En.Citatepedia^®.ro

To Anna

This faded lip may oft to thee
As gay a smile, my Anna, wear,
As when in youth, from sorrow free,
I only shed the transient tear.

And oft chill Autumn's varying day,
Resembles April's genial hours;
And glitters with the noontide ray,
Though oftener dark with clouds and showers.

And, when I join the social throng,
This heart as warmly seems to glow
As when my pensive early song
Was only tuned to fancied woe.

And oft we see gay ivy's wreath
The tree with brilliant bloom o'erspread,
When, part its leaves, and gaze beneath,
We find the hidden tree is dead.

poem by Amelia Opie
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Summer Evening At Home

Come, lovely Evening! with thy smile of peace
Visit my humble dwelling; welcomed in,
Not with loud shouts, and the thronged city's din,
But with such sounds as bid all tumult cease
Of the sick heart; the grasshopper's faint pipe
Beneath the blades of dewy grass unripe,
The bleat of the lone lamb, the carol rude
Heard indistinctly from the village green,
The bird's last twitter, from the hedge-row seen,
Where, just before, the scattered crumbs I strewed,
To pay him for his farewell song;--all these
Touch soothingly the troubled ear, and please
The stilly-stirring fancies. Though my hours
(For I have drooped beneath life's early showers)
Pass lonely oft, and oft my heart is sad,
Yet I can leave the world, and feel most glad
To meet thee, Evening, here; here my own hand
Has decked with trees and shrubs the slopes around,
And whilst the leaves by dying airs are fanned,
Sweet to my spirit comes the farewell sound,
That seems to say: Forget the transient tear
Thy pale youth shed--Repose and Peace are here.

poem by William Lisle Bowles
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Interbeing Thoughts

interbeing...
the tear i cried
is as the same time
the raindropp that fell,
that fed the tree,
that burst into bloom!

the bloom is
at the same time
the smile that came after
the tear...

the tear and the smile
both parts of the same action...
and still, part of the inaction
of the mountain still,
where the tree reaches
and touches the sky...

the sky, the tree, the mountain,
the tear and the smile,
the same!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Has Sorrow Thy Young Days Shaded

Has sorrow thy young days shaded,
As clouds o'er the morning fleet?
Too fast have those young days faded
That, even in sorrow, were sweet?
Does Time with his cold wing wither
Each feeling that once was dear? --
Then, child of misfortune, come hither,
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

Has love to that soul, so tender,
Been like our Lagenian mine,
Where sparkles of golden splendour
All over the surface shine --
But, if in pursuit we go deeper,
Allured by the gleam that shone,
Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper,
Like Love, the bright ore is gone.

Has Hope, like the bird in the story,
That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory --
Has Hope been that bird to thee?
On branch after branch alighting,
The gem did she still display,
And, when nearest, and most inviting,
Then waft the fair gem away?

If thus the young hours have fleeted,
When sorrow itself look'd bright;
If thus the fair hope hath cheated,
That led thee along so light;
If thus the cold world now wither
Each feeling that once was dear --
Come, child of misfortune, come hither,
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

poem by Thomas Moore
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Autumnal Nightfall

Round Autumn's mouldering urn
Loud mourns the chill and cheerless gale,
When nightfall shades the quiet vale
And stars in beauty burn.

'Tis the year's eventide.
The wind, like one that sighs in pain
O?er joys that ne'er will bloom again
Mourns on the far hillside.

And yet my pensive eye
Rests on the faint blue mountain long;
And for the fairy-land of song,
That lies beyond, I sigh.

The moon unveils her brow;
In the mid-sky her urn glows bright,
And in her sad and mellowing light
The valley sleeps below.

Upon the hazel gray
The lyre of Autumn hangs unstrung
And o?er its tremulous chords are flung
The fringes of decay.

I stand deep musing here,
Beneath the dark and motionless beech,
Whilst wandering winds of nightfall reach
My melancholy ear.

The air breathes chill and free:
A spirit in soft music calls
From Autumn's gray and moss-grown halls,
And round her withered tree.

The hoar and mantled oak,
With moss and twisted ivy brown,
Bends in its lifeless beauty down
Where weeds the fountain choke.

That fountain's hollow voice
Echoes the sound of precious things;
Of early feeling's tuneful springs
Choked with our blighted joys.

