An Hour's Respite
An hour's respite; once more the heart may dream:
the thunderwheels of passion thro' the eve,
distantly musical, vaporously agleam,
about my old pain leave
nought but a soft enchantment, vesper fable.
Sweet hour of dream! from the tense height of life
given back to this dear grass and perfumed shade,
across the golden darkness
I feel the simple flowerets where we stray'd
in the clear eves unmix'd with starry strife.
Ah! wilt thou not even now arise,
low-laughing child haunting my old spring ways
and blossom freshly on my freshen'd gaze,
sororal in this hour of tenderness,
an hour of happy hands and clinging eyes —
on silent heartstrings
sweet memory fades in sweet forgetfulness.
poem by Christopher John Brennan
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Related quotes
Stanzas
If thou be in a lonely place,
If one hour's calm be thine,
As Evening bends her placid face
O'er this sweet day's decline;
If all the earth and all the heaven
Now look serene to thee,
As o'er them shuts the summer even,
One moment--think of me!
Pause, in the lane, returning home;
'Tis dusk, it will be still:
Pause near the elm, a sacred gloom
Its breezeless boughs will fill.
Look at that soft and golden light,
High in the unclouded sky;
Watch the last bird's belated flight,
As it flits silent by.
Hark! for a sound upon the wind,
A step, a voice, a sigh;
If all be still, then yield thy mind,
Unchecked, to memory.
If thy love were like mine, how blest
That twilight hour would seem,
When, back from the regretted Past,
Returned our early dream!
If thy love were like mine, how wild
Thy longings, even to pain,
For sunset soft, and moonlight mild,
To bring that hour again!
But oft, when in thine arms I lay,
I've seen thy dark eyes shine,
And deeply felt their changeful ray
Spoke other love than mine.
My love is almost anguish now,
It beats so strong and true;
'Twere rapture, could I deem that thou
Such anguish ever knew.
I have been but thy transient flower,
Thou wert my god divine;
Till checked by death's congealing power,
This heart must throb for thine.
And well my dying hour were blest,
If life's expiring breath
Should pass, as thy lips gently prest
My forehead cold in death;
And sound my sleep would be, and sweet,
Beneath the churchyard tree,
If sometimes in thy heart should beat
One pulse, still true to me.
poem by Charlotte Brontë from Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (1846)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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How Dear to Me the Hour
How dear to me the hour when daylight dies,
And sunbeams melt along the silent sea,
For then sweet dreams of other days arise,
And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.
And, as I watch the line of light, that plays
Along the smooth wave toward the burning west,
I long to tread that golden path of rays,
And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest.
poem by Thomas Moore
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When the spring mornings grew more long
When the spring mornings grew more long
early I woke from dream that told
of dreaded parting and the cold
of the gray dawns when I should long
to see once more that clear light fall
upon my hands and know that near
the yellow meadows shone with dear
small flowers and hear thy laughter fall
— as now I long only to wake
once in that quiet shine of spring
and dream an hour the hour will bring
thy laughing call that bids me wake
poem by Christopher John Brennan
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At Bay
Wife
Reach out your arms, and hold me close and fast.
Tell me there are no memories of your past
That mar this love of ours, so great, so vast.
Husband
Some truths are cheapened when too oft averred.
Does not the deed speak louder than the word?
(dear God, that old dream woke again and stirred.)
Wife
As you love me, you never loved before?
Though oft you say it, say it yet once more.
My heart is jealous of those days of yore.
Husband
Sweet wife, dear comrade, mother of my child,
My life is yours by memory undefiled.
(it stirs again, that passion brief and wild.)
Wife
You never knew a happier hour than this?
We two alone, our hearts surcharged with bliss,
Nor other kisses, sweet as my own kiss?
Husband
I was a thirsty field, long parched with drouth;
You were the warm rain, blowing from the south.
(But, ah, the crimson madness of her mouth!)
Wife
You would not, if you could, go down life’s track
For just one little moment and bring back
Some vanished rapture that you miss or lack?
Husband
I am content. You are my life, my all.
