Bion
The wail of Moschus on the mountains crying
The Muses heard, and loved it long ago;
They heard the hollows of the hills replying,
They heard the weeping water's overflow;
They winged the sacred strain--the song undying,
The song that all about the world must go, -
When poets for a poet dead are sighing,
The minstrels for a minstrel friend laid low.
And dirge to dirge that answers, and the weeping
For Adonais by the summer sea,
The plaints for Lycidas, and Thyrsis (sleeping
Far from 'the forest ground called Thessaly'),
These hold thy memory, Bion, in their keeping,
And are but echoes of the moan for thee.
poem by Andrew Lang
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The Song of the Wind
Have you heard the wind blow
Through the leaves of tress
That sway and bend
In reverence to the wind?
Have you heard the lonely song
Of the wind
As it searches the world
Looking for its love?
Oh, the song of the wind,
A melancholy dirge,
Singing in time
To the funeral march
Of a forgotten soul
And the song of the wind
Howls mournfully...
The song of a heart that is breaking
And can no longer live
Without his love.
poem by Thomas Noel Smith
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The Voice of Love
After a long solitary confinement
In deep love for someone
I heard a song
A song in the woods
Where I stood
The woods which stood in the solitude
There was nobody
Nobody except me
Nobody heard the song
Which rapped in the woods
Somewhere, but I didn't know where
The song I heard wasn't raspy
Neither soft nor melodious
The song I heard was heart-strucken'd
There was a tone
A tune where you can find
A rapt of love.
The song has given pathogen in me
Who's that guy?
Singing in love
Crying and dying in love?
I listened to the song carefully
Now I found
The lonely woods are in me
And the song I heard
was the voice
The voice of love in me.
poem by D'menz Veen
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The Funeral Rites Of The Rose
The Rose was sick, and smiling died;
And, being to be sanctified,
About the bed, there sighing stood
The sweet and flowery sisterhood.
Some hung the head, while some did bring,
To wash her, water from the spring;
Some laid her forth, while others wept,
But all a solemn fast there kept.
The holy sisters some among,
The sacred dirge and trental sung;
But ah! what sweets smelt everywhere,
As heaven had spent all perfumes there!
At last, when prayers for the dead,
And rites, were all accomplished,
They, weeping, spread a lawny loom,
And closed her up as in a tomb.
poem by Robert Herrick
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An Old Christmas Song
I heard an old old Christmas song
sung by grandma on Christmas eve.
I heard an old old Christmas song
of a virgin who did conceive.
I heard an old old Christmas song
of a Christ child who will relieve.
I heard an old old Christmas song
of glad tidings we shall receive.
I heard an old old Christmas song
of peace on earth we shall achieve.
I heard an old old Christmas song
of joyful people who did grieve.
I heard an old old Christmas song
of pain eternal we shall leave.
poem by Joseph C Ogbonna (15 December 2019)
Submitted by Joseph C Ogbonna
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Sing A Song Of Stephen Foster's
Sing a song of Stephen Foster's a song from long ago
Sing 'Jeanie with the light brown hair' or even 'Old black Joe'
Or sing my 'Old Kentucky home' for that would please me so
Or 'old folks at home' or 'Oh Susanna' to the strains of the banjo.
I hate to hurt your feelings sir but to you I must say no
For I've never heard of this Foster and his songs I do not know
It's the first that I've heard tell of him, never heard of him before
Is he some old ballad monger dead one hundred years or more? .
So you've never heard of Stephen Foster then it only goes to show
That you are not a true folk singer when his songs you do not know
He was America's greatest song writer and his is an undying fame
And I find it hard to believe that you've not heard of his name.
So you can't sing a song of Stephen Foster's, then I'll go elsewhere for beer
For to hear one of his oft sung songs the reason I come here
The drinks are dearer here tonight just to cover your fee
And you can't even sing a Stephen Foster song for me.
poem by Francis Duggan
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When I Will Sing My Own Song
A time may come when i'll sing my own song,
And that time is coming fast.
I'll sing my own song,
Perhaps a lyrical song coloured with joy,
And maybe a dirge bursting with sorrow
A time will come then i'll sing my own song,
A song in praise of fallen heroes,
A song in huge honour of hunger
A song for incessant insecurity,
A song of unemployment.
