Last Stanzas of the Bush
WHERE is Australia, singer, do you know?
These sordid farms and joyless factories,
Mephitic mines and lanes of pallid woe?
Those ugly towns and cities such as these
With incense sick to all unworthy power,
And all old sin in full malignant flower?
No! to her bourn her children still are faring:
She is a temple that we are to build:
For her the ages have been long preparing:
She is a prophecy to be fulfilled!
All that we love in olden lands and lore
Was signal of her coming long ago!
Bacon foresaw her, Campanella, More,
And Plato’s eyes were with her star aglow!
Who toiled for Truth, whate’er their countries were,
Who fought for Liberty, they yearned for her!
No corsair’s gathering ground, nor tryst for schemers,
No chapman Carthage to a huckster Tyre,
She is the Eldorado of old dreamers,
The Sleeping Beauty of the world’s desire.
She is the scroll on which we are to write
Mythologies our own and epics new:
She is the port of our propitious flight
From Ur idolatrous and Pharaoh’s crew.
She is our own, unstained, if worthy we,
By dream, or god, or star we would not see:
Her crystal beams all but the eagle dazzle.
Her wind-wide ways none but the strong-winged sail:
She is Eutopia, she is Hy-Brasil,
The watchers on the tower of morning hail!
Yet she shall be as we, the Potter, mould:
Altar or tomb, as we aspire, despair:
What wine we bring shall she, the chalice, hold:
What word we write shall she, the script, declare:
Bandage our eyes, she shall be Memphis, Spain:
Barter our souls, she shall be Tyre again:
And if we pour on her the red oblation,
All o’er the world shall Asshur’s buzzards throng:
Love-lit, her Chaos shall become Creation:
And dewed with dream, her silence flower in song.
poem by Bernard O'Dowd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
A Flower To You
Many for me, to write
I have thoughts to share
Just I think to write
what I write
flower of love! I give myself to you.
I have to many dreams as you
and wish to write the flower given to you
why you try to kiss it?
the flower I given you
watching the day with sun
walking the way with funs
hoping the way of God
one more for you and one more for me
I watch from here god may come with me
a burning dream still with me
with at hours how I will dream a new dream
something wonder for one more new world
just keep this dream with you
and never kiss this flower
I given to you God
poem by Thampi KEE
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The Only Flower You Are
A sunbeam caress the only flower from my garden,
What a nice feeling, what a pleasure,
Than to admire the beauty of a flower,
And closing eyes to dream about it.
It's a sweet flower,
Which opened its petals,
To get the joyful morning dew,
And with its fragrance to stun me,
To bring into my heart its magic.
But the most beautiful flower,
That sit next to me,
It's you my love,
You are just a flower bud,
You are all i ever want to hold, ,
You are my dream transposed into reality,
You are my life, my joy.
poem by Cristina Teodor
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The Flower of Liberty
WHAT flower is this that greets the morn,
Its hues from Heaven so freshly born?
With burning star and flaming band
It kindles all the sunset land:
Oh tell us what its name may be,--
Is this the Flower of Liberty?
It is the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!
In savage Nature's far abode
Its tender seed our fathers sowed;
The storm-winds rocked its swelling bud,
Its opening leaves were streaked with blood,
Till lo! earth's tyrants shook to see
The full-blown Flower of Liberty!
Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!
Behold its streaming rays unite,
One mingling flood of braided light,--
The red that fires the Southern rose,
With spotless white from Northern snows,
And, spangled o'er its azure, see
The sister Stars of Liberty!
Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!
The blades of heroes fence it round,
Where'er it springs is holy ground;
From tower and dome its glories spread;
It waves where lonely sentries tread;
It makes the land as ocean free,
And plants an empire on the sea!
Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!
Thy sacred leaves, fair Freedom's flower,
Shall ever float on dome and tower,
To all their heavenly colors true,
In blackening frost or crimson dew,--
And God love us as we love thee,
Thrice holy Flower of Liberty!
Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry FLOWER OF LIBERTY!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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To a GItana Dancing
Because you are fair as souls of the lost are fair,
And your eyelids laugh with desire, and your laughing feet
Are winged with desire, and your hands are wanton, and sweet
Is the promise of love in your lips, and the rose in your hair
Sweet, unfaded, a promise sweet to be sought,
And the maze you tread is as old as the world is old,
Therefore you hold me, body and soul, in your hold,
And time, as you dance, is not, and the world is as nought.
You dance, and I know the desire of all flesh, and the pain
Of all longing of body for body; you beckon, repel,
Entreat, and entice, and bewilder, and build up the spell,
Link by link, with deliberate steps, of a flower-soft chain.
You laugh, and I know the despair, and you smile, and I know
The delight of your love, and the flower in your hair is a star.
It brightens, I follow; it fades, and I see it afar;
You pause: I awake; have I dreamt? was it longer ago
Than a dream that I saw you smile? for you turn, you turn,
As a startled beast in the toils: it is you that entreat,
Desperate, hating the coils that have fastened your feet,
The desire you desired that has come; and your lips now yearn,
And your hands now ache, and your feet faint for love.
Longing has taken hold even on you,
You, the witch of desire; and you pause, and anew
Your stillness moves, and you pause, and your hands move.
Time, as you dance, is as nought, and the moments seem
Swift as eternity; time is at end, for you close
Eyes and lips and hands in sudden repose;
You smile: was it all no longer ago than a dream?
poem by Arthur Symons
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The Common Cult
Up to the House of Mammon, from dawn to sister dawn,
Called by remembered voices the sons of men are drawn;
By noon the dust goes skyward, by night the torches flare,
On veining roads that mingle—and you and I are there.
Around the House of Mammon, like ruined cities’ stones,
The stubborn and the haughty have left their trampled bones.
They were the few in number that would not enter in,
Saying, “The god is evil.” Saying, “To kneel is sin.”
The ebony House of Mammon goes up against the sky;
The north wind and the south wind before its portals die.
Its towers go near to Heaven; its vaults go nearer Hell,
And all are fat with favor to some who serve them well.
Before the House of Mammon stand you not overlong,
But enter to the worship, unnoted in the throng;
There it is ill to parley, to ask the why or when,
For he whose line would prosper shall be as other men.
Within the House of Mammon august the twilights are,
Across whose gulf the portal gleams smaller than a star.
The bucklers of the mighty in rust and ruin melt,
Above those deep foundations where king and pontiff knelt.
Within the House of Mammon low thunder of loud pray’rs
Rolls from the burdened pavement and coiled, colossal stairs—
Petition and obeisance, when each makes known his need,
Begging the flamens hearken, begging the largess speed.
Within the House of Mammon his priesthood stands alert,
By mysteries attended, by dusk and splendors girt,
Knowing, for faiths departed, his own shall still endure,
And they be found his chosen, untroubled, solemn, sure.
Within the House of Mammon the golden altar lifts
Where dragon-lamps are shrouded as costly incense drifts—
A dust of old ideals, now fragrant from the coals,
To tell of hopes long ended, to tell the death of souls.
Within the House of Mammon there is no need of song,
And faced by them who doubt not, no doubt endures for long;
Tho twilight hold the temple, there yet each one shall see
The Word of Words, the letters that spell “Necessity.”
Beyond the House of Mammon there is no need to go,
And other fanes are shadow, whose figments melt and flow.
Grown weary of the service, no scoffer long derides,
For past the veils and darkness, a very god abides….
Above the House of Mammon, the hours and ages tread,
Nor find the ramparts shaken, nor see the sentries fled,
Till o’er the massy columns, broken like those of Tyre,
The long-awaited Morning go winged with crystal fire.
poem by George Sterling
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My Pretty One
Well, I've dreamed about today.
The same dream in many ways.
But I never thought I'd be here,
Be here with you, my pretty one.
Well, I've searched the whole world through.
To find someone whoooo,
Would make this dream come true.
It's you and only you, my pretty one.
