The Old House
In through the porch and up the silent stair;
Little is changed, I know so well the ways;--
Here, the dead came to meet me; it was there
The dream was dreamed in unforgotten days.
But who is this that hurries on before,
A flitting shade the brooding shades among?--
She turned,--I saw her face,--O God, it wore
The face I used to wear when I was young!
I thought my spirit and my heart were tamed
To deadness; dead the pangs that agonise.
The old grief springs to choke me,--I am shamed
Before that little ghost with eager eyes.
O turn away, let her not see, not know!
How should she bear it, how should understand?
O hasten down the stairway, haste and go,
And leave her dreaming in the silent land.
Related quotes
Changes
I still don't know what I was waiting for
And my time was running wild
A million dead-end streets
Every time I thought I'd got it made
It seemed the taste was not so sweet
So I turned myself to face me
But I've never caught a glimpse
Of how the others must see the faker
I'm much too fast to take that test
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the stranger)
Ch-ch-Changes
Don't want to be a richer man
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the stranger)
Ch-ch-Changes
Just gonna have to be a different man
Time may change me
But I can't trace time
I watch the ripples change their size
But never leave the stream
Of warm impermanence and
So the days float through my eyes
But still the days seem the same
And these children that you spit on
As they try to change their worlds
Are immune to your consultations
They're quite aware of what they're going through
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the stranger)
Ch-ch-Changes
Don't tell them to grow up and out of it
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the stranger)
Ch-ch-Changes
Where's your shame
You've left us up to our necks in it
Time may change me
But you can't trace time
Strange fascination
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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End Of A Dream
Dream.....
End of a dream.....
Where do you stand
at the end of
a dream..
All is behind; 'round in your
head
Splinters of sound, words that
were said;
Broken like toys, days that were
planned
Gone into mist, sunk into sand
There's no place to stand
At the end of a dream.....
End.....
End of a dream.....
Where do you go
At the end of a dream.....
Where is another way
where on this earth
Some thing of value
some thing of worth
A burned over land
Blackened by fire
No eager glee now
No hearts desire.....
END OF A DREAM
There's no place to go
At the end of a dream.....
End.....
End of a dream.....
What do you do
At the end of a dream....
Nothings ahead now.....
Something like lead
Lies where your heart lay:
Something is dead.....
An empty glass......to turn in
the hand
Wine is no more now,
you can't understand.....
There's nothing to do
At the end of a dream.....
Dream.....
End of a dream......
What do you learn
at the end of a dream.....
There's some little glow; more
than you know
Something that someday will
burst into flame
Flame into joy......
you'll understand
Green trees will grow again on
burnt-over land.....
END OF A DREAM
There's something to learn
at the of a dream....
End of a dream....
End of a dream.....
There's something to learn
FROM
The End Of A Dream.....
poem by Isabelle Cooper
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The House Of Dust: Part 03: 02: The Screen Maiden
You read—what is it, then that you are reading?
What music moves so silently in your mind?
Your bright hand turns the page.
I watch you from my window, unsuspected:
You move in an alien land, a silent age . . .
. . . The poet—what was his name—? Tokkei—Tokkei—
The poet walked alone in a cold late rain,
And thought his grief was like the crying of sea-birds;
For his lover was dead, he never would love again.
Rain in the dreams of the mind—rain forever—
Rain in the sky of the heart—rain in the willows—
But then he saw this face, this face like flame,
This quiet lady, this portrait by Hiroshigi;
And took it home with him; and with it came
What unexpected changes, subtle as weather!
The dark room, cold as rain,
Grew faintly fragrant, stirred with a stir of April,
Warmed its corners with light again,
And smoke of incense whirled about this portrait,
And the quiet lady there,
So young, so quietly smiling, with calm hands,
Seemed ready to loose her hair,
And smile, and lean from the picture, or say one word,
The word already clear,
Which seemed to rise like light between her eyelids . .
He held his breath to hear,
And smiled for shame, and drank a cup of wine,
And held a candle, and searched her face
Through all the little shadows, to see what secret
Might give so warm a grace . . .
Was it the quiet mouth, restrained a little?
The eyes, half-turned aside?
The jade ring on her wrist, still almost swinging? . . .