One thing i don't know
Is whether the church will sing to this song,
And dance to its tunes, or make it
A song for offering of offerings
I don't know whether to make it secular;
If it be ungodly, perhaps it may be a hit.
When i'll sing my own song
Children will hop over hills in awe;
Mothers will sing its tune mutely,
And fathers will remain unsure whether to join
Not long, i will sing a song.
I will sing to my own song,
Then the world know i desired peace,
And love, and accord.
Then the world will know
I'm tired of wanton carnages,
And famines that breed hunger,
And being quagmired by floods,
And being mixed in hysteria
Of dirty and ethnical politics!
When i'll sing my own song,
I know it'll be long overdue.
It may never be heard anywhere
It may remain deep rooted within my heart;
Or i may never have money
To pay for its acceptance by the people!
poem by Eric Lungai
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The Singer
Nay! sing no more thy wild delusive strain
(I heard them say, while I my song pursued),
'Tis but the rage of thy delirious brain
(I heard them say, yet still my song renewed):
Nay! sing no more with reckless, idle breath
Of man immortal and of life to come,
For one brief moment scan the face of death,
Then be thy foolish song for ever dumb;
Behold the dusty ash that once was fire,
And mark the summer leaf in autumn fall,
Watch thou the wavering breath of man expire,
And know that Death hath lordship over all
(I heard them say with many a scornful word,
Yet still sang on as one who nothing heard).
poem by William Gay
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By the Pool of the Third Rosses
I heard the sighing of the reed
In the grey pool in the green land,
The sea-wind in the long reeds sighing
Between the green hill and the sand.
I heard the sighing of the reeds
Day after day, night after night;
I heard the whirring wild ducks flying,
I saw the sea-gull's wheeling flight.
I heard the sighing of the reeds
Night after night, day after day,
And I forgot old age, and dying,
And youth that loves, and love's decay.
I heard the sighing of the reeds
At noontide and at evening,
And some old dream I had forgotten
I seemed to be remembering.
I hear the sighing of the reeds:
Is it in vain, is it in vain
That some old peace I had forgotten
Is crying to come back again?
poem by Arthur Symons
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I laid me down upon a bank..
I laid me down upon a bank
Where love lay sleeping
I heard among the rushes dank
Weeping Weeping
Then I went to the heath & the wild 5
To the thistles & thorns of the waste
And they told me how they were beguild
Driven out & compeld to be chaste
poem by William Blake from Songs and Ballads (1793)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Gortnamona
Long, long ago in the woods of Gortnamona,
I thought the birds were singing in the blackthorn tree;
But oh, it was my heart that was ringing, ringing, ringing,
With the joy that you were bringing, oh my love, to me
Long, long ago in the woods of Gortnamona,
I thought the wind was sighing round the blackthorn tree;
But oh, it was the banshee that was crying, crying, crying,
And I knew my love was dying far across the sea.
Now if you go through the woods of Gortnamona,
You hear the raindrops creeping through the blackthorn tree;
But oh, it is the tears I am weeping, weeping, weeping,
For the loved one that is sleeping far away from me.
poem by William Percy French
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Wonderful Night
It's a wonderful night and the music is right
Will you dance with me and hold me tight
I don't know why I feel this way
It's how I feel when they start to play
That old song we heard so long ago
That I wonder if I can remember every word
It's amazing how fast years have gone past
And that some kinds of love just don't seem to last
But win or loose, I love you still
It's you I choose and I always will
And that old song we heard so long ago
Still reminds me of the girl I used to know
But that's all in a dream that's been over for years
Now things are what they seem, only minus the tears
So, I think of you now the way you were then
And I'll manage somehow to keep trying again
But I don't mind if you don't write
Cause I recall that magic night
And that old song we heard so long ago
Was more beautiful than the love we used to share
Yes, that old song we heard so long ago
Was more beautiful than the love we used to share
Yes that old song ...
song performed by by Don McLean
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Epitaph Of Bion.
Dolefully sound, ye groves and Dorian waters,
Lament, ye rivers, our beloved Bion;
Mourn, all ye plants, and whisper low, ye forests;
Ye flowers, breathe sadly from your drooping petals;
Put on deep red, anemones and roses;
Wail thine own letters, hyacinth, and ai ai
Write double on thy leaves for our sweet poet.
Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses.
Ye nightingales, in the thick leafage sobbing,
Tell the Sicilian streams of Arethusa
Bion is dead, the shepherd--boy, and with him
Song too is dead, and all the Dorian music.
Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses.
Strymonian swans, sing sadly by your waters;
Warble a funeral elegy, in ditties
Such as he sung, the rival of your voices.
Tell the Œagrian Nymphs, and tell the damsels
That play in Thrace, Dead is the Dorian Orpheus.
Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses.
Our friend shall pipe beside his flocks no longer,
Nor sit and sing alone beneath the ilex;
But tunes oblivious strains to sullen Pluto.
Mute are the mountains, and the herd is straying
And will not feed, but wanders sadly lowing.
Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses.
Thine early death lamented great Apollo,
Pan wept to miss thy singing, all the Naiads
Wept in their woods, and turned to tears their fountains;
Echo is weeping that she must be silent
Thy lips no longer mocking. At thy parting
Trees shed their fruit, and all the flowers were blighted;
Milk failed the flocks, and in our hives the honey
Sunk mouldering in the wax; for no more sweetness
Shall there be, now thy honey--song hath perished.
Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses.
Not so beside the sea--beach wailed the dolphin,
Nor nightingale in shrubby rocks embowered,
Nor on the long green hills the piping swallow;
Not so for his Alcyone wept Ceÿx;
Nor Cerylus along the dark--blue waters;
Not so in Eastern dells the birds of Memnon
Wailed, flying round his tomb, the son of Ao,
As all lamented for the death of Bion.
Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses.
Shepherd, with thee the Muses' gifts have perished--
All beauty, and the joy of youthful lovers--
Sadly the Loves around thy tomb are weeping:
Cypris hath loved thee better than the memory
Of the last kiss she prest on pale Adonis.
Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses.
Thou tunefullest of streams, a second sorrow,
A second sorrow, Meles, hath befallen;
Thy Homer died, sweet prophet of the Muses;
And then, they say, thy glorious son thou wailest
Along thy shallows, and far into ocean
Carriedst the sound of grief: and now another
Must thou lament, and dry away for anguish.
Both were beloved by fountains: one was favoured
Of Hippocrene, and one of Arethusa;
One sung the lay of Tyndarus' fair daughter,
The son of Thetis, and the twin Atreidae;
But ours no wars, nor tears--the god of shepherds
And herdsmen sung he, as his flock he tended,
And bound the syrinx, and milked the sweet--breathed heifers,
And spake of Love, and was dear to Aphrodita.
Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses.
All countries mourn for thee, all ancient cities:
Not so mourned Ascra for her Shepherd--prophet;
Not so the castled Lesbos for Alcaeus;
Nor Ceos her old songster; not so Paros
Archilochus desires; and leaving Sappho
Thy legend sings the widowed Mitylene.
Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses.
Alas! when mallows perish in the gardens,
The crisp--green parsley, and the hardy anise,
They live again, and grow another summer;
But we, the great and strong, the sons of wisdom,
When first we die, unknown in earthy hollow
Sleep a long boundless sleep, that hath no waking.
Thou shalt be gathered to the dust in silence,
But sorry songsters live and sing for ever:
Well have the Muses ordered it, for better
Sing sweet and die, than be like them immortal.
Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses.
Poison hath touched thy mouth, a draught of poison;--
How came it to thy lips and was not sweetened?
What man so cruel that for thee could mingle,
Or offering it escaped uncharmed thy singing?
Begin the grief, begin Sicilian Muses.
Who now shall sound thy reed, beloved poet?
Who is so bold that to his lips will bear it?
To Pan I offer it; but Pan refuses
To wake its melody, lest he in playing
Should miss thy skill, and be adjudged thy second.
poem by Henry Alford
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Dulcis Memoria
Long, long ago I heard a little song,
(Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?)
So lowly, slowly wound the tune along,
That far into my heart it found the way:
A melody consoling and endearing;
And still, in silent hours, I'm often hearing
The small, sweet song that does not die away.
Long, long ago I saw a little flower,--
(Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?)
