The Silent Slain
We too, we too, descending once again
The hills of our own land, we too have heard
Far off -- Ah, que ce cor a longue haleine --
The horn of Roland in the passages of Spain,
the first, the second blast, the failing third,
And with the third turned back and climbed once more
The steep road southward, and heard faint the sound
Of swords, of horses, the disastrous war,
And crossed the dark defile at last, and found
At Roncevaux upon the darkening plain
The dead against the dead and on the silent ground
The silent slain --
poem by Archibald MacLeish
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The Too-Late Born
We too, we too, descending once again
The hills of our own land, we too have heard
Far off --- Ah, que ce cor a longue haleine ---
The horn of Roland in the passages of Spain,
The first, the second blast, the failing third,
And with the third turned back and climbed once more
The steep road southward, and heard faint the sound
Of swords, of horses, the disastrous war,
And crossed the dark defile at last, and found
At Roncevaux upon the darkening plain
The dead against the dead and on the silent ground
The silent slain---
poem by Archibald MacLeish
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The Hunter’s Song
RISE! Sleep no more! ’T is a noble morn:
The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn,
And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten hound,
Under the steaming, steaming ground.
Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by,
And leave us alone in the clear gray sky!
Our horses are ready and steady.—So, ho!
I ’m gone, like a dart from the Tartar’s bow.
Hark, hark!—Who calleth the maiden Morn
From her sleep in the woods and the stubble corn?
The horn,—the horn!
The merry, sweet ring of the hunter’s horn.
Now, thorough the copse, where the fox is found,
And over the stream, at a mighty bound,
And over the high lands, and over the low,
O’er furrows, o’er meadows, the hunters go!
Away!—as a hawk flies full at its prey,
So flieth the hunter, away,—away!
From the burst at the cover till set of sun,
When the red fox dies, and—the day is done!
Hark, hark!—What sound on the wind is borne?
’T is the conquering voice of the hunter’s horn.
The horn,—the horn!
The merry, bold voice of the hunter’s horn.
Sound! Sound the horn! To the hunter good
What ’s the gulley deep or the roaring flood?
Right over he bounds, as the wild stag bounds,
At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds.
O, what delight can a mortal lack,
When he once is firm on his horse’s back,
With his stirrups short, and his snaffle strong,
And the blast of the horn for his morning song?
Hark, hark!—Now, home! and dream till morn
Of the bold, sweet sound of the hunter’s horn!
The horn,—the horn!
O, the sound of all sounds is the hunter’s horn!
poem by Barry Cornwall
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The Soldier's Funeral
The muffled drum rolled on the air,
Warriors, with stately step, were there;
On every arm was the black crape bound,
Every carbine was turned to the ground;
Solemn, the sound of their measured tread,
As silent and slow, they followed the dead.
The riderless horse was led in the rear;
There were white plumes waving over the bier;
Helmet and sword were laid on the pall,
For, it was a soldier's funeral.
That soldier had stood on the battle plain,
Where every step was over the slain;
But the brand and the ball had passed him by,
And he came to his native land, to die.
'Twas hard to come to that native land,
And not clasp one familiar hand;
'Twas hard to be numbered amid the dead,
Before he could hear his welcome said.
But, 'twas something to see its cliffs once more,
And to lay his bones on his own loved shore;
To think, that the friends of his youth might weep,
O'er the green grass turf of the soldier's sleep.
The bugles ceased their wailing sound,
As the coffin was lowered into the ground;
A volley was fired, a blessing said,
One moment's pause, and they left the dead.
I saw a poor and aged man -
His step was feeble, his cheek was wan;
He knelt him down on the new-raised mound,
His face was bowed on the cold damp ground;
He raised his head, his tears were done -
The father had prayed o'er his only son.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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Everybody Dance (The Dance Of The Dead)
As the sun sinks upon the horizon,
As the dark night creeps in,
The dead dance.
On the streets they roam,
Silent,
Alone.
Everybody dances,
The saints and the sinners,
Everybody dances,
To the sound of the rhythm,
Everybody dances,
The dance of the dead.
The dance of the dead goes on,
And on,
Never stops,
Never slows,
Time does not matter to the dead.
Everybody dances,
The poor and the rich,
Everybody dances,
To the cries to the babies,
Everybody dances,
The dance of the dead.
As your time goes up,
The dead dance into your room,
Filled with silent movements,
They twirl with grace,
And style
And ease.
They reach out their hands,
And you take it,
And join the dance of the dead.
Everybody dance,
The young and the old,
Everybody dance,
The music is playing,
Everybody dance,
To the dance of the dead.
C’mon,
Everybody dance,
Soldiers and lovers,
Oh,
Everybody dance,
To sound they cry,
So,
Everybody dance,
To the dance of the dead,
The dance of the dead.
