endless disdain....
I'd bear any torture to see her again.

I grieved when on others with kindness she gazed,
I mourned when another with pleasure she praised;
But could I recall her to life by my pain,
I'd urge her to favour some happier swain,
And wish no reward but to see her again.

Those beauties that charmed me, from death I would free,
Though sure that those beauties another's should be!
But truth, and affection, and grief are all vain;
The pride of fair Clwyd, the boast of our plain,
We never, ah never! can gaze on again!

poem by Amelia Opie
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Life As A Mountain

He stands at the bottom of the mountain.
The one he plans to climb.
He knows it'll have it's challenges,
And will take a lot of time.

So he beings his journey,
He tires very quick.
But the man, he journeys on,
The climb will be epic.

A week has passed, the man is lost,
But he does not dismay.
For he knows that he will reach the peak,
And looks forward to that day.

The climb it does continue,
The terrain is very steep.
To climb the mountain was his promise,
And his promise he will keep.

As he ventures higher,
He comes across some snow.
He slips and falls and tumbles down.
Then back upward he does go.

The man's now bruised and battered,
Cuts on his arms and legs and chest.
On the battle for the mountain,
He knows he will get the best.

He comes up to a rock face wall.
It's thousands of feet high.
But he continues on his quest.
Knowing he could die.

Years have past, the man's now old,
He continues to the peak.
His determination the strongest now,
But his body is frail and weak.

And then one day, he reached the top.
He was the happiest of men.
He said in a soft and gentle voice.
I'd surely do this again.

For our life is like a mountain.
Keep climbing and don't stop.
You'll not regret the climb you faced,
When you're standing on the top.

poem by Ryan Lee Morris
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Another Happy Day

Ellen Barkin, Ezra Miller, Kate Bosworth, Demi Moore, Thomas Haden Church, George Kennedy, Ellen Burstyn, Michael Nardelli

by Sam Levinson from Another Happy Day (2011)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sonnet- My Poetry

I thought I started climbing just a hill;
With time, it dawned to me it was a peak;
I knew I had to climb up further still,
The peak was nowhere seen that I did seek.

I wasn't a mountaineer to begin with;
I slowly learnt to climb requiring skill;
Tho' an accident, my climb had its pith,
With ease I'll climb the summit on the hill.

And now I know the gradient so well,
And dangers of the terrain I climb in;
When I will reach the peak, no one can tell,
But now onwards, my ambition's to win.
A beacon from above doth goad me on,
And soon a dress of starry clouds, I'll don.

poem by John Celes
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Ellen

Sweet star, of seraph brightness,
That for a transient day
Shed o'er our souls such lightness,
And then withdrew the ray!
O, with immortal lustre
Thou 'rt sparkling brightly now
Amid the gems that cluster
Around Jehovah's brow!

Yet many hearts are keeping
Lone vigils o'er thy grave,
Where all the hopes are sleeping
Which thy young promise gave.
The sleep which knows no waking
Hath closed thy sweet blue eyes,
And while our hearts are breaking
We glance toward the skies.

Ah! there a hope is given
That bids us dry the tear;
That bright star in the heaven,
With beams so wondrous clear;--
'Tis Ellen's 'distant Aidenn,'
Far in the realms above,
And those clear rays are laden
With her pure spirit's love.

poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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Forget-Me-Not

A gallant knight and his betroth'd bride,
Were walking one day by a river side,
They talk'd of love, and they talk'd of war,
And how very foolish lovers are.

At length the bride to the knight did say,
'There have been many young ladies led astray
By believing in all their lovers said,
And you are false to me I am afraid.'

'No, Ellen, I was never false to thee,
I never gave thee cause to doubt me;
I have always lov'd thee and do still,
And no other woman your place shall fill.'

'Dear Edwin, it may be true, but I am in doubt,
But there's some beautiful flowers here about,
Growing on the other side of the river,
But how to get one, I cannot discover.'