So fair of face and fragrant for an hour,
That something dear to me it seemed to say:
A thought of joy that blossomed into being
Without a word; and now I'm often seeing
The friendly flower that does not fade away.
Long, long ago we had a little child,--
(Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?)
Into his mother's eyes and mine he smiled
Unconscious love; warm in our arms he lay.
An angel called! Dear heart, we could not hold him;
Yet secretly your arms and mine infold him--
Our little child who does not go away.
Long, long ago? Ah, memory, make it clear--
(It was not long ago, but yesterday,)
So little and so helpless and so dear
Let not the song be lost, the flower decay!
His voice, his waking eyes, his gentle sleeping:
The smallest things are safest in thy keeping.
Sweet memory, keep our child with us always.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Top Of The World
I wished I was smarter
I wished I was stronger
I wished I loved Jesus
The way my wife does
I wish it had been easier
Instead of any longer
I wished I could have stood where you would have been proud
But that won't happen now
That won't happen now
There's a whole lot of singing that's never gonna be heard
Disappearing everyday without so much as a word somehow
Think I broke the wings off that little song bird
She's never gonna fly to the top of the world right now
Top of the world
I don't have to answer any of these questions
Don't have no God to teach me no lessons
I come home in the eveing
Sit in my chair
One night they called me for supper
But I never got up
I stayed right there in my chair
There's a whole lot of singing that's never gonna be heard
Disappearing everyday without so much as a word somehow
Think I broke the wings off that little song bird
She's never gonna fly to the top of the world right now
Top of the world
I wished I'd a known you
Wished I'd a shown you
All of the things I was on the inside
I'd pretend to be sleeping
When you come in in the morning
To whisper good-bye
Go to work in the rain
I don't know why
Don't know why
'Cause everone's singing
We just wanna be heard
Disappearing everyday without so much as a word somehow
Wanna grab a hold of that little song bird
Take her for a ride to the top of the world right now
To the top of the world
To the top of the world
To the top of the world
To the top of the world
To the top of the world
To the top of the world
To the top of the world
To the top of the world
song performed by by Dixie Chicks from Home
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Twas One of Those Dreams
'TWAS one of those dreams, that by music are brought,
Like a bright summer haze, o'er the poet's warm thought --
When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on,
And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone.
The wild notes he heard o'er the water were those
He had taught to sing Erin's dark bondage and woes,
And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o'er
From Dinis' green isle, to Glena's wooded shore.
He listen'd -- while, high o'er the eagle's rude nest,
The lingering sounds on their way loved to rest;
And the echoes sung back from their full mountain quire,
As if loath to let song to enchanting expire.
It seem'd as if every sweet note that died here
Was again brought to life in some airier sphere,
Some heaven in those hills, where the soul of the strain
That had ceased upon earth was awaking again!
Oh forgive, if, while listening to music, whose breath
Seem'd to circle his name with a charm against death,
He should feel a proud spirit within him proclaim,
"Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of Fame:
"Even so, though thy memory should now die away,
'Twill be caught up again in some happier day,
And the hearts and the voices of Erin prolong,
Through the answering Future, thy name and thy song."
poem by Thomas Moore
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O Thou Breeze of Spring!
O thou breeze of spring!
Gladdening sea and shore,
Wake the woods to sing,
Streams have felt the sighing
Of thy scented wing,
Let each found replying,
Hail thee, breeze of spring,
Once more!
O'er long-buried flowers
Passing, not in vain,
Odours in soft showers
Thou hast brought again,
Let the primrose greet thee,
Incense forth to meet thee -
Wake my heart no more!
No more!
From a funeral urn
Bower'd in leafy gloom,
Ev'n
thy
soft return
Calls not song or bloom.
Leave my spirit sleeping
Like that silent thing;
Stir the founts of weeping
There
, O breeze of spring,
No more!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Voice
One feather is a bird,
I claim; one tree, a wood;
In her low voice I heard
More than a mortal should;
And so I stood apart,
Hidden in my own heart.
And yet I roamed out where
Those notes went, like the bird,
Whose thin song hung in air,
Diminished, yet still heard:
I lived with open sound,
Aloft, and on the ground.
