Seaward to____
HOW long it seems since that mild April night,
When, leaning from the window, you and I
Heard, clearly ringing from the shadowy bight,
The loon’s unearthly cry!
Southwest the wind blew, million little waves
Ran rippling round the point in mellow tune,
But mournful, like the voice of one who raves,
That laughter of the loon!
We called to him, while blindly through the haze
Uprose the meagre moon behind us, slow,
So dim, the fleet of boats we scarce could trace,
Moored lightly just below.
We called, and, lo, he answered! Half in fear
We sent the note back. Echoing rock and bay
Made melancholy music far and near;
Sadly it died away.
That schooner, you remember? Flying ghost!
Her canvas catching every wandering beam,
Aerial, noiseless, past the glimmering coast
She glided like a dream.
Would we were leaning from your window now,
Together calling to the eerie loon,
The fresh wind blowing care from either brow,
This sumptuous night of June!
So many sighs load this sweet inland air,
’T is hard to breathe, nor can we find relief:
However lightly touched, we all must share
This nobleness of grief.
But sighs are spent before they reach your ear;
Vaguely they mingle with the water’s rune;
No sadder sound salutes you than the clear,
Wild laughter of the loon.
poem by Celia Thaxter
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Related quotes
Ringneck Loon
Hear the call of the ringneck loon
Hear the sound he will be home soon
Hear the cry in the afternoon
Ringneck loon, he knows best
Hes a loon and he dont care less
Ringneck loon, away off shore
How could anybody ask for more
Hear the call of the ringneck loon
Hear the sound he will be home soon
Hear the cry in the afternoon
Ringneck loon, he cant rest
Hes a loon and he dont care less
Ringneck loon around the bend
Been a loon since he dont know when
Hear the call of the ringneck loon
City life is what I see
City life is the life for me
Ringneck loon, he knows best
Hes a loon and he dont care less
Hear the cry of the ringneck loon
Hear the sound he will be home soon
Hear the cry in the afternoon
Ringneck loon, you cant rest
Youre a loonie and you dont care less
Ringneck loon my old friend
Been a loon since he dont know when
Hear the cry of the ringneck loon
Hear the sound he will be home soon
Hear the cry in the afternoon
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sometimes Wind Moves In Secret
Sometimes wind moves in secret
Like a lover or a moon
Sometimes a board will answer
Or a shutter or a loon
Sometimes wind answers itself
Like a woman at the mirror
And sometimes no one's present
Or unwilling to hear
Wind moans over graveyards
As if weeping for the dead
Wind howls at the windows
Like it wants you, in your bed
Wind steals kites of children
Without making any sound
And wind tears off your head scarf
But lifts hair, like a crown
Wind sighs round a lighthouse
Like a sailor blown off course
Wind whispers in the rigging
Like a breeze has lost its voice
Wind dies in the harbor
When the moon is sailing high
But wind sings before morning
When the twilight blush is nigh
poem by Patti Masterman
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A Soliloquy Of The Full Moon, She Being In A Mad Passion
Now as Heaven is my Lot, they're the Pests of the Nation!
Wherever they can come
With clankum and blankum
'Tis all Botheration, & Hell & Damnation,
With fun, jeering
Conjuring
Sky-staring,
Loungerin g,
And still to the tune of Transmogrification--
Those muttering
Spluttering
Ventriloquogusty
P oets
With no Hats
Or Hats that are rusty.
They're my Torment and Curse
And harass me worse
And bait me and bay me, far sorer I vow
Than the Screech of the Owl
Or the witch-wolf's long howl,
Or sheep-killing Butcher-dog's inward Bow wow
For me they all spite--an unfortunate Wight.
And the very first moment that I came to Light
A Rascal call'd Voss the more to his scandal,
Turn'd me into a sickle with never a handle.
A Night or two after a worse Rogue there came,
The head of the Gang, one Wordsworth by name--
`Ho! What's in the wind?' 'Tis the voice of a Wizzard!
I saw him look at me most terribly blue !
He was hunting for witch-rhymes from great A to Izzard,
And soon as he'd found them made no more ado
But chang'd me at once to a little Canoe.
From this strange Enchantment uncharm'd by degrees
I began to take courage & hop'd for some Ease,
When one Coleridge, a Raff of the self-same Banditti
Past by--& intending no doubt to be witty,
Because I'd th' ill-fortune his taste to displease,
He turn'd up his nose,
And in pitiful Prose
Made me into the half of a small Cheshire Cheese.