The secret was denied,
He chose his favorite pen and drew these verses,
And slept; and as he slept
A dream came into his heart, his lover entered,
And chided him, and wept.
And in the morning, waking, he remembered,
And thought the dream was strange.
Why did his darkened lover rise from the garden?
He turned, and felt a change,
As if a someone hidden smiled and watched him . . .
Yet there was only sunlight there.
Until he saw those young eyes, quietly smiling,
And held his breath to stare,
And could have sworn her cheek had turned—a little . . .
Had slightly turned away . . .
Sunlight dozed on the floor . . . He sat and wondered,
Nor left his room that day.
And that day, and for many days thereafter,
He sat alone, and thought
No lady had ever lived so beautiful
As Hiroshigi wrought . . .
Or if she lived, no matter in what country,
By what far river or hill or lonely sea,
He would look in every face until he found her . . .
There was no other as fair as she.
And before her quiet face he burned soft incense,
And brought her every day
Boughs of the peach, or almond, or snow-white cherry,
And somehow, she seemed to say,
That silent lady, young, and quietly smiling,
That she was happy there;
And sometimes, seeing this, he started to tremble,
And desired to touch her hair,
To lay his palm along her hand, touch faintly
With delicate finger-tips
The ghostly smile that seemed to hover and vanish
Upon her lips . . .
Until he knew he loved this quiet lady;
And night by night a dread
Leered at his dreams, for he knew that Hiroshigi
Was many centuries dead,—
And the lady, too, was dead, and all who knew her . .
Dead, and long turned to dust . . .
The thin moon waxed and waned, and left him paler,
The peach leaves flew in a gust,
And he would surely have died; but there one day
A wise man, white with age,
Stared at the portrait, and said, 'This Hiroshigi
Knew more than archimage,—
Cunningly drew the body, and called the spirit,
Till partly it entered there . . .
Sometimes, at death, it entered the portrait wholly . .
Do all I say with care,
And she you love may come to you when you call her . . . '
So then this ghost, Tokkei,
Ran in the sun, bought wine of a hundred merchants,
And alone at the end of day
Entered the darkening room, and faced the portrait,
And saw the quiet eyes
Gleaming and young in the dusk, and held the wine-cup,
And knelt, and did not rise,
And said, aloud, 'Lo-san, will you drink this wine?'
Said it three times aloud.
And at the third the faint blue smoke of incense
Rose to the walls in a cloud,
And the lips moved faintly, and the eyes, and the calm hands stirred;
And suddenly, with a sigh,
The quiet lady came slowly down from the portrait,
And stood, while worlds went by,
And lifted her young white hands and took the wine cup;
And the poet trembled, and said,
'Lo-san, will you stay forever?'—'Yes, I will stay.'—
'But what when I am dead?'
'When you are dead your spirit will find my spirit,
And then we shall die no more.'
Music came down upon them, and spring returning,
They remembered worlds before,
And years went over the earth, and over the sea,
And lovers were born and spoke and died,
But forever in sunlight went these two immortal,
Tokkei and the quiet bride . . .
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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My Dream Come True Just Turned Out To Be A Dream
Had Many Dreams
of Course you and I.
But my Dream Come True,
Just turned out to be a dream.
Badly did I want it to come true..
But it is really true,
True that
My Dream Come True,
Just turned out to be a dream.
We Dreamt of it Each Night,
Thought of it Each Day
My Dream Come True,
Just turned out to be a dream.
We Bickered With it all day
Through out our ways
But we still remained,
Remained unaware that
The Dream Come True,
Will just turn out to be a Dream.
We imagined us there
But we truly couldn't bear,
Bare that
Our Dream Come True,
Will just turned out to be a dream.
Up the Mountains,
Did we wish to go...
To the land of streams and snow
Did we wish to go…
But we didn't ever know,
Know that,
We'd sacrifice a soul…
Give it up as a whole
I wished we hadn't done that
So did all…
But we never ever knew
That the pass to enter the mounts,
Was to sacrifice a soul....
Mountains and rivulets,
Kept beckoning us…
The days faded away...
And at last
Towards them we made our Sway!
We called ourselves lucky,
Without knowing we weren't.