Oh,
Everybody dances,
Because the dance never stops.
6/05/06
poem by Charlie F. Kane
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The Last to Leave
The guns were silent, and the silent hills
had bowed their grasses to a gentle breeze
I gazed upon the vales and on the rills,
And whispered, "What of these?' and "What of these?
These long forgotten dead with sunken graves,
Some crossless, with unwritten memories
Their only mourners are the moaning waves,
Their only minstrels are the singing trees
And thus I mused and sorrowed wistfully
I watched the place where they had scaled the height,
The height whereon they bled so bitterly
Throughout each day and through each blistered night
I sat there long, and listened - all things listened too
I heard the epics of a thousand trees,
A thousand waves I heard; and then I knew
The waves were very old, the trees were wise:
The dead would be remembered evermore-
The valiant dead that gazed upon the skies,
And slept in great battalions by the shore.
poem by Leon Gellert
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The poem called
and when the cat had finished drinking
and he had watched that delicate pink tongue
lapping as carefully as any lady
and had wondered whether cats enjoy this patient method
or whether they long to pour it down their throats, carelessly
and savagely, as they live wildly in the nights
then he heard the poem call
faintly, almost indifferently, the sound unmistakeable
yet always different
this time it came from a far distance
beyond the cat, though the cat was somehow part of it,
beyond the yard where he had once and never forgot
put a bullet into the old dog that
could not stop shaking
beyond the barn, beyond the field
where he nuzzled his favourite of the horses
and it allowed this intimacy, patiently;
so far beyond, so faint, the cry that poems make
as they, like cats, like dogs, like horses
who know nature so much more certainly than we
the sound that poems make as they wait patiently
to be found
he walked towards it but many times was lost,
he had to stop, stand still, listen,
and wait to hear that sound
recognisable but different every time
and when he and the poem had found each other
they were for a moment, silent, still,
then both turned to look over his shoulder
to where, yet further still,
the next poem had begun to call to him, faintly, almost indifferently,
the sound familiar, yet never quite the same
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Knock em Dead Kid
In the heat of the night
You went and blackened my eyes
Well now Im back
Im back
Im back
And Im coming your way
Well now Im supercharged
Might just explode in your face
Im black
Im black
Im black
And Im primed for hate
(chorus)
Knock em dead, kid
(knock em dead)
Knock em dead, kid
(knock em dead)
The blade is red, kid
(knock em dead)
Knock em dead, kid
Knock em dead
A star-spangled fight
Heard a steel-belted scream
Now Im black, Im black, Im black
Another sidewalks bloody dream
I heard the sirens whine
My blood turned to freeze
Youll see the red in my eyes
As you take my disease
(chorus)(solo)(chorus)
Knock em knock em knock em
Dead...(scream)
Knock em dead kid
song performed by by Motley Crue
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dream Some Little Dream
…afterwards I laid back down
and spread my palms down on the ground
it wasn’t long before I found
myself inside a little dream
I heard a sound and looked around
and saw them swimming in the stream
a horrid sight I turned my head
and let loose a silent scream
the fish you see were busy there
eating a piece of me
I shook it of and brushed my head
I watched a leaf fall to the ground
as busy brownie moved around
and called me names but made no sound
I felt a pressure push me down
like a magnet to the ground
the fish they splashed in their little stream
as I began to dream some little dream
poem by Maynard Hartman
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The Dead Next Door
Watch the sky
For a reason why
Im safe here
Sunday it was part
Monday it was none
Monday was none
For the dead next door
One pair of silent terror reins
And were the dead next door
The heat of the day fades away
Fades into the night
The heat of the day
Offering a wedding
Suffering away
For the dead next door
You see
One error, silent terror
And were the dead next door
In animal land
And dark is in command
One thing you should know
Dont hear that knocking
Dont eat out of their hand
Dont stumble, die
You say
Dont stumble, cry
They see you and me
You and me
With the dead next door
You and me
With the dead next door
You and me
With the dead next door
song performed by by Billy Idol
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Man On The Street
I was walking downtown
When I heard a strange sound
So I turned back around
When I saw a man on the ground
He had no shoes on his feet
I said have you had something to eat
He said he`d be glad for some heat
He fought in a war
In a far distant land
When he came back home
He found himself alone
Wounded from battles
His mind more then rattled
He was laid off from his job
His boss said he didn`t matter
He fell into depression, became even sadder
His mother is old, lives in a nursing home
His father is dead, He fought against the reds
So why is this man left out in the cold?
When you go to the store to buy you some gold
And you go to the church to save your soul
Remember this story that I just told
poem by Joseph Whelan
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Australian Scenery
The Mountains
A land of sombre, silent hills, where mountain cattle go
By twisted tracks, on sidelings deep, where giant gum trees grow
And the wind replies, in the river oaks, to the song of the stream below.
