Related quotes: Always for the first time...

Always for the First Time

Always for the first time
Hardly do I know you by sight
You return at some hour of the night to a house at an angle to my window
A wholly imaginary house
It is there that from one second to the next
In the inviolate darkness
I anticipate once more the fascinating rift occurring
The one and only rift
In the facade and in my heart
The closer I come to you
In reality
The more the key sings at the door of the unknown room
Where you appear alone before me
At first you coalesce entirely with the brightness
The elusive angle of a curtain
It's a field of jasmine I gazed upon at dawn on a road in the vicinity of Grasse
With the diagonal slant of its girls picking
Behind them the dark falling wing of the plants stripped bare
Before them a T-square of dazzling light
The curtain invisibly raised
In a frenzy all the flowers swarm back in
It is you at grips with that too long hour never dim enough until sleep
You as though you could be
The same except that I shall perhaps never meet you
You pretend not to know I am watching you
Marvelously I am no longer sure you know
You idleness brings tears to my eyes
A swarm of interpretations surrounds each of your gestures
It's a honeydew hunt
There are rocking chairs on a deck there are branches that may well scratch you in the forest
There are in a shop window in the rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette
Two lovely crossed legs caught in long stockings
Flaring out in the center of a great white clover
There is a silken ladder rolled out over the ivy
There is
By my leaning over the precipice
Of your presence and your absence in hopeless fusion
My finding the secret
Of loving you
Always for the first time

poem by Andre Breton
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Related quotes

Epithalamium : Another Version

Night, with all thine eyes look down!
Darkness shed its holiest dew!
When ever smiled the inconstant moon
On a pair so true?
Hence, coy hour! and quench thy light,
Lest eyes see their own delight!
Hence, swift hour! and thy loved flight
Oft renew.

BOYS:

O joy! O fear! what may be done
In the absence of the sun?
Come along!
The golden gates of sleep unbar!
When strength and beauty meet together,
Kindles their image like a star
In a sea of glassy weather.
Hence, coy hour! and quench thy light,
Lest eyes see their own delight!
Hence, swift hour! and thy loved flight
Oft renew.

GIRLS:

O joy! O fear! what may be done
In the absence of the sun?
Come along!
Fairies! sprites! and angels, keep her!
Holiest powers, permit no wrong!
And return, to wake the sleeper,
Dawn, ere it be long.
Hence, swift hour! and quench thy light,
Lest eyes see their own delight!
Hence, coy hour! and thy loved flight
Oft renew.

BOYS AND GIRLS:

O joy! O fear! what will be done
In the absence of the sun?
Come along!

poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Epithalamium

Another Version Of 'A Bridal Song'.

BOYS:

GIRLS:

BOYS AND GIRLS:

O joy! O fear! what will be done
In the absence of the sun?
Come along!

poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Old House

The candle flame flickers from a draft
on a dark and stormy night,
the floorboards creak with every step
as I move about the old house.

There is a chill in the air,
that seems to be everywhere,
and the clock’s tick sounds louder
as time passes hour to hour.

I hear the thunder rumble in the night
and see lightning illuminate the sky
and I stop and listen intently
to the yawns and groans that echo in my ears.

The old house’s settling graces
that are always heard in the quiet of the night.
My heart beats against my chest
as my imagination begins to fly.

I breath in the musty air within the room
where I am about to sleep.
Everywhere the shadows move
under the light of my flickering candle.

I know the old house is not haunted,
but my mind tells me other wise.
My imagination creates noises
where the dancing shadows fall.

I gaze about suspiciously
knowing that there is nothing there
as a branch outside taps my window
wanting to come in out of the storm.

The curtains move from a draft
as if something is sheltering behind them.
All of which make my mind
thinks of ghost stories I have been told.

In bed, I slip under the cover,
and then blow the candle out
as something gets on the bed
resting across my legs for the night.

My ears detect the slightest sound
in the blackness that surrounds me
and I am blind to everything
on this stormy moonless night.

The streaks of dawn break through the window
and the terrors of the night have fled.
I smile at my imagination
as I lay there with the cat upon the bed.