We Beamed with Pride
Over flowed with Joy.
But we stilled remained Unaware
That we'd sacrifice a soul.
And
Our Dream Come True,
Will just turn out to be a dream.
UP the divine land,
We were to be.
But couldn't we ever think,
Think one of us would reach Far Above
And Above to the Heaven.
We didn't imagine
She'd fly without us
FLY SO HIGH
High to the Heaven.
To make our dream come true
Just turn out to become a dream
And just a Dream
Mourning her removal from the Earth
Praying for her Placement in the Heaven,
We slid down the Mountains…
Being one less
One less than how many arrived
Our Dream Come true
JUST Turned out to be a DREAM!
It is Really True,
True That
Our Dream Come True,
Just turned out to be a dream.
A Dream Unforgettable…
poem by Rishi Kaashyap
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Face Up
Ever since Ive seen your face
This life of mine has gone to waste
I was young and you were old
And I always knew you were cold
At the start you had a heart
But in the end you lost your friend
Can you see your own dark face?
Its dieing in a lonely place
Oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
I said, oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
As we get old, we lose our place
Reflecting back the worlds disgrace
I feel so low, I feel so humble
Sometimes in life we take a tumble
Dont let anybody tell you that youre no good
Cause you know they would
Dont let anybody tell you what you should do
Cause its not that way and...
Oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
I said, oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
We were young and we were pure
And life was just an open door
I said oh, oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
You were me and I was you
This world of ours it felt brand new
You took me a little further...
I heard it all before, Ive heard it all before
I cant hear it anymore
Your hair was long, your eyes was blue
Guess what Im gonna do to you
Oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
I said, oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
We were young and we were pure
And life was just an open door
I said oh, oh, how I cannot bear the thought...
Oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
I said oh, oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
We were young and we were pure...
song performed by by New Order
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lay It Away
We will lay our summer away, my friend,
So tenderly lay it away.
It was bright and sweet to the very end,
Like one long, golden day.
Nothing sweeter could come to me,
Nothing sweeter to you.
We will lay it away, and let it be,
Hid from the whole world’s view.
We will lay it away like a dear, dead thing –
Dead, yet for ever fair;
And the fresh green robes of a deathless spring,
Though dead, it shall alaways wear.
We will not hide it in grave or tomb,
But lay it away to sleep,
Guarded by beauty, and light, and bloom,
Wrapped in a slumber deep.
We were willing to let the summer go –
Willing to go our own ways;
But never on earth again I know
Will either find such days.
You are my friend, and it may seem strange,
But I would not see you again;
I would think of you, though all things change,
Just as I knew you then.
If we should go back to the olden place,
And the summer time went too,
It would be like looking a ghost in the face,
So much would be changed and new.
We cannot live it over again,
Not even a single day;
And as something sweet, and free from pain,
We had better let it away.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Natalia’s Resurrection: Sonnet VI
So he departed angry and in haste,
A bitter wanderer on the ways of life:
He cared not whither so he found a feast
Spread for his hunger which should need no strife.
He went out silent, scornful and alone,
That none might pity him. He would not make
Of his too public grief a public moan,
Nor yet feign laughter for his manhood's sake,
For now that love was lost he less had heart
To cast his pride too on the dunghill there,
And his were griefs where none could bear a part,
And his a cup of pain no lips could share.
He went his way, to Germany some said,
And some to Naples, some that he was dead.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Carried Water
I have carried water in buckets for many,
a bucket that leaked.
I have caught tears
before they fell to dead ground.
I've held hands,
cut my own hand reaching out;
felled those who would harm
and saved many who knew nothing of me;
helped the foolish,
shielded the innocents
and never gave on that it was me,
or even that I cared.
There are, too,
a few I have buried
in the dark ground
turned away and carried on-
because of the needs of living-
who all looked at me-
soon as the first dirt fell
on the casket lid.
I may never die,
that would be letting too many others down;
and I couldn't do that.
My silent face
does not reveal all this
and this is as it should be
I can't step up to demand credit.
That is not like me.