'Dear Ellen, they seem beautiful indeed,
But of them, dear, take no heed;
Because they are on the other side,
Besides, the river is deep and wide.'

'Dear Edwin, as I doubt your love to be untrue,
I ask one favour now from you:
Go! fetch me a flower from across the river,
Which will prove you love me more than ever.'

'Dear Ellen! I will try and fetch you a flower
If it lies within my power
To prove that I am true to you,
And what more can your Edwin do?'

So he leap'd into the river wide,
And swam across to the other side,
To fetch a flower for his young bride,
Who watched him eagerly on the other side.

So he pluck'd a flower right merrily
Which seemed to fill his heart with glee,
That it would please his lovely bride;
But, alas! he never got to the other side.

For when he tried to swim across,
All power of his body he did loss,
But before he sank in the river wide,
He flung the flowers to his lovely bride.

And he cried, 'Oh, heaven! hard is my lot,
My dearest Ellen! Forget me not:
For I was ever true to you,
My dearest Ellen! I bid thee adieu!'

Then she wrung her hands in wild despair,
Until her cries did rend the air;
And she cried, 'Edwin, dear, hard is out lot,
But I'll name this flower Forget-me-not.

'And I'll remember thee while I live,
And to no other man my hand I'll give,
And I will place my affection on this little flower,
And it will solace me in a lonely hour.'

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ellen Irwin

Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate
Upon the braes of Kirtle,
Was lovely as a Grecian maid
Adorned with wreaths of myrtle;
Young Adam Bruce beside her lay,
And there did they beguile the day
With love and gentle speeches,
Beneath the budding beeches.

From many knights and many squires
The Bruce had been selected;
And Gordon, fairest of them all,
By Ellen was rejected.
Sad tidings to that noble Youth!
For it may be proclaimed with truth,
If Bruce hath loved sincerely,
That Gordon loves as dearly.

But what are Gordon's form and face,
His shattered hopes and crosses,
To them, 'mid Kirtle's pleasant braes,
Reclined on flowers and mosses?
Alas that ever he was born!
The Gordon, couched behind a thorn,
Sees them and their caressing;
Beholds them blest and blessing.

Proud Gordon, maddened by the thoughts
That through his brain are travelling,
Rushed forth, and at the heart of Bruce
He launched a deadly javelin!
Fair Ellen saw it as it came,
And, starting up to meet the same,
Did with her body cover
The Youth, her chosen lover.

And, falling into Bruce's arms,
Thus died the beauteous Ellen,
Thus, from the heart of her True-love,
The mortal spear repelling.
And Bruce, as soon as he had slain
The Gordon, sailed away to Spain;
And fought with rage incessant
Against the Moorish crescent.

But many days, and many months,
And many years ensuing,
This wretched Knight did vainly seek
The death that he was wooing.
So, coming his last help to crave,
Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave
His body he extended,
And there his sorrow ended.

Now ye, who willingly have heard
The tale I have been telling,
May in Kirkconnel churchyard view
The grave of lovely Ellen:
By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid;
And, for the stone upon his head,
May no rude hand deface it,
And its forlorn "Hie jacet"!

poem by William Wordsworth
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Mary Ellen

It's mighty quiet in the house
Since Mary Ellen quit me cold;
I've swept the hearth and fed the mouse
That's getting fat and overbold.
I've bought a pig's foot for the pot
And soon I'll set the fire alight;
Then I may eat or I may not,
Depends upon my appetite.

Since Mary Ellen left me lone
I haven't earned a bloody bob.
I sit and sigh, and mope and moan,
And bellyache I quit my job.
My money's mostly gone,--I think
I ought to save it up for food . . .
But no, I'll blow it in for drink,
Then do a bunk for good.