Well, a night or two past--it was wind, rain & hail--
And I ventur'd abroad in a thick Cloak & veil--
But the very first Evening he saw me again
The last mentioned Ruffian popp'd out of his Den--
I was resting a moment on the bare edge of Naddle
I fancy the sight of me turn'd his Brains addle--
For what was I now?
A complete Barley-mow
And when I climb'd higher he made a long leg,
And chang'd me at once to an Ostrich's Egg--
But now Heaven be praised in contempt of the Loon,
I am I myself I, the jolly full Moon.
Yet my heart is still fluttering--
For I heard the Rogue muttering--
He was hulking and skulking at the skirt of a Wood
When lightly & brightly on tip-toe I stood
On the long level Line of a motionless Cloud
And ho! what a Skittle-ground! quoth he aloud
And wish'd from his heart nine Nine-pins to see
In brightness & size just proportion'd to me.
So I fear'd from my soul,
That he'd make me a Bowl,
But in spite of his spite
This was more than his might
And still Heaven be prais'd! in contempt of the Loon
I am I myself I, the jolly full Moon.
poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Too young, too late
A quiet lake beneath the moon
reflects the starry firmament.
The silence broken by a loon
bemoaning his predicament
A lonely loon who lacks a mate.
Announcing he’s available
Please answer before it’s too late
his isolation palpable.
Then once again silence descends.
Frustrated he gets no reply
the mating seasons nears its end.
Perhaps next year he’ll find a mate
but until then he’ll have to wait.
27-Jan-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Sea Hold
THE SEA is large.
The sea hold on a leg of land in the Chesapeake hugs an early sunset and a last morning star over the oyster beds and the late clam boats of lonely men.
Five white houses on a half-mile strip of land... five white dice rolled from a tube.
Not so long ago... the sea was large...
And to-day the sea has lost nothing... it keeps all.
I am a loon about the sea.
I make so many sea songs, I cry so many sea cries, I forget so many sea songs and sea cries.
I am a loon about the sea.
So are five men I had a fish fry with once in a tar-paper shack trembling in a sand storm.
The sea knows more about them than they know themselves.
They know only how the sea hugs and will not let go.
The sea is large.
The sea must know more than any of us.
poem by Carl Sandburg
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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The Red Canoe
De win' is sleepin' in de pine, but O! de
night is black!
An' all day long de loon bird cry on Lac Waya-
gamack-
No light is shinin' by de shore for helpin' steer
heem t'roo
W'en out upon de night, Ubalde he tak' de
red canoe.
I hear de paddle dip, dip, dip! wance more I
hear de loon-
I feel de breeze was show de way for storm
dat 's comin' soon,
An' den de sky fly open wit' de lightning
splittin' t'roo-
An' 'way beyon' de point I see de leetle red
canoe.
It 's dark again, but lissen how across Waya-
gamack
De tonder 's roarin' loud, an' now de mount-
ains answer back-
I wonder wit' de noise lak dat, he hear me, le
bon Dieu
W'en on ma knee I ax Heem save de leetle red
canoe!
Is dat a voice, so far away, it die upon ma hear?
Or only win' was foolin' me, an' w'isperin'
'Belzemire?'
Yaas, yaas, Ubalde, your Belzemire she 's
prayin' hard for you-
An' den again de lightning come, but w'ere 's
de red canoe?
Dey say I 'm mad, dem foolish folk, cos w'en
de night is black
An' w'en de wave lak snow-dreef come on Lac
Wayagamack
I tak' de place w'ere long ago we use to sit, us
two,
An' wait until de lightning bring de leetle red
canoe.
poem by William Henry Drummond
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Sonnet XXXII. To Melancholy
Written on the banks of the Arun, Oct. 1785.
WHEN latest Autumn spreads her evening veil,
And the grey mists from these dim waves arise,
I love to listen to the hollow sighs,
Through the half-leafless wood that breathes the gale:
For at such hours the shadowy phantom, pale,
Oft seems to fleet before the poet's eyes;
Strange sounds are heard, and mournful melodies,
As of night wanderers, who their woes bewail
Here, by his native stream, at such an hour,
Pity's own Otway I methinks could meet,
And hear his deep sighs swell the sadden'd wind!
O Melancholy!--such thy magic power,
That to the soul these dreams are often sweet,
And sooth the pensive visionary mind!
poem by Charlotte Smith
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Dover Beach
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits;—on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægæan, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
poem by Matthew Arnold (1867)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sea Sorcery
Oh how I love the laughing sea,
Sun lances splintering;
Or with a virile harmony
In salty caves to sing;
Or mumbling pebbles on the shore,
Or roused to monster might:
By day I love the sea, but more
I love it in the night.
