Loon Point
Softly the water ripples
Against the canoe's curving side,
Softly the birch trees rustle
Flinging over us branches wide.
Softly the moon glints and glistens
As the water takes and leaves,
Like golden ears of corn
Which fall from loose-bound sheaves,
Or like the snow-white petals
Which drop from an overblown rose,
When Summer ripens to Autumn
And the freighted year must close.
From the shore come the scents of a garden,
And between a gap in the trees
A proud white statue glimmers
In cold, disdainful ease.
The child of a southern people,
The thought of an alien race,
What does she in this pale, northern garden,
How reconcile it with her grace?
But the moon in her wayward beauty
Is ever and always the same,
As lovely as when upon Latmos
She watched till Endymion came.
Through the water the moon writes her legends
In light, on the smooth, wet sand;
They endure for a moment, and vanish,
And no one may understand.
All round us the secret of Nature
Is telling itself to our sight,
We may guess at her meaning but never
Can know the full mystery of night.
But her power of enchantment is on us,
We bow to the spell which she weaves,
Made up of the murmur of waves
And the manifold whisper of leaves.
poem by Amy Lowell
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Related quotes
A Dream Of Water Moon!
Cool bright Moon shines bright in the Starry night Sky!
Dreams of Moon absorb poets, scientists, lovers, all!
Even in Honey Moon dream of water Moon never dries!
Polluting water on Earth man searches water in Moon!
Physical feature is contrasting between Earth and Moon!
Green vegetation, blue water and white ice make Earth
Unique with atmosphere all round protecting it forever!
Sands, rocks with ice at tips Moon is sans atmosphere!
Rotating itself Earth revolves round the Sun night or day;
But Moon’s bright side and dark side are fixed forever!
The mystery of dark side Moon is in suspense since long;
The frozen sides of Moon are – 238 degrees is still chilling!
Water Moon has indeed become a great interest for all and
Many nations are vying with one another to see water there!
poem by Ramesh T A
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In A Garden
Gushing from the mouths of stone men
To spread at ease under the sky
In granite-lipped basins,
Where iris dabble their feet
And rustle to a passing wind,
The water fills the garden with its rushing,
In the midst of the quiet of close-clipped lawns.
Damp smell the ferns in tunnels of stone,
Where trickle and plash the fountains,
Marble fountains, yellowed with much water.
Splashing down moss-tarnished steps
It falls, the water;
And the air is throbbing with it.
With its gurgling and running.
With its leaping, and deep, cool murmur.
And I wished for night and you.
I wanted to see you in the swimming-pool,
White and shining in the silver-flecked water.
While the moon rode over the garden,
High in the arch of night,
And the scent of the lilacs was heavy with stillness.
Night, and the water, and you in your whiteness, bathing!
poem by Amy Lowell
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Dancing Moon (not in poetic order)
it was a beautiful starlit night
as the moon danced across the water.
like a ballerina upon a stage.
dazzling, hypnotizing, mesmerizing.
every move a work of art.
the ripples across the water
like her toes touching the stage.
ever so gently, like a butterfly upon a flower.
all of these things is what i saw.
on this beautiful night
'oh what a glorious sight'.
the moon played its tricks upon the water
as each wave came closer to the shore.
it was like thousands of fireflies
scooting across the water
all in perfect order.
the moon was above
the moon was below
'oh what a magnificent show'.
so when you see a full moon on a starlit night
go out and enjoy this sight.
poem by Louis Rams
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Winter With a Question
The aging trees will creak and groan
To find themselves ringed by frost in sleep
And snow by the wind already blown
Cast upon snow already deep.
The cold is echoed only by silence all,
And the leaves of Autumn entombed in white
At the place where leaves fall
And passing time, vanish from sight.
Who is it that judges these—
Sends leaves beneath the snow
And trees to shiver alongside trees? —
And where do they go?
poem by Ronny Self
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A Kentish Garden
THERE is a grey-walled garden, far away
From noise and smoke of cities, where the hours
Pass with soft wings among the happy flowers,
And lovely leisure blossoms every day.