Pretty one, I long to hold you.
Through the night, I want to hold you.
Pretty one, has no one told you,
I love you.
Any day and you will find me,
Full of joy when you're beside me.
In a moment like this,
Could it be what I've missed all my life.
Well, I've dreamed about today.
The same dream in sooooo many ways.
But nothing can compare with,
Compare with you, my pretty one.
Well, I love your smile.
And I love your eyes.
And the way you talk, makes me feel so nice.
Nothing can compare with the way you are.
And I need you now, as I write this song.
Did I hear you say you're the only woman,
From a lonely prayer I am in the air.
Well, I've dreamed about today.
The same dream in sooooo many ways.
But nothing can compare with,
Compare with you my pretty one.
But I never thought I'd be here,
Be here with you my pretty one.
Pretty one, I long to hold you.
Through the night, I want to hold you.
Pretty one has no one told you,
I love you.
Any day and you will find me,
Full of joy when you're beside me.
In a moment like this,
Could it be what I've missed all my life.
Well, I've dreamed about today.
The same dream in sooooo many ways.
But nothing can compare with,
Compare with you my pretty one.
No nothing can compare with,
Compare with you my pretty one.
song performed by by Cliff Richard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Foreign Lands
You may roam the wide seas over, follow, meet, and cross the sun,
Sail as far as ships can sail, and travel far as trains can run;
You may ride and tramp wherever range or plain or sea expands,
But the crowd has been before you, and you’ll not find ‘Foreign Lands;’
For the Early Days are over,
And no more the white-winged rover
Sinks the gale-worn coast of England bound for bays in Foreign Lands.
Foreign Lands are in the distance dim and dreamlike, faint and far,
Long ago, and over yonder, where our boyhood fancies are,
For the land is by the railway cramped as though with iron bands,
And the steamship and the cable did away with Foreign Lands.
Ah! the days of blue and gold!
When the news was six months old—
But the news was worth the telling in the days of Foreign Lands.
Here we slave the dull years hopeless for the sake of Wool and Wheat
Here the homes of ugly Commerce—niggard farm and haggard street;
Yet our mothers and our fathers won the life the heart demands—
Less than fifty years gone over, we were born in Foreign Lands.
When the gipsies stole the children still, in village tale and song,
And the world was wide to travel, and the roving spirit strong;
When they dreamed of South Sea Islands, summer seas and coral strands—
Then the bravest hearts of England sailed away to Foreign Lands,
‘Fitting foreign’—flood and field—
Half the world and orders sealed—
And the first and best of Europe went to fight in Foreign Lands.
Canvas towers on the ocean—homeward bound and outward bound—
Glint of topsails over islands—splash of anchors in the sound;
Then they landed in the forests, took their strong lives in their hands,
And they fought and toiled and conquered—making homes in Foreign Lands,
Through the cold and through the drought—
Further on and further out—
Winning half the world for England in the wilds of Foreign Lands.
Love and pride of life inspired them when the simple village hearts
Followed Master Will and Harry—gone abroad to ‘furrin parts’
By our townships and our cities, and across the desert sands
Are the graves of those who fought and died for us in Foreign Lands—
Gave their young lives for our sake
(Was it all a grand mistake?)
Sons of Master Will and Harry born abroad in Foreign Lands!
Ah, my girl, our lives are narrow, and in sordid days like these,
I can hate the things that banished ‘Foreign Lands across the seas,’
But with all the world before us, God above us—hearts and hands,
I can sail the seas in fancy far away to Foreign Lands.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Lotus-Flower
All the heights of the high shores gleam
Red and gold at the sunset hour:
There comes the spell of a magic dream,
And the Harbour seems a lotus-flower;
A blue flower tinted at dawn with gold,
A broad flower blazing with light at noon,
A flower forever with charms to hold
His heart, who sees it by sun or moon.
Its beauty burns like a ceaseless fire,
And tower looks over the top of tower;
For all mute things it would seem, aspire
To catch a glimpse of the lotus-flower.