I watch my mouse his whiskers preen;
He watches me with wicked glee.
Today--oh God! It's years sixteen
Since Mary Ellen wed with me.
Oh how the dear girl hated vermin!
She left rat poison on the shelf . . .
Friend Mouse, your doom I new determine
Then--how about myself?

poem by Robert William Service
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Marthy Ellen

They's nothin' in the name to strike
A feller more'n common like!
'Taint liable to git no praise
Ner nothin' like it nowadays;
An' yit that name o' her'n is jest
As purty as the purtiest--
And more 'n that, I'm here to say
I'll live a-thinkin' thataway
And die far Marthy Ellen!

It may be I was prejudust
In favor of it from the fust--
'Cause I kin ricollect jest how
We met, and hear her mother now
A-callin' of her down the road--
And, aggervatin' little toad!--
I see her now, jes' sort o' half-
Way disapp'inted, turn and laugh
And mock her--'Marthy Ellen!'

Our people never had no fuss,
And yit they never tuck to us;
We neighbered back and foreds some;
Until they see she liked to come
To our house--and me and her
Were jest together ever'whur
And all the time--and when they'd see
That I liked her and she liked me,
They'd holler 'Marthy Ellen!'

When we growed up, and they shet down
On me and her a-runnin' roun'
Together, and her father said
He'd never leave her nary red,
So he'p him, ef she married me,
And so on--and her mother she
Jest agged the gyrl, and said she 'lowed
She'd ruther see her in her shroud,
I _writ_ to Marthy Ellen--

That is, I kindo' tuck my pen
In hand, and stated whur and when
The undersigned would be that night,
With two good hosses saddled right
Far lively travelin' in case
Her folks 'ud like to jine the race.
She sent the same note back, and writ
'The rose is red!' right under it--
'Your 'n allus, Marthy Ellen.'

That's all, I reckon--Nothin' more
To tell but what you've heerd afore--
The same old story, sweeter though
Far all the trouble, don't you know.
Old-fashioned name! and yit it's jest
As purty as the purtiest;
And more 'n that, I'm here to say
I'll live a-thinking thataway,
And die far Marthy Ellen!

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Committing Suicide.

Suicide, will that happen to me? It is not I, who will
cause this final act in life, it is the dark side of
who I am. I want to live, however, the monster, who
resides inside me...wants to commit suicide.

Everything I do...everywhere I go, blackness, inevitable
doom, trails me. I hear his voice,
'Do it...commit suicide. You have nothing to live for...do it! '

Alone, I sob. 'What about the people that love me?
I don't want to hurt them.' His voice again...
'Do it. Kill yourself. You'll be doing them a favor.'

I stare at the bottle of sleeping pills. Suicide...suicide,
it seems a way to solve all my problems.
'YES! The voice blared! Suicide is the answer! '

Suicide? No. Yes.No...what...what to do?
I need to talk with someone. Who? No one!
God...if you're up there, help me. Give me
a sign. I wait...Nothing. No word. No sign.

Slowly, I move to the closet, remove my clothes
and slip on my favorite robe. Tears roll down
my cheeks, as I turn on some soft music.

The voice again: 'That's it. Make yourself comfortable,
then...do it! '

I move to the bed, sit down and reach for the glass
of water. With one hand, I snap off the cap on the
bottle of sleeping pills. Slowly, I move the bottle
toward my mouth.

''Ellen...Ellen? '
From outside my bedroom door, I can
hear my little brother calling me.
'Ellen....'

I hesitate, I don't want him to be the one
that finds me. Quickly, I place the pills
on the nightstand, and replace the cap.
I move to the door and open it.
My brother, is standing there, smiling at me.
'Ellen, watcha ya doin''

I couldn't say committing suicide.
'Just watching a little t.v.'
'Can I come in, ' he said.

I thought about how much he and my family
loved me. I thought about a bunch of other
things I had to be thankful for. I gave serious
about life, and I treasured it. Suicide?
Not tonight.

I look at my little brother and never loved
him more.

'Sure...come in, we'll watch t.v. together.'

poem by Joe Fazio
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Ellens' Story-Almost Dead