(One burning hour, but one, could I recall;
God, how men lie when driven to the wall!)
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Thorp Green
I sit, this evening, far away,
From all I used to know,
And nought reminds my soul to-day
Of happy long ago.
Unwelcome cares, unthought-of fears,
Around my room arise;
I seek for suns of former years
But clouds o'ercast my skies.
Yes--Memory, wherefore does thy voice
Bring old times back to view,
As thou wouldst bid me not rejoice
In thoughts and prospects new?
I'll thank thee, Memory, in the hour
When troubled thoughts are mine--
For thou, like suns in April's shower,
On shadowy scenes wilt shine.
I'll thank thee when approaching death
Would quench life's feeble ember,
For thou wouldst even renew my breath
With thy sweet word 'Remember'!
poem by Branwell Brontë
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Faute De Mieux
WHEN the corn is green and the poppies red
And the fields are crimson with love-lies-bleeding,
When the elms are black deep overhead
And the shade lies cool where the calves are feeding,
When the blackbird whistles the song of June,
When kine knee-deep in the pond are drowsing,
Leave pastoral peace--come up through the noon
To the high chalk downs where the sheep are browsing.
Oh! sweet to dream in the noontide heat,
On the scented bed of thyme and clover,
With the air from the sea, blown keen and sweet,
And the wings of the wide sky folded over,
While, far in the blue, the skylark sings,
Renounce desire and renounce endeavour,
Forget life's little unworthy things
And dream that the dream will last for ever.
The love of your life, in your heart's hid shrine,
With its gifts and its torments, leave it sighing,
And I will bury the pain of mine
In the selfsame grave where its joy is lying.
Let me hold your hand for a quiet hour
In the wild thyme's scent and the clear blue weather,
Then come what may, we have plucked one flower,
This hour on the downs alone together.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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A Memory-Picture
Laugh, my Friends, and without blame
Lightly quit what lightly came:
Rich to-morrow as to-day
Spend as madly as you may.
I, with little land to stir,
Am the exacter labourer.
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
But my Youth reminds me—‘Thou
Hast liv’d light as these live now:
As these are, thou too wert such:
Much hast had, hast squander’d much.’
Fortune’s now less frequent heir,
Ah! I husband what’s grown rare.
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
Young, I said: ‘A face is gone
If too hotly mus’d upon:
And our best impressions are
Those that do themselves repair.’
Many a face I then let by,
Ah! is faded utterly.
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
Marguerite says: ‘As last year went,
So the coming year’ll be spent:
Some day next year, I shall be,
Entering heedless, kiss’d by thee.’
Ah! I hope—yet, once away,
What may chain us, who can say?
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
Paint that lilac kerchief, bound
Her soft face, her hair around:
Tied under the archest chin
Mockery ever ambush’d in.
Let the fluttering fringes streak
All her pale, sweet-rounded cheek.
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
Paint that figure’s pliant grace
As she towards me lean’d her face,
Half refus’d and half resign’d,
Murmuring, ‘Art thou still unkind?’
Many a broken promise then
Was new made—to break again.
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
Paint those eyes, so blue, so kind,
Eager tell-tales of her mind
Paint, with their impetuous stress
Of inquiring tenderness,
Those frank eyes, where deep doth lie
An angelic gravity.
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
What, my Friends, these feeble lines
Show, you say, my love declines?
To paint ill as I have done,
Proves forgetfulness begun?
Time’s gay minions, pleas’d you see,
Time, your master, governs me.
Pleas’d, you mock the fruitless cry
‘Quick, thy tablets, Memory! ‘
Ah! too true. Time’s current strong
Leaves us true to nothing long.