High over ocean hangs my home
And when the moon is clear
I stare and stare till fairy foam
Is music in my ear;
Till glamour dances to a tune
No mortal man could make;
And there bewitched beneath the moon
To beauty I awake.
Then though I seek my bed again
And close the shutters tight,
Still, still I hear that wild refrain
And see that mystic light . . .
Oh reckon me a crazy loon,
But blesséd I will be
If my last seeing be the moon,
My last sound--the Sea.
poem by Robert William Service
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TheAborgines
TheAborgines
PartOne
TheTeacherCome
The men gathered around the teacher come each one thronged and bowed they all had grey hair everywhere the eye could see they held out bowls of wooden hidden insides full of seaming things to eat. Perhaps the fireplace was inside one of the huts perhaps the food was only cold just fruit and nuts. The Teacher sighed then began to speak as each man placed his bowl at teachers feet. He pointed all around the village there here and everywhere until alarmed the men begin to quiver and beware until the Teacher cried out loud “How can eye make them understand to make a sign to make them understand the day time.” He tried his watch. He held up a calendar with all the days of months he even pantomimed the passing of time he tried the whistle of the loon to signal dark; then his eyes light up at something he just thought and so he drew there in the sand seven circles then one more there then starting over with his pidgeon speaching he tried to reach the men again with teaching. Day Day Day Day Day Day Day Day he said this eight times once for each circle pointing to make his point across the men in the glen between the huts were nodding understanding. They understood the teacher. He pointed at the first circle again and just said TODAY and got all excited when they nodded yes they were absorbing all the words then he said day to all the others but the last circle he called NEXT WEEK in a loud loon like voice. There was a hush and then the Spokesman for the tribe said to him in perfect English TIME. The teacher froze. For every aborigine had pulled a watch out from the leather thong and one of them cried out in perfect English as the Spokesman had thus done why that is April Twenty Ninth. The aborigine men all begin to dance now like the loon from side to side they all begin to eat the contents of the bowls at teachers feet the bowls of wisdom which contain the portions of the last teacher come to entertain who also tried to teach them time. For the aborigines were cannibals educated with intelligence complete with watches from the arms they used for cooking meat in pots from bowls they grab the portions out filled with teachers time and time again they come to teach them men the time in land of loon the teacher come?
poem by Charles Hice
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Dover Beach
The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
poem by Matthew Arnold
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Syrinx
A HEAP of low, dark, rocky coast,
Unknown to foot or feather!
A sea-voice moaning like a ghost;
And fits of fiery weather!
The flying Syrinx turned and sped
By dim, mysterious hollows,
Where night is black, and day is red,
And frost the fire-wind follows.
Strong, heavy footfalls in the wake
Came up with flights of water:
The gods were mournful for the sake
Of Ladon’s lovely daughter.
For when she came to spike and spine,
Where reef and river gather,
Her feet were sore with shell and chine;
She could not travel farther.
Across a naked strait of land
Blown sleet and surge were humming;
But trammelled with the shifting sand,
She heard the monster coming!
A thing of hoofs and horns and lust:
A gaunt, goat-footed stranger!
She bowed her body in the dust
And called on Zeus to change her;
And called on Hermes, fair and fleet,
And her of hounds and quiver,
To hide her in the thickets sweet
That sighed above the river.
So he that sits on flaming wheels,
And rules the sea and thunder,
Caught up the satyr by the heels
And tore his skirts asunder.
While Arcas, of the glittering plumes,
Took Ladon’s daughter lightly,
And set her in the gracious glooms
That mix with moon-mist nightly;
And touched her lips with wild-flower wine,
And changed her body slowly,
Till, in soft reeds of song and shine,
Her life was hidden wholly.
poem by Henry Kendall
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Memory
Soon the waves so lightly bounding
All forget the tempest blast;
Soon the pines so sadly sounding
Cease to mourn the storm that's past.
Soon is hushed the voice of gladness
Heard within the green wood's breast;
Yet come back no notes of sadness,
No remembrance breaks its rest.
But the heart,—how fond t'will treasure
Every note of grief and joy!
Oft come back the notes of pleasure,
Grief's sad echoes oft annoy.