And now I stand at store counters
count my change and my memories
knowing full well that while some know
most don't and never will
nor could they
understand the silent gnawing sacrifice
that much of life
is for many of us:
wives, husbands, grandfathers and grand mothers
yellow photos on the fireplace mantel
yester years' phantoms
who built the very ground the young ones walk on
and yet they don't know.
And I am not the one to tell
because all my auidences,
the ones who might appreciate,
have all gone.
So lonely is the peaceful silence I allow my self
knowing that gratitude in the later years
means you had to have been there
and most now were not there
so it is unreasonable to expect they'd understand
those long agos
when I was young
and, of course, knew everything.
To them I sit in the rocking chair
a fixture on the porch
symbol of a long ago
still here
but soon to be gone.
But no, that is not the way it really is.
I am their own yesterday
which I spent
making sure
they would have a tomorrow
and a silent witness to their Now
which even if unacknowledged
makes me proud.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Ghost Bear, page 1 of 4
Long ago, in a small village
Where the Great River meets the
Limitless Salt Sea, lived Muin Manitu,
An aging shaman.
Ghost Bear had two good wives
Who gave him four fine daughters
And many grand-children.
But now both wives were dead.
Ghost Bear was getting old,
So old that he made his death song
Mumbling it often under his breath
So he would not forget it.
One night, Raven came to Ghost Bear
In a dream, bringing an important message.
“You must leave wigwam and village,
before the sun rises again.”
“This must be my time, ” thought
Ghost Bear, “My time to die.
I am glad. It is a good time
to leave this world.”
And so, taking only his knife and
His Medicine Bag, Ghost Bear pushed
His canoe out into the river while
All the village slept.
“I will go west on the Great River, ”
Thought Ghost Bear to himself, “Then,
When it is my time to go, I will be
pointed in the right direction.”
All morning long, Ghost Bear paddled
Westward on the Great River, and when
Sun was directly above him, he saw
A raven flying high above.
“I am going true, ” he thought, “Raven
Has sent me an unmistakeable sign.”
And Ghost Bear kept paddling with
Neither food nor drink.
As day became night, Ghost Bear
Continued on, for the full moon was bright
And showed him the right path on the
Great River clearly, brightly.
poem by John Bliven Morin
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To Daisies
Ah, drops of gold in whitening flame
Burning, we know your lovely name -
Daisies, that little children pull!
Like all weak things, over the strong
Ye do not know your power for wrong,
And much abuse your feebleness.
Daisies, that little children pull,
As ye are weak, be merciful!
O hide your eyes! they are to me
Beautiful insupportably.
Or be but conscious ye are fair,
And I your loveliness could bear,
But, being fair so without art,
Ye vex the silted memories of my heart!
As a pale ghost yearning strays
With sundered gaze,
'Mid corporal presences that are
To it impalpable - such a bar
Sets you more distant than the morning-star.
Such wonder is on you, and amaze,
I look and marvel if I be
Indeed the phantom, or are ye?
The light is on your innocence
Which fell from me.
The fields ye still inhabit whence
My world-acquainted treading strays,
The country where I did commence;
And though ye shine to me so near,
So close to gross and visible sense, -
Between us lies impassable year on year.
To other time and far-off place
Belongs your beauty: silent thus,
Though to other naught you tell,
To me your ranks are rumorous
Of an ancient miracle.
Vain does my touch your petals graze,
I touch you not; and though ye blossom here,
Your roots are fast in alienated days.
Ye there are anchored, while Time's stream
Has swept me past them: your white ways
And infantile delights do seem
To look in on me like a face,
Dead and sweet, come back through dream,
With tears, because for old embrace
It has no arms.
These hands did toy,
Children, with you, when I was child,
And in each other's eyes we smiled:
Not yours, not yours the grievous-fair
Apparelling
With which you wet mine eyes; you wear,
Ah me, the garment of the grace
I wove you when I was a boy;
O mine, and not the year's your stolen Spring!
And since ye wear it,
Hide your sweet selves! I cannot bear it.
For when ye break the cloven earth
With your young laughter and endearment,
No blossomy carillon 'tis of mirth
To me; I see my slaughtered joy
Bursting its cerement.
poem by Francis Thompson
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Hope Dieth: Hope Liveth
Strong are thine arms, O love, & strong
Thine heart to live, and love, and long;
But thou art wed to grief and wrong:
Live, then, and long, though hope be dead!
