An Autumn Landscape
No wind there is that either pipes or moans;
The fields are cold and still; the sky
Is covered with a blue-gray sheet
Of motionless cloud; and at my feet
The river, curling softly by,
Whispers and dimples round its quiet gray stones.
Along the chill green slope that dips and heaves
The road runs rough and silent, lined
With plum-trees, misty and blue-gray,
And poplars pallid as the day,
In masses spectral, undefined,
Pale greenish stems half hid in dry gray leaves.
And on beside the river's sober edge
A long fresh field lies black. Beyond,
Low thickets gray and reddish stand,
Stroked white with birch; and near at hand,
Over a little steel-smooth pond,
Hang multitudes of thin and withering sedge.
Across a waste and solitary rise
A ploughman urges his dull team,
A stooped gray figure with prone brow
That plunges bending to the plough
With strong, uneven steps. The stream
Rings and re-echoes with his furious cries.
Sometimes the lowing of a cow, long-drawn,
Comes from far off; and crows in strings
Pass on the upper silences.
A flock of small gray goldfinches,
Flown down with silvery twitterings,
Rustle among the birch-cones and are gone.
This day the season seems like one that heeds,
With fixed ear and lifted hand,
All moods that yet are known on earth,
All motions that have faintest birth,
If haply she may understand
The utmost inward sense of all her deeds.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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Shades Of Grey
If you start here late no one will know what you did
No the streets are straight its the soul thats crooked
Ive been treated fine Ive been treated elegantly
But Im not one for bathing in the waters of plenty
East is east west is west
And bowery is screaming while delancey rests
Well Im south of the skating but Im north of the cash
I could sure use the money but Im ashamed to ask
The traffic has buried all of last nights rain
The words are all different but the accent is the same
The sun is white and the moon is gray
And the river is black blue and green
The young are young and the old are old
And there are no shades of gray in between
Theres at least ten different strains of smoke in the air
And my prints are on them all to prove I was there
And I love the curses but Im not one for the trenches
And I do love the walking but thank God for the benches
Its hard to tell where green begins and the city gray stops
I guess the trees all bought their armor at second hand shops
My second had is working but the minute hand is broke again
I know time will pass but I dont know when
The sun is white and the moon is gray
And the river is black blue and green
The young are young and the old are old
And there are no shades of gray in between
And there are no shades of gray in between
I know the great ones have been here but where I cant tell
Theres dreams here a plenty but theyre being withheld
And Im more impressed with the closed doors than the ones that are open
The whole place tells time by a tower clock thats broken
The pigeons are ravens and the gulls are vultures
And trash is art and cash is culture
The sun is white and the moon is gray
And the river is black blue and green
The young are young and the old are old
And there are no shades of gray in between
There are no shades of gray in between
There are no shades of gray in between
song performed by by Eagle Eye Cherry
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Shades Of Gray
If you start here late, no one will know what you did
No, the streets are straight, it's the soul that's crooked
I've been treated fine,
I've been treated elegantly
But I'm not one for bathing in the waters of plenty
East is East,
West is West
And The Bowery is screaming while Delancey rests
Well, I'm south of the skating, but
I'm north of the cash
I could sure use the money but
I'm ashamed to ask
The traffic has buried all of last night's rain
The words are all different but the accent is the same
The sun is white, and the moon is gray
And the river is black, blue and green
The young are young, and the old are old
There are no shades of gray in between
There's at least ten different strains of smoke in the air
And my prints are on them all, to prove I was there
And I love the curses, but I'm not one for the trenches
Yes I do love the walking , but that God for the benches
It's hard to tell where green begins, and the city gray stops
I guess the trees all bought their armor at second hand shops
My second hand is working, but the minute hand broke again
I know time will pass, but I don't know when
The sun is white, and the moon is gray
And the river is black, blue and green
The young are young, and the old are old
And there are no shades of gray in between
And there are no shades of gray in between
I know the great ones have been here, but where I can't tell
There's dreams here a plenty, but they're being witheld
And I'm more impressed with the closed doors
Than the ones that are open
The whole place tells time by a tower clock that's broken
The pigeons are ravens, and the gulls are vultures
And trash
song performed by by Eagle Eye Cherry
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I've tried doing so, for it was never my intention to paint only with gray. But in the course of my work I have eliminated one color after another, and what has remained is gray, gray, gray!
quote by Alberto Giacometti
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0004 M i n d
and mind might ask,
why then are brain cells gray? Is it
because the world is just
so wonderful, that they, stunned
and amazed, cannot decide
which colour to praise first?
