En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Sonnet XXXVI.

SHOULD the lone wanderer, fainting on his way,
Rest for a moment of the sultry hours,
And though his path through thorns and roughness lay,
Pluck the wild rose, or woodbine's gadding flowers,
Weaving gay wreaths beneath some sheltering tree,
The sense of sorrow he awhile may lose;
So have I sought thy flowers, fair Poesy!
So charm'd my way with Friendship and the Muse.
But darker now grows life's unhappy day,
Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come,
Her pencil sickening Fancy throws away,
And weary Hope reclines upon the tomb;
And points my wishes to that tranquil shore,
Where the pale spectre Care pursues no more.

poem by Charlotte Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Sonnet I

o

THE partial Muse, has from my earliest hours,
Smil'd on the rugged path I'm doom'd to tread,
And still with sportive hand has snatch'd wild flowers,
To weave fantastic garlands for my head:
But far, far happier is the lot of those
Who never learn'd her dear delusive art;
Which, while it decks the head with many a rose,
Reserves the thorn, to fester in the heart.
For still she bids soft Pity's melting eye
Stream o'er the ills she knows not to remove,
Points every pang, and deepens every sigh
Of mourning friendship or unhappy love.
Ah! then, how dear the Muse's favours cost,
If those paint sorrow best--who feel it most!

o

poem by Charlotte Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Bring Flowers

Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board,
To wreathe the cup ere the wine is pour'd;
Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and vale,
Their breath floats out on the southern gale,
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose,
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.

Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path-
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath!
He comes with the spoils of nations back,
The vines lie crush'd in his chariot's track,
The turf looks red where he won the day-
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way!

Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell,
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell;
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky,
And the bright world shut from his languid eye;
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,
And a dream of his youth-bring him flowers, wild flowers!

Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!
They were born to blush in her shining hair.
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth,
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth,
Her place is now by another's side-
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride!

Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed,
A crown for the brow of the early dead!
For this through its leaves hath the white-rose burst,
For this in the woods was the violet nurs'd.
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours,
They are love's last gift-bring ye flowers, pale flowers!

Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer,
They are nature's offering, their place is there!
They speak of hope to the fainting heart,
With a voice of promise they come and part,
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours,
They break forth in glory-bring flowers, bright flowers!

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Sylvan Grave

Lay me not, when I die, in the place of the dead,
With the dwellings of men round my resting place spread,
But amidst the still forest, unseen and alone,
Where the waters go by with a murmuring tone;
Where the wild bird above me may wave its dark wing,
And the flowers I have loved from my ashes may spring;
Where affection's own blossom may lift its blue eye,
With an eloquent glance from the place where I lie.
Let the rose and the woodbine be there, to enwreath
A bright chaplet of bloom for the pale brow of death;
And the clover's red blossom be seen, that the hum
Of the honey-bee's wing, may for requiem come:
And when those I have loved, ‘midst the changes of earth,
The clouds of its sorrow, its sunshine of mirth,
Shall visit the spot where my cold relics lie,
And gaze on its flowers with a tear-moisten'd eye—
Let them think that my spirit still sometimes is there,
My breath the light zephyr that twines in their hair,
And these flowers, in their fragrance, a memory be,
To tell them thus sweet was their friendship to me.

poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!

Nature’s Music

Of many gifts bestowed on earth
To cheer a lonely hour,
Oh is there one of equal worth
With music’s magic power?
’Twill charm each angry thought to rest,
’Twill gloomy care dispel,
And ever we its power can test,—
All nature breathes its spell.

There’s music in the sighing tone
Of the soft, southern breeze
That whispers thro’ the flowers lone,
And bends the stately trees,
And—in the mighty ocean’s chime,
The crested breakers roar,
The wild waves, ceaseless surge sublime,
Breaking upon the shore.

There’s music in the bulbul’s note,
Warbling its vesper lay
In some fair spot, from man remote,
Where wind and flowers play;
But, oh! beyond the sweetest strain
Of bird, or wave, or grove
Is that soother of our hours of pain—
The voice of those we love.