Men meet its beauty with furrowed face,
And straight the furrows are smoothed away;
They buy and sell in the market-place,
And languor leadens their blood all day.
At night they look on the flower, and lo!
The City passes with all its cares:
They dream no more in its azure glow,
Of gold and silver and stocks and shares.
The Lotus dreams 'neath the dreaming skies,
Its beauty touching with spell divine
The grey old town, till the old town lies
Like one half-drunk with a magic wine.
Star-loved, it breathes at the midnight hour
A sense of peace from its velvet mouth.
Though flowers be fair -- is there any flower
Like this blue flower of the radiant South?
Sun-loved and lit by the moon it yields
A challenge-glory or glow serene,
And men bethink them of jewelled shields,
A turquoise lighting a ground of green.
Fond lovers pacing beside it see
Not death and darkness, but life and light,
And dream no dream of the witchery
The Lotus sheds on the silent night.
Pale watchers weary of watching stars
That fall, and fall, and forever fall,
Tear-worn and troubled with many scars,
They seek the Lotus and end life's thrall.
The spirit spelled by the Lotus swoons,
Its beauty summons the artist mood;
And thus, perchance, in a thousand moons
Its spell shall work in our waiting blood.
Then souls shall shine with an old-time grace,
And sense be wrapped in a golden trance,
And art be crowned in the market-place
With Love and Beauty and fair Romance.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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An Old Tyre (Fun Poem 79)
Someone had discarded an old tyre.
It was all battered and worn.
As I stared at it, I wondered
of what journeys it had been on.
How far had it gone,
and if it had seen
some interesting places on its travels around?
That old tyre discarded on the ground.
When I think of the travels
we make in our car each day,
I bet that old tyre would have a lot to say.
However, it is abandoned,
no use to anyone.
When I looked the next day and the tyre was gone.
Overnight it must have stood up
and rolled along on more travels I presume.
Therefore, this ends the tale of an old tyre,
which was discarded on the ground.
14 May 2008
poem by David Harris
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Wings Of Grace
WINGS OF GRACE (The Dreamers)
What shall we do with the dreames
Who see a world we can never know
Who have found a place of wonder
Where only children dare to go
What shall we do with the dreames
Whose world has no room for hate
Whose vision of tomorrow? promise
Is so far removed from our fate
For they dream of a thousand tomorrows
Each one better than the one before
A future filled with compassion
For the tired, the weak, the hungry and the poor
What shall we do with the dreamers
Who no longer answer when we ask why
Who work to make their world better
And are unefraid to try
What whall we say to the dreamers
Whose lives make ours seem so bare
Who make us feel so empty
Because they dare to care
For they dream not of thing done before
But of the miracles which lie ahaid
Of the needy who can be assisted
And the famshed who can be fed
What shall we make of the dreamers
When they choose not to live as we
When they say our world has no meaning
As long as others are still not free
What shall we think of the dreamers
When they no longer listen to what we say
When their silence leaves us uneasy
And they refuse to go away
For they dream of fanciful figures
Poised in mid-flight
Angels with Wings of Grace
Floating on the light
Messengers from the next world
So unfamiliar but yet not strange
Bringing word of the New World
The begginnin of the change
What shall we do with the dreamers
song performed by by Santana
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Australia
Earth's mightiest isle. She stands alone.
The wide seas wash around Her throne,
Crowned by the red sun as his own.
This is the last of all the lands
Where Freedom’s fray-torn banner stands,
Not wrested yet from freemen’s hands.
The world’s gray page lies bare to-day—
The rise of nations—the decay.
Will She, too, rise—and fall as they?
She called men to Her, and they came,
Whose deaths have given the Desert name.
Their fame is written with Her fame.
We toil and strive. We have our hour.
But She shall grow from power to power,
To wear the splendour of her dower.
The trust is ours—to us alone.
We are the strong foundation-stone,
The seed from which the flower is grown.
And whilst a realm in fee we hold,
To guard the New against the Old,
Nor take the glitter for the gold,
What shall it profit Her if we
Make gold our God, and strength our plea,
And call wild license Liberty?