There, tall and white, the sceptral lily blows;
There grow the pansy, pink, and columbine,
Brave hollyhocks, and star-white jessamine,
And the red glory of the royal rose.
There greeny glow-worms gem the dusky lawn,
The lime-trees breathe their fragrance to the night,
Pink roses sleep, and dream that they are white,
Until they wake to colour with the dawn.
There, in the splendour of the sultry noon,
The sunshine sleeps upon the garden bed
Where the white poppy droops a drowsy head
And dreams of kisses from the white full moon.
And there, some days, all wild with wind and rain,
The tossed trees show the white side of their leaves,
While the great drops drip from the ivied eaves,
And birds are still--till the sun shines again.
And there, all days, my heart goes wandering,
Because there, first, my heart began to know
The glories of the summer and the snow,
The loveliness of harvest and of spring.
There may be fairer gardens; but I know
There is no other garden half so dear;
Because 'tis there, this many, many a year,
The sacred, sweet, white flowers of memory grow!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The German Legion
In the cot beside the water,
In the white cot by the water,
The white cot by the white water,
There they laid the German maid.
There they wound her, singing round her,
Deftly wound her, singing round her,
Softly wound her, singing round her,
In a shroud like a cloud.
And they decked her as they wound her,
With a wreath of leaves they bound her,
Lornest leaves they scattered round her,
Singing grief with every leaf.
Singing grief with every leaf.
Sadder grief with sadder leaf,
Sweeter leaf with sweeter grief,
So't was sung in a dark tongue.
Like a latter lily lying,
O'er whom falling leaves are sighing,
And Autumn vapours crying,
Pale and cold on misty mould,
So I saw her sweet and lowly,
Shining shining pale and holy,
Thro' the dim woe slowly slowly,
Said and sung in that dark tongue.
Such an awe her beauty lent her,
While they sang I dared not enter
That charmed ring where she was centre,
But I stood with stirring blood
Till the song fell like a billow,
And I saw them leave her pillow,
And go forth to the far willow,
For the wreath of virgin death.
And I stood beside her pillow,
While they plucked the distant willow,
And my heart rose like a billow
As I said to the pale dead-
'Oh, thou most fair and sweet virginity,
Of whom this heart that beats for thee doth know
Nor name nor story, that these limbs can be
For no man evermore, that thou must go
Cold to the cold, and that no eye shall see
That which thine unsolved womanhood doth owe
Of the incommunicable mystery
Shakes me with tears. I could kneel down by thee,
And o'er thy chill unmarriageable rest
Cry, 'Thou who shalt no more at all be prest
To any heart, one moment come to this!
And feel me weeping with thy want of bliss,
And all the unpraisèd beauties of thy breast-
Thy breast which never shall a lover kiss!''
Then I slowly left her pillow,
For they came back with the willow,
And my heart sinks as a billow
Doth implore towards the shore,
As I see the crown they weave her,
And I know that I must leave her,
And I feel that I could grieve her
Sad and sore for evermore.
And again they sang around her,
In a richer robe they wound her,
With the willow wreath they bound her,
And the loud song like a cloud
Of golden obscuration,
With the strange tongue of her nation,
Filled the house of lamentation,
Till she lay in melody,
Like a latter lily lying,
O'er whom falling leaves are sighing,
And the Autumn vapours crying,
In a dream of evening gleam.
And I saw her sweet and lowly,
Shining shining pale and holy,
Thro' the dim woe slowly slowly
Said and sung in a dark tongue.
In the cot beside the water,
The white cot by the white water,
English cot by English water
That shall see the German sea.
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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The Reflection of God
Thoughts are like ripples,
gently flowing over
the surface of the mind.
Deep inside us
we bear the image of God,
the ripples of thought break that image
into fragments.
It is as if you are looking in
a lake full of ripples-
It is a full moon night,
and the lake is reflecting
the beautiful moon.
But the lake is full of ripples
You cannot gather the moon together;
the moon goes on splitting
into a thousand fragments.