When sorrow weigheth down the heart
The night birds sweetest lay—
The harp’s most wild and thrilling art—
Care cannot chase away;
But let affection’s voice be heard,
New springs of life ’twill ope,—
One word—one little loving word—
Will bring relief and hope.

poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Sonnet LXXXI.

HE may be envied, who with tranquil breast
Can wander in the wild and woodland scene,
When summer's glowing hands have newly dress'd
The shadowy forests, and the copses green;
Who, unpursued by care, can pass his hours
Where briony and woodbine fringe the trees,
On thymy banks reposing, while the bees
Murmur 'their fairy tunes, in praise of flowers;'
Or on the rock with ivy clad, and fern
That overhangs the ozier-whispering bed
Of some clear current, bid his wishes turn
From this bad world; and by calm reason led,
Knows, in refined retirement, to possess
By friendship hallow'd--rural happiness!

poem by Charlotte Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Sonnet LXV. To Dr. Parry Of Bath

With some botanic drawings which had been made
some years.

IN happier hours, ere yet so keenly blew
Adversity's cold blight, and bitter storms,
Luxuriant Summer's evanescent forms,
And Spring's soft blooms with pencil light I drew:
But as the lovely family of flowers
Shrink from the bleakness of the Northern blast,
So fail from present care and sorrow past
The slight botanic pencil's mimic powers--
Nor will kind Fancy even by Memory's aid,
Her visionary garlands now entwine;
Yet while the wreaths of Hope and Pleasure fade,
Still is one flower of deathless blossom mine,
That dares the Lapse of Time, and Tempest rude,
The unfading Amaranth of Gratitude.

poem by Charlotte Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Rose’s rose rose

Rose’s rose rose
In the light of the day
While the wind blows
Round its flowers of the lightest rosé.
Rose’s rose rose
In a way Rose may
When she grows
As her rose
Shows
How it grows
And by the end of the day
When her rose’s flowers’d close
And its head would sway
In the wind, Rose would say:
“My rose, as you rose
In the light of the day
Did you notice those,
The sounds of your stay?
Not only those of the day,
But, too, the ones of the dark, rose,
The ones of the dark and the moon in its pose.
Did you notice those, rose?
Did you notice those? ”
And the rose would know
What Rose would want to say
And it would sleep
With its flowers of the lightest rosé.

poem by Sarah Jay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Sonnet

With wayworn feet a Pilgrim woe-begone
Life's upward road I journeyed many a day,
And hymning many a sad yet soothing lay
Beguil'd my wandering with the charms of song.
Lonely my heart and rugged was my way,
Yet often pluck'd I as I past along
The wild and simple flowers of Poesy,
And as beseem'd the wayward Fancy's child
Entwin'd each random weed that pleas'd mine eye.
Accept the wreath, BELOVED! it is wild
And rudely garlanded; yet scorn not thou
The humble offering, where the sad rue weaves
'Mid gayer flowers its intermingled leaves,
And I have twin'd the myrtle for thy brow.

poem by Robert Southey
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Ballad Of Human Life

WHEN we were girl and boy together,
We toss’d about the flowers
And wreath’d the blushing hours
Into a posy green and sweet.
I sought the youngest, best,
And never was at rest
Till I had laid them at thy fairy feet.
But the days of childhood they were fleet,
And the blooming sweet-briar-breath’d weather,
When we were boy and girl together.

Then we were lad and lass together,
And sought the kiss of night
Before we felt aright,
Sitting and singing soft and sweet.
The dearest thought of heart
With thee ’t was joy to part,
And the greater half was thine, as meet.
Still my eyelid’s dewy, my veins they beat
At the starry summer-evening weather,
When we were lad and lass together.

