Related quotes: "Ah, poet, the evening draws...

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"Ah, poet, the evening draws near; your hair is turning grey.
Do you in your lonely musing hear the message of the hereafter?"

"It is evening, the poet said, and I am listening because some
one may call from the village, late though it be.
I watch if young straying hearts meet together, and two pairs of
eager eyes beg for music to break their silence and speak for
them.
Who is there to weave their passionate songs, if I sit on the
shore of life and contemplate death and the beyond?

The early evening star disappears.
The glow of a funeral pyre slowly dies by the silent river.
Jackals cry in chorus from the courtyard of the deserted house
in the light of the worn-out moon.
If some wanderer, leaving home, come here to watch the night and
with bowed head listen to the murmur of the darkness, who is
there to whisper the secrets of life into his ears if I,
shutting my doors, should try to free myself from mortal bonds?

It is a trifle that my hair is turning grey.
I am ever as young or as old as the youngest and the oldest of
this village.
Some have smiles, sweet and simple, and some a sly twinkle in
their eyes.
Some have tears that well up in the daylight, and others tears
that are hidden in the gloom.
They all have need for me, and I have no time to brood over the
afterlife.
I am of an age with each, what matter if my hair turns grey?"

poem by Rabindranath Tagore from The Gardener (1913)
Submitted by Silvia Velea
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Related quotes

Gray-Eyed King

Glory to you, inescapable pain!
The gray-eyed king died yesterday.

The autumn evening was sultry and red,
My husband returned and quietly said:

'You know, they brought him back from the hunt,
They found his corpse by the old oak tree.

I pity the queen. He was so young!..
In just one night her hair turned white.'

He found his pipe on the mantelpiece
And went out to his nighttime shift.

I'll go and wake my daughter now,
I'll look into her little gray eyes.

While outside the rustling poplars say:
'Your king is no longer upon this earth…'

Another translation.
By Yevgeny Bonver:

The Grey-Eyed King

Hail! Hail to thee, o, immovable pain!
The young grey-eyed king had been yesterday slain.

This autumnal evening was stuffy and red.
My husband, returning, had quietly said,

'He'd left for his hunting; they carried him home;
They'd found him under the old oak's dome.

I pity the queen. He, so young, past away!...
During one night her black hair turned to grey.'

He found his pipe on a warm fire-place,
And quietly left for his usual race.

Now my daughter will wake up and rise --
Mother will look in her dear grey eyes...

And poplars by windows rustle as sing,
'Never again will you see your young king...'

poem by Anna Akhmatova
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ten Grey hairs and a silver one

I discovered my first grey hair
when I was Seventeen years old
It had to do with broken up my first relationship

I discovered my second grey hair
when I was Twenty years old
It had to do with the quarrels at home

I discovered my third grey hair
when I was Twenty-one years old
It had to do with searching for work

I discovered my fourth grey hair
when I was Twenty-three years old
It had to do with loosing my job

I discovered my fifth grey hair
when I was Twenty-five years old
It had to do with giving up my unborn child

I discovered my sixth grey hair
When I was Twenty-eight years old
It had to do with opening my pub

I discovered my seventh grey hair
When I was thirty years old
It had to do with giving birth to my daughter

I discovered my eight grey hair
When I was thirty –two years old
It had to do with the first day at the kinder garden school

I discovered my ninth grey hair
When I was thirty-four years old
It had to do with to find out that some thing was missing

I discovered my tenth grey hair
When I was thirty-five years old
It had to do with the fights between my sisters and mum

My one Silver hair I discovered lately
Has to do with you
Because I miss you so hard …

poem by Pascale Ost
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This Morning At The Barbershop

This morning at the barbershop,
a barber is busy with the hair
of a much older grey haired man
that he is trimming neatly
and a young man
sits in one of the barber’s chairs.

When I sit down to wait
the young man rises
turning to me
and asks if he can cut my hair.