The whole lake seems to be
spread over by the moon-
the silvery beauty, softly broken apart;
many a fragments is seen floating-
all around.
Then the wind stops,
the ripples disappear:
those fragments start falling into one moon.
The silver that was spread
all over the lake,
now becomes more concentrated
into one place - into one moon.
When the lake
is completely without ripples,
the moon is reflected perfectly.
God is reflected perfectly
when there is no ripple in you.
poem by Nazmul Haque
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The Silver Lily
The nights have grown cool again, like the nights
Of early spring, and quiet again. Will
Speech disturb you? We're
Alone now; we have no reason for silence.
Can you see, over the garden-the full moon rises.
I won't see the next full moon.
In spring, when the moon rose, it meant
Time was endless. Snowdrops
Opened and closed, the clustered
Seeds of the maples fell in pale drifts.
White over white, the moon rose over the birch tree.
And in the crook, where the tree divides,
Leaves of the first daffodils, in moonlight
Soft greenish-silver.
We have come too far together toward the end now
To fear the end. These nights, I am no longer even certain
I know what the end means. And you, who've been
With a man--
After the first cries,
Doesn't joy, like fear, make no sound?
poem by Louise Gluck
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La Bella Donna Della Mia Mente
MY limbs are wasted with a flame,
My feet are sore with travelling,
For calling on my Lady's name
My lips have now forgot to sing.
O Linnet in the wild-rose brake
Strain for my Love thy melody,
O Lark sing louder for love's sake,
My gentle Lady passeth by.
She is too fair for any man
To see or hold his heart's delight,
Fairer than Queen or courtezan
Or moon-lit water in the night.
Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves,
(Green leaves upon her golden hair!)
Green grasses through the yellow sheaves
Of autumn corn are not more fair.
Her little lips, more made to kiss
Than to cry bitterly for pain,
Are tremulous as brook-water is,
Or roses after evening rain.
Her neck is like white melilote
Flushing for pleasure of the sun,
The throbbing of the linnet's throat
Is not so sweet to look upon.
As a pomegranate, cut in twain,
White-seeded, is her crimson mouth,
Her cheeks are as the fading stain
Where the peach reddens to the south.
O twining hands! O delicate
White body made for love and pain!
O House of love! O desolate
Pale flower beaten by the rain!
poem by Oscar Wilde
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Gray Rain
Gray rain
but the trees
are teaching the stars how to break into leaves.
Good rain on the good earth.
Autumn's a long passage.
Spring is full of thresholds.
Rainbow bridges in the distance
over urgent streams.
Everything's in a rush to become something.
I thought I knew once
who I was supposed to be
but more and more it eludes me
like a future that's already behind me.
I leave it to the world
to finish what I began
and include myself in the mystery
and try to carry on like a man
who looks at a star he won't follow
through the branches of the burgeoning trees
as the history of who I am
now that I'm not anymore.
The less I am the more there is to be.
And one eye doesn't get in the way of the other as much.
There is just this as it is
and what am I beholding
if I'm not looking upon myself as I am
in common with everything
that's changing all around me
like a mind that can't contain itself
in any fixed mode of being
anymore than the eye
can decide what it's seeing.
Everything is burning with life in the rain
and change is the dangerous bliss
we feel when we cease to exist.
The trees might have fingerprints
graven into their bark
and you might accord them
an identity in the dark
and approve of their names
and let them pass as if you knew who they were
but that doesn't make them
any less of a stranger than you are
or the clouds carry passports.
Praise be to the abundance of oblivion
and the cornucopias of blackholes
in the hearts of the galaxies
that keep wounding themselves into life
by falling on their own swords
like a knife that heals.
By day the light gives.
But at night
it steals.
And the mirror lives
and pours water over the eyes of the blind
and suddenly the stars can see again.
And the grape hyacinth is drunk on blue wine.
And I'm walking on water on the moon
even as the moon walks on my tears
without knowing which ones
flowed from the bells of my sorrows
and which overwhelmed me
like birds in the fountains of joy.
First I am a man.