And we are man and wife together,
Although thy breast, once bold
With song, be clos’d and cold
Beneath flowers’ roots and birds’ light feet.
Yet sit I by thy tomb,
And dissipate the gloom
With songs of loving faith and sorrow sweet.
And fate and darkling grave kind dreams do cheat,
That, while fair life, young hope, despair and death are,
We ’re boy and girl, and lass and lad, and man and wife together.

poem by Thomas Lovell Beddoes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Love lost

She was so cruel and capricious making me bury our love
Not in a grave yard under a sluttish tomb stone
But beneath a tall oak tree of a forest dark, wide and alone
Where none can come across or see from above

There will be no memorial days or sad hours
And I shall never visit the tree or put flowers
Yet the mouth I loved so much to kiss and to treat
Was none like so daring and bittersweet

I shall never go to the under tree love grave
For the woods are hostile, dark and cold
My time I shall for new love save
New love, new joy, constrain the rebel heart, forget the old

All day long I shall stay in the sun
Where the wide winds blow and flowers bloom
But oh, I shall cry at night for my sorrow is still undone
When none will know my time of agony and gloom

Copy rights 2010
all rights reserved

poem by Isaac Ziv
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Sonnet VI. To Hope

OH, Hope! thou soother sweet of human woes.
How shall I lure thee to my haunts forlorn?
For me wilt thou renew the wither'd rose,
And clear my painful path of pointed thorn?
Ah, come sweet nymph! in smiles and softness drest,
Like the young hours that lead the tender year,
Enchantress, come! and charm my cares to rest:--
Alas! the flatterer flies, and will not hear!
A prey to fear, anxiety, and pain,
Must I a sad existence still deplore
Lo!--the flowers fade, but all the thorns remain,
'For me the vernal garland blooms no more.'
Come then, 'pale Misery's love!' be thou my cure,
And I will bless thee, who though slow art sure.

poem by Charlotte Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

My Thanks,

ACCOMPANYING MANUSCRIPTS PRESENTED TO A FRIEND.

'T is said that in the Holy Land
The angels of the place have blessed
The pilgrim's bed of desert sand,
Like Jacob's stone of rest.

That down the hush of Syrian skies
Some sweet-voiced saint at twilight sings
The song whose holy symphonies
Are beat by unseen wings;

Till starting from his sandy bed,
The wayworn wanderer looks to see
The halo of an angel's head
Shine through the tamarisk-tree.

So through the shadows of my way
Thy smile hath fallen soft and clear,
So at the weary close of day
Hath seemed thy voice of cheer.

That pilgrim pressing to his goal
May pause not for the vision's sake,
Yet all fair things within his soul
The thought of it shall wake:

The graceful palm-tree by the well,
Seen on the far horizon's rim;
The dark eyes of the fleet gazelle,
Bent timidly on him;

Each pictured saint, whose golden hair
Streams sunlike through the convent's gloom;
Pale shrines of martyrs young and fair,
And loving Mary's tomb;

And thus each tint or shade which falls,
From sunset cloud or waving tree,
Along my pilgrim path, recalls
The pleasant thought of thee.

Of one in sun and shade the same,
In weal and woe my steady friend,
Whatever by that holy name
The angels comprehend.

Not blind to faults and follies, thou
Hast never failed the good to see,
Nor judged by one unseemly bough
The upward-struggling tree.

These light leaves at thy feet I lay,--
Poor common thoughts on common things,
Which time is shaking, day by day,
Like feathers from his wings;

Chance shootings from a frail life-tree,
To nurturing care but little known,
Their good was partly learned of thee,
Their folly is my own.

That tree still clasps the kindly mould,
Its leaves still drink the twilight dew,
And weaving its pale green with gold,
Still shines the sunlight through.

There still the morning zephyrs play,
And there at times the spring bird sings,
And mossy trunk and fading spray
Are flowered with glossy wings.

Yet, even in genial sun and rain,
Root, branch, and leaflet fail and fade;
The wanderer on its lonely plain
Erelong shall miss its shade.

O friend beloved, whose curious skill
Keeps bright the last year's leaves and flowers,
With warm, glad, summer thoughts to fill
The cold, dark, winter hours

Pressed on thy heart, the leaves I bring
May well defy the wintry cold,
Until, in Heaven's eternal spring,
Life's fairer ones unfold.

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Why Roses Have Thorns

Of all the flowers I've ever seen,
The lovely rose holds the most mystery.
Almost queenly in majestic beauty,
A thing of perfected artistry.

