From The Shore
A lone gray bird,
Dim-dipping, far-flying,
Alone in the shadows and grandeurs and tumults
Of night and the sea
And the stars and storms.
Out over the darkness it wavers and hovers,
Out into the gloom it swings and batters,
Out into the wind and the rain and the vast,
Out into the pit of a great black world,
Where fogs are at battle, sky-driven, sea-blown,
Love of mist and rapture of flight,
Glories of chance and hazards of death
On its eager and palpitant wings.
Out into the deep of the great dark world,
Beyond the long borders where foam and drift
Of the sundering waves are lost and gone
On the tides that plunge and rear and crumble.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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Related quotes
A Storm Is Coming
An angry grey comes from the deepening storm
Caressing the wings of petrels, gulls and a
Lone storm riding albatross
Greens curling twisting into grey corners
Black edges spitting razor rain
Wind driven craziness
Smiling predatory hunters gather on the front line
Storms bring nervous food sources
That have lost caution
Thrown it to the wind so easy
This wind that whips up salty froth
The rain rains
Big fish eat
Little fish die
There is a symphony of sound
That no one hears
Storms assume that the world is deaf
There is a hundred colours here
Mixing on this easel of nature
Out here on the sea of bluster
This way and that way
The wind and the waters
The wind and the waves
The wind and the wild
Wanton storm song
That no one else can sing
And the birds wheel and cry
Turn and fly away just before they cant
The beasts of the deep grey green
do the same
Only I cannot turn and fly away
Only I remain and scream at the sight
sound and might.
poem by Geoffrey Fafard
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Arakoon
Lo! in storms, the triple-headed
Hill, whose dreaded
Bases battle with the seas,
Looms across fierce widths of fleeting
Waters beating
Evermore on roaring leas!
Arakoon, the black, the lonely!
Housed with only
Cloud and rain-wind, mist and damp;
Round whose foam-drenched feet and nether
Depths, together
Sullen sprites of thunder tramp!
There the East hums loud and surly,
Late and early,
Through the chasms and the caves,
And across the naked verges
Leap the surges!
White and wailing waifs of waves.
Day by day the sea-fogs gathered—
Tempest-fathered—
Pitch their tents on yonder peak,
Yellow drifts and fragments lying
Where the flying
Torrents chafe the cloven creek!
And at nightfall, when the driven
Bolts of heaven
Smite the rock and break the bluff,
Thither troop the elves whose home is
Where the foam is,
And the echo and the clough.
Ever girt about with noises,
Stormy voices,
And the salt breath of the Strait,
Stands the steadfast Mountain Giant,
Grim, reliant,
Dark as Death, and firm as Fate.
So when trouble treads, like thunder,
Weak men under—
Treads and breaks the thews of these—
Set thyself to bear it bravely,
Greatly, gravely,
Like the hill in yonder seas;
Since the wrestling and endurance
Give assurance
To the faint at bay with pain,
That no soul to strong endeavour
Yoked for ever,
Works against the tide in vain.
poem by Henry Kendall
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Notturno
Select a dark night and in a field, unpeopled, naked,
dip into gray twilight.... May the air, having fanned, becalm,
May the stars, winking, in the cold sky slumber on....
Tell the heart not to count its thumps....
Stop in mid-step and listen! You're not alone... The wings
of a bird, heavy, sodden, drift through the fog.
Listen…. it's the flight of a predator, a sovereign avian,
They call that bird T i m e, and on its wings is your will,
A passing dream of happiness, hopes' golden rags …
poem by Innokenty Fedorovich Annensky
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Hard Times
Music is silenced, the dark descending slowly
Has stripped unending skies of all companions.
Weariness grips your limbs and within the locked horizons
Dumbly ring the bells of hugely gathering fears.
Still, O bird, O sightless bird,
Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings.
It's not melodious woodlands but the leaps and falls
Of an ocean's drowsy booming,
Not a grove bedecked with flowers but a tumult flecked with foam.
Where is the shore that stored your buds and leaves?
Where the nest and the branch's hold?
Still, O bird, my sightless bird,
Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings.
Stretching in front of you the night's immensity
Hides the western hill where sleeps the distant sun;
Still with bated breath the world is counting time and swimming
Across the shoreless dark a crescent moon
Has thinly just appeared upon the dim horizon.