And then I am a boy.
Spring takes itself for granted.
And autumn comes on with regrets.
But they both know
this is as good as it gets
and nothing's missing
in the mind's lost and found.
It's just the way things get around
when you throw the world back in the water
like a life of your own
you gave up years ago
to be who you are now.
Praise be to the stars
that stop by the gate this late
to chat about gardens
and how to keep
the roots of the roses alive
when the ground hardens.
Even if you're a demon in steep descent
or an angel rising from hell
life has the power of a flower
and the genius of a universe
to turn falling into a calling
like planets and Canada geese.
You can walk out alone
into a wide open field at night like I do
and stand there under the stars
that have been staring at you since childhood
like someone they should keep an eye on
and say: This is me. This is who I am as I am
to the whole twinkling lot of them in self-defence
to uphold the savage dignity of the difference.
You can stand there in the vastness
of that one definitive thought
that goes on forever like a silence older than birds
and feel the sweet release of upending joy
trying to master its new freedom
when space morphs into a mouth for a moment
and says softly
o so softly
in a voice that's been singed by compassion:
No.
You're not.
poem by Patrick White
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Wanting The Moon
Not the moon. A flower
on the other side of the water.
The water sweeps past in flood,
dragging a whole tree by the hair,
a barn, a bridge. The flower
sings on the far bank.
Not a flower, a bird calling
hidden among the darkest trees, music
over the water, making a silence
out of the brown folds of the river's cloak.
The moon. No, a young man walking
under the trees. There are lanterns
among the leaves.
Tender, wise, merry,
his face is awake with its own light,
I see it across the water as if close up.
A jester. The music rings from his bells,
gravely, a tune of sorrow,
I dance to it on my riverbank.
poem by Denise Levertov
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Awaken to Beauty
Sun, sparkling on water
Rainbow in sky.
Full moon, shimmering over cities,
Beauty, beauty is by.
See through the black, the grey,
To colours all around,
Brightening your world, your life;
Beauty, beauty surrounds.
The new leaves on spring trees,
Buds on daffodils.
Flowers, trees bursting with glory,
Beauty, beauty fills.
Snow covering, crystal white,
Summer, green, grass.
Each season brings new pleasures,
Beauty, beauty lasts.
Stand still awhile and see
If you can discern
The loveliness in front of you,
Beauty at every turn.
Bring happiness to your senses,
Bear gladness into you,
Take sometime for yourself,
Beauty is there; stays true.
The Stolen Child
(wb yeats)
Come away, human child
To the water
Come away, human child
To the water and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand
For the worlds more full of weeping than you can understand
Where dips the rocky highland
Of sleuth wood in the lake
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There weve hid our faery vats
Full of berries
And of reddest stolen cherries
Come away, human child
To the water
Come away, human child
To the water and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand
For the worlds more full of weeping than you can understand
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light
Far off by furthest rosses
We foot it all the night
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep
Come away, human child
To the water
Come away, human child
To the water and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand
For the worlds more full of weeping than you can understand
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above glen-car
In pools among the rushes
The scarce could bathe a star
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
We give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams
Away with us hes going
The solemn-eyed:
Hell hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside;
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast
Or see the brown mice bob
Around and around the oatmeal-chest
For he comes, the human child
To the water
He comes, the human child
To the water and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand
From a world more full of weeping than he can understand
Human child
Human child
With a faery, hand in hand
From a world more full of weeping than he can understand...
Than he can understand...
He can understand...
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Father Winter
Welcome back home Father Winter
we have waited all year for you.
Your lovely trees, so tall
their branches now bare
they stand there waving you
back home you brought with you
your winter jewels, now they hang
on those naked branches.
The summer flowers, have
now laid down for a long winters
nap their waiting for you to cover
them with your winter blanket.
Your blanket will keep them
warm till spring then they'll
all pop up and sing.
Now all the small animals have
laid their heads down too sweet
dreams every thing will awake to
fresh new season.