It comes in so many varied colors,
Its fragrance unique among all flowers,
A floral gem you'd enjoy for hours,
An exquisite rose is the flower of lovers.

But like a lady of wondrous charm,
Such beauty can cause a little harm.
The rose has thorns that make one bleed,
And hurts the hand that crushes it.

Some women like the rose have thorns,
When in their hearts true love is born.
The love you pledge do not forfeit-
A woman can bleed your heart....
and
crush it.

Copyright 2008 - Cynthia B. Baello

poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Decay

O Poesy is on the wane,
For Fancy's visions all unfitting;
I hardly know her face again,
Nature herself seems on the flitting.
The fields grow old and common things,
The grass, the sky, the winds a-blowing;
And spots, where still a beauty clings,
Are sighing 'going! all a-going!'
O Poesy is on the wane,
I hardly know her face again.

The bank with brambles overspread,
And little molehills round about it,
Was more to me than laurel shades,
With paths of gravel finely clouted;
And streaking here and streaking there,
Through shaven grass and many a border,
With rutty lanes had no compare,
And heaths were in a richer order.
But Poesy is on the wane,
I hardly know her face again.

I sat beside the pasture stream,
When Beauty's self was sitting by,
The fields did more than Eden seem
Nor could I tell the reason why.
I often drank when not adry
To pledge her health in draughts divine;
Smiles made it nectar from the sky,
Love turned een water into wine.
O Poesy is on the wane,
I cannot find her face again.

The sun those mornings used to find,
Its clouds were other-country mountains,
And heaven looked downward on the mind,
Like groves, and rocks, and mottled fountains.
Those heavens are gone, the mountains grey
Turned mist--the sun, a homeless ranger,
Pursues alone his naked way,
Unnoticed like a very stranger.
O Poesy is on the wane,
Nor love nor joy is mine again.

Love's sun went down without a frown,
For very joy it used to grieve us;
I often think the West is gone,
Ah, cruel Time, to undeceive us.
The stream it is a common stream,
Where we on Sundays used to ramble,
The sky hangs oer a broken dream,
The bramble's dwindled to a bramble!
O Poesy is on the wane,
I cannot find her haunts again.

Mere withered stalks and fading trees,
And pastures spread with hills and rushes,
Are all my fading vision sees;
Gone, gone are rapture's flooding gushes!
When mushrooms they were fairy bowers,
Their marble pillars overswelling,
And Danger paused to pluck the flowers
That in their swarthy rings were dwelling.
Yes, Poesy is on the wane,
Nor joy nor fear is mine again.

Aye, Poesy hath passed away,
And Fancy's visions undeceive us;
The night hath ta'en the place of day,
And why should passing shadows grieve us?
I thought the flowers upon the hills
Were flowers from Adam's open gardens;
But I have had my summer thrills,
And I have had my heart's rewardings.
So Poesy is on the wane,
I hardly know her face again.

And Friendship it hath burned away,
Like to a very ember cooling,
A make-believe on April day
That sent the simple heart a-fooling;
Mere jesting in an earnest way,
Deceiving on and still deceiving;
And Hope is but a fancy-play,
And Joy the art of true believing;
For Poesy is on the wane,
O could I feel her faith again!

poem by John Clare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Scenes In London III - The Savoyard In Grosvenor Square

HE stands within the silent square,
That square of state, of gloom;
A heavy weight is on the air,
Which hangs as o'er a tomb.

It is a tomb which wealth and rank
Have built themselves around—
The general sympathies have shrank
Like flowers on high dry ground.

None heed the wandering boy who sings,
An orphan though so young;
None think how far the singer brings
The songs which he has sung.

None cheer him with a kindly look,
None with a kindly word;
The singer's little pride must brook
To be unpraised, unheard.

At home their sweet bird he was styled,
And oft, when days were long,
His mother called her favourite child
To sing her favourite song.

