En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Dawn

Here, in soft darkness where the whole night thro',
Dreamless, my quiet garden slumbered well.
Night's soothing fingers all adrip with dew
Crept in and out, weaving a mystic spell
O'er wilting bud and bell;
Now with deft touches deepening tints anew.
Now lifting up some languid suppliant who
Had wooed the sun too well.

In the grey twilight tall trees seem to yawn
And, waking, stretch their mighty limbs on high.
A small bird cheeps; and, silver in the dawn,
The jewelled wattles to a soft wind sigh.
Hard etched against the sky
The timbered hill-tops stand forth boldly drawn. . . .
A sunbeam, laughing, trips across the lawn,
And smiling day is nigh.

The kindly offices of night are done.
A grey thrush carols forth his matin hymn.
Then proud, triumphant of a new day won,
The magpie's trumpet tops a lofty limb.
By the pool's mirrored brim
The drowsing daisies open one by one:
'Wake, brothers, wake! Here comes our lord, the Sun!
Awake and worship him!'

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In A Forest Garden: A Promise of Spring

Spring surely must be near. High over head
The kind blue heavens bend to timbers tall;
And here, this morning, is the picture spread
That I have learned to love the best of all.
I hear Flame Robin call
His early love-song. Winter's might is sped;
And young crows now begin to fleck with red
This great green, living wall.

Picture of promise, that I count the best
Of many a fair familiar Bushland scene;
Lifting o'er all, the far mount's sunlit crest
Looks down where silver wattles lightly screen
Blue smoke, that peeps between
Their tall tops, from some settler's hidden nest
Looks down on golden wattles closely pressed
To blackwood's luscious green.

Before the dovecote, mirrored in the pond,
A veil diaphanous of drifting mist
Makes many a nimbus for grey gums beyond
Whose gaunt, grey limbs a mountain sun has kissed
To palest amethyst.
Now, stepping very daintily, with fond,
Soft cooings, fantails on the lawn respond,
To Spring, the amorist.

From the deep forest, on the clean crisp air,
The bushman's axe-blows echo sharply clear;
A soft cloud's tattered fleece drifts idly where
Glows azure hope. Impatient to appear
Springs now full many a spear
Of marching daffodils. Shorn of cold care,
The joyous bush birds vie with flutings rare.
Spring surely must be near.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Secret Pool

I KNOW a pool unknown to men,
Whose green and shadowed secrecy
I share alone with bird and tree,
And there, when I am sick at heart
And ill at ease, I draw apart
To bathe, and live, and love again.
All Summertide and all Spring through,
In its charmed neighbourhood, the thrush
And magpie, in the dying blush
Of sunset and the green of dawn —
Now nigh, and now in aisles withdrawn —
Make melody, each day anew.
And all night long the curious stars
Through peepholes in its dome of leaves
Peer down on it, while Silence weaves
A lovely spell, a magic calm
That soothes the soul like healing balm,
And breathes a peace that nothing mars.
Ah, sweet, indeed, it is to lave
And lose oneself within the cool,
Soft presence of that forest-pool,
Whose sacramental peace is such
That flesh and spirit, at its touch,
The sleep of little children have.

poem by Roderic Quinn
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The Dawn

All the wild waves rock'd in shadow,
And the world was dim and grey,
Dark and silent, hush'd and breathless,
Waiting calmly for the day.

And the golden light came stealing
O'er the mountain-tops at last—
Flooding vale and wood and upland,—
It was morning—night was past.

There they lay—the silvery waters,
Fruitful forests, glade and lawn,—
All in beauty, new-created
By the angel of the dawn.

* * * * *
So my spirit slept in twilight;—
All was quiet, grey, and still,
Till the dawn of Love came stealing,
Over Hope's snow-crested hill.

Then the dim world woke in glory,
And the iris-dyes grew bright
On the waves and woods and valleys,
In a morning flood of light.

Ah! the vineyards and the gardens!—
Ah! the treasures, rich and rare,
Full of endless life and beauty,
Which that dawn created there!

poem by Ada Cambridge
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Love Song To The Coming Morning

I'm like night in the sunset
Feeling red clouds in the sky
Wind in the trees full of breeze
Swirling up leaves so they fly

Meadows and hills shades in blue
Flowers in silver and gold
Darkness comes so untrue
Fairies in the moonlight hard to hold

Magical moments in twilight
Breaking off silences with a song
Leaving the day coming to night
Shadows are still though young

I'm like night in the sunset
Touching the moments that go
Into umbrage of absurdities
That lived in the day a while ago

Lilies and fields are in darkness
Moon is behind a blue cloud
Day shall wake up in dawn fresh
When dusky shadows are disallowed

poem by Peter S. Quinn
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The Lure of Trees

I honour all trees well; but, best of all,
I love those scarred old veterans, proud and tall,
Gazing from eminences, kingly wise,
Across great sweeps of changing earth and skies;
Gazing with seeming scorn upon the race
Of midgets who despoil this forest place
The restless race of men who, with edged tools,
With fire, have come to serve the end of fools.