-But O my bird, O sightless bird,
Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings.
From upper skies the stars with pointing fingers
Intently watch your course and death's impatience
Lashes at you from the deeps in swirling waves;
And sad entreaties line the farthest shore
With hands outstretched and crooning 'Come, O come!'
Still, O bird, O sightless bird,
Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings.
All that is past: your fears and loves and hopes;
All that is lost: your words and lamentation;
No longer yours a home nor a bed composed of flowers.
For wings are all you have, and the sky's broadening countryard,
And the dawn steeped in darkness, lacking all direction.
Dear bird, my sightless bird,
Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings!
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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The Bridal
Last night a pale young Moon was wed
Unto the amorous, eager Sea;
Her maiden veil of mist she wore
His kingly purple vesture, he.
With her a bridal train of stars
Walked sisterly through shadows dim,
And, master minstrel of the world,
The great Wind sang the marriage hymn.
Thus came she down the silent sky
Unto the Sea her faith to plight,
And the grave priest who wedded them
Was ancient, sombre-mantled Night.
poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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After Rain
For three whole days across the sky,
In sullen packs that loomed and broke,
With flying fringes dim as smoke,
The columns of the rain went by;
At every hour the wind awoke;
The darkness passed upon the plain;
The great drops rattled at the pane.
Now piped the wind, or far aloof
Fell to a sough remote and dull;
And all night long with rush and lull
The rain kept drumming on the roof:
I heard till ear and sense were full
The clash or silence of the leaves,
The gurgle in the creaking eaves.
But when the fourth day came–at noon,
The darkness and the rain were by;
The sunward roofs were steaming dry;
And all the world was flecked and strewn
With shadows from a fleecy sky.
The haymakers were forth and gone,
And every rillet laughed and shone.
Then, too, on me that loved so well
The world, despairing in her blight,
Uplifted with her least delight,
On me, as on the earth, there fell
New happiness of mirth and might;
I strode the valleys pied and still;
I climbed upon the breezy hill.
I watched the gray hawk wheel and drop,
Sole shadow on the shining world;
I saw the mountains clothed and curled,
With forest ruffling to the top;
I saw the river's length unfurled,
Pale silver down the fruited plain,
Grown great and stately with the rain.
Through miles of shadow and soft heat,
Where field and fallow, fence and tree,
Were all one world of greenery,
I heard the robin ringing sweet,
The sparrow piping silverly,
The thrushes at the forest's hem
And as I went I sang with them.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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A sunset [ double Quintain (English and Sicilian) ]
While the red butterfly melts its wings
Within the light red poppy chain,
The pink gray cloud of the sunset rings
On the gray pink sky the light rays,
Seemingly thrown in a bloody pain.
The leaving sun abandons the sky
For a few hours and like crickets crawl,
The whispers of oak leaves mean good bye,
While the coming night is a dark haul,
Looking at the moon with a black eye.
The sun and the moon finds synergy,
Light becomes gray regolith of moon
With helium fusing energy,
Night makes moon looks like a big balloon
Or like swaddled in a big cocoon.
Much more, like thoughts enveloped in words
Or like souls carrying their divine love,
With feathers of light like Holy birds,
In the rain with drops of divine globes,
Falling down for giving love awards.
Like rain with drops of human spheres,
Pouring up to Him when they can hook
Or falling right down to disappear,
Reverse arch getting a killer look,
Trying to provide fragrance of fear.
Their waves are liquid and drain in sight
Of Earth to meet at infinity.
They are like dark rays in the pure light,
Light rays are arches for Trinity,
While dressed in wind seems to be the night.
Stars are candles and night lights them all,
The colors withdraw in the lost light.
In the black darkness they look so small.
The seeds of dream germinate for fight,
Becoming real for breaking their wall.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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Do I Need To Be Yours
I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea,
Lost in the wilderness of time,
Lost in the midst of all.
You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light
Lost in the dark is lost in darkness.
Oh plunge my heart deep in love—put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.
poem by James Rozario
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Out Of The Depths
Lost! Lost! Lost!
The cry went up from a sea --
The waves were wild with an awful wrath,
Not a light shone down on the lone ship's path;
The clouds hung low:
Lost! Lost! Lost!
Rose wild from the hearts of the tempest-tossed.
Lost! Lost! Lost!