He wanders now through weary streets,
Till cheek and eye are dim;
How little sympathy he meets,

Sudden his dark brown cheek grows bright
His dark eyes fill with glee,
Covered with blossoms snowy-white,
He sees an orange tree.

No more the toil-worn face is pale,
Nor faltering step is sad;
He sees his distant native vale,
He sees it, and is glad.

He sees the squirrel climb the pine,
The doves fly through the dell,
The purple clusters of the vine;
He hears the vesper-bell.

His heart is full of hope and home,
Toil, travel, are no more;
And he has happy hours to come
Beside his father's door.

Oh, charm of natural influence!
But for thy lovely ties,
Never might the world-wearied sense
Above the present rise.

Blessed be thy magic every where,
Oh Nature, gentle mother;
How kindlier is for us thy care,
Than ours is for each other.

poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

A Woman Who Grew Into A Rose

(A Poem For 21st Century Women # 2)

(Prov.31: 10–31 / Prov.18: 22 / Matt.13: 10–15)

A Woman Who Grew
Into A Rose
Remains In GOD’s Garden
… and Grows

Her Heartbeats Blossoms
Opens To Disclose
The Prettiest, Feminine
Petals-Pose

A Woman Who Grows
Into A Rose
Her Fresh–Faith Fragrance
Wafts and Flows …

… into A Knowledge
Of Heaven–Scent
She Offers Her Keen
Spiritual–Sense …
(Prov.31: 26)

… which Intoxicates
A Wise Man’s Nose
with Each Blissful Breeze
… Benevolence Blows
(Prov.31: 11,12,28)

& A Woman Who’s Grown
Into A Rose
Stems To Sister Roses
Leaves of Sacred Prose
(Prov.31: 15)

Yes, There Are Lilies, Orchids
& Magnolia–Blooms
and Such Unique Flora
Has Their Trace–Perfume

… Lavenders, Gardenias
& Honeysuckle Aromas
Are Also Potent Enough
To Revive Fainting Comas
(Prov.31: 29)

But Many Wild Roses
In Many Rows & Rows
Are Limited In Layers
… No Cultivation Shows

For A Rose To Impress
Must Be Pruned & Dressed
& When Beautifully Blessed
Is Like A Flower–Empress! *
(Prov.31: 29,30)

& A Woman Who Grows
Into A Caring Rose
Is More Than An Ornament
With Ribbons & Bows …
_______________________

She Is A Woman Who Grows
Into A Rose
& Is Ready To Reap
What She Wisely Sows

& A Woman Who Grows
Into A Rose
Can Rest At Peace
In Sweet Repose

A Woman Who Grows
Into A Rose …
Away – Away! …
Pain Thorns She Throws

Away – Away! …
Her Fears Are Froze
‘Till GOD Will Crush
All Her Foes …

… A Rose Seed Was Buried
‘Till In Humility
The Rose Would Rise Up
In Grateful Modesty

So A Woman Who Grows
Into A Rose
Was Born To Believe
Resurrections’ Roles

Tho’ Other Flowers
Could Do – She Suppose
None Quite Spread Unfolded
… Like A Rose

… in Trust & Courage
& Edges Exposed
Yet Will Not Wilt
Because of Woes …

& Rivers & Rainstorms
& Mountain Streams
The Roots of The Rose
… Have Drank From These

But Twas’ Crystal Fountains
& One Drop of Christ’s Blood
Gave Deep Wells of Life
To Dark-Red Rosebud …

… The Rose – Arches True
To Shafts of Light
& Rises To Glory
In The Morning’s Might

A Woman Who Grows
Into A Rose
Revels In Soft Grass
Between Trail – Toes …

… while Reaching For Delights
and Bright Rainbows
She Is Ever GOD’s …
Dewy–Eyed Rose

… Yes, It Was GOD
Who Lovingly Chose
A Woman Like Me
As A Landscape-Rose

& A Woman Who Grows
Into A Godly Rose
In Moonlit-Gardens
Mercy–Miracles … Glows

(‘Till Everybody Knows
… She Is A Rose)
That GOD Looks After
… and Grows

Written & ©: 12/21/2011

By: The MoonBee
(A Woman Who Grew Into A Rose)

poem by MoonBee Canady
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Fountain’s Abbey

NEVER more, when the day is o'er,
Will the lonely vespers sound;
No bells are ringing—no monks are singing,
When the moonlight falls around.