A land where the hills keep watch and ward, silent and wide awake
As those who sit by a dead campfire, and wait for the dawn to break,
Or those who watched by the Holy Cross for the dead Redeemer's sake.
A land where silence lies so deep that sound itself is dead
And a gaunt grey bird, like a homeless soul, drifts, noiseless, overhead
And the world's great story is left untold, and the message is left unsaid.
The Plains
A land as far as the eye can see, where the waving grasses grow
Or the plains are blackened and burnt and bare, where the false mirages go
Like shifting symbols of hope deferred -- land where you never know.
Land of plenty or land of want, where the grey Companions dance,
Feast or famine, or hope or fear, and in all things land of chance,
Where Nature pampers or Nature slays, in her ruthless, red, romance.
And we catch a sound of a fairy's song, as the wind goes whipping by,
Or a scent like incense drifts along from the herbage ripe and dry
-- Or the dust storms dance on their ballroom floor, where the bones of the cattle lie.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Silence Is
Silence is sitting back in the recliner after a day
at work when the radio was too loud.
Silence is hearing the birds singing after hearing
neighbors bickering.
Silence is listening to beloved hymns after hearing
yourself complaining about things that cannot be changed.
Silence is reading the words of Rumi after reading news of
rape, murder and molestation.
When one is silent about another's wrongdoings, silence is
the sound of the devil shouting. So speak up, and he will
not be heard!
When one is silent in prayer and rest, silence is the sound
of God talking. So speak up, so He may be heard!
Yes, when God talks to you, let Him talk through you!
Be silent no longer!
poem by Greg Oosterhouse
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Be Glad The Gods Know What Is Good For You
you made a pilgrimage to the mountains
climbed the steep hills and crossed the ten rivers
you sailed the five seas and walked the three continents
you are praying for the fulfillment of a wish
for a dream to come true
and you whisper it to the ears of the gods
offering food and flowers
lighting scented candles and letting the smokes from the incenses
spread to the heavens
as you bow your head and prostrate on your legs
and make your chants
in humble worship
the gods did not grant what you were asking
they all said no and you asked for a reconsideration
they all denied your motion
it was given to someone else and you wish you were dead
lightning hit the man you envied and thunder sounded like happy drums
the man to which your wish was granted is now dead.
be glad for the gods know what is good for you
when they denied it, they said it is not meant for you
and they never wanted you dead that early in his bed.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Cavern Of The Three Tells
Oh! enter not yon shadowy cave,
Seek not the bright spars there,
Though the whispering pines that o'er it wave,
With freshness fill the air:
For there the Patriot Three,
In the garb of old array'd,
By their native Forest-sea
On a rocky couch are laid.
The Patriot Three that met of yore
Beneath the midnight sky,
And leagued their hearts on the Grütli shore,
In the name of liberty!
Now silently they sleep
Amidst the hills they freed;
But their rest is only deep,
Till their country's hour of need.
They start not at the hunter's call,
Nor the Lammer-geyer's cry,
Nor the rush of a sudden torrent's fall,
Nor the Lauwine thundering by!
And the Alpine herdsman's lay,
To a Switzer's heart so dear
On the wild wind floats away,
No more for them to hear.
But when the battle-horn is blown
Till the Schreckhorn's peaks reply,
When the Jungfrau's cliffs send back the tone
Through their eagles' lonely sky;
When spear-heads light the lakes,
When trumpets loose the snows,
When the rushing war-steed shakes
The glacier's mute repose;
When Uri's beechen woods wave red
In the burning hamlet's light ;-
Then from the cavern of the dead,
Shall the sleepers wake in might!
With a leap, like Tell's proud leap,
When away the helm he flung,
And boldly up the steep
From the flashing billow sprung!
They shall wake beside their Forest-sea,
In the ancient garb they wore
When they link'd the hands that made us free,
On the Grütli's moonlight shore:
And their voices shall be heard,
And be answer'd with a shout,
Till the echoing Alps are stirr'd,
And the signal-fires blaze out.
And the land shall see such deeds again
As those of that proud day,
When Winkelried, on Sempach's plain,
Through the serried spears made way;
And when the rocks came down
On the dark Morgarten dell,
And the crowned casques* , o'erthrown,
Before our fathers fell!
For the Kühreihen's+ notes must never sound
In a land that wears the chain,
And the vines on freedom's holy ground
Untrampled must remain!
And the yellow harvests wave
For no stranger's hand to reap,
While within their silent cave
The men of Grütli sleep!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Variations On Nothing
That negligible bit of sand which slides
Without a sound and settles in the hourglass,
And the fleeting impressions on the fleshy-pink,
The perishable fleshy-pink, of a cloud...
