The Tide Rock
How sleeps yon rock, whose half-day's bath is done.
With broad blight side beneath the broad bright sun,
Like sea-nymph tired, on cushioned mosses sleeping.
Yet, nearer drawn, beneath her purple tresses
From drooping brows we find her slowly weeping.
So many a wife for cruel man's caresses
Must inly pine and pine, yet outward bear
A gallant front to this world's gaudy glare.
Ilfracombe, 1849.
poem by Charles Kingsley
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Night Thought
The world around is sleeping,
The stars are bright o'erhead,
The shades of myalls weeping
Upon the sward are spread;
Among the gloomy pinetops
The fitful breezes blow,
And their murmurs seem the music
Of a song of long ago;
Soft, passionate, and wailing
Is the tender old refrain -
With a yearning unavailing -
"Will he no come back again?"
The camp-fire sparks are flying
Up from the pine-log's glow,
The wandering wind is sighing
That ballad sweet and low;
The drooping branches gleaming
In the firelight, sway and stir;
And the bushman's brain is dreaming
Of the song she sang, and her.
And the murmurs of the forest
Ring home to heart and brain,
As in the pine is chorused
"Wi11 he no come back again?"
poem by Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant
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Orpheus In The Underworld
Curtains of rock
And tears of stone,
Wet leaves in a high crevice of the sky:
From side to side the draperies
Drawn back by rigid hands.
And he came carrying the shattered lyre,
And wearing the blue robes of a king,
And looking through eyes like holes torn in a screen;
And the distant sea was faintly heard,
From time to time, in the suddenly rising wind,
Like a broken song.
Out of his sleep, from time to time,
From between half open lips,
Escaped the bewildered words which try to tell
The tale of his bright night
And his wing-shadowed day
The soaring flights of thought beneath the sun
Above the islands of the seas
And all the deserts, all the pastures, all the plains
Of the distracting foreign land.
He sleeps with the broken lyre between his hands,
And round his slumber are drawn back
The rigid draperies, the tears and wet leaves,
Cold curtains of rock concealing the bottomless sky.
poem by David Gascoyne
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My Baby Sleeps
The wind is loud in the west to-night,
But Baby sleeps;
The wild wind blows with all its might,
But Baby sleeps;
My Baby sleeps, and he does not hear
The noise of the storm in the pine trees near.
The snow is drifting high to-night,
But Baby sleeps;
The bitter world is cold and white,
But Baby sleeps;
My Baby sleeps, so fast, so fast,
That he does not heed the wintry blast.
The cold snows drift, and the wild winds rave,
But Baby sleeps;
And a white cross stands by his little grave,
While Baby sleeps;
And the storm is loud in the rocking pine,
But its moan is not so deep as mine.
poem by George A. Mackenzie
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A Journey
You sped into your mother's womb
rooting in its warm embrace,
you the sperm who won the race.
There you grew, snug and protected.
until, to the world you were
ejected
Your baby buds blossomed
and up you grew,
strong and handsome, all brand new.
You peaked at about twenty two,
you were tall and broad
and beautiful.
I fell in love with your manly form,
you were gallant,
brave and dutiful.
At 52 you slowed a little
with half the blink of an eye,
your skin with its youthful morning dew
was a little tired, but it suited you.
And what of 70,
what an age!
Your wisdom goes with you
to the grave.
Your time was
merely a breath
drawn in
that lasted a moment
and then expired.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Sonnet LXXIX. To The Goddess Of Botany
OF Folly weary, shrinking from the view
Of Violence and Fraud, allow'd to take
All peace from humble life; I would forsake
Their haunts for ever, and, sweet Nymph! with you
Find shelter; where my tired, and tear-swollen eyes
Among your silent shades of soothing hue,
Your 'bells and florrets of unnumber'd dyes'
Might rest--And learn the bright varieties
That from your lovely hands are fed with dew;
And every veined leaf, that trembling sighs
In mead or woodland; or in wilds remote,
Or lurk with mosses in the humid caves,
Mantle the cliffs, on dimpling rivers float,
Or stream from coral rocks beneath the ocean's waves.
poem by Charlotte Smith
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Orphaned
Don't leave me here mom, don't
Though you may find me fed and clothed
I'm not happy, I pine for your love.