You have dressed everything for
Christmas. your ice snow flakes
have landed on our pond it looks
looks like big white frosted glass
mirror it also created beautiful
glass like ornaments that
hang on the ever green trees.
Your cold fluffy snow lays upon
their branches it drapes like a
pearl necklace among their branches
they all look so lovely.
The winter clouds that you have blown
in float beneath the stars so bright
the full moon shines down upon the
hill tops all covered in your beauty.
The fresh snow glistens like stars
and silver gliter it looks like
millions of diamondseen have been
scattered on the beaten paths.
Your winter air smell so crisp
and cold as you speak, you can
see your breath in \the cold air
the only lights are from the new
full winter moon.
As you can see Father Winter has
blown, in with such briskness.
Every where you now look,
now looks bright and fresh.
Little children have started the
count down.To that special
night which is not to far off in sight.
And like ''SANTA'
You'll be gone, in the wink
of an eye.
We thank you for all the beauty
that you have given us, you'll
only last a while upon you I'll
walk a brisk mile.
We'll love you as long as you'll
last..Upon your snow we'll
dance and play.
We'll do this each cold day..
Until you melt away.
and then we'll say a sad good-bye.,
GAYLE ANNE GOFF
DECEMBER
2008
poem by Gayle Anne Goff
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Written on a Summer Evening
this melancholy dusk
as the rain falls into night
ever so softly
the breath of a dying woman
this bonechilling wind
trails the air
the darkened roofs
of the malay houses
add a solemnness to the place
filled with flowers
fruit trees, wild trees
a koranic verse is heard
and another cool breeze blows
the leaves rustle
the way a man shivers
big leaves, small leaves
twirl in succession
a twist dance
so cold the night
the old woman
sick bedridden woman
so long she feels she has been ill
a feeble mind
that could not make out
dawn from dusk
the old woman
her sigh
soft as the wind
bids her quiet farewell
around her grandchildren run
impervious to her pain
the leaves rustle again
the children's cry
divides her and the world
so long ago when she was a child herself
all seems a game, a film
heartfelt images of her own life
run through her mind
long lost husband, children, grandchildren
the breeze blows again
she feels its coldness
and slowly, slowly, surely
she feels herself inching
away from the alien surroundings
slowly and slowly
death to her has become something
to be embraced
she takes another weak look at the children
rewritten from:
this melancholy evening
as the rain falls into night
ever so softly
the breath of a dying woman
and as it stops
this bonechilling wind
trails the air
the darkened roofs of malay houses
add a solemn atmosphere to the place
filled with trees, fruit trees, garden trees and wild trees
a koranic verse is heard
and another cool breeze blows
a trail of ruslte
the trees waves, big leaves, small leaves
so cold the night
an old woman
old sick bedridden woman
so long she feels she has been ill
a feeble mind trailing the world
the old woman
bids farewell to the world
her sigh
soft as the wind
a solemness pervades her room
as grandchildren run around
impervious to her pain
the leaves rustle again
the children's cry
divides her and the world
so long ago when she was a child herself
all seems like a game, a film now
the breeze blows
she feels its coldness
and slowly, slowly, surely
she feels herself inching
away from the alien surroundings
slowly and slowly
death to her has become something
to be embraced
she takes another weak look at the children
inspired by
Written on a Summer Evening
Written on a Summer Evening
The church bells toll a melancholy round,
Calling the people to some other prayers,
Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares,
More harkening to the sermon's horrid sound.
Surely the mind of man is closely bound
In some blind spell: seeing that each one tears
Himself from fireside joys and Lydian airs,
And converse high of those with glory crowned.
Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp,
A chill as from a tomb, did I not know
That they are dying like an outburnt lamp, -
That 'tis their sighing, wailing, ere they go
Into oblivion -that fresh flowers will grow,
And many glories of immortal stamp.
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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A blossom
As it Blooms in silence
I was truly allured
a flower's humble beauty
her future ensured
exceptional glamor I spotted
in this lovely garden of her.
Rain fall softly on her petals
it fell down slowly light as feather
the shimmering and sparkling
of the thick and dripping humid;
condensing in every bud
in this lovely garden of her.