Then a hand that turns over the hourglass,
The going back for flowing back, of sand,
The quiet silvering of a cloud
In the first few lead-gray seconds of dawn...
The hand in shadow turned the hourglass,
And the negligible bit of sand which slides
And is silent, is the only thing now heard,
And, being heard, doesn't vanish in the dark.
poem by Giuseppe Ungaretti
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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.
To John C. Freemont
THY error, Frémont, simply was to act
A brave man's part, without the statesman's tact,
And, taking counsel but of common sense,
To strike at cause as well as consequence.
Oh, never yet since Roland wound his horn
At Roncesvalles, has a blast been blown
Far-heard, wide-echoed, startling as thine own,
Heard from the van of freedom's hope forlorn!
It had been safer, doubtless, for the time,
To flatter treason, and avoid offence
To that Dark Power whose underlying crime
Heaves upward its perpetual turbulence.
But if thine be the fate of all who break
The ground for truth's seed, or forerun their years
Till lost in distance, or with stout hearts make
A lane for freedom through the level spears,
Still take thou courage! God has spoken through thee,
Irrevocable, the mighty words, Be free!
The land shakes with them, and the slave's dull ear
Turns from the rice-swamp stealthily to hear.
Who would recall them now must first arrest
The winds that blow down from the free Northwest,
Ruffling the Gulf; or like a scroll roll back
The Mississippi to its upper springs.
Such words fulfil their prophecy, and lack
But the full time to harden into things.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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The Messenger
She rose up in the early dawn,
And white and silently she moved
About the house. Four men had gone
To battle for the land they loved,
And she, the mother and the wife,
Waited for tidings from the strife.
How still the house seemed! and her tread
Was like the footsteps of the dead.
The long day passed; the dark night came.
She had not seen a human face.
Some voice spoke suddenly her name.
How loud it echoed in that place,
Where, day on day, no sound was heard
But her own footsteps. 'Bring you word,'
She cried to whom she could not see,
'Word from the battle-plain to me?'
A soldier entered at the door,
And stood within the dim firelight;
'I bring you tidings of the four,'
He said, 'who left you for the fight.'
'God bless you, friend,' she cried, 'speak on!
For I can bear it. One is gone?'
'Ay, one is gone!' he said. 'Which one?'
'Dear lady, he, your eldest son.'
A deathly pallor shot across
Her withered face; she did not weep.
She said: 'It is a grievous loss,
But God gives His belovèd sleep.
What of the living-of the three?
And when can they come back to me?'
The soldier turned away his head:
'Lady, your husband, too, is dead.'
She put her hand upon her brow;
A wild, sharp pain was in her eyes.
'My husband! Oh, God, help me now!'
The soldier heard her shuddering sighs.
The task was harder than he thought.
'Your youngest son, dear madam, fought
Close at his father's side; both fell
Dead, by the bursting of a shell.'
She moved her lips and seemed to moan.
Her face had paled to ashen gray:
'Then one is left me-one alone,'
She said, 'of four who marched away.
Oh, overruling, All-wise God,
How can I pass beneath Thy rod!'
The soldier walked across the floor,
Paused at the window, at the door,
Wiped the cold dew-drops from his cheek
And sought the mourner's side again.
'Once more, dear lady, I must speak:
Your last remaining son was slain
Just at the closing of the fight,
'Twas he who sent me here to-night.'
'God knows,' the man said afterward,
'The fight itself was not so hard.'
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Silent
Silent when I have nothing to say.
Silent just to avoid the fray.
Silent when I am not sure.
Silent—I can't stand anymore.
Silent when you make me mad.
Silent I am when times are sad.
Silent when I am too shy.
Silent when I want to cry.
Silent as I carry life's load.
Silent... I may soon explode.
poem by Shaqueena Celestin
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The Watcher
I think I hear the sound of horses' feet
Beating upon the graveled avenue.
Go to the window that looks on the street,
He would not let me die alone, I knew.'
Back to the couch the patient watcher passed,
And said: 'It is the wailing of the blast.'
She turned upon her couch and, seeming, slept,
The long, dark lashes shadowing her cheek;
And on and on the weary moments crept,
When suddenly the watcher heard her speak:
'I think I hear the sound of horses' hoofs-'
And answered, ''Tis the rain upon the roofs.'
Unbroken silence, quiet, deep, profound.
The restless sleeper turns: 'How dark, how late!
What is it that I hear-a trampling sound?
I think there is a horseman at the gate.'
The watcher turns away her eyes tear-blind:
'It is the shutter beating in the wind.'
The dread hours passed; the patient clock ticked on;
The weary watcher moved not from her place.
The gray dim shadows of the early dawn
Caught sudden glory from the sleeper's face.
'He comes! my love! I knew he would!' she cried;
And smiling sweetly in her slumbers, died.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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