If, in our scorn of creed and king,
All reverence to the winds we fling,
And fall before a baser thing?
Though in Her coming hour of pride
Her millions throng the Desert wide,
Her cities stud the water side?
What though Her sword unconquered be,
Her armoured navies sweep the sea,
If still Her people are not free?
To be the wave of thought indeed
From New World vaunt and Old World need,
To manlier day and mightier deed?
To be a people proved and strong—
True freemen of the Poet’s song
For whom the world has waited long?
poem by George Essex Evans
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Flower - Flower Love
flower - flower love
flower - flower love
I come with flower and love
into your life that's full of hope
flower - flower love
I bring you flower and love
as a truth of my heart that never drop
I am a butterfly for you
with blackish orange in colours on me
I will never fly away from you
and never stop watching over you
for
flower - flower love
you are my flower
and you are my love
poem by Juahta Sitepu
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The Love Of A Flower
Love is peace without thoughts
Is a colorful flower
Is a blue light
Is a view all in youth..... Love is a hidden star
Is a moon yet to be discovered
Is a honeymoon onto his deep skin
Is the hunger of man to loved eternally The love of a flower.....
Is a rest upon your man's chest
Is a first love of a Springtime dream
Is a gift from the above onto his arms The love of a flower.....
Is to witness the birth of your son
Is to awake for the first time
Is to swim for love once again with him The love of a flower.....
Is to really learn to love and see life for what it is
Is to be able to write a poem to the sky and smile
Is to look at your love and state "indeed you're all my youth"
poem by Minerva A. Garcia
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Upon A Star
I'm wishing upon a star
Don't know where you are
or if your heart is free
to fall in love with me
I'm wishing upon a star
the one that twinkles in the sky
I really don't know how
and I really don't know why
But somehow I know
at least I hope and dream
for you to come along
oh please don't be long
because all I've wanted is a home
someplace that I belong
I'm wishing upon a star
Don't know where you are
but I can feel you somewhere in the sky
and I really don't know why
somehow I feel your tender kiss
and oh your hand so warm in mine
you're the only one I miss
for such a long long time
oh hurry to my side
becasue my heart is open wide
I'm wishing upon a star
Don't know where you are
Just know you must be near
oh please don't be far
I feel so down and blue
just hanging on
can't make it without you
oh please I hope you come along
and help me find the words
to write our sweet love song
I'm wishing upon a star
Don't know where you are
or if your heart is free
to fall in love with me
© James T. Adair
poem by James T. Adair
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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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From the Forests
Where in a green, moist, myrtle dell
The torrent voice rings strong
And clear, above a star-bright well,
I write this woodland song.
The melodies of many leaves
Float in a fragrant zone;
And here are flowers by deep-mossed eaves
That day has never known.
I'll weave a garland out of these,
The darlings of the birds,
And send it over singing seas
With certain sunny words -
With certain words alive with light
Of welcome for a thing
Of promise, born beneath the white,
Soft afternoon of Spring.
The faithful few have waited long
A life like this to see;
And they will understand the song
That flows to-day from me.
May every page within this book
Be as a radiant hour;
Or like a bank of mountain brook,
All flower and leaf and flower.
May all the strength and all the grace
Of Letters make it beam
As beams a lawn whose lovely face
Is as a glorious dream.
And may that strange divinity
That men call Genius write
Some deathless thing in days to be,
To fill those days with light.
Here where the free, frank waters run,
I pray this book may grow
A sacred candour like the sun
Above the morning snow.
May noble thoughts in faultless words -
In clean white diction - make
It shine as shines the home of birds
And moss and leaf and lake.
This fair fresh life with joy I hail,
And this belief express,
Its days will be a brilliant tale
Of effort and success.
Here ends my song; I have a dream
Of beauty like the grace
Which lies upon the land of stream
In yonder mountain place.
poem by Henry Kendall
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Licia Sonnets 01
Bright matchless star, the honour of the sky,
From whose clear shine heaven's vault hath all his light,
I send these poems to your graceful eye;
Do you but take them, and they have their right.