(Mix all the colours of the paints,
and the result is gray.)
or is it because they feel themselves
so dull in comparison
with the miracle which is creation,
the miracle they (miracles themselves) , faithful, serve?
(Mix all the colours of the spectrum,
and the result is white.)
or is it, because they know
their work lies between ultimates
such as (do they themselves
call them this?) black,
and white? do they know
their work is equity –
to balance all things, so that gray is not gray
as we use gray for worldly metaphor; but
the gray of lakes at peace;
of silver that lives in itself,
needing no sun but its own innerness;
mercury that is moved but longs
to be united in a perfect sphere;
gray of clouds that know
the blessings that they hold;
and, the shining gray of mind -
for which gray hair is living metaphor,
the wisdom which life holds in store for you -
as how many poets, this moment round the world,
are joining new electric paths of thought between
these tiny, great gray worm-like cells which hide, compact,
their vast and inner space which spins out eager words
of metaphor, for that so nameless,
boundless, dazzling spectrum,
the radiant space of self?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Songs Of The Sky
In a sky of layered clouds,
dawn becomes a rainbow,
moving through the spectrum
toward the day.
In a sky of always blue,
no clouds ride the wind:
the sun burns brightly,
high and hot and long.
In a sky of may grays,
clouds crash, explode and roar;
rain-filled winds sweep across the prairie.
In a sky of many blues,
clouds dance on the wind;
and endless and quixotic
Rohrschach test.
In a sky of always gray,
no clouds seem to move;
overcast blots out imagination.
In a sky of cold, cold blue,
gray clouds scrape the treetops;
harbingers of winter storms to come.
Beneath a sky of darkening gray,
the prairie grasses rustle
on the small, forgotten farms
of what could've been
and was.
In a sky of mottled gray,
cold rains fall, now and then;
the seasons struggle
for control of April.
In a sky of broken gray,
cold winds precede the rains;
and before long
the darkened clouds re-gather.
In a sky as clear as glass,
and blue from top to bottom,
sultry days of August
slowly drift into September.
In a twi-lit noon-time sky,
this annular eclipse
leaves us just a
ring around the moon.
In a sky of many clouds,
sunset's an inferno;
ablaze, in this,
my father's final twilight.
In a sky that slowly burns,
the clouds of fire fade
and leave a darker beauty
to hold the night.
poem by William Kruse
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Eyes Of Green And Gray
Eyes of green and gray
i wish you'd look my way
smile for me today
O eyes of green and gray
Eyes of black and white
of sorrow and delight
i behold every sight
through eyes of black and white
Eyes as hard as stone
so cold and all alone
lost without a home
with eyes as hard as stone
Eyes of green and gray
it's here i want to stay
and never look away
from eyes of green and gray
poem by Sergey Sibikovsky
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For me, the summer will be pure gray - mother-of-pearl gray, very pale gray. To me, this is the big statement for summer. Then we have light blue, light turquoise, lots of pink.
quote by Gianni Versace
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Red Flower
In the pleasant time of Pentecost,
By the little river Kyll,
I followed the angler's winding path
Or waded the stream at will,
And the friendly fertile German land
Lay round me green and still.
But all day long on the eastern bank
Of the river cool and clear,
Where the curving track of the double rails
Was hardly seen though near,
The endless trains of German troops
Went rolling down to Trier.
They packed the windows with bullet heads
And caps of hodden gray;
They laughed and sang and shouted loud
When the trains were brought to a stay;
They waved their hands and sang again
As they went on their iron way.
No shadow fell on the smiling land,
No cloud arose in the sky;
I could hear the river's quiet tune
When the trains had rattled by;
But my heart sank low with a heavy sense
Of trouble,--I knew not why.
Then came I into a certain field
Where the devil's paint-brush spread
'Mid the gray and green of the rolling hills
A flaring splotch of red,--
An evil omen, a bloody sign,
And a token of many dead.