The cry floated over the waves --
Far over the pitiless waves;
It smote on the dark and it rended the clouds;
The billows below them were weaving white shrouds
Out of the foam of the surge,
And the wind-voices chanted a dirge:
Lost! Lost! Lost!
Wailed wilder the lips of the tempest-tossed.
Lost! Lost! Lost!
Not the sign of a hope was nigh,
In the sea, in the air, or the sky;
And the lifted faces were wan and white,
There was nothing without them but storm and night
And nothing within but fear.
But far to a Father's ear:
Lost! Lost! Lost!
Floated the wail of the tempest-tossed.
Lost! Lost! Lost!
Out of the depths of the sea --
Out of the night and the sea;
And the waves and the winds of the storm were hushed,
And the sky with the gleams of the stars was flushed.
Saved! Saved! Saved!
And a calm and a joyous cry
Floated up through the starry sky,
In the dark -- in the storm -- 'Our Father' is nigh.
poem by Abram Joseph Ryan
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Little Black Bird
little black bird of Lia
flying away to Arizona
how is that little black
bird? what is it doing
in the desert? watching
how God paints a very
red orange sunset and
how the wind of the night
erases everything? Little
Black bird of Lia, what
is the reason for the
the leaving of devotion?
is sincerity still found
on that desert flower
blooming without water?
the cactus and some thorns
my loneliness deep like
the desert night, my longing
wide like the wind, my
illusions that life still
imitate art, that i can be
myself. Blackness and wings.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Night Journey, The
Hands and lit faces eddy to a line;
The dazed last minutes click; the clamour dies.
Beyond the great-swung arc o' the roof, divine,
Night, smoky-scarv'd, with thousand coloured eyes
Glares the imperious mystery of the way.
Thirsty for dark, you feel the long-limbed train
Throb, stretch, thrill motion, slide, pull out and sway,
Strain for the far, pause, draw to strength again. . . .
As a man, caught by some great hour, will rise,
Slow-limbed, to meet the light or find his love;
And, breathing long, with staring sightless eyes,
Hands out, head back, agape and silent, move
Sure as a flood, smooth as a vast wind blowing;
And, gathering power and purpose as he goes,
Unstumbling, unreluctant, strong, unknowing,
Borne by a will not his, that lifts, that grows,
Sweep out to darkness, triumphing in his goal,
Out of the fire, out of the little room. . . .
-- There is an end appointed, O my soul!
Crimson and green the signals burn; the gloom
Is hung with steam's far-blowing livid streamers.
Lost into God, as lights in light, we fly,
Grown one with will, end-drunken huddled dreamers.
The white lights roar. The sounds of the world die.
And lips and laughter are forgotten things.
Speed sharpens; grows. Into the night, and on,
The strength and splendour of our purpose swings.
The lamps fade; and the stars. We are alone.
poem by Rupert Brooke
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The Night Journey
Hands and lit faces eddy to a line;
The dazed last minutes click; the clamour dies.
Beyond the great-swung arc o' the roof, divine,
Night, smoky-scarv'd, with thousand coloured eyes
Glares the imperious mystery of the way.
Thirsty for dark, you feel the long-limbed train
Throb, stretch, thrill motion, slide, pull out and sway,
Strain for the far, pause, draw to strength again. . . .
As a man, caught by some great hour, will rise,
Slow-limbed, to meet the light or find his love;
And, breathing long, with staring sightless eyes,
Hands out, head back, agape and silent, move
Sure as a flood, smooth as a vast wind blowing;
And, gathering power and purpose as he goes,
Unstumbling, unreluctant, strong, unknowing,
Borne by a will not his, that lifts, that grows,
Sweep out to darkness, triumphing in his goal,
Out of the fire, out of the little room. . . .
- There is an end appointed, O my soul!
Crimson and green the signals burn; the gloom
Is hung with steam's far-blowing livid streamers.
Lost into God, as lights in light, we fly,
Grown one with will, end-drunken huddled dreamers.
The white lights roar. The sounds of the world die.
And lips and laughter are forgotten things.
Speed sharpens; grows. Into the night, and on,
The strength and splendour of our purpose swings.
The lamps fade; and the stars. We are alone.
poem by Rupert Brooke (1913)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Messmates
He gave us all a good-bye cheerily
At the first dawn of day;
We dropped him down the side full drearily
When the light died away.