I build besides a temple to your name,
Wherein my thoughts shall daily sing your praise;
And will erect an altar for the same,
Which shall your virtues and your honour raise.
But heaven the temple of your honour is,
Whose brasen tops your worthy self made proud;
The ground an altar, base for such a bliss
With pity torn, because I sighed so loud.
And since my skill no worship can impart,
Make you an incense of my loving heart.
Sad, all alone, not long I musing sat,
But that my thoughts compelled me to aspire;
A laurel garland in my hand I gat,
So the Muses I approached the nigher.
My suit was this, a poet to become,
To drink with them, and from the heavens be fed.
Phoebus denied, and sware there was no room,
Such to be poets as fond fancy led.
With that I mourned and sat me down to weep;
Venus she smiled, and smiling to me said,
Come drink with me, and sit thee still, and sleep.
This voice I heard; and Venus I obeyed.
That poison sweet hath done me all this wrong,
For now of love must needs be all my song.
poem by Giles Fletcher The Elder
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Aspirations To Be Met
Poetry is me.
I write about the struggles in life
and all my calamities.
The obstacles beset by and all of life's anxieties.
Or I may write of my success,
The fights fought and won,
How I would have raised my head above the water.
Things that I would have thought were stumbling blocks but turned into stepping stones.
I will write of how I became successful.
But I have a dream.
A dream that I will be able to write about the seemingly less important things in life.
Things that society did not stamp their stamp on as priority.
Like a ball, a tree, a toothbrush or even a bicycle-tyre.
To be able to write on the little things that add meaning to what it means to live.
These are things to be accomplished,
Visions to see,
Goals and aspirations to be met.
But I am a babe in the world of poetry.
I am like a kid who says-
'When I get big I want to be just like the poetic legends.'
I shake my head when I read the work of the professionals
Like Pablo Neruda, Maya Angelou and my favorite
Lawrence S. Pertillar.
I ask myself when will this be me?
But I have a vision
And I can see that I will graduate from being just a kid who writes to express herself freely
Into a Juggernaut of poetry.
The world will not be able to hide from my words.
They must hear me.
I foresee that my work will raise to the heights of the statue of liberty
And all of my sayings, all of my poems will shine just like that torch,
So radiantly.
poem by Apphia Garcia
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This Flower
This flower is a gift...given to all...
Some loose it...
Some have it stolen...
And some give it away...
This flower cannot be replaced...
For once it's gone...it's gone...
Another cannot be grown...
When others do not have their flower anymore...
Some of them laugh because you still have this flower...
But havin' this flower still shouldn't make you feel akward...
Bein' able to hold on to this flower for so long should bring you joy...
Havin' this flower after many others have lost theirs...
Should make you feel special at heart...
You shouldn't be ashamed that you still have this flower...
Hold this flower close and be proud...
This flower can bring Happiness, tears, regret, and even Life...
If you still hold this flower...
Hold strong...
You are not the only one...
For I still hold this lovely flower...
poem by Jennifer Carmical
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A million miles away
I wish on a rainbow
Is all I can do?
Through these lonely
Hours of my day
Hoping my wish will come true
When will our eyes meet?
And when can I hold you?
I dream of you a thousand times
Wishing that you’ll be mine
I want to hold you in my dreams
Make me believe this is true
Yes, I know,
It’s impossible to do
And you’re so far, like
A million miles away
I write your name on a wind
That I always used to do
You are the color of love
The star, the sun, the moon
I will keep this fantasy
Because in my one and only imagination
You’re a dream that may never become true
A million miles away from me
Wish that you ‘d be here
So as to hear the sweet melodies
Like voices of sweet angels
That echo in silence of obscure nights
Even the stars whisper in a mellow tune
And the world singing of the love I know
But, still I don’t know how
To grab a chance to be with you
Cause you’re so far
A million miles away from me
poem by Cheryl Aldea
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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