The blurry vision of early dawn fog,
the charming rays of peeking sun,
those silencing sounds of earth
makes most sense of elegance
in this lovely garden of her.
The wind blowing in rhythm
setting free the dancing pecks
the melody of the ambiance,
the sweet smell of honey-nectar,
the aroma of her sincerity
that brings all my joy,
draws every smile in my face
each day of my life
in this lovely garden of her.
Yet there came a time the wind blew hard
Drought came fast and wither starts
little by little her throat seized
grasping her breath she naught fought.
The skies turned black and lights blinks fast
then her crave they overfed to death
overhead came the water dark
'None could ever survive'
They proven wrong...
For the dusk end and the night came
The moon came yet not to help
the tide higher he hath even made..
Alas! Dawn breaks& moon withdraws
The sun came and peek again
in this lovely garden of her...
There the earth witness her wilt
yet new life brought by rain and shine..
a humble blossom in joy and gloom
a story in cycle in this lovely garden of her...
poem by Ellirie Aviles
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The Harvest Moon
the yellow moon,
the colour that i could never get right
in my art class
well who can
it is never really yellow
and when you add white
it loses its luminosity
full moon
well when it is full
it is never round
if you look casually at it
it bulges at one side
with a tiny star twinkling at its side
a little child crying to be carried
but who cares except the round moon
poetic moon as poets would write
whether it is or not
the little child that would soften their poem
never given its recognition
lazy bones are always copycats
and they get the world messed up
with their inaccuracies, self conceitness
the moon,
the next door amateur witch
gives it a dose of evil
chanting archaic verses for a love charm, bag of luck
and a spirit in the wild
the moon that boosts my spirit
with its innocent roundness, a softness of a girl's buttock
maternal's light, and the ways it slims, fattens, slims, wanes
signs itself in and out of the sky
inspired by
The Harvest Moon
The flame-red moon, the harvest moon,
Rolls along the hills, gently bouncing,
A vast balloon,
Till it takes off, and sinks upward
To lie on the bottom of the sky, like a gold doubloon.
The harvest moon has come,
Booming softly through heaven, like a bassoon.
And the earth replies all night, like a deep drum.
So people can't sleep,
So they go out where elms and oak trees keep
A kneeling vigil, in a religious hush.
The harvest moon has come!
And all the moonlit cows and all the sheep
Stare up at her petrified, while she swells
Filling heaven, as if red hot, and sailing
Closer and closer like the end of the world.
Till the gold fields of stiff wheat
Cry `We are ripe, reap us! ' and the rivers
Sweat from the melting hills.
Ted Hughes
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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On the Garden Wall
Oh, once I walked a garden
In dreams. 'Twas yellow grass.
And many orange-trees grew there
In sand as white as glass.
The curving, wide wall-border
Was marble, like the snow.
I walked that wall a fairy-prince
And, pacing quaint and slow,
Beside me were my pages,
Two giant, friendly birds.
Half swan they were, half peacock.
They spake in courtier-words.
Their inner wings a charriot,
Their outer wings for flight,
They lifted me from dreamland.
We bade those trees good-night.
Swiftly above the stars we rode.
I looked below me soon.
The white-walled garden I had ruled
Was one lone flower--the moon.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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I Planted a Rose Tree
I planted a rose tree in my garden,
In early days when the year was young;
I thought it would bear me roses, roses,
While nights were dewy and days were long.
It bore me once, and a white rose only--
A lovely rose with petals of light;
Like the moon in heaven, supreme and lonely;
And the lightning struck it one summer night.
poem by Mathilde Blind
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When You Step Into My Garden
when you step in my garden
of earth
water
and fire
you are the woman there
looking softly
daintily whispering to the
cherry blossoms
that now they must bloom
because love is here
and for the moment
it will be full
whole,
stay there
and let the cherry blossoms
take a moment with you
in excitement
some of them dance with the
wind and sadly
now you shall watch them
softly
daintily falling like some
tiny white butterflies
still learning
how to flutter......................
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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