Between Two Hills
Between two hills
The old town stands.
The houses loom
And the roofs and trees
And the dusk and the dark,
The damp and the dew
Are there.
The prayers are said
And the people rest
For sleep is there
And the touch of dreams
Is over all.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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Related quotes
December Fog
Winding over fast roads
through shrouded hills,
we see the familiar valley
disappear
under a white sea,
human confusion
dissolving
into pure cloud.
over frozen white roofs
beyond the veiled ridge
the dark disc rises.
Black dawn
breaks the long night
and spills dirty light
over the waking city.
In the twilight sky
shadow shapes
fly in V
over still trees,
looking for rest,
any place to touch
soft, giving ground
and call it
a nest.
poem by Steven Federle
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The Weaver
All day, all day, round the clacking net
The weaver's fingers fly:
Gray dreams like frozen mists are set
In the hush of the weaver's eye;
A voice from the dusk is calling yet,
'Oh, come away, or we die!'
Without is a horror of hosts that fight,
That rest not, and cease not to kill,
The thunder of feet and the cry of the flight,
A slaughter weird and shrill;
Gray dreams are set in the weaver's sight,
The weaver is weaving still.
'Come away, dear soul, come away or we die;
Hear'st thou the moan and the rush! Come away;
The people are slain at the gates, and they fly;
The kind God hath left them this day;
The battle-axes cleaves, and the foemen cry,
And the red swords swing and slay.'
'Nay, wife, what boots to fly from pain,
When pain is wherever we fly?
And death is a sweeter thing than a chain:
'Tis sweeter to sleep than to cry,
The kind God giveth the days that wane;
If the kind God hath said it, I die.'
And the weaver wove, and the good wife fled,
And the city was made a tomb,
And a flame that shook from the rocks overhead
Shone into that silent room,
And touched like a wide red kiss on the dead
Brown weaver slain by his loom.
Yet I think that in some dim shadowy land,
Where no suns rise or set,
Where the ghost of a whilom loom doth stand
Round the dusk of its silken net,
Forever flyeth his shadowy hand,
And the weaver is weaving yet.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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You Still Touch Me
Another night finds me alone
In my dreams
You still touch me
Your picture by my telephone
In that smile
You still thrill me
Now if I sleep I sleep here alone
In my bed tonight
You still haunt me
And if I'm falling
I'm falling like a stone
In my nightmares
You still hold me
And after all that we've been through
Now I'm wondering
If you still blame me
If only half of this was true
That you believe of me
You still shame me
Dark rain will fall until I see your face
I close my eyes
I seem to hear the raindrops saying
You won't come back
You still touch me
And when I'm sick at heart and low
In my prayers
You still heal me
When I'm so sure this isn't so
In my complacency
You still shake me
I wonder if you feel the same way as I do
And you'd come back
You still touch me
Another night finds me alone
In my bed tonight
You still haunt me
You still hold me
You still touch me
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Written on a Summer Evening
this melancholy dusk
as the rain falls into night
ever so softly
the breath of a dying woman
this bonechilling wind
trails the air
the darkened roofs
of the malay houses
add a solemnness to the place
filled with flowers
fruit trees, wild trees
a koranic verse is heard
and another cool breeze blows
the leaves rustle
the way a man shivers
big leaves, small leaves
twirl in succession
a twist dance
so cold the night
the old woman
sick bedridden woman
so long she feels she has been ill
a feeble mind
that could not make out
dawn from dusk
the old woman
her sigh
soft as the wind
bids her quiet farewell
around her grandchildren run
impervious to her pain
the leaves rustle again
the children's cry
divides her and the world
so long ago when she was a child herself
all seems a game, a film
heartfelt images of her own life
run through her mind
long lost husband, children, grandchildren
the breeze blows again
she feels its coldness
and slowly, slowly, surely
she feels herself inching
away from the alien surroundings
slowly and slowly
death to her has become something
to be embraced
she takes another weak look at the children
rewritten from:
this melancholy evening
as the rain falls into night
ever so softly
the breath of a dying woman
and as it stops
this bonechilling wind
trails the air
the darkened roofs of malay houses
add a solemn atmosphere to the place
filled with trees, fruit trees, garden trees and wild trees
a koranic verse is heard
and another cool breeze blows
a trail of ruslte
the trees waves, big leaves, small leaves
so cold the night
an old woman
old sick bedridden woman
so long she feels she has been ill
a feeble mind trailing the world
the old woman
bids farewell to the world
her sigh
soft as the wind
a solemness pervades her room
as grandchildren run around
impervious to her pain
the leaves rustle again
the children's cry
divides her and the world
so long ago when she was a child herself
all seems like a game, a film now
the breeze blows
she feels its coldness
and slowly, slowly, surely
she feels herself inching
away from the alien surroundings
slowly and slowly
death to her has become something
to be embraced
she takes another weak look at the children
inspired by
Written on a Summer Evening
Written on a Summer Evening
The church bells toll a melancholy round,
Calling the people to some other prayers,
Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares,
More harkening to the sermon's horrid sound.