I was happy to get attention immediately
while the other barber was finishing
with the older man,
as he looks to finely tuned to me.

My hair was smartly cut
with a pair of scissors
and the young barber
held his fingers
to determine the length
and I wanted it shorter
than just cutting off the ends

while the other barber
first took a hair blower
from a drawer,
sprayed something over his own hair
before he started to blow it in the mirror
and he then said
that he cannot go
to the bank to wait in line
with a head looking like Tut’s ass

and I saw my locks
falling dark brown
with dots of grey around me
and saw the other barber
combing his long hair
and smiled at myself
about the vanity of humanity
while I looked at myself
and were starting to look much better.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Going Grey

I woke up late this morning
And looked into the mirror
But the woman looking back at me
Had a grey streak in her hair

Where did this grey streak come from?
It wasn’t there last night
How did it get into my hair?
My god I looked a sight

I washed and I washed my hair 3 times
And washed my hair some more
But the grey it would not come out
And I was getting stressed for sure

I grabbed the phone to ring my friend
And said get your arse round here
I have a big problem that you need to fix
And bring all your hairdressing gear

Half an hour seemed like a life time
Before my friend was here
She said what’s all the fuss about
I sobbed and wept oh dear

I removed the towel from round my head
Well I didn’t want anyone to see
Look I’ve got greyness in my hair
And I’m only thirty three

She sat me down to have a look
And said don’t worry dear
We can soon cover all that up
With hair dye, so don’t fear

She put this dye upon my head
And then made me a brew
He had to wait for ages
Until the colour did come threw

So now I feel much better
And don’t need to get irate
I don’t have any grey streaks now
And my hair looks really great

poem by Lynn Cowman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wrinkles and Grey Hair (Children)

Mommy's getting wrinkles.
Daddy has grey hair.
It wasn't very long ago
when those things weren't there.

Wish I could smooth the wrinkles out
and darken Daddy's hair
to stop the changes going on.
It makes me feel so scared.

Grampa, does it mean they'll die?
They have wrinkles and grey hair!
I never used to worry
before those things were there.

Grampa said to look at him.
There were lots of wrinkles there,
and on his head, a snowstorm
was the color of his hair.

'Wrinkles only come to point
where smiles were, here and there.
It's your mommy's turn to get some
for the happy times you've shared.'

His white, and Daddy's grey hair
well, it was there to show
who had lived the longest time
so everyone could know!

Grampa said it's part of life.
We love, we learn, we live.
We earn grey hair and wrinkles,
they're prizes only God can give.

poem by C.J. Heck
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Break o’ Day

You love me, you say, and I think you do,
But I know so many who don’t,
And how can I say I’ll be true to you
When I know very well that I won’t?
I have journeyed long and my goal is far,
I love, but I cannot bide,
For as sure as rises the morning star,
With the break of day I’ll ride.
I was doomed to ruin or doomed to mar
The home wherever I stay,
But I’ll think of you as the morning star
And they call me Break o’ Day.

They well might have named me the Fall o’ Night,
For drear is the track I mark,
But I love fair girls and I love the light,
For I and my tribe were dark.
You may love me dear, for a day and night,
You may cast your life aside;
But as sure as the morning star shines bright
With the break of day I’ll ride.

There was never a lover so proud and kind,
There was never a friend so true;
But the song of my life I have left behind
In the heart of a girl like you.
There was never so deep or cruel a wrong
In the land that is far away,
There was never so bitter a broken heart
That rode at the break of day.

God bless you, dear, with your red-gold hair
And your pitying eyes of grey—
Oh! my heart forbids that a star so fair
Should be marred by the Break o’ Day.
Live on, my girl, as the girl you are,
Be a good and a true man’s bride,
For as sure as beckons the evening star
With the fall o’ night I’ll ride.