Didn't you do it mom to see I don't starve?
But believe me mom
Beneath all my food and all my clothes
I can't hide the shame of feeling orphaned.
Don't just go away mom,
Scold me, abuse me
But let me be with you
Coz for me starvation is no shame
And even though I go unfed and unclothed
At home I have a name.
Here I am fed and clothed
But not fed with love
I pine for it mom,
A place in your heart,
Don't leave me here and depart.
poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
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The Pine-Apple And The Bee
The pine-apples, in triple row,
Were basking hot, and all in blow;
A bee of most discerning taste
Perceived the fragrance as he pass’d,
On eager wing the spoiler came,
And search’d for crannies in the frame,
Urged his attempt on every side,
To every pane his trunk applied;
But still in vain, the frame was tight,
And only pervious to the light;
Thus having wasted half the day,
He trimm’d his flight another way.
Methinks, I said, in thee I find
The sin and madness of mankind.
To joys forbidden man aspires,
Consumes his soul with vain desires;
Folly the spring of his pursuit,
And disappointment all the fruit.
While Cynthio ogles as he passes,
The nymph between two chariot glasses,
She is the pine-apple, and he
The silly unsuccessful bee.
The maid who views with pensive air
The show-glass fraught with glittering ware,
Sees watches, bracelets, rings, and lockets,
But sighs at thought of empty pockets;
Like thine, her appetite is keen,
But ah, the cruel glass between!
Our dear delights are often such,
Exposed to view but not to touch;
The sight our foolish heart inflames,
We long for pine-apples in frames;
With hopeless wish one looks and lingers;
One breaks the glass, and cuts his fingers;
But they whom truth and wisdom lead
Can gather honey from a weed.
poem by William Cowper
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Where is the Slave
Oh, where's the slave so lowly,
Condemn'd to chains unholy,
Who, could he burst
His bonds at first,
Would pine beneath them slowly?
What soul, whose wrongs degrade it,
Would wait till time decay'd it,
When thus its wing
At once may spring
To the throne of Him who made it?
Farewell, Erin, -- farewell, all,
Who live to weep our fall!
Less dear the laurel growing,
Alive, untouch'd and blowing,
Than that whose braid
Is pluckd to shade
The brows with victory glowing.
We tread the land that bore us,
Her green flag glitters o'er us,
The friends we've tried
Are by our side,
And the foe we hate before us.
Farewell, Erin, -- farewell, all,
Who live to weep our fall!
poem by Thomas Moore
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The Vision quest
Wandering pine,
with rolled rug slung across her back
walked bare foot to feel the rich earth
beneath her feet.
The trees, high pines either side,
shielded the low sun casting shadows
bringing the ancestors.
Breaking through the pines
into crystal blue she laid her rug.
Calling on the four winds
North to prowling Bear
West to snarling Panther
East to breathing Moose
South to follow the doe eyed fawn
she began her vision quest
seated in a circle on the ground.
Cross legged she waited
stilled her mind
drew her quiet breath
and breathed the mountain air
slowly for the longest time.
Then it came.......
The rising...........
The oneness........
The wholeness.....
and The knowing
spreading through her
like the four winds.
There she stayed......
until the morning of the fourth day
when she rose quietly, rolled her rug
and descended through the pines;
with the rich earth beneath her feet
and the sound of running water at her side.
poem by Diana Rosser
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Hopeless Pines
When a pine is felled in the forest
What can the other pines do, but rue
Helplessly rooted to their spots
They rattle their boughs in scared demur
Rock their trunks as if trying to uproot
All in vain, it is but the nature’s rule
To stand desolate amongst piling ruins
Waiting in silence for their turn
But in what way is a common man
Better than the immovable pine
Walking, talking, eating and sleeping
Yet a vegetable enduring
Domineering Machiavellians
Living like a forlorn human pine
Without a fight, bending his spine
Yielding down to ruthless exploitation
.