Surely the mind of man is closely bound
In some blind spell: seeing that each one tears
Himself from fireside joys and Lydian airs,
And converse high of those with glory crowned.
Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp,
A chill as from a tomb, did I not know
That they are dying like an outburnt lamp, -
That 'tis their sighing, wailing, ere they go
Into oblivion -that fresh flowers will grow,
And many glories of immortal stamp.
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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This Is Just An Exercise
this poem
is a morning poem
i write it when
the sun begins to peep
between the two hills
where my house
stands
i write it when the dews
are still alive
glistening with life
on the green leaves
on the white petals
of the flowers
i write it when the birds
start to chirp
and in flocks start
to leave the trees
where they
sleep for the
whole dark night
oh, this poem is nothing
it is just an idea
just an exercise of the mind
this morning
just to assure myself
that i am still a rational being
in touch with art
honed to the skills
of humanity
oh, this is just nothing
but a prelude
to my day
a day
when we wish
we are not thinking at all
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Licia Sonnets 29
Why died I not whenas I last did sleep?
O sleep too short that shadowed forth my dear!
Heavens, hear my prayers, nor thus me waking keep!
For this were heaven, if thus I sleeping were.
For in that dark there shone a princely light;
Two milk-white hills, both full of nectar sweet,
Her ebon thighs, the wonder of my sight,
Where all my senses with their objects meet,--
I pass these sports, in secret that are best,
Wherein my thoughts did seem alive to be;
We both did strive, and weary both did rest;
I kissed her still, and still she kissed me.
Heavens, let me sleep, and shows my senses feed
Or let me wake and happy be indeed!
poem by Giles Fletcher The Elder
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Dreams in the Dusk
Dreams in the dusk,
Only dreams closing the day
And with the day’s close going back
To the gray things, the dark things,
The far, deep things of dreamland.
Dreams, only dreams in the dusk,
Only the old remembered pictures
Of lost days when the day’s loss
Wrote in tears the heart’s loss.
Tears and loss and broken dreams
May find your heart at dusk.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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Tell Me
Tell me, dear beauty of the dusk,
When purple ribbons bind the hill,
Do dreams your secret wish fulfill,
Do prayers, like kernels from the husk
Come from your lips? Tell me if when
The mountains loom at night, giant shades
Of softer shadow, swift like blades
Of grass seeds come to flower. Then
Tell me if the night winds bend
Them towards me, if the Shenandoah
As it ripples past your shore,
Catches the soul of what you send.
poem by Jean Toomer
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Cope
She needed to sleep, sleep for a little,
to see him, feel him, hear him say.
Come lovely, come and rest your
head on my pillow, She had to rest,
rest of her own self, of her many
miseries that shattered her dreams.
But how to rest? or dream a sweet dream.
To wake up to an empty bed, with nothing
but his scent, his last touch, his last sleep,
his last words, and his last kisses. She adorned
her bed with broken sadness, dropping
her tears, and picking up more for the next day.
Her veins draining a river of pain. Her heart all
weary with multiple wounds. Her will refrained
from hope, her feelings with fears,
to love another man, and die all over again.
poem by Elenushka Toledo
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On The Terrace Of The Aigalades. (From The French Of Méry)
From this high portal, where upsprings
The rose to touch our hands in play,
We at a glance behold three things--
The Sea, the Town, and the Highway.