The old house is reputed to be haunted,
but take it from one who lives there
that the only ghosts are our imagination
and on dark and stormy nights it grows.

5 June 2010

poem by David Harris
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Tinos

First, two roosters vying in the dark
cracked the fragile stillness of the night
then the sparrows deafening demot
spread the rift until a golden light
in rivulets fell and filled the window box
putting weak and timid dreams to rout
then the tuneful axle of a cart
kikiriki-drove the darkness out.
A screen door slammed, a first boat quit the sand
a donkey bawled, a whirling swallow swarm
fifed a fray in heaven's sounding bell
Night ran off, his sandals in his hand
Dawn turned into my waking arm
But that is all of Tinos we can tell.

poem by Morgan Michaels
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Window On The World

A broken promise I kept too long
A greasy shade and a curtain drawn
A broken glass and a heart gone wrong
That's my window on the world
A cup of coffee in a shaky hand
Waking up in a foreign land
Trying to act like I got something planned
That's my window on the world
That's my window on the world
Could you stand a little closer girl?
Don't let Mama cut those curls
That's my window on the world
In broad daylight that circus tent
Pulled up stakes, I don't know where it went
A closed dark room with a busted vent
That's my window on the world
I think about you and I'm countin sheep
I think about you then I can't sleep
I think the ocean is just so deep
That's my window on the world
That's my window on the world
Could you stand a little closer girl?
The Queen of Sheeba meets the Duke of Earl
That's my window on the world
Down on Indiana Avenue
Where some Jimmy men, they play the blues
I guess they were only passin through
That's my window on the world
That's my window on the world
Could you stand a little closer girl?
Don't let Mama cut those curls
That's my window on the world

song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Home-Coming

This was our house. To this we came
Lighted by love with torch aflame,
And in this chamber, door locked fast,
I held you to my heart at last.

This was our house. In this we knew
The worst that Time and Fate can do.
You left the room bare, wide the door;
You did not love me any more.

Where once the kind warm curtain hung
The spider's ghostly cloth is flung;
The beetle and the woodlouse creep
Where once I loved your lovely sleep.

Yet so the vanished spell endures,
That this, our house, still, still is yours.
Here, spite of all these years apart,
I still can hold you to my heart!

poem by Edith Nesbit
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Time Travelers of Darkness

Outside the court house there is a photo
A picture of three only it isn't three
Outside there wakens one in the canyon
Who sees the sun in the light of your eyes

Standing in your tower you return
century after century
Time traveler from the depths of terror
Your legacy is yours alone

And when they walk to the road and see
There can't be another so beautiful
But the planned and the deemed are free
And the smirks on the faces of the wise
Will give their hollow hearts away every time

Don't tell too much or else you will be walking
Back down that devils canyon into the abyss
And that long road to nowhere is a road well traveled
For the souls of darkness of the father of the son
Of the father of the son Of the father of the son …..

The clock it is broken and so is one so lovely
Time is all wrong and can't speak for itself.
Only those who sleep will ever see how time flies
And when you have escaped the limits of time
Your soul also shall walk down that lonely canyon

Just walking, no talking, of the father and of the son…
Sleeping now their anger is no longer free to walk the earth
The girls are finally free, the girls are finally safe.
Fly free little doves of darkness, and little doves of light….
Never to return to the canyon of darkness, the canyon of light..

This verse is a bizarre one indeed
And the words of the message
are finally freed.

But the one who would revel
At the message it tells
Is wandering in the darkness of
His own personal hell..
And forever shall be...

poem by Lynne FincherSpringarden
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Round Room

My room is round when I lay down, when I wake up it's square
When I go outside it's on a spiral set of stairs
The people that surround me are waiting out there
In a round room they can't find me anywhere
Right angle rooms drive me crazier each day
Put me in a box I know I'm never going to play
Put me in a square room and I won't know what to say
I want a round room at the end of the day
I had an apartment, four corners on the walls
Couldn't eat, couldn't sleep there at all
I want a curve to the place where I stay
I want a round room at the end of the day
If I pass out take me to the round church
Where echoes resound
And my spirit is found
And when I float high
Take my arm and I'll fly you by
The outskirts of town, to a garden that's round
I went to the lighthouse and I liked the view
I looked out the window and I could see you
Put me in a square house and I won't have a clue
I want a round room just to be with you

song performed by by Phish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love in a Life

Room after room,
I hunt the house through
We inhabit together.
Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her—
Next time, herself!—not the trouble behind her
Left in the curtain, the couch's perfume!
As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath blossomed anew:
Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave of her feather.