I saw in a vision the field-gray horde
Break forth at the devil's hour,
And trample the earth into crimson mud
In the rage of the Will to Power,--
All this I dreamed in the valley of Kyll,
At the sign of the blood-red flower.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Growin' Gray
HELLO, ole man, you're a-gittin' gray,
An' it beats ole Ned to see the way
'At the crow's feet's a-getherin' aroun' yore eyes;
Tho' it oughtn't to cause me no su'prise,
Fur there's many a sun 'at you've seen rise
An' many a one you've seen go down
Sence yore step was light an' yore hair was brown,
An' storms an' snows have had their way—
Hello, ole man, you're a-gittin' gray.
Hello, ole man, you're a-gittin' gray,
An' the youthful pranks 'at you used to play
Are dreams of a far past long ago
That lie in a heart where the fires burn low—
That has lost the flame though it kept the glow,
An' spite of drivin' snow an' storm,
Beats bravely on forever warm.
December holds the place of May—
Hello, ole man, you're a-gittin' gray.
Hello, ole man, you're a-gittin' gray —
Who cares what the carpin' youngsters say?
For, after all, when the tale is told,
Love proves if a man is young or old!
Old age can't make the heart grow cold
When it does the will of an honest mind;
When it beats with love fur all mankind;
Then the night but leads to a fairer day—
Hello, ole man, you're a-gittin' gray!
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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A Birthday
THE three Fates sat in a house of birth,
Ah, well a day; ah, well a day;
Their eyes were bright, but not with mirth—
They have no love for the sons of earth—
And their lips were parched and gray.
5
Their gray locks hung from brow to chin,
Ah, well a day; ah, well a day;
One held the distaff, and one did spin,
And one held shears in her fingers thin;
Three silent hags were they.
10
We saw not the thread which the sisters spun,
Ah, well a day; ah, well a day;
Nor whether in white or in black begun,
But on her with the shears, that elder one,
Our eyes were fixed alway.
15
A thread, I ween, of tangled years,
Ah, well a day; ah, well a day;
God stay her hand that holds the shears;
Our hopes are stronger than our fears
For the bud upon life's spray.
20
poem by Frederick George Scott
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Walking West
Anyone with quiet pace who
walks a gray road in the West
may hear a badger underground where
in deep flint another time is
Caught by flint and held forever,
the quiet pace of God stopped still.
Anyone who listens walks on
time that dogs him single file,
To mountains that are far from people,
the face of the land gone gray like flint.
Badgers dig their little lives there,
quiet-paced the land lies gaunt,
The railroad dies by a yellow depot,
town falls away toward a muddy creek.
Badger-gray the sod goes under
a river of wind, a hawk on a stick.
poem by William Stafford
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Phyllis
PHYLLIS, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day,
Few are my years, but my griefs are not few,
Ever to youth should each day be a May-day,
Warm wind and rose-breath and diamonded dew—
Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day.
Oh for the sunlight that shines on a May-day!
Only the cloud hangeth over my life.
Love that should bring me youth's happiest heyday
Brings me but seasons of sorrow and strife:
Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day.
Sunshine or shadow, or gold day or gray day,
Life must be lived as our destinies rule;
Leisure or labor or work day or play day—
Feasts for the famous and fun for the fool;
Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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A Portrait
LIKE the sway of the silver birch in the breeze of dawn
Is her dainty way;
Like the gray of a twilight sky or a starlit lawn
Are her eyes of gray;
Like the clouds in their moving white
Is her breast's soft stir;
And white as the moon and bright
Is the soul of her.
Like murmur of woods in spring ere the leaves be green,
Like the voice of a bird
That sings by a stream that sings through the night unseen,
So her voice is heard.
And the secret her eyes withhold
In my soul abides,
For white as the moon and cold
Is the heart she hides.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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On The Way To Kew
On the way to Kew,
By the river old and gray,
Where in the Long Ago,
We laughed and loitered so,
I met a ghost to-day,
A ghost that told of you –
A ghost of old replies
And sweet, inscrutable eyes
Coming up from Richmond
As you used to do.
By the river old and gray,
The enchanted Long Ago
Murmured and smiled anew.
On the way to Kew,
March had the laugh of May,
The bare boughs looked aglow,
And old immortal words
Sang in my breast like birds,
Coming up from Richmond
As I used with you.
With the life of Long Ago
Lived my thought of you.