Leaves, that the night-wind bears
To earth's cold bosom with a sign,
Are types of our mortality,
And of our fading years.

The tree that shades the plain,
Wasting and hoar as time decays,
Spring shall renew with cheerful days,--
But not my joys again.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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My Oak Tree

My taste for love is what I long,
The secret so full and free
My heart of love beats every day
Because of this Oak Tree

The beauty of its leaves, we seldom admire
Oh Creator Lord to thee
How foolish our paths would have been
If it wasn’t for this Oak Tree

How quickly this seed germinated
Our eyes could hardly see
I treasured every moment
Beneath this Oak Tree

As little children we play and hide
How sweet are those memories to me?
The games we played, the jokes we shared
Beneath this Oak Tree

I would never forget this Oak Tree dear
For she is very dear to me
It matters not how grey I get
For my Mother is that Oak Tree

I watched this tree as the leaves got dry
The limbs begin to break
I fell to my knees, and begged the Lord
“Please don’t you this Oak Tree take”

Lord, if this tree should bend its head
I dread that day to see
May time give way to that glorious day
When we meet in eternity.

poem by Troy Brown
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The Alder Tree

Alder tree, O alder tree,
Over his grave reclining;
I've braided a wreath of the fairest flowers
That ever were fed by the spring-time showers.
Or nursed by the summer shining.
Short, but lovely, their lives have been,
Like his in the damp sod sleeping,
And I strew them now on the hillock green,
Where a mournful watch I'm keeping.

Alder tree! O alder tree!
Is it a voice of sorrow
That sighs 'mong thy leaves in the silent night,
When the radiant hue of the moonshine bright
Announceth a pleasant morrow?
'Tis a voice of wailing, O alder tree,
'Tis the evening breeze that weepeth,
'Tis the nightingale singing a song like me,
O'er the grave where my loved one sleepeth!

poem by Charles Mackay
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Sonnet to Evening

[Written under a tree in the woods of St. Amand, in Flanders.]

SWEET BALMY HOUR! ­dear to the pensive mind,
Oft have I watch'd thy dark and weeping shade,
Oft have I hail'd thee in the dewy glade,
And drop'd a tear of SYMPATHY refin'd.

When humming bees, hid in their golden bow'rs,
Sip the pure nectar of MAY'S blushing rose,
Or faint with noon-day toils, their limbs repose,
In Baths of Essence stol'n from sunny flow'rs.

Oft do I seek thy shade dear with'ring tree,
Sad emblem of my OWN disast'rous state;
Doom'd in the spring of life, alas ! like THEE
To fade, and droop beneath the frowns of FATE;
Like THEE, may Heaven to ME the meed bestow,
To shelter Sorrow's tear, and sooth THE CHILD OF WOE.

poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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The Last Rose Of The Fall

Her pink petals strewn upon the grass beside her mother tree
In full bloom a thing of Nature so beautiful to see
Where the gleaners of Nature's decay grubs, slugs and insects crawl
Last week she looked so beautiful the last rose of the Fall.

So bare and thorny looking without her leaves and flowers
The rose tree looks forlorn in the cool Autumn showers
Next Summer again pink roses she will wear
The rose tree in bloom has a beauty that's rare.

The beauty of Nature is seen Worldwide
In town parks and gardens and in the countryside
And Nature herself she lives on every shore
The one destined to live forever more.

For the gleaners of Nature who live on decay
The beautiful rose petals on the grass lay
But the rose whose life span can be measured in hours
Her fate it is not any different to ours.

poem by Francis Duggan
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To A Friend of My Youth

We met in childhood—careless met,
Nor wept to think that we must sever;
We parted with no fond regret—
No tear lest we should part forever.

Our souls had not commingled then;
The wreath of Friendship had not bound us;
We knew not we should meet again,—
And yet our parting did not wound us.

Again we met—long years have flown,
The sun of youth has risen o'er us,
And friends we loved have smiled and gone,
And changing scenes have pass'd before us.—

We meet!—but not again to part,
Without one transient pang of mourning;
Oh no! the burning tear would start,
At thought of joys no more returning.

For we have stray'd at silent eve,
Beneath the crescent brightly beaming,
And social converse loved to weave,
Around the warm hearth cheerful gleaming.