Yet the day wears,
And door succeeds door;
I try the fresh fortune—
Range the wide house from the wing to the centre.
Still the same chance! she goes out as I enter.
Spend my whole day in the quest,—who cares?
But 'tis twilight, you see,—with such suites to explore,
Such closets to search, such alcoves to importune!

poem by Robert Browning from Men and Women (1855)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Noontime Poetry

now i am home
earlier having taken the shortest distance
between office
and this door leading to my house
with a rusty roof
squeaking steel gate
painted red
for luck
the concrete fence
surrounds
the garden
wild and wanton
not having time
to trim excessive
branches
looking out to the
road
(of indifference)
the road is dusty
and the dog meets
me with a wagging tail
and licking tongue
got to open this
old door
hard wood and
now i am entering
this cold house
where curtains
colored green
and some white
laces hang

i sit on this rocking
chair and rock myself
for a while
pleasing pleasing
myself
not thinking about
anything
until i remember you
and your coming
birthday

i open my computer
again
because i remember
some faces
that need my loving
my care
or simply my thoughts
and it is you
on the screen

outside the window
the sun scorches
scourges
everyone

noontime
i am at the height
of this chasm
i want to make
a hole
and make myself
fall in there
i want it
deep and endless

where i can
not just sleep
where i always wake up
where i will
just fall and fall and fall and fall forever...

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Two Keys

There was a Boy, long years ago,
Who hour by hour awake would lie,
And watch the white moon gliding slow
Along her pathway in the sky.
And every night as thus he lay
Entranced in lonely fantasy,
Borne swiftly on a bright moon-ray
There came to him a Golden Key.

And with that Golden Key the Boy
Oped every night a magic door
That to a melody of Joy
Turned on its hinges evermore.

Then, trembling with delight and awe,
When he the charmèd threshold crossed,
A radiant corridor he saw—
Its end in dazzling distance lost.

Great windows shining in a row
Lit up the wondrous corridor,
And each its own rich light did throw
In stream resplendent on the floor.

One window showed the Boy a scene
Within a forest old and dim,
Where fairies danced upon the green
And kissed their little hands to him.

Sweet strains of elfin harp and horn
He heard so clearly sounding there,
And he to Wonderland was borne
And breathed its soft enchanted air.

Then, passing onward with the years,
He turned his back on Elf and Fay,
And sadly sweet, as if in tears,
The fairy music died away.

The second window held him long:
It looked upon a field of fight
Whereon the countless hordes of Wrong
Fought fiercely with the friends of Right.

And, lo! upon that fateful field,
Where cannon thundered, banners streamed,
And rushing squadrons rocked and reeled,
His sword a star of battle gleamed.

And when the hordes of Wrong lay still,
And that great fight was fought and won,
He stood, bright-eyed, upon a hill,
His white plume shining in the sun.

A glorious vision! yet behind
He left it with its scarlet glow,
And faint and far upon the wind
He heard the martial trumpets blow.

For to his listening ear was borne
A music more entrancing far
Than strains of elfin harp or horn,
More thrilling than the trump of war.

No longer as a dreamy boy
He trod the radiant corridor:
His young man’s heart presaged a joy
More dear than all the joys of yore.

To that third window, half in awe,
He moved, and slowly raised his eyes—
And was it earth grown young he saw?
Or was it man’s lost Paradise?

For all the flowers that ever bloomed
Upon the earth, and all the rare
Sweet Loveliness by Time entombed,
Seemed blushing, blooming, glowing there.

And every mellow-throated bird
That ever sang the trees among
Seemed singing there, with one sweet word—
“Love! Love!” on every little tongue.