Yet, if little stays with man,
Ah! retain we all we can
If the clear impression dies,
Ah! the dim remembrance prize
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
poem by Matthew Arnold (1849)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sweet Inspiration
Lyrics and music by dan penn and spooner oldham
I need your sweet inspiration
I need you here on my mind
Every hour of the day
Without your sweet inspiration
The lonely hours of the night
Just dont go my way
A woman in love
Needs sweet inspiration
Yeah, and honey thats all I ask, thats all I ask from you
Ive gotta have your sweet inspiration
You know there just aint no tellin what a satisfied woman might do
The way you call me baby, baby
Is such a sweet inspiration
The way you call me darlin, darlin
Sets my heart to skating
And if Im out in the rain, baby
And in a bad situation
You know I just reach back in my mind
And there I find your sweet, sweet inspiration
Sweet inspiration
Oh, what a power
And Ive got the power
Every hour of the day
I need your inspiration
To go on, to go on living
To keep on giving this way
I need your sweet inspiration
Sweet inspiration, sweet inspiration, sweet inspiration
Sweet, sweet inspiration
Sweet, sweet inspiration
I need, sweet inspiration
song performed by by Vonda Shepard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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But a short time to live
Our little hour,—how swift it flies
When poppies flare and lilies smile;
How soon the fleeting minute dies,
Leaving us but a little while
To dream our dream, to sing our song,
To pick the fruit, to pluck the flower,
The Gods—They do not give us long,—
One little hour.
Our little hour,—how short it is
When Love with dew-eyed loveliness
Raises her lips for ours to kiss
And dies within our first caress.
Youth flickers out like wind-blown flame,
Sweets of to-day to-morrow sour,
For Time and Death, relentless, claim
Our little hour.
Our little hour,—how short a time
To wage our wars, to fan our hates,
To take our fill of armoured crime,
To troop our banners, storm the gates.
Blood on the sword, our eyes blood-red,
Blind in our puny reign of power,
Do we forget how soon is sped
Our little hour?
Our little hour,—how soon it dies:
How short a time to tell our beads,
To chant our feeble Litanies,
To think sweet thoughts, to do good deeds.
The altar lights grow pale and dim,
The bells hang silent in the tower—
So passes with the dying hymn
Our little hour.
poem by Leslie Coulson
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Sonnet XIV: Youth's Spring-Tribute
On this sweet bank your head thrice sweet and dear
I lay, and spread your hair on either side,
And see the newborn woodflowers bashful-eyed
Look through the golden tresses here and there.
On these debateable borders of the year
Spring's foot half falters; scarce she yet may know
The leafless blackthorn-blossom from the snow;
And through her bowers the wind's way still is clear.
But April's sun strikes down the glades to-day;
So shut your eyes upturned, and feel my kiss
Creep, as the Spring now thrills through every spray,
Up your warm throat to your warm lips: for this
Is even the hour of Love's sworn suitservice,
With whom cold hearts are counted castaway.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Dreamy Feelings Again
It was just a dream I had,
that the woman wanted me back,
- - - once again,
It was just a dream that I was going with,
- - - to aleviate the pain.
It was a happy dream for me,
while for her, it was a nightmare,
and something real was somewhere
in between us ,
... that we never understood.
It was just a silly dream,
that had to do with everything,
that I ever cared about in life,
... and so much more than that.
She was and is the dream,
that I still dream of,
and when I shut my eyes down,
lonely in the night ...
She is the dream that I wake up to,
right before my proper warning,
I find myself awake,
- - - and still in love.
A silly dream that has a meaning,
when I am sure that it should not,
a stupid dream that hurts too much inside,
- - - yet, I'd give everything I've got,
to make it real one more time,
- - - for just one simple hour...
and to feel love ... like that again!
B.V.A.
poem by Barry Van Allen
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Evening Prayer at a Girl's School
HUSH! 'tis a holy hour-the quiet room
Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds
A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom
And the sweet stillness, down on fair young heads,
With all their clustering locks, untouch'd by care,
And bow'd, as flowers are bow'd with night, in prayer.
Gaze on-'tis lovely!-Childhood's lip and cheek,
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought-
Gaze-yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek,
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought?-
Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky,
What death must fashion for eternity!
O! joyous creatures! that will sink to rest,
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,
As birds, with slumber's honey-dew opprest,
'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun-
Life up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies
Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes.
Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled springs
Of hope make melody where'er ye tread,
And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread;
Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low,
Is woman's tenderness-how soon her woe!
Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep,
And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour,
And sumless riches, from affection's deep,
To pour on broken reeds-a wasted shower!
And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship-therefore pray!
Her lot is on you-to be found untired,
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain;
Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay,
And oh! to love through all things-therefore pray!
And take the thought of this calm vesper time,
With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light,
On through the dark days fading from their prime,
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight!
Earth will forsake-O! happy to have given
The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven.
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Kiss The Wind
Once upon a time, a time, a time, a time, a time, a time
I lived here
Once upon a time, a time, a time, a time, a time, a time
I lived here
I lay my head on a pillow of sky
And I kiss the wind
And heard it sigh
Once upon a time
I lived here
In the fever of a dream, a dream, a dream, a dream, a dream, a dream
I loved here
In the fever of a dream, a dream, a dream, a dream, a dream, a dream
I loved here
Fell, heart and body
Soul and mind
I left all over worlds
Behind
In the fever of a dream
I loved here
The hour has come, its come, its come, its come, its come, its come, its come, its come
To leave here
The hour has come, its come, its come, its come, its come, its come, its come, its come
To leave here
Ill take whatever
Is mine to take
Free my heart before
It breaks
The hour has come
To leave here
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Kiss The Wind
Once upon a time, a time, a time, a time, a time, a time
I lived here
Once upon a time, a time, a time, a time, a time, a time
I lived here
I lay my head on a pillow of sky
And I kiss the wind
And heard it sigh
Once upon a time
I lived here
In the fever of a dream, a dream, a dream, a dream, a dream, a dream
I loved here
In the fever of a dream, a dream, a dream, a dream, a dream, a dream
I loved here
Fell, heart and body
Soul and mind
I left all over worlds
Behind
In the fever of a dream
I loved here
The hour has come, its come, its come, its come, its come, its come, its come, its come
To leave here
The hour has come, its come, its come, its come, its come, its come, its come, its come
To leave here
Ill take whatever
Is mine to take
Free my heart before
It breaks
The hour has come
To leave here
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Old Picture
THERE are times when a dream delicious
Steals into a musing hour,
Like a face with love capricious
That peeps from a woodland bower;
And one dear scene comes changeless;
A wooded hill and a river;
A deep, cool bend, where the lilies end,
And the elm-tree shadows quiver.
And I lie on the brink there, dreaming
That the life I live is a dream;
That the real is but the seeming,
And the true is the sun-flecked stream.
Beneath me, the perch and the bream sail past
In the dim cool depths of the river;
The struggling fly breaks the mirrored sky
And the elm-tree shadows quiver.
There are voices of children away on the hill;
There are bees thro' the flag-flowers humming;
The lighter-man calls to the lock, and the mill
On the farther side is drumming.
And I sink to sleep in my dream of a dream,
In the grass by the brink of a river,
Where the voices blend and the lilies end
And the elm-tree shadows quiver.
Like a gift from the past is the kindly dream,
For the sorrow and passion and pain
Are adrift like the leaves on the breast of the stream,
And the child-life comes again.
O, the sweet sweet pain of a joy that died—
Of a pain that is joy forever!
O, the life that died in the stormy tide
That was once my sun-flecked river.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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A Song for New Year's Eve
Stay yet, my friends, a moment stay—
Stay till the good old year,
So long companion of our way,
Shakes hands, and leaves us here.
Oh stay, oh stay,
One little hour, and then away.
The year, whose hopes were high and strong,
Has now no hopes to wake;
Yet one hour more of jest and song
For his familiar sake.
Oh stay, oh stay,
One mirthful hour, and then away.
The kindly year, his liberal hands
Have lavished all his store.
And shall we turn from where he stands,
Because he gives no more?
Oh stay, oh stay,
One grateful hour, and then away.
Days brightly came and calmly went,
While yet he was our guest;
How cheerfully the week was spent!
How sweet the seventh day's rest!
Oh stay, oh stay,
One golden hour, and then away.