I was born to ruin or born to mar
The home wherever I light.
Oh! I wish that you were the Evening Star
And that I were the Fall o’ Night.

poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nightfall for M'Lady Ernestine

The evening sky in shades of grey.
Light grey, dark, grey, all tinged with gold
Denotes the ending of the day.
I watch entranced as I behold
the darkness falling gradually.
The blue transmutes to indigo,
the last remnants of day light flee.
Reluctantly but they must go.
The stars come slowly into view.
The constellations wheel and turn,
forever old, forever new
and catch your eye each in their turn.
If I but wait the moon will rise.
Each night provides some new surprise.

18-Jul-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Death

Today I hear
my cousin dead
of cancer...
she was a little darling
to me and the family
but dead
now
I think of my death
like I did
back in 1998
if it's going to approach me
sooner or later
My old friend is dead
of liver cancer
people are dying around us
where would they go
after they die?
This was the most important question
that I have had since young
looking at the tombs on the mount slopes
I kept crying all evening and the night through
the fear of death took me over
and wouldn't let go of me
so every evening when the sun went down
I began crying
in fear of darkness
which meant no light
utter gloomy pitchy dark nights
that haunted me since young age
but now my friends are dying away
family members are leaving me
only to ponder on death
this night
some say death arrives in everybody's door
but not me
for I didn't know where I would be going
when I die
and there came Jesus the Savior
who proclaimed life eternal
the life after death
so I am rescued from this hell-bound
direction to go down to the dark grave
alone with no body to keep company for me
then I am a Christian and have life eternal
but still I fear death
like I did when I was a young kid
crying every evening after the sun went down
now I fear death approaching me
and I feel weary after a long
life journey I took
over the years
with no children to care for me
no husband to look after me
I see grey hair keep showing up and
hear people say,
'Why don't you dye your hair? '
Yes that was exactly how I felt
in 1998 when I was 39
and now I go back to that time
and ponder on this subject death.
If I die what will happen to all
that I might not know
but would like to stay around a bit
longer to see life events of the world
but people keep dying and disappearing
from this planet...
now I might have to prepare for that
too, in case I face death
suddenly it arrives
and kisses you sweet and
takes you away from this planet
then....What would you do
Maybe end up in heaven with Christ around
or end up in hell burning in sulfur fire
no matter what I say or do
death approaches gradually and
takes you by the hand and leads you
to its own destination
Should we go along with it
or should we fight against it
and strive to survive a bit longer
Only if I had a companion
he would be able to make things better
to rejoice over life and living
This man in my life who showed up
and transformed me completely
is still staying around me
showing off his charms and scents
I wish he is the new candle light
that will rekindle my doomed destiny
Now that People are dying away
and I also am preparing for my last day
and this new dawn brightens up my life
so it's God's grace to shine upon my life
by sending this little angelic hand
to assist me to live and love again
God bless his soul!
I figure he will stay around for quite a while
which is a great news
at this time of my life
for me
Thank God for looking over my life
and me
as always...
You have been a great Help.

02: 56 AM
(November 16,2012) Korea-Japan time

poem by Sangnam Nam
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Iris

Not how you would be thought of, your color
Being grey, silky, like a second skin, your hair
Flecked with it. Now, hearing your way of saying
Iridescent while I read your poem, three years
After your death, I am compelled to check
You out in Ovid, Lamprière, Bulfin, then
A book of flowers, where I discover you
On marshy ground, not grey exactly—in fact
A pretty blue-grey, a quiet type, with a green cowl
To shelter the thoughtful inclined head.

Not at all the bright-winged messenger
Who’d drown the world if Juno put you up to it,
But a quiet sylph, who could color her message
With a sly tilt of the head, those grey eyes steady,
Lips pursed, making a pretence of kissing.