That ghost was my own choice,
The shy cerulean bird;
It sang with her true voice,
And it was I who heard
A slight voice reply;
I heard; and only I.
Desire exults the ear:
Bird, girl, and ghostly tree,
The earth, the solid air--
Their slow song sang in me;
The long noon pulsed away,
Like any summer day.
poem by Theodore Roethke
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Sha La La
Sha, la, la
Sha, la, la
Walking out quite late one night
Not feeling happy or feeling down
In the dark I stumbled over something on the ground
As I got to my feet
I heard a strange voice singing low
Shout out a song I wont forget
Until my dying day I know
She said
Sha, la, la
Sha, la, la
When I heard her singing
Sha, la, la
Sha, la, la
Sha, la, la
First my impulse was to run
But then the magic caught my ear
An unforgettable refrain
A song for all the year
Sha, la, la
Sha, la, la
Well then I heard her singing
Sha, la, la
Sha, la, la
Sha, la, la
In despair I cried out loudly
Begging for her to come out
Suddenly has it began
The sha la song died out
At last I realized who had sung it
Quite amazed I turned to see
The tall trees waving me goodbye
The sha la song and me
They sought me
Sha, la, la
Sha, la, la
Sha, la, la
And then I heard her singing
Sha, la, la
Sha, la, la
Sha, la, la
Sha, la, la
song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rejoicing After The Battle Of Inkerman
Rejoice! the fearful day is o’er
For the victors and the slain;
Our cannon proclaim from shore to shore,
The Allies have won again!
Let our joy bells ring out music clear,
The gayest they’ve ever pealed;
Let bonfires flames the dark night cheer,
We are masters of the field
But list! dost hear that mournful wail
’Bove the joyous revelry?
Rising from hillside and lowly vale,—
Say, what can its meaning be?
From Erin’s sunny emerald shore
It trembles upon the gale,
And rises with the torrent’s roar
From the birth place of the Gael.
Fair Albion, too, in every spot
Of thy land of promise wide
Is heard that dirge for the mournful lot
Of thy soldier sons—thy pride.
Them shall no bugle at dawn of day
Arouse from their quiet sleep,
Them shall no charger with shrill neigh
Bear off to the hillside steep.
’Mid the dead and dying stretched unknown
On Crimea’s blood stained earth,
Lie the household gods of many a home,
The lights of many a hearth:
While, vainly woman’s weeping voice
Calls on each well loved one—
The tender wife on her girlhoods choice,
The fond mother on her son.
And not only from the peasant’s cot
Comes that mournful, dirge like cry,
’Tis heard—unto all a common lot—
Where dwell the great and high;
And tears fall fast for the last lost child
Of many a noble race,
Who has perished in that struggle wild,
And left none to fill his place.
Yet if above our laurels bright
Falls many a bitter tear,
Still, still, may we find a gleam of light,
Our stricken hearts to cheer;
They have fallen in the country’s cause
That their youth and manhood nursed,
They have fallen true to honor’s laws,
In a sacred strife and just.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Ulmarra
Alone — alone!
With a heart like a stone,
She maketh her moan
At the feet of the trees,
With her face on her knees,
And her hair streaming over;
Wildly, and wildly, and wildly;
For she misses the tracks of her lover!
Do you hear her, Ulmarra?
Oh, where are the tracks of her lover?
Go by — go by!
They have told her a lie,
Who said he was nigh,
In the white-cedar glen —
In the camps of his men:
And she sitteth there weeping —
Weeping, and weeping, and weeping,
For the face of a warrior sleeping!
Do you hear her, Ulmarra?
Oh! where is her warrior sleeping?
A dream! a dream!
That they saw a bright gleam
Through the dusk boughs stream,
Where wild bees dwell,
And a tomahawk fell,
In moons which have faded;
Faded, and faded, and faded,
From woods where a chieftain lies shaded!
Do you hear her, Ulmarra?
Oh! where doth her chieftain lie shaded?
Bewail! bewail!
Who whispered a tale,
That they heard on the gale,
Through the dark and the cold,
The voice of the bold;
And a boomerang flying;
Flying, and flying, and flying?
Ah! her heart it is wasted with crying —
Do you hear her, Ulmarra?
Oh! her heart it is wasted with crying!
poem by Henry Kendall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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