(The first stanza and the basic idea of this poem are inspired by a sloka (Sanskrit poem) from Ramayana by Audikavi Valmiki)
poem by Sathya Narayana
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Hope And Banality
Tired of exhibitionism,
nostalgia for an eternal
herd of thoughts -
moves for the real intent
the intensive thirst for unknown.
The lie stamps the vanity on a pseudo book.
Everything turns in a rage,
and pain strips to bone.
Dressed in his gaudy fame,
great idol lifts the arm.
Must I become a part of this motley crowd?
The return is difficult
for the disowned faith.
Great hips, broad shoulders and pointed nose
reach nowhere.
Beneath the disillusion lie the shades
of hope and banality,
to choose a tomorrow
which will never arrive.
poem by Satish Verma
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Knotty Pine
Shes my knotty pine
She leans with the wind
She cries turpentine
Sometimes she nettles me
But I dont mind
Only now and then
When her branches lean beneath the snow
Shes knotty but nice
Reaching for the sky
She dont like snow n ice
To leave things as they stand
Is my advice
Shes been good to me
So I tend to go there when I can
Shes my knotty pine
Such a pretty scene
She tries to be kind
She gives birds a home
And shelters them
In her coat of green
Shes as green as evergreen can be
Shes a real delight
When little breezes call
To ruffle up her skin
All her sap runs free
And sticks to me
Hidden deep within
I will be her slave eternally
Shes my knotty pine
She leans with the wind
She crys turpentine
Sometimes she nettles me
But I dont mind
Only now and then
When her branches lean beneath the snow
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Pine
The elm lets fall its leaves before the frost,
The very oak grows shivering and sere,
The trees are barren when the summer's lost:
But one tree keeps its goodness all the year.
Green pine, unchanging as the days go by,
Thou art thyself beneath whatever sky:
My shelter from all winds, my own strong pine,
'Tis spring, 'tis summer, still, while thou art mine.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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As some vast Tropic tree, itself a wood (fragment)
As some vast Tropic tree, itself a wood,
That crests its Head with clouds, beneath the flood
Feeds its deep roots, and with the bulging flank
Of its wide base controls the fronting bank,
(By the slant current's pressure scoop'd away
The fronting bank becomes a foam-piled bay)
High in the Fork the uncouth Idol knits
His channel'd Brows; low murmurs stir by fits
And dark below the horrid Faquir sits;
An Horror from its broad Head's branchy wreath
Broods o'er the rude Idolatry beneath--
poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Midsummer
HERE! sweep these foolish leaves away,
I will not crush my brains to-day!
Look! are the southern curtains drawn?
Fetch me a fan, and so begone!
Not that,--the palm-tree's rustling leaf
Brought from a parching coral-reef
Its breath is heated;--I would swing
The broad gray plumes,--the eagle's wing.
I hate these roses' feverish blood!
Pluck me a half-blown lily-bud,
A long-stemmed lily from the lake,
Cold as a coiling water-snake.
Rain me sweet odors on the air,
And wheel me up my Indian chair,
And spread some book not overwise
Flat out before my sleepy eyes.
Who knows it not,--this dead recoil
Of weary fibres stretched with toil,--
The pulse that flutters faint and low
When Summer's seething breezes blow!
O Nature! bare thy loving breast,
And give thy child one hour of rest,--
One little hour to lie unseen
Beneath thy scarf of leafy green!
So, curtained by a singing pine,
Its murmuring voice shall blend with mine,
Till, lost in dreams, my faltering lay
In sweeter music dies away.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Midsummer
HERE! sweep these foolish leaves away,
I will not crush my brains to-day!