You could supply so many ambiguities—
Gradations and streaks and tones of grey and blue—
That for twenty years I saw your story told
Where the sky lay on the wintry hills, weighed down
With tears Mnemosyne allows for you:
Flower, messenger, poet.

poem by James Phillip McAuley
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Marvel

Life streams
across her moonlit hair
catching the vagrant breath of Gaia

Turning violent
ever evascending storms
over the evening shadow in my heart

Thoughts glow
growing always perfect
within the grasp of my understanding

We listen
to the shivering leaves
and wonder at the delicate marvel

poem by Poet Dragon
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The Grey World

Grey nights in the wind,
And the grey-faced dead.
Grey hairs in my head,
And grey eyes in my mind.

Grey mists in the morn,
And grey waves that rave,
Grey mould on my grave,
And grey eyes forlorn.

Grey clouds in the sky,
And the grey world asleep,
Grey ghosts that sigh,
And grey eyes that weep.

poem by Leon Gellert
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Grey Matter

They say youre stupid
That youre too young to vote
They say youll swallow anything
That they shove down your throat
They say you cant think
That you havent got a brain
That youre just there to listen
That youre just being trained
Chorus
Theres something inside your head
Theres something inside your head
Theres something inside your head
Theres something inside your head
They say you lost the ability to even think
That your tiny little brain
Slipped down the kitchen sink
They say that youll buy anything
That they turn your way
That youll listen to everything
That they decide to play
Chorus
Grey matter grey matter ooh . . .
Grey matter grey matter ooh . . .
Grey matter grey matter ooh . . .
Grey matter grey matter ooh . . .
Bridge
I think you like it--like it
To be told what to do--isnt that true
I think youre better--better--better off
Stone cold dead--without your head
They say youre stupid
That youre too young to vote
They say youll swallow anything
That they shove down your throat
If they say lie down, youll do it
If they say--buy it now--youll do it
If they say--turn around--youll do it
If they say--hit the ground--youll do it
If they say--bite the big weenie--youll do it
If they say--wasnt that good--youll do it
If they say--bend over baby--youll do it
If they say--take it and like it--youll do it
Chorus

song performed by by Oingo Boingo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Vanaprasthiya

Their grandchild’s silken first hair
brushed with tender love;
their own hair, grey or white or gone;

household handed over to
their son, daughter, or
their spouse; now,

to find again themselves, to be themselves;
free, they walk the morning air of freedom
towards the woods; upon the way,
meet others of their age.

Trees - as every child knows
and old men may remember;
old women see through their own children's eyes -
listen with such silent wisdom,
that among the trees,
all become wise.

And so they, the honoured aged,
meet, acknowledge, greet,
speak as many words as truth may draw;
meditate; then, open eyes and every sense
teach, this is what a temple is;
this is what you are.

Evening stillness; then they return
to the hearth and warmth of family; as
a great grove of ancient, fresh-leafed trees
where in stillness soul meets nature
and finds truth arise.

[With thanks to Sunil Bhattacharya for some hints of history]

poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Return

They turned him loose; he bowed his head,
A felon, bent and grey.
His face was even as the Dead,
He had no word to say.

He sought the home of his old love,
To look on her once more;
And where her roses breathed above,
He cowered beside the door.

She sat there in the shining room;
Her hair was silver grey.
He stared and stared from out the gloom;
He turned to go away.

Her roses rustled overhead.
She saw, with sudden start.
"I knew that you would come," she said,
And held him to her heart.

Her face was rapt and angel-sweet;
She touched his hair of grey;

. . . . .

But he, sob-shaken, at her feet,
Could only pray and pray.

poem by Robert William Service
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Grey, Grey Sky

Someday I will ride the great bird
Into the sky, into the grey
And will take a bright secret of mine
Into the grey, grey sky.

And the light will come, piercing my eyes
Out of the sky, out of the grey
Come blinding and searing these eyes
Out of the grey, grey sky.

And I will find comfort in this
In the wide sky, in the wide grey
In the painful dark brightness of light
Light of the grey, grey sky.