We yet may part—in distant land
Afar to roam we know not whither—
But still be Friendship's flowery band
The wreath that twines our souls together.

poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Song is Not Dead

Song is not dead, although to-day
Men tell us everything is said.
There yet is something left to say,
Song is not dead.

While still the evening sky is red,
While still the morning gold and grey,
While still the autumn leaves are shed,

While still the heart of youth is gay,
And honour crowns the hoary head,
While men and women love and pray
Song is not dead.

poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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I Would I Were the Glow-Worm

I would I were the glow-worm, thou the flower,
That I might fill thy cup with glimmering light;
I would I were the bird, and thou the bower,
To sing thee songs throughout the summer night.

I would I were a pine tree deeply rooted,
And thou the lofty, cloud-beleaguered rock,
Still, while the blasts of heaven around us hooted,
To cleave to thee and weather every shock.

I would I were the rill, and thou the river;
So might I, leaping from some headlong steep,
With all my waters lost in thine for ever,
Be hurried onwards to the unfathomed deep.

I would--what would I not? O foolish dreaming!
My words are but as leaves by autumn shed,
That, in the faded moonlight idly gleaming,
Drop on the grave where all our love lies dead.

poem by Mathilde Blind
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Leaves Compared with Flowers

A tree's leaves may be ever so good,
So may its bar, so may its wood;
But unless you put the right thing to its root
It never will show much flower or fruit.

But I may be one who does not care
Ever to have tree bloom or bear.
Leaves for smooth and bark for rough,
Leaves and bark may be tree enough.

Some giant trees have bloom so small
They might as well have none at all.
Late in life I have come on fern.
Now lichens are due to have their turn.

I bade men tell me which in brief,
Which is fairer, flower or leaf.
They did not have the wit to say,
Leaves by night and flowers by day.

Leaves and bar, leaves and bark,
To lean against and hear in the dark.
Petals I may have once pursued.
Leaves are all my darker mood.

poem by Robert Frost
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Bohemian Folk-Song

(From the French)
The moon was in the sky,
Pale, pale her light had grown
I went into the forest
All alone.

All alone,
My heart was well-nigh glad,
But when I thought of thee
Grief came and made me sad.

It came with the winds of autumn
When the dead leaves drop from the tree,
Because thy heart hath forgotten
Thy lover afar from thee.

It came with the rain fast falling
Through the dead leaves again,
Because that over a dead love
The heart must weep like rain.

poem by Arthur Symons
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Listen to The Song of Invisible Bird!

Listen to The Song of that invisible bird,
The Song of great singer several souls heard,
Sings sitting on tree of life, hidden under every leaf,
Its song go unheard by those pretend deaf,

Ever tuned to that great music,
Everytime it sings same song,
But with different lyrics and different words,
Autumn may come followed by spring,
Leaves may fall to make way to new,
Each leaf has that song, the bird flies under cover of green leaf,
When old yellow one fall,
Green leaves should learn from the fall of the old!

One can wait flowers to bloom,
Or can reap all fruits mature,
or remove immature buds or raw fruits,

The tree of life spread to several worlds,
One parallel to other,
Makes one world happy by another,
some may cross and intersect,
only to give or take life!

Come an sit near a flower,
Look at frog waiting for insects to come,
The invisible bird sings its song,
May it be heart of the flower,
It is flower for you,
source of nectar to insects,
place where frog gets its food!

It is cage for that bird ready to fly,
enters as nectar into insect,
and it enters frog as insects,
and moves along food chain,
It may be invisible to these eyes,
Yet it has its flight can be seen,
Look at your heart, the same bird sing,
Who knows when and where is its next flight?

poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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The Fallen Leaves

I.

WE stand among the fallen leaves,
Young children at our play,
And laugh to see the yellow things
Go rustling on their way:
Right merrily we hunt them down,
The autumn winds and we,
Nor pause to gaze where snow-drifts lie,
Or sunbeams gild the tree:
With dancing feet we leap along
Where wither'd boughs are strown;
Nor past nor future checks our song--
The present is our own.
II.

We stand among the fallen leaves
In youth's enchanted spring--
When Hope (who wearies at the last)
First spreads her eagle wing.
We tread with steps of conscious strength
Beneath the leafless trees,
And the colour kindles on our cheek
As blows the winter breeze;
While, gazing towards the cold grey sky,
Clouded with snow and rain,
We wish the old year all past by,
And the young spring come again.
III.