There still dwell the looks that vanish
Swift as brightness of a dream;
Time in vain earth's smiles may banish,
There undying still they beam.
poem by Jones Very
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The Mess
You sailed away one night in june
I heard you say you would be back soon
But since that day its been on long loon
Oh - sweet darling the mess Im in
I spoke to jimmy with the big tattoo
Said had he seen any sign of you
He looked at me and then laughed at you
See just wait a minute, oh darling what a mess Im in
When I want ya do I get ya
All I needed your number,
Will you give me your number
Oh sweet darling
Oh sweet darling
Oh - sweet darling what a mess Im in
What a mess Im in, since you left me
What a mess Im in, oh yeah
Oh oh - oh oh wo - wo
Oh oh - oh wo,wo wo
When youre near me
Can you hear me
I cant see ya
I can feel ya
When youre near me
Can ya hear me
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Hear The Laughter
Writers: leo sayer & johnny vastano
Listning to the falling rain
Always seems to bring her back again
I can remember like it was yesterday
Sound of her voice, her look upon her face
Like children playing childrens games
We joked and laughed at evry passing day
Im so much older, things have changed
Ive realized that now its just too late
I hear the laughter echoin through my brain
I hear the laughter then Im alone again
I tried to forget her heaven knows
Seems theres no direction left to go
I can remember like it was yesterday
I hear the laughter then Im alone again
Im alone again, alone again
I wish that I could hold you now
I wish that I could turn this all around
Its just my foolish fantasy
But that wont bring your sweet love back to me
I hear the laughter, somebody called my name
I hear the laughter and I can feel the pain
I hear the laughter echoing through my brain
I hear the laughter then Im alone again
I hear the laughter, I hear the laughter
song performed by by Leo Sayer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cafes In Damascus
LANGUIDLY the night-wind bloweth
From the gardens round,
Where the clear Barrada floweth
With a lulling sound.
Not the lute-note's sweet shiver
Can such music find,
As is on a wandering river,
On a wandering wind.
There the Moslem leaneth, dreaming
O'er the inward world,
While around the fragrant steaming
Of the smoke is curled.
Rising from the coffee berry,
Dark grape of the South;
Or the pipe of polished cherry,
With its amber mouth.
Cooled by passing through the water,
Gurgling as it flows—
Scented by the Summer's daughter,
June's impassioned rose.
By that rose's spirit haunted
Are the dreams that rise,
Of far lands, and lives enchanted,
And of deep black eyes.
Thus with some sweet dream's assistance,
Float they down life's stream;
Would to heaven our whole existence
Could be such a dream!
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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From the biography of an unknown woman: XL
Looking out through the window
She saw a sky of melancholy
In shades of ink-blue and black
In the ticking of the clock on the wall
She heard the loud and clear hollowness
Filling the empty room
Some stray memories sweet and bitter
Simply struggled like a flickering candle
Placed on the window sill
In the distant night is heard
Painful whining of dogs
As she struggled to close
The window against the blowing wind
13sep2010
14.14hrs
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Grey Riders
The night was cold
And the wind was howling
I was awaken by the sound
Of hoof beats pounding.
Outside the window, on the ground
Our hound dog was growling
Grey riders flew across my lawn
I looked again and they all were gone.
That voice was calling
And it cut through the night
Come on boys, let her go.
Up on a hill
They rode in one long column
They were freezing with the chills
Of the new day dawning.
Their hair long and grey
They heard just one voice calling
Grey riders on the morning sky,
The sun made diamonds of their road-weary eyes.
That voice is calling
And it cut through the night
Come on boys, let her go.
The night was cold
And the wind was howling
I was awaken by the sound
Of hoof beats pounding.
Outside the window, on the ground
Our hound dog was growling
Grey riders flew across my lawn
I looked again and they all were gone.
That voice was calling
And it cut through the night
Come on boys, let her go.
song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To L. H. B. (1894-1915 )
Last night for the first time since you were dead
I walked with you, my brother, in a dream.
We were at home again beside the stream
Fringed with tall berry bushes, white and red.
"Don't touch them: they are poisonous," I said.
But your hand hovered, and I saw a beam
Of strange, bright laughter flying round your head
And as you stooped I saw the berries gleam.
"Don't you remember? We called them Dead Man's
Bread!"
I woke and heard the wind moan and the roar
Of the dark water tumbling on the shore.
Where--where is the path of my dream for my eager
feet?
By the remembered stream my brother stands
Waiting for me with berries in his hands...
"These are my body. Sister, take and eat."
poem by Katherine Mansfield
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Lightly Come or Lightly Go
Lightly come or lightly go:
Though thy heart presage thee woe,
Vales and many a wasted sun,
Oread let thy laughter run,
Till the irreverent mountain air
Ripple all thy flying hair.
Lightly, lightly -- - ever so:
Clouds that wrap the vales below
At the hour of evenstar
Lowliest attendants are;
Love and laughter song-confessed
When the heart is heaviest.
poem by James Joyce
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