My secret will fly away home
Into the sky, into the grey
And the great bird will follow it there
Into the grey, grey sky.

And I will be riding that bird
Bird of the sky, bird of the grey
And I will come home once again
Home to the grey, grey sky.

But for now I am weighted, earthbound
One of the mud, one of the ground
And I write this sad song to sad sound
Girl of the pavement sighs.

poem by Grace Hutton
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Sweet Evening Breeze

I was loud and a little sad
She was visiting from atlanta, georgia
She had come to spend the summer with her dad
I thought she was very pretty
We would kiss and hold hands
Every night by the football field
Her body was tan
From the afternoons by the public swimming pool
Chorus:
Sweet evening breeze
Blows around my thoughts and memories
As I lie here today
And drink my tea
I can still see
Sweet evening breeze
I saw her in a coffee shop
In a big hotel down in austin, texas
She had cut her long hair off
And replaced it with
Blue eyes of sadness
Still acted like we were kids
And she told me that she had to marry
And she asked me if I did
Still remember
Chorus:
Sweet evening breeze
Blows around my thoughts and memories
As I lie here today
And drink my tea
I can still see
Sweet evening breeze
How redundant the future can be
These days of old are very, very
Ridiculous for me to see
When I think about the real gone stories
And how time holds the winning hand
I can tell by the lines on our faces
And the young cant understand
That they look at me
When they look at themselves
Chorus:
Oh, sweet evening breeze
Blows around my thoughts and memories
As I lie here today
And drink my tea
I can still see
Sweet evening breeze

song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Summer Is Here

I hear the sounds of children at play,
as the sun has turned
the black clouds of rain away.
Summer is here
and laughter fills the air,
flowers fill the gardens
with colour everywhere.
After a hard days work
you feel free,
some will sit the evening out
eyes glued to the TV.
Not for me the little box,
rather an evening stroll.
Then sit to rest
my weary bones somewhere,
letting the cool evening breeze
dance with my hair.
As I sit quietly
absorbing all around.
Watching the sun
sink slowly in the west.
Breathing in the cool evening air,
as night begins to call.

11 June 2007

poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Devotion

admiration followed him from the men and women
of the beach as he walks one summer
his skin glowing to the sun: gold
the color of mud, his hair blowing freely
on his head, his steps mellow to the sand

a young maiden from the village follows him
at a distance but not so near bringing him his shirt
neatly folded in her hands-
a little bit angry, she looks at him lifting her eyes
but again not so near

she gives up devotion and throws his shirt
on the grey sand
runs toward the other end of the shore
and disappears

her feet are so tiny leaving this awkward
cloud when she runs away from him

he sees her vanish
ignoring what cloud she left from her tiny feet

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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song performed by by Judas Priest
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Village Far Far Away

Far, far away is my village!
Where fireflies of my childhood
Still glow in thick folliage
Of Pipal trees.

My lisping words
As they fell from my lips
Are still alive
On old, bent, dying stairs
Of the long-deserted house!
Like rapiers thrust into silence.

Far, far away is my village!
Where darkness
Spreads its wing before it is evening
Tick-tocking sound of the flour mill
Long flights of birds
Going far, far away
Tinkling bells
All become a single tune
To drown into the dark lake
Of night.

Far, far away is my village!
Where I saw
Dreams of happy days to come
While learning my lessons
In the dim light
Of hurricane lamp.

Far, far away is my village!
Where reflections of my first love
Still linger
Where paths are shrouded
In sadness
And loneliness laced with secret longings
Peoples fields, ponds, the school
And trees herded together.

Far, far away is my village!
Where wind still finds
Its way in moonlit nights
Through silent streets
And sleepy courtyards
Calls for me in silence
And turns back, not finding me.
Wind has the same old habit
The same old routine
But life has trampled me
Under direction-less feet
Of crowds in cities.

(Translated by Dr. Satyapal Anand)

poem by Naseer Ahmed Nasir
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