Live on, & labour thro’ the years!
Make pictures through the mist of tears,
Of unforgotten happy fears,
That crossed the time ere hope was dead.
Draw near the place where once we stood
Amid delight’s swift-rushing flood,
And we and all the world seemed good
Nor needed hope now cold and dead.
Dream in the dawn I come to thee
Weeping for things that may not be!
Dream that thou layest lips on me!
Wake, wake to clasp hope’s body dead!
Count o’er and o’er, and one by one
The minutes of the happy sun
That while agone on kissed lips shone,
Count on, rest not, for hope is dead.
Weep, though no hair’s breadth thou shalt move
The living Earth, the heaven above
By all the bitterness of love!
Weep and cease not, now hope is dead!
Sighs rest thee not, tears bring no ease,
Life hath no joy, and Death no peace:
The years change not, though they decrease,
For hope is dead, for hope is dead.
Speak, love, I listen: far away
I bless the tremulous lips, that say,
“Mock not the afternoon of day,
Mock not the tide when hope is dead!”
I bless thee, O my love, who say’st:
“Mock not the thistle-cumbered waste;
I hold Love’s hand, and make no haste
Down the long way, now hope is dead.
With other names do we name pain,
The long years wear our hearts in vain.
Mock not our loss grown into gain,
Mock not our lost hope lying dead.
Our eyes gaze for no morning-star,
No glimmer of the dawn afar;
Full silent wayfarers we are
Since ere the noon-tide hope lay dead.
Behold with lack of happiness
The master, Love, our hearts did bless
Lest we should think of him the less:
Love dieth not, though hope is dead!”
poem by William Morris
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The Moon's Minion
Thine eyes are like the sea, my dear,
The wand'ring waters, green and grey;
Thine eyes are wonderful and clear,
And deep, and deadly, even as they;
The spirit of the changeful sea
Informs thine eyes at night and noon,
She sways the tides, and the heart of thee,
The mystic, sad, capricious Moon!
The Moon came down the shining stair
Of clouds that fleck the summer sky,
She kissed thee, saying, 'Child, be fair,
And madden men's hearts, even as I;
Thou shalt love all things strange and sweet,
That know me and are known of me;
The lover thou shalt never meet,
The land where thou shalt never be!'
She held thee in her chill embrace,
She kissed thee with cold lips divine,
She left her pallor on thy face,
That mystic ivory face of thine;
And now I sit beside thy feet,
And all my heart is far from thee,
Dreaming of her I shall not meet,
And of the land I shall not see!
poem by Andrew Lang
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As Ireland Wore the Green
BY RIGHT of birth in southern land I send my warning forth.
I see my country ruined by the wrongs that damned the North.
And shall I stand with fireless eyes and still and silent mouth
While Mammon builds his Londons on the fair fields of the South?
CHORUS:
O must we hide our colour
In fear of Mammon’s spleen?
Or shall we wear the bonnie blue
As Ireland wore the green?
As Ireland wore the green, my friends!
As Ireland wore the green!
Aye, we will wear our colour still,
As Ireland wore the green!
I see the shade of poverty fall on each sunny scene.
And slums and alley-ways extend where fields were evergreen.
There is a law that stamps the flower of freedom as it springs;
And this upon a soil that’s trod by prouder feet than kings’.
And must I hide my colour
In fear of Mammon’s spleen?
Or shall I wear the bonnie blue
As Ireland wore the green?
As Ireland wore the green, my friends!
As Ireland swore the green!
Aye, I will wear my colour yet,
As Ireland wore the green!
Out there beyond the lonely range our fathers toiled for years
’Neath all the hardships that beset true-hearted pioneers;
And our brave mothers journeyed there to do the work of men
On those great awful plains that were unfit for women then.
Then must we hide our colour
In fear of Mammon’s spleen?
Or shall we wear the bonnie blue
As Ireland swore the green?
As Ireland wore the green, my friends!
As Ireland wore the green!
Aye, we shall wear our colour still,
As Ireland wore the green!
O shall the fields our fathers won be yielded to the few
Who never touched the axe or spade, and hardships never knew?