By the river old and gray
Flowing his appointed way
As I watched I knew
What is good to know –
Not in vain, not in vain,
Shall I look for you again
Coming up from Richmond
On the way to Kew.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Faith
A wall
Gray and tall,
And a sky of gray,
And a twilight cold;
And that is all
That my eyes behold.
But I know that unseen,
Beyond the wall,
On a lawn of green
White blossoms fall
In the waning light;
And beyond the lawn
Curtains are drawn
From windows bright.
And within she moves with her gracious hands
And the heart that loves and that understands,
Waiting to succour poor souls in need,
And to bind with her blessing the hearts that bleed.
I know it all, though I cannot see;
But the tired-out tramp,
Dirty and ill,
In the evening's damp,
In the Spring's clean chill,
Knows not that there
Is the heart to care
For such as I and for such as he.
He slouches along, and sees alone
The gray of the sky and the gray of the stone.
Lord, when my eyes see nothing but grey
In all Thy world that is now so green,
I will bethink me of this spring day
And the house of welcome, known yet unseen;
The wall that conceals
And the faith that reveals.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Sicilian Emigrant’s Song
O—eh—lee! La—la!
Donna! Donna!
Blue is the sky of Palermo;
Blue is the little bay;
And dost thou remember the orange and fig,
The lively sun and the sea breeze at evening?
Hey—la!
Donna! Donna! Maria!
O—eh—li! La—la!
Donna! Donna!
Gray is the sky of this land.
Gray and green is the water.
I see no trees, dost thou? The wind
Is cold for the big woman there with the candle.
Hey—la!
Donna! Donna! Maria!
O—eh—li! O—la!
Donna! Donna!
I sang thee by the blue waters;
I sing thee here in the gray dawning.
Kiss, for I put down my guitar;
I’ll sing thee more songs after the landing.
O Jesu, I love thee!
Donna! Donna! Maria!
poem by William Carlos Williams
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Romance
MY Love dwelt in a Northern land.
A gray tower in a forest green
Was hers, and far on either hand
The long wash of the waves was seen,
And leagues on leagues of yellow sand,
The woven forest boughs between!
And through the silver Northern night
The sunset slowly died away,
And herds of strange deer, lily-white,
Stole forth among the branches gray;
About the coming of the light,
They fled like ghosts before the day!
I know not if the forest green
Still girdles round that castle gray;
I know not if the boughs between
The white deer vanish ere the day;
Above my Love the grass is green,
My heart is colder than the clay!
poem by Andrew Lang
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The Place For No Story
The coast hills at Sovranes Creek:
No trees, but dark scant pasture drawn thin
Over rock shaped like flame;
The old ocean at the land's foot, the vast
Gray extension beyond the long white violence;
A herd of cows and the bull
Far distant, hardly apparent up the dark slope;
And the gray air haunted with hawks:
This place is the noblest thing I have ever seen.
No imaginable
Human presence here could do anything
But dilute the lonely self-watchful passion.
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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In November (1)
The leafless forests slowly yield
To the thick-driving snow. A little while
And night shall darken down. In shouting file
The woodmen's carts go by me homeward-wheeled,
Past the thin fading stubbles, half concealed,
Now golden-gray, sowed softly through with snow,
Where the last ploughman follows still his row,
Turning black furrows through the whitening field.
Far off the village lamps begin to gleam,
Fast drives the snow, and no man comes this way;
The hills grow wintry white, and bleak winds moan
About the naked uplands. I alone
Am neither sad, nor shelterless, nor gray,
Wrapped round with thought, content to watch and dream.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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Shades Of Gray (Master Backing Track Take 98)
When the world and I were young, just yesterday
Life was such a simple game a child could play
It was easy then to tell right from wrong
Easy then to tell weak from strong
When a man should stand and fight
Or just go along
But today, there is no day or night
Today, there is no dark or light
Today, there is no black or white
Only shades of gray
I remember when the answer seemed so clear
We had never lived with doubt, or tasted fear
It was easy then to tell truth from lies
Selling out from compromise
Who to love and who to hate
The foolish from the wise
But today, there is no day or night
Today, there is no dark or light
Today, there is no black or white
Only shades of gray
It was easy then to know what was fair
When to keep and when to share
How much to protect your heart
And how much to care
But today, there is no day or night
Today, there is no dark or light
Today, there is no black or white
Only shades of gray
Only shades of gray
song performed by by Monkees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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