We stand among the fallen leaves
In manhood's haughty prime--
When first our pausing hearts begin
To love 'the olden time;'
And, as we gaze, we sigh to think
How many a year hath pass'd
Since 'neath those cold and faded trees
Our footsteps wander'd last;
And old companions--now perchance
Estranged, forgot, or dead--
Come round us, as those autumn leaves
Are crush'd beneath our tread.
IV.

We stand among the fallen leaves
In our own autumn day--
And, tott'ring on with feeble steps,
Pursue our cheerless way.
We look not back--too long ago
Hath all we loved been lost;
Nor forward--for we may not live
To see our new hope cross'd:
But on we go--the sun's faint beam
A feeble warmth imparts--
Childhood without its joy returns--
The present fills our hearts!

poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Lines On The Death Of S. Oliver Torrey

SECRETARY OF THE BOSTON YOUNG MEN'S ANTI-SLAVERY SOCIETY.

Gone before us, O our brother,
To the spirit-land!
Vainly look we for another
In thy place to stand.
Who shall offer youth and beauty
On the wasting shrine
Of a stern and lofty duty,
With a faith like thine?

Oh, thy gentle smile of greeting
Who again shall see?
Who amidst the solemn meeting
Gaze again on thee?
Who when peril gathers o'er us,
Wear so calm a brow?
Who, with evil men before us,
So serene as thou?

Early hath the spoiler found thee,
Brother of our love!
Autumn's faded earth around thee,
And its storms above!
Evermore that turf lie lightly,
And, with future showers,
O'er thy slumbers fresh and brightly
Blow the summer flowers

In the locks thy forehead gracing,
Not a silvery streak;
Nor a line of sorrow's tracing
On thy fair young cheek;
Eyes of light and lips of roses,
Such as Hylas wore,--
Over all that curtain closes,
Which shall rise no more!

Will the vigil Love is keeping
Round that grave of thine,
Mournfully, like Jazer weeping
Over Sibmah's vine;
Will the pleasant memories, swelling
Gentle hearts, of thee,
In the spirit's distant dwelling
All unheeded be?

If the spirit ever gazes,
From its journeyings, back;
If the immortal ever traces
O'er its mortal track;
Wilt thou not, O brother, meet us
Sometimes on our way,
And, in hours of sadness, greet us
As a spirit may?

Peace be with thee, O our brother,
In the spirit-land
Vainly look we for another
In thy place to stand.
Unto Truth and Freedom giving
All thy early powers,
Be thy virtues with the living,
And thy spirit ours!

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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The Linnet And The Cat

WHEN fading Autumn's latest hours
Strip the brown wood, and chill the flowers,--
When evening, wint'ry, short, and pale,
Expires in many a hollow gale,--
And only morn herself looks gay,
When first she throws her quiv'ring ray
Where the light frost congeals the dew,
Flushing the turf with purple hue;
Gay bloom, whose transient glow can shed
A charm like Summer when 'tis fled!--
A Linnet among leafless trees
Sung, in the pauses of the breeze,

His farewell note, to fancy dear,
That ends the music of the year.
The short'ning day, the sadd'ning sky,
With frost and famine low'ring nigh;
The Summer's dirge he seem'd to sing,
And droop'd his elegiac wing.
Poor Bird! he read amiss his fate,
Nor saw the horrors of his state:
A prowling Cat, with jetty skin,--
Dark emblem of the mind within,--
Who feels no sympathetic pain,
Who hears unmov'd the sweetest strain,--
Fit but 'for stratagem and spoil,'
Mischief his pleasure and his toil,
Drew near--and shook the wither'd leaves;--
The Linnet's flutt'ring bosom heaves--
Alarm'd he hears the rustling sound;
He starts--he pauses--looks around;
Too late--more near the savage draws,
And grasps the victim in his jaws!