It's a dead dark watch that he's a-keeping there,
And a long, long night that lags a-creeping there,
Where the Trades and the tides roll over him
And the great ships go by.
He's there alone with green seas rocking him
For a thousand miles round;
He's there alone with dumb things mocking him,
And we're homeward bound.
It's a long, lone watch that he's a-keeping there,
And a dead cold night that lags a-creeping there,
While the months and the years roll over him
And the great ships go by.
I wonder if the tramps come near enough
As they thrash to and fro,
And the battle-ships' bells ring clear enough
To be heard down below;
If through all the lone watch that he's a-keeping there,
And the long, cold night that lags a-creeping there,
The voices of the sailor-men shall comfort him
When the great ships go by.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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Trees And The Menace Of Night
Trees and the menace of night;
Then a long, lonely, leaden mere
Backed by a desolate fell,
As by a spectral battlement; and then,
Low-brooding, interpenetrating all,
A vast, gray, listless, inexpressive sky,
So beggared, so incredibly bereft
Of starlight and the song of racing worlds,
It might have bellied down upon the Void
Where as in terror Light was beginning to be.
Hist! In the trees fulfilled of night
(Night and the wretchedness of the sky)
Is it the hurry of the rain?
Or the noise of a drive of the Dead,
Streaming before the irresistible Will
Through the strange dusk of this, the Debateable Land
Between their place and ours?
Like the forgetfulness
Of the work-a-day world made visible,
A mist falls from the melancholy sky.
A messenger from some lost and loving soul,
Hopeless, far wandered, dazed
Here in the provinces of life,
A great white moth fades miserably past.
Thro' the trees in the strange dead night,
Under the vast dead sky,
Forgetting and forgot, a drift of Dead
Sets to the mystic mere, the phantom fell,
And the unimagined vastitudes beyond.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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On Another Day
A lone white sail boat
Slowly gliding south-wards.
The mournful cry of the seagull,
Soon swallowed into fog's belly
Camouflaging my world with so much easy.
Such a gray day it is!
Rain! Rain! Rain!
All day long showers fall unabated;
Mother earth quenches her thirsty.
Outside the wind whistles,
Caressing mother earth's gonads;
Leaves rattle on the ground;
The wind continues on its secret journey:
Area of origin and destination details unknown,
Yet for centuries untouched it has blown.
The rain has stopped.
Stars shine brightly
And the crickets never stop singing.
poem by Tafadzwa Matamba
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A Raven
Dark bird
Black raven with black wings,
Black eyes as dark as midnight,
Wind flutters his wings,
Shadows turn his head,
And movement catches his stare.
He looks down upon you and watches in dismay,
No black is with in you,
No night in your eyes,
No wings to up lift you,
No shadow to attract you,
And movements pass your gaze.
A raven, A raven, A moonlight silhouette.
Shooting Stars
It's a full moon (look in the sky)
Bright as can be (this is one of those nights)
Enough for the whole world to see (I feel amazing)
And the wind's (I feel it) danced with clouds
And the stars shining so nakedly
I said you're something
You're special
You're blessed too n' you guide me
You protect me from this cold world
When you hold me and don't let go of me
I said your wings are white they're very wide
That's why you fly
Yeah Yeah
Baby angel girl
With this world we're in you're my cherubin
Yeah Yeah
It's amazing
I can't believe this
So like a dream
The ocean tugs with god's galaxy (everything's the way it should be)
It's so beautiful when twilight arrives (this is my favorite time)
As I sail n' move with the tides (and nothing in the world matters)
This is what I see when he speaks to me (everytime)
I said you're something special
You're blessed too n' you guide me
You protect me from this cold world
When you hold me and don't let go of me
I said your wings are white they're very wide
That's why you fly
Yeah Yeah
Baby angel girl
With this world we're in
You're my cherubin
Yeah Yeah
I know the phrase far-fetched
Could never seem this far (I love the way you talk to me)
But did I ever tell you you're my shooting star
Warmer than a house
Faster than your car (there's nothing like it)
Did I ever tell you you're my shooting star
It's a cold night
But you would never know (you keep me warm)
And there are more blues than any I could ever see
It's like a melody (like this song) every breath is heavenly
A deep, deep sea
I'm lost completely
When you speak to me
When you speak to me
Said you're something
You're special
You're blessed too
You guide me (tell me more)
You protect me from this cold world
When you hold me (Yeah)