Then he by turns grew rosy-red,
And he by turns grew passion-pale.
“Sweet Love!” the lark sang overhead,
“Sweet Love!” sang Love’s own nightingale.

In mid-heart of the hawthorn-tree
The thrush sang all its buds to bloom;
“Love! Love! Love! Love! Sweet Love,” sang he
Amidst the soft green sun-flecked gloom.

She stood upon a lilied lawn,
With dreamful eyes that gazed afar:
A maiden tender as the Dawn
And lovely as the Morning Star.
She stooped and kissed him on the brow,
And in a low, sweet voice said she:
“I am this country’s queen—and thou?”
“I am thy vassal,” murmured he.

She hid him with her hair gold-red,
That flowed like sunshine to her knee;
She kissed him on the lips, and said:
“Dear heart! I’ve waited long for thee.”

And, oh, she was so fair, so fair,
So gracious was her beauty bright,
Around her the enamoured air
Pulsed tremulously with delight.

In passionate melody did melt
Bird-voices, scent of flower and tree,
And he within his bosom felt
The piercing thorn of ecstasy.

The years passed by in dark and light,
In storm and shine; the man grew old,
Yet never more by day or night
There came to him the Key of Gold.
But ever, ere the great sun flowers
In gold above the sky’s blue rim,
All in the dark and lonely hours
There comes an Iron Key to him.

And with that key he opes a wide
And gloomy door—the Door of Fate—
That makes, whene’er it swings aside,
A music sad and desolate,

A music sad from saddest source:
He sees beside the doorway set
The chill, gray figure of Remorse,
The pale, cold image of Regret.

For all the glory and the glow
Of Life are passed, and dead, and gone:
The Light and Life of Long Ago
Are memories only—moonlight wan.

There is no man of woman born
So brave, so good, so wise but he
Must sometimes in a night forlorn
Take up and use the Iron Key.

poem by Victor James Daley
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Long River

Where the long river flows
It flows by my window
Where the tall timber grows
It grows round my door
Where the mountains meet the sky
And the white clouds fly
Where the long river flows
By my window
Theres a tiny bird that calls
And he calls by my window
Theres a lonely tear that falls
And it falls round my door
But when the sun is high
Theres no time to cry
Where the long river flows
By my window
Now if only you could see
The closin of the day
If only you could be
Where the dawn breaks away
By the white cascade
Oh down in the glade
Where the long river flows
By my window
Well when this land was made
It was made full of wonder
But one womans love
I cant understand
And Id give it all to you
If her love were true
Where the long river flows
By my window
Where the long river flows
By my window

song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When the rain stopped

it was when the rain stopped
that you left me: i own the umbrella
that you do not need now. You return
it. It was when the rain stopped
that you forget my name. My name
is need. And what you need is love.
My name is necessity. But what
you need is the luxury of honesty.

it was when the rain stopped that
you were honest enough to say:
i do not need you. I do not love you.

and then it rains so hard again
and you come knocking on my
door. You are wet. You are cold.
You are shivering. You are
trembling.

I look at you inside my house
looking by the window. I hide
behind the blue curtain. And i
tell myself: I do not believe you
anymore. And i ask myself:

How can i believe you again?

And then the rain stops.
And then you are gone.

And then i open the window.
And then i see the white dove flying
and hovering near a tree beside my window.

And then i set my heart free.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Shifting the House

He lived in my heart for a long time
When life was in its metre and rhyme.

When the house became shabby
He was reminded of his old hobby.

He searched out a house newly raised
Day and night its beauty he praised.

Then one day he took all his luggage
And left the house bag and baggage.

He was welcomed with open arms
He got lost in its fascinating charms.

He enjoyed a long passage of time
As long as life was in its rhyme.

Insted of house now he became old
Over the change he had no hold.

Now the house wanted to shift him
Because the light of his eyes was dim.

Wrinkles are not to be cherished
Now he was only to perish.

According to the misery's demand
He was proper for dust or sand.

He wa kinly sent to a house of clay
It was the dropp scene of life's play.

As it was a house most shabby
To change house was his hobby.

He was waiting for a good shift
That may prove a good gift.

poem by Prof Niamat Ali Murtazai
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