The Linnet's muse, a tim'rous maid,
Saw, and to Molly scream'd for aid;
A tear then fill'd her earnest eye,
Useless as dews on desarts lie;
But Molly's pity fell like showers
That feed the plants, and wake the flowers;
Heroic Molly dauntless flew,
And, scorning all his claws could do,
Snatch'd from Grimalkin's teeth his prey,
And bore him in her breast away.
His beating heart and wings declare
How small his hope of safety there;
Still the dire foe he seem'd to see,
And scarce could fancy he was free.
Awhile he cow'rd on Molly's breast,
Then upward sprung, and sought his nest.
Dear Molly! for thy tender speed,
Thy fearless pity's gentle deed,

A ribbon-garland, 'rosy red,'
My votive gift, shall deck thy head;
That garland at the village fair
Shalt thou, dear maid, in triumph wear;
And may the blooming wreath obtain
The youth thy heart desires to gain.
And thou, sweet Bird, whom rapture fills,
Who feel'st no sense of future ills,--
That sense which human peace destroys,
And murders all our present joys,--
Still soothe with song th' autumnal hours;
And when the wint'ry tempest lowers,
When snow thy shiv'ring plumes shall fill,
And icicles shall load thy bill,
Come fearless to my friendly shed,
This careful hand the crumbs shall spread,
Then peck secure, these watchful eyes
Shall guard my Linnet from surprise.

poem by Helen Maria Williams
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The Dreaming Tree

Standing here
The old man said to me
Long before these crowded streets
Here stood my dreaming tree
Below it he would sit
For hours at a time
Now progress takes away
What forever took to find
Now hes falling hard
He feels the falling dark
How he longs to be
Beneath his dreaming tree
Conquered fear to climb
A moment froze in time
When the girl who first he kissed
Promised him shed be his
Remembered mothers words
There beneath the tree
No matter what the world
Youll always be my baby
Mommy come quick
The dreaming tree has died
The air is growing thick
A fear he cannot hide
The dreaming tree has died
Oh have you no pity
This thing I do
I do not deny it
All through this smile
As crooked as danger
I do not deny
I know in my mind
I would leave you now
If I had the strength to
I would leave you up
To your own devices
Will you not talk
Can you take pity
I dont ask much
But wont you speak
Please
From the start
She knew she had it made
Easy up til then
For sure shed make the grade
Adorers came in hordes
To lay down in her wake
She gave it all she had
But treasures slowly fade
Now shes falling hard
She feels the fall of dark
How did this fall apart
She drinks to fill it up
A smile of sweetest flowers
Wilted so and soured
Black tears stain the cheeks
That once were so admired
She thinks when she was small
There on her fathers knee
How he had promised her
You1ll always be my baby
Daddy come quick
The dreaming tree has died
I cant find my way home
There is no place to hide
The dreaming tree has died
Oh if I had the strength...
Take me back
Save me please

song performed by by Dave Matthews Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Thread scrawled in Timely Autumn

I watch thousands of leaves drift underneath trees,
while in a tree I sat observing
timely autumn air fetching birds –
to gather above the vegetation high up in the blue
birds rise and utter messages
as timely autumn descends on our…?
On our befallen part globe.

To hear the beauty of innocence across
the damp fall ground;
vibrating, that autumn is
going to flee away and…?
And in comes the disturbing winter breeze –
bring out a smile gloating out
on the stricken faces.

Nations fall dead from autumn exhaustion.
Oh timely autumn has come to soon –
to bear a reason of befallen:
sleeping illnesses
on our old earth.
Red, brown, orange, yell a glow
Buried in leaves is our part globe.
And stricken faces
of shadows
flee away into the nest of warmth
as worrying winter breeze crawls
in, regretfully not,
but gleefully.
Swirling around, sneaking in?
In ajar windows.

Oh season is it time
for timely autumn colour to leave
our autumn colour world into
winter darkness?
Not welcomingly the
winter nips at my thin nose
as I watch above
high in this forlorn tree
with no leaves! But what?
Empty branches of crystal snow.

poem by Celine Berghmans
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Love

Whilst tracing thy visage I sink in emotion,
For no other damsel so wond'rous I see;
Thy looks are so pleasing, thy charms so amazing,
I think of no other, my true-love, but thee.

With heart-burning rapture I gaze on thy beauty,
And fly like a bird to the boughs of a tree;
Thy looks are so pleasing, thy charms so amazing,
I fancy no other, my true-love, but thee.

Thus oft in the valley I think, and I wonder
Why cannot a maid with her lover agree?
Thy looks are so pleasing, thy charms so amazing,
I pine for no other, my true-love, but thee.

I'd fly from thy frowns with a heart full of sorrow--
Return, pretty damsel, and smile thou on me;
By every endeavor, I'll try thee forever,
And languish until I am fancied by thee.

poem by George Moses Horton
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