Look! are the southern curtains drawn?
Fetch me a fan, and so begone!
Not that,--the palm-tree's rustling leaf
Brought from a parching coral-reef
Its breath is heated;--I would swing
The broad gray plumes,--the eagle's wing.
I hate these roses' feverish blood!
Pluck me a half-blown lily-bud,
A long-stemmed lily from the lake,
Cold as a coiling water-snake.
Rain me sweet odors on the air,
And wheel me up my Indian chair,
And spread some book not overwise
Flat out before my sleepy eyes.
Who knows it not,--this dead recoil
Of weary fibres stretched with toil,--
The pulse that flutters faint and low
When Summer's seething breezes blow!
O Nature! bare thy loving breast,
And give thy child one hour of rest,--
One little hour to lie unseen
Beneath thy scarf of leafy green!
So, curtained by a singing pine,
Its murmuring voice shall blend with mine,
Till, lost in dreams, my faltering lay
In sweeter music dies away.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Good Friday
Am I a stone and not a sheep
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy Cross,
To number drop by drop Thy Blood's slow loss,
And yet not weep?
Not so those women loved
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;
Not so the Sun and Moon
Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horror of great darkness at broad noon—
I, only I.
Yet give not o'er,
But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Beneath Thy Cross
Am I a stone, and not a sheep,
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath thy cross,
To number drop by drop Thy Blood's slow loss,
And yet not weep?
Not so those women loved
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;
Not so the Sun and Moon
Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horror of great darkness at broad noon--
I, only I.
Yet give not o'er,
But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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The Afric's Dream
Why did ye wake me from my sleep? it was a dream of bliss,
And ye have torn me from that land to pine again in this;
Methought, beneath yon whispering tree, that I was laid to rest,
The turf, with all its withering flowers, upon my cold heart press'd.
My chains, these hateful chains, were gone—oh, would that I might die,
So from my swelling pulse I could forever cast them by!
And on, away o'er land and sea, my joyful spirit passed,
Till ‘neath my own banana tree, I lighted down at last.
My cabin door, with all its flowers, was still profusely gay,
As when I lightly sported there, in childhood's careless day!
But trees that were as sapling twigs, with broad and shadowing bough,
Around the well-known threshold spread a freshening coolness now.
The birds whose notes I used to hear, were shouting on the earth,
As if to greet me back again with their wild strains of mirth;
My own bright stream was at my feet, and how I laugh'd to lave
My burning lip and cheek and brow in that delicious wave!
My boy, my first-born babe, had died amid his early hours,
And there we laid him to his sleep among the clustering flowers;
Yet lo! without my cottage door he sported in his glee,
With her whose grave is far from his, beneath yon linden tree.
I sprang to snatch them to my soul; when breathing out my name,
To grasp my hand, and press my lip, a crowd of loved ones came!
Wife, parents, children, kinsmen, friends! the dear and lost ones all,
With blessed words of welcome came, to greet me from my thrall.
Forms long unseen were by my side; and thrilling on my ear,
Came cadences from gentle tones, unheard for many a year;
And on my cheek fond lips were press'd, with true affection's kiss—
And so ye waked me from my sleep—but't was a dream of bliss!
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Lone Pine
Lone Pine! Lone Pine! Our hearts are numbly aching
For those who come no more,
Our boys who sleep the sleep that knows no waking,
Besides the Dardan’s shore.
Through all the years, with glory sad and sombre,
Their names will deathless shine;
No bugle call can wake them from their slumber:
Lone Pine! Lone Pine!
They did not quail, they did not pause or ponder,
They counted not the odds;
The order came, the foe were waiting yonder,
The rest was with the gods.
Forth from their trenches at the signal leaping,
They charged the Turkish line,
And death charged too, a royal harvest reaping,
Lone Pine! Lone Pine!
Nought could withstand that onrush, backward
driven,
The foemen broke and fled.
poem by Edward Harrington
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