And don't let go of me
I said your wings are white
They're very wide
That's why you fly
Yeah
Baby angel girl
With this world we're in
You're my cherubin
Yeah Yeah
I love it when you call me that
Something
Special
You blessed too and you guide me
You protect me (changed my whole world)
Oh you hold me
And don't let go of me
They're very wide
That's why you fly
With this world we're in
You're my cherubin
Yeah Yeah
Said you're something
you're special
You're blessed too
You guide me (tell me more)
You protect me from this cold world
When you hold me
And don't let go of me
I said your wings are white
They're very wide
That's why you fly
Yeah
Baby angel girl
With this world we're in
You're my cherubin
Yeah Yeah
Hey
Look out the window
It's raining
Rain rain rain rain go away
Would you mind comin' back another day
Rain rain rain rain go away
Would you mind comin' back another day
Rain rain rain rain go away
Would you mind comin' back another day
Rain rain rain rain go away
Would you mind comin' back another day
song performed by by Kelis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Intense Warrior
A companion of the stars and the moon
The great-horned owl flies within the forest
All his feathers are speechless in the night
Persisting as the warrior he is
When he stares at you with his yellow eyes
There's a phantom strangeness surrounding him
And when you look back into that owl's face
You know he is looking into your soul
No one can predict the owl's train of thought
Through the years of hunting in the shadows
This intense warrior restrains his voice
He knows not to speak often in the night
Living amongst the trees, the great-horned owl
Braves the night and befriends the satrs and moon
A fierce hunter flying in a fierce world
How thunderous the silence of his wings
poem by Nate Flying Owl
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Night Without Sleep
The world's as the world is; the nations rearm and prepare to
change; the age of tyrants returns;
The greatest civilization that has ever existed builds itself higher
towers on breaking foundations.
Recurrent episodes; they were determined when the ape's children
first ran in packs, chipped flint to an edge.
I lie and hear dark rain beat the roof, and the blind wind.
In the morning perhaps
I shall find strength again
To value the immense beauty of this time of the world, the flowers
of decay their pitiful loveliness, the fever-dream
Tapestries that back the drama and are called the future. This
ebb of vitality feels the ignoble and cruel
Incidents, not the vast abstract order.
I lie and hear dark rain beat
the roof, and the night-blind wind.
In the Ventana country darkness and rain and the roar of waters
fill the deep mountain-throats.
The creekside shelf of sand where we lay last August under a slip of stars,
And firelight played on the leaning gorge-walls, is drowned and
lost. The deer of the country huddle on a ridge
In a close herd under madrone-trees; they tremble when a rockslide
goes down, they open great darkness-
Drinking eyes and press closer.
Cataracts of rock
Rain down the mountain from cliff to cliff and torment the
stream-bed. The stream deals with them. The laurels are wounded,
Redwoods go down with their earth and lie thwart the gorge. I
hear the torrent boulders battering each other,
I feel the flesh of the mountain move on its bones in the wet
darkness.
Is this more beautiful
Than man's disasters? These wounds will heal in their time; so
will humanity's. This is more beautiful ... at night . . .
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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By an Autumn Fire
Now at our casement the wind is shrilling,
Poignant and keen
And all the great boughs of the pines between
It is harping a lone and hungering strain
To the eldritch weeping of the rain;
And then to the wild, wet valley flying
It is seeking, sighing,
Something lost in the summer olden.
When night was silver and day was golden;
But out on the shore the waves are moaning
With ancient and never fulfilled desire,
And the spirits of all the empty spaces,
Of all the dark and haunted places,
With the rain and the wind on their death-white faces,
Come to the lure of our leaping fire.
But we bar them out with this rose-red splendor
From our blithe domain,
And drown the whimper of wind and rain
With undaunted laughter, echoing long,
Cheery old tale and gay old song;
Ours is the joyance of ripe fruition,
Attained ambition.
Ours is the treasure of tested loving,
Friendship that needs no further proving;
No more of springtime hopes, sweet and uncertain,
Here we have largess of summer in fee
Pile high the logs till the flame be leaping,
At bay the chill of the autumn keeping,
While pilgrim-wise, we may go a-reaping
In the fairest meadow of memory!
poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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