Shall lordly robbers rule the land and build their mansions high,
And ladies flaunt their jewelled plumes where our brave mothers lie?
O must we hide our colour
In fear of Mammnon’s spleen?
Or shall the wear the bonnie blue
As Ireland wore the green?
As Ireland wore the green, my friends!
As Ireland wore the green!
Aye, the will wear our colour yet,
As Ireland wore the green!
What though our stalwart fathers came from every land on earth,
We will be loyal to the land that gives our children birth.
We’ll show our banner to the sun—the Southern Cross displayed—
And join our strength together for the home our fathers made.
Let cowards hide their colour
For fear of Mammon’s spleen!
But I will wear my bonnie blue
As Ireland swore the green!
As Ireland swore the green, my friends!
As Ireland wore the green!
Aye, I will wear my colour still,
As Ireland swore the green!
We’ll light the lamp of hope above the alley and the slum,
And teach the poor and drill them for the war that is to come.
We’ll send our songs recruiting far beneath the western sky,
And wake the towns and let them know the day of deeds is nigh.
And the twill wear our colour
In spite of Mammon’s spleen!
O the will wear the bonnie blue
As Ireland wore the green!
As Ireland wore the green, my friends!
As Ireland wore the green!
Aye, the will wear our colour yet,
As Ireland wore the green!
poem by Henry Lawson
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Mirage
The hope I dreamed of was a dream,
Was but a dream; and now I wake,
Exceeding comfortless, and worn, and old,
For a dream's sake.
I hang my harp upon a tree,
A weeping willow in a lake;
I hang my silent harp there, wrung and snapped
For a dream's sake.
Lie still, lie still, my breaking heart;
My silent heart, lie still and break:
Life, and the world, and mine own self, are changed
For a dream's sake.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet IV
Behold the deed is done. Here endeth all
That bound my grief to its ancestral ways.
I have passed out, as from a funeral,
From my dead home, and in the great world's gaze
Henceforth I stand, a pilgrim of new days,
On the high road of life. Where I was thrall,
See, I am master, being passionless;
And, having nothing now, am lord of all.
How glorious is the world! Its infinite grace
Surprises me--and not as erst with fear,
But as one meets a woman face to face,
Loved once and unforgotten and still dear
In certain moods and seasons. So to me
The fair world smiles to--day, yet leaves me free.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Betrayal
I'd come home unexpectedly,
I know I should have said,
But found you with another man
Both sleeping, in our bed,
I have no words to censure you
No words to spell my grief,
But years of trust have shattered,
You betrayed me with a thief.
What have I done, these thirty years
To turn your face from me,
That love you swore, undying
Now just some anomaly?
You opened up our secret place
For some dark stranger's whim,
What does he have that I must lack,
Why did you go with him?
I left you both there sleeping
Staggered down to nurse my pride,
Pacing back and forth the hallway
With my future to decide,
But my heart was drained, quite empty
I could see no way ahead,
And the dearth that came upon me
Cried, ‘I wish that I was dead! '
My eyes betrayed me, watered
Down my cheeks, so grey and lined,
You will never see me crying
Though the Lord should strike me blind!
Then I saw you on the stairway
With your gown bunched at your throat,
With that look of horror, branded
And your scream, that one high note.
In a moment, you recovered,
And your face took on a sneer,
‘So you caught us, I'm not bothered,
You'd not usually be here! '
Then her lover lumbered down
And put his arm around her waist,
He was young, and lithe, embarrassed,
Couldn't look me in the face.
‘Thirty years we've been together,
Thirty years, and now to this,
Tell me, what have you discovered
From a brief, flirtatious kiss?
Just how long d'you think you'll keep him
From the girls around his age? '
‘It's enough he says he needs me,
Gives me youth again, we Rage! '
I packed a few necessities
And turned to leave them there,
I was leaving half a lifetime
In a mood of deep despair,
‘So you're sure, ' I muttered, turning
And she nodded once, but slow,
I thought, as I looked briefly back,
‘Please ask me not to go! '
1 December 2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Oh Fairest of the Rural Maids
Oh fairest of the rural maids!
Thy birth was in the forest shades;
Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky,
Were all that met thy infant eye.
Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child,
Were ever in the sylvan wild;
And all the beauty of the place
Is in thy heart and on thy face.
The twilight of the trees and rocks
Is in the light shade of thy locks;
Thy step is as the wind, that weaves
Its playful way among the leaves.
Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene
And silent waters heaven is seen;
Their lashes are the herbs that look
On their young figures in the brook.
The forest depths, by foot unpressed,
Are not more sinless than thy breast;
The holy peace, that fills the air
Of those calm solitudes, is there.
poem by William Cullen Bryant
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Jonas & Ezekial
I left my anger in a river running highway 5
New hampshire, vermont, bordered by
College farms, hubcaps, and falling rocks
Voices in the woods and the mountaintops
I used to search for reservations and native lands
Before I realized everywhere I stand
There have tribal feet running wild as fire
Some past life sister of my desire
Jonas and ezekial hear me now
Steady now and dont come out
Im not ready for the dead to show its face
Whose turn is it anyway?
Anyway?
Now when I was young my people taught me well
Give back what you take or youll go to hell
Its not the devils land, you know its not that kind
Every devil I meet becomes a friend of mine
Every devil I meet is an angel in disguise
Jonas and ezekial hear me now
Steady now and dont come out
Im not ready for the dead to show its face
Whose angel are you anyway?
White - chain - rope - fear
(hush my darling)
Be still my dear
A bullet in the head, now hes dead
A friend of a friend, someone said
He was an activist with a very short life
I think theres a lesson here - he died without a fight
In the war over land where the world began
Prophecies say its where the world will end
But theres a tremor growing in our backyard
Fear in our heads, fear in our hearts
Prophets in the graveyard
Jonas and ezekial hear me now
Steady now and dont come out
Im not ready for the dead to show its face
Whose turn is it anyway?
Jonas and ezekial hear me now
Steady now I feel your ghost about
Im not ready for the dead to show its face
Whose angel are you anyway?
I said theres prophets in the graveyard
(now I walk in beauty)
Prophets in the graveyard
(beauty is before me)
Prophets in the graveyard
(beauty is behind me)
(above and below me)
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dream Of The Unknown
I dream of mostly nothing,
A deep black emptiness in space of infinate time.
But there is no time, there is nothing.
I see nothing, I touch nothing.
Am I even here? Do I exist? Where am I?
I'm not anywhere, just darkness all around.
I don't hear anything at all. I don't smell anything.
What kind of dream is this? This dream of the unknown.
It is not a dream. I'm not here, I am nothing.
Dreams are filled with things beyond imagination,
Filled with good things and bad things, but not this.
I am not happy nor am I sad...But I am scared.
Why am I scared? There is nothing here.
I am trembling but I don't feel a thing.
I'm not here, I am nothing just like this darkness.
But I am in fear in this dream of the unknown.
If it's a dream at all. Am I dead? Is that my fear?
If I'm dead, where is the afterlife? Were they right?
I see nothing, I feel nothing, I am nothing.
Fear is the only thing I know in this dream.
But why? If nothing is wrong, why is everything dark?
Why can't I dream? Why am I nothing with nothing around?
No time, no feeling, no sense. Just nothing.
Lost in this forsaken world, this dream of the unknown.
Suddenly, I'm crying. I feel tears stream down my face.
I feel my heart racing. I hear myself choke back cries.
But everything is still dark, everything is still nothing.
I don't understand. What is happening to me?
My eyes open, I'm in my bed. Face buried in my pillow.
I am still crying, I am still scared...I don't know why.
poem by Adam McKim
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Had I But Known
I loved thee! Ah, those vows of love,
So fondly made, so soon unmade!
I trusted thee all men above—
Ah, fatal trust, so soon betrayed.
A dream that wore the face of truth
Was what I loved. The dream has flown.
All, all I've lost, faith, hope and love,
Had I but known! Had I but known!
Thou weepest. Would that I could shed
A tear for either joy or grief!
But from the heart grown cold and dead
There springs no fountain of relief.
Now all my life is tearless pain,
My hope forgetfulness alone,
And all my speech the one refrain—
Had I but known! Had I but known!
poem by James Brunton Stephens
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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