And the Sea says: My shipwrecks fear;
I drown my best friends in the deep;
And those who braved icy tempests, here
Among my sea-weeds lie asleep!
The Town says: I am filled and fraught
With tumult and with smoke and care;
My days with toil are overwrought,
And in my nights I gasp for air.
The Highway says: My wheel-tracks guide
To the pale climates of the North;
Where my last milestone stands abide
The people to their death gone forth.
Here, in the shade, this life of ours,
Full of delicious air, glides by
Amid a multitude of flowers
As countless as the stars on high;
These red-tiled roofs, this fruitful soil,
Bathed with an azure all divine,
Where springs the tree that gives us oil,
The grape that giveth us the wine;
Beneath these mountains stripped of trees,
Whose tops with flowers are covered o'er,
Where springtime of the Hesperides
Begins, but endeth nevermore;
Under these leafy vaults and walls,
That unto gentle sleep persuade;
This rainbow of the waterfalls,
Of mingled mist and sunshine made;
Upon these shores, where all invites,
We live our languid life apart;
This air is that of life's delights,
The festival of sense and heart;
This limpid space of time prolong,
Forget to-morrow in to-day,
And leave unto the passing throng
The Sea, the Town, and the Highway
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Dawn Notes
Through a window pane in Worcester,
a scene Cezanne might have have painted,
sky of cornflower blue, Pyrenees replaced
by pale violet band of Malvern hills.
Trees, fifteen shades of green, surround
higgedly piggedly, sugar cube houses,
burnt sienna rooves jostle with
sun smeared, off white walls.
Emerald swarth of a rugby pitch
(this is not a football town)
draws the panorama to the
sleep kissed morning eye.
poem by Neil Crawford
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In a Garden
The world is resting without sound or motion,
Behind the apple tree the sun goes down
Painting with fire the spires and the windows
In the elm-shaded town.
Beyond the calm Connecticut the hills lie
Silvered with haze as fruits still fresh with bloom,
The swallows weave in flight across the zenith
On an aerial loom.
Into the garden peace comes back with twilight,
Peace that since noon had left the purple phlox,
The heavy-headed asters, the late roses
And swaying hollyhocks.
For at high-noon I heard from this same garden
The far-off murmur as when many come;
Up from the village surged the blind and beating
Red music of a drum;
And the hysterical sharp fife that shattered
The brittle autumn air,
While they came, the young men marching
Past the village square. . . .
Across the calm Connecticut the hills change
To violet, the veils of dusk are deep --
Earth takes her children's many sorrows calmly
And stills herself to sleep.
poem by Sara Teasdale
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Early Works - Woodland Silence
The light that dawn brought
now fades as dusk returns
with it comes a soft breeze
that whispers to the trees
as lovers walk hand in hand
through twilights wonderland
the birds in the trees that sang
now rest their heads in sleep
as in the woodland silence
there is heard not a peep.
Date unknown
poem by David Harris
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With You Babe
how can a dark night be dark
and damp?
how can a day be so hot
and wild?
with you babe,
soft white skin
smooth thighs
button nipples
strawberry lips
eyes telling me
'come here baby
get me get me! '
conquer me!
how can a dark night be dark
and damp?
how can a day be so hot
and wild?
with you babe,
another day or month
another year perhaps
how can time be so cruel
choking my dreams
pushing me to the edge
of my existence?
hold me make me live
i am tough i am hard.
love me! '
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Lullaby (Song)
Close your eyes
Go to sleep.
Find your soul
In arms I'll keep
Dream you Little dark Dream
In your eyes
There's a glow
See your dreams
Now you know
Dream you Little dark Dreams
See your dreams
Come alive
Watch them dance
Through your eyes
Dream you Little dark Dreams
Coming now into eternal
Slumber, Sleep your Life's infernal
Lies called dreams within our sorrow
Never waking for tomorrow
Bow your head
Lay on down
Wipe your tears
Do not frown
Dream Dream Dream Dream Dream Dream
Dream you Little dark Dreams
Tonight.
poem by Sans Serif
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Autumn Eve
The yellow poplar leaves have strown
Thy quiet mound, thou slumberest
Where winter's winds will be unknown;
So deep thy rest,
So deep thy rest.