A few pale flowers, which in other hours
May have cheered the dreary mood;
When the votary turned to the world he had spurned,
And repined at the solitude.

Still do they blow 'mid the ruins below,
For fallen are fane and shrine,
And the moss has grown o'er the sculptured stone
Of an altar no more divine.

Still on the walls where the sunshine falls,
The ancient fruit-tree grows;
And o'er tablet and tomb, extends the bloom
Of many a wilding rose.

Fair though they be, yet they seemed to me
To mock the wreck below;
For mighty the tower, where the fragile flower
May now as in triumph blow.

Oh, foolish the thought, that my fancy brought;
More true and more wise to say,
That still thus doth spring, some gentle thing,
With its beauty to cheer decay.

poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Song. Hope

And said I that all hope was fled,
That sorrow and despair were mine,
That each enthusiast wish was dead,
Had sank beneath pale Misery’s shrine.--

Seest thou the sunbeam's yellow glow,
That robes with liquid streams of light;
Yon distant Mountain's craggy brow.
And shows the rocks so fair,--so bright--

Tis thus sweet expectation’s ray,
In softer view shows distant hours,
And portrays each succeeding day,
As dressed in fairer, brighter flowers,--

The vermeil tinted flowers that blossom;
Are frozen but to bud anew,
Then sweet deceiver calm my bosom,
Although thy visions be not true,--

Yet true they are,—and I’ll believe,
Thy whisperings soft of love and peace,
God never made thee to deceive,
'Tis sin that bade thy empire cease.

Yet though despair my life should gloom,
Though horror should around me close,
With those I love, beyond the tomb,
Hope shows a balm for all my woes.

AUGUST, 1810.

poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Departed Days

Yes, dear departed, cherished days,
Could Memory’s hand restore
Your morning light, your evening rays,
From Time’s gray urn once more,
Then might this restless heart be still,
This straining eye might close,
And Hope her fainting pinions fold,
While the fair phantoms rose.

But, like a child in ocean’s arms,
We strive against the stream,
Each moment farther from the shore
Where life’s young fountains gleam;
Each moment fainter wave the fields,
And wider rolls the sea;
The mist grows dark,—­the sun goes down,—­
Day breaks,—­and where are we?

poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

God Help our Men at Sea

The wild night comes like an owl to its lair,
The black clouds follow fast,
And the sun-gleams die, and the lightnings glare,
And the ships go heaving past, past, past -
The ships go heaving past!
Bar the doors, and higher, higher
Pile the faggots on the fire:
Now abroad, by many a light,
Empty seats there are to-night -
Empty seats that none may fill,
For the storm grows louder still:
How it surges and swells through the gorges and dells,
Under the ledges and over the lea,
Where a watery sound goeth moaning around -
God help our men at sea!

Oh! never a tempest blew on the shore
But that some heart did moan
For a darling voice it would hear no more
And a face that had left it lone, lone, lone -
A face that had left it lone!
I am watching by a pane
Darkened with the gusty rain,
Watching, through a mist of tears,
Sad with thoughts of other years,
For a brother I did miss
In a stormy time like this.
Ah! the torrent howls past, like a fiend on the blast,
Under the ledges and over the lea;
And the pent waters gleam, and the wild surges scream -
God help our men at sea!

Ah, Lord! they may grope through the dark to find
Thy hand within the gale;
And cries may rise on the wings of the wind
From mariners weary and pale, pale, pale -
From mariners weary and pale!
'Tis a fearful thing to know,
While the storm-winds loudly blow,
That a man can sometimes come
Too near to his father's home;
So that he shall kneel and say,
'Lord, I would be far away!'
Ho! the hurricanes roar round a dangerous shore,
Under the ledges and over the lea;
And there twinkles a light on the billows so white -
God help our men at sea!

poem by Henry Kendall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!