Dear friends were with us, some who sleep
Beneath the coffin-lid:
What pleasant memories we keep
Of all they said and did!
Oh stay, oh stay,
One tender hour, and then away.
Even while we sing, he smiles his last,
And leaves our sphere behind.
The good old year is with the past;
Oh be the new as kind!
Oh stay, oh stay,
One parting strain, and then away.
poem by William Cullen Bryant
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In hour of darkness, I remember you
In hour of darkness,
I remember you
And the darkness of my life quickly flutters away
In hour of happiness,
I remember you
And the happiness comes much more
In hour of difficulty,
I remember you
And my faith goes stronger
In hour of death,
I remember you
And I breathe my last with a smile
In hour of losing courage
I remember you
And I become more confident
In hour of failure,
I remember you
And my failure turns into success due to you
In hour of seeking you
I don’t remember you
Because you are in me and I am in you
poem by Pushkar Bisht
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Hour Of Gold
(Emmylou Harris)
I have seen your soul turn black
And then retreat
To that dark place where no one else may follow
I waited here for your returning
To roll your cigarette
And wash your bloodied feet
You have heard the silent running
Of my dreams
Broke me from the grip of grief and fever
With the sound of your voice speaking my name
And a kiss
That I will feel forever
In the hour of gold, the hour of lead
WG did forge our wedding bed
On a hard and holy road
We lay down our head
In tha hour of gold, the hour oi lead
I have watched you riding on
The wall of death
And when il finally breaks you and you fall
I will tear this dress of muslin that you gave me
To bind the fatal wound
And catch your last sweet breath
In the hour of gold, the hour of lead
We did forge our wedding bed
On a hard and holy road
We lay down our head
In the hour of gold, the hour of lead
But the world will be my witness when
They excavate my heart
And find the image of your face
Imprinted there like some Shroud of Turin
That neither time Nor tundra could erase
In the hour of gold, the hour of lead
We did forge our wedding bed
On a hard and holy road
We lay down our head
In the hour of gold, the hour of lead
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When The Blue Hour Comes
Orbison/ crowell
The good times are all gone
The night keeps coming on so strong
You cant hold on, no matter what you do
Will there be someone who cares for you
When the blue hour comes?
When the blue hour comes?
And when your restless heart
Tears your world apart
And everywhere you turn
Its falling down on you
Will there be a light that shines for you?
When the blue hour comes for you
If theres anything that you would have me do
Just call on me and Ill be coming through
I will always be there for you
When the blue hour comes
When the blue hour comes
Good times dont last forever
Sometimes its now or never
Darling, reach out for me
You know where Ill be
I will always be there for you
When the blue hour comes
When the blue hour comes
When the blue hour comes for you
If theres anything that you would have me do
Just call on me and Ill be coming through
I will always be there for you
When the blue hour comes
When the blue hour comes
I will always be there
When the blue hour comes
When the blue hour comes
When the blue hour comes....(repeat to fade)
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Vignette - III
THE ARTISAN.
This twilight gloom. This lone retreat--
This silence to my soul is sweet!
Awhile escap'd from toil and strife,
And all the lesser ills of life,
Here only at the evening's close,
My weary spirit finds repose;
My sinking heart its freedom gains,
Which poverty had bound in chains!
For here unheard the moments fly--
And so secure, so happy I,
That, often at the very last,
I feel not that my dream is past.
The little hour of bliss I spend,
With thee, my chosen, only friend!
That transient hour the heart sustains,
Which poverty has bound in chains!
And for this dear, this precious hour,
I would not, if I had the power,
Exchange a worldling's life of ease,
Whom all around him seek to please.
I have no other friend beside,
But here I safely may confide.
Suspicion ne'er the bosom stains,
Which poverty has bound in chains!
How oft I wonder at my lot!
How oft are all but thee forgot!
While in this half-despairing breast,
Love builds a little, quiet nest,
To hover o'er with joyous wing,
Nay, sometimes soar aloft and sing!
'Tis this alone the heart sustains,
Which poverty has bound in chains!
poem by Matilda Betham
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