Sleep on, my love, thy dreams are sweet,
If thou hast dreams: the flowers I brought
I lay aside for passing feet,
Thou needest nought,
Thou needest, needest nought.
The grapes are gather'd from the hills,
The wood is piled, the song bird gone,
The breath of early evening chills;
My love, my love, sleep on;
My love, my love, sleep on
poem by Arthur Maquarie
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Going Shopping
En route to go shopping at our local grocery store,
I came across something which I hadn’t seen before.
A rustling sound within the trees, by me, was heard;
I just imagined it was either a cat or some kind of bird.
But what emerged in front of me, gave me a surprise;
A surprise which made me question my very own eyes!
Out of the trees, there very suddenly appeared,
An extremely lively, little brown deer.
I know that large herds of deer do reside
In the big forest, in the nearby countryside.
But never before in my life had I ever found
Any deer this close to the centre of our town.
As soon as he saw me, away he sprang,
But in my mind, alarm bells loudly rang.
For the deer, I began to feel a little scared,
As I wondered how, in a town, he would fair.
He was quite far from where he had grown,
And now, here he was, having to cope alone.
The countryside compared to the town are different places;
Here, he was faced with houses, cars and people’s faces.
I imagined the sheer panic which he felt inside,
And for that poor little deer, I almost cried.
To help him, there was nothing I could do.
He was so far away from all that he knew.
I thought about him for the rest of the day,
And couldn’t believe how far he had strayed.
A deer in the town was a strange thing to have sighted.
I just hope that, with his herd, he was safely reunited.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Dragon and the Undying
All night the flares go up; the Dragon sings
And beats upon the dark with furious wings;
And, stung to rage by his own darting fires,
Reaches with grappling coils from town to town;
He lusts to break the loveliness of spires,
And hurls their martyred music toppling down.
Yet, though the slain are homeless as the breeze,
Vocal are they, like storm-bewilder'd seas.
Their faces are the fair, unshrouded night,
And planets are their eyes, their ageless dreams.
Tenderly stooping earthward from their height,
They wander in the dusk with chanting streams,
And they are dawn-lit trees, with arms up-flung,
To hail the burning heavens they left unsung.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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Past and a poet
a dark avenue bordered by trees
a man walking on the asphalt alone
nearing an art village ancient
only a horse somewhere
breaking the silence
a horse unseen
keeping
its wild
and undissolved resolution
to cross the time
rhyming with
warm and
speed
foggy stars somewhere above
trees talking perhaps each other
leaves are still but wind brings
its touch of no fear rather fire
illumines with an essence of past
stones caves sculptures a far near
and sudden crashed with uncertain
all the dark vanished a white apron
flying madly to cover to touch the walker
man stands free as if thousand years he passed
his feet stands above the wave of time
and the nymph from inside the apron
came close to tell the beauty of ignition
to show the truth behind chiseled sculpt
and past meet the present and present
prophesying the future to keep its spark
where dark is no more dark to breed
the lamp to lit in solitude to shelter
the certain leaps through beauty of lust
Pranab k c
09/12/2001
poem by Pranab K. Chakraborty
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A Pavement Cafe
In the café where I sit I can see the village’s church, nice building
typical Portuguese architecture and painted white. I walked inside
it once, didn’t like that so much, as it had dark corners and whiffed
of sins not yet forgiven. It is quiet here now as the people prepare
for winter sleep in damp houses. There are a few tourists about
mostly elderly bad on their feet. The church bell tolls one o’clock,
it is good to know time even in Paradise. Today I will go for a walk
in the village’s cemetery a lovely place full of flowers and often
with pictures of the departed when they looked ruddily healthy
and the claw of death had yet to touch them; and I mustn’t forget
the good silence. Whatever the argument was it means nothing
anymore. The waiter brings me a coffee and a sly cigarette which
I smoke with guilty pleasure, yet looking out for my doctor he often
comes here for his coffee. Yes, this is another perfect day.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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