Well these patricians know their own high worth;
Well know their task in serving Mother Earth:
Beckoning rain-clouds sailing overhead
That earth may drink and living things be fed,
Clutching with myriad roots the precious soil
The sun or sudden flood else would despoil,
Bending to tempests, spreading to the sky,
Remote, untamed, unconquered till they die.

I know them in the rose light of the dawn,
Sharp-etched upon the hill-tops, boldly drawn
Against the light. I know them at high noon,
Their gleaming arms held up, as for the boon
Of life they offer thanks; know them at night
When, out against the moon's enriching light,
Some bold phalanger launches from their tops
And, like a falling leaf, swings down and drops.

And still come stupid men with axe and fire
Scattering death to serve some brief desire.
'More than our lives are forfeit,' says the tree,
'For as we go, so man's prosperity
Goes with us, till this once green, gracious hill
Shall thirst in vain, when you have wrought your fill.'
I love, I honour all those forest kings;
They are such wise, such proudly scornful things.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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With The Lark

Night is for sorrow and dawn is for joy,
Chasing the troubles that fret and annoy;
Darkness for sighing and daylight for song,--
Cheery and chaste the strain, heartfelt and strong.
All the night through, though I moan in the dark,
I wake in the morning to sing with the lark.

Deep in the midnight the rain whips the leaves,
Softly and sadly the wood-spirit grieves.
But when the first hue of dawn tints the sky,
I shall shake out my wings like the birds and be dry;
And though, like the rain-drops, I grieved through the dark,
I shall wake in the morning to sing with the lark.

On the high hills of heaven, some morning to be,
Where the rain shall not grieve thro' the leaves of the tree,
There my heart will be glad for the pain I have known,
For my hand will be clasped in the hand of mine own;
And though life has been hard and death's pathway been dark,
I shall wake in the morning to sing with the lark.

poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Morning Joy

At night the wide and level stretch of wold,
Which at high noon had basked in quiet gold,
Far as the eye could see was ghostly white;
Dark was the night save for the snow's weird light.

I drew the shades far down, crept into bed;
Hearing the cold wind moaning overhead
Through the sad pines, my soul, catching its pain,
Went sorrowing with it across the plain.

At dawn, behold! the pall of night was gone,
Save where a few shrubs melancholy, lone,
Detained a fragile shadow. Golden-lipped
The laughing grasses heaven's sweet wine sipped.

The sun rose smiling o'er the river's breast,
And my soul, by his happy spirit blest,
Soared like a bird to greet him in the sky,
And drew out of his heart Eternity.

poem by Claude McKay
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Abaude: Night into Morning

We lie under high arched windows
awake in the deep winter night
and gaze on the tallest trees
glazed in silver light.

They reach up to the radiant moon,
their fingers spread bare and plain,
raised in silent prayer
after December's cold, hard rain.

Your face is bathed in these holy rays,
and I fight sleep; I cannot turn away
from truth so deep as the moon beaming
through our wintering trees ardently streaming.

But I close my eyes for a moment, then see
dawn drawing azure from night's darkest seed,
and the trees' golden limbs rising on high
to praise morning's vaulting blue sky.

So I arise and turning to you I see
how night flows to dawn eternally
and to the resurgent world restores
the spring of our never-ending joy.

poem by Steven Federle
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Morning Glory

Singing morning has begun.
Where the wooded ranges run
To far summits, there the snow
Lingers yet. But down below
In the quiet, green-girt places,
Where full many a swift creek races
From the snow-lands to the sea,
Now breaks sudden harmony.

Where this tree-waned clearing dreams,
First a rosy promise be
As young dawn steels up the sky
Where the frozen ramparts lie.
Now, from dew-wet leaves a-glitter,
Comes a little drowsy twitter,
And the first swift spear of light
Wounds at last the stubborn Night.

Flashing now, bright javelins
Pierce the murk; and now begins
As Day's gleaming ranks deploy
Morning's canticle of joy.
First a sleepy chuckle, breaking,
Tells of Laughing Jack awaking,
Pausing; then, from tree to tree,
Leaps unbound hilarity.

Here's the signal .... Morning's hush
Sweetness shatters, as Grey Thrush,
Veiling with the seraphim,
Lifts his liquid matin hymn.
Golden Whistler joins him then,
Now Red Robin, now Blue Wren;
Magpie's trumpet, sounding, swelling,
Caps the eager chorus welling,
As a wealth of varied notes
Pours now from a hundred throats
Up to greet their lord, the Sun,
Morning, morning has begun!

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Another Day

Wake not the dawn too early,
Let night remain a while,
It's painful to face another day,
Without your loving smile.

Wake not the dawn too early,
Let night hide me away,
So I need not face another day,
Having had no communique.

Wake not the dawn too early,
Let night my sweet refuge be,
For having to face another day,
Would be sheer agony for me.

Wake not the dawn too early,
Let night my dreams suffuse,
How can I face another day,
When my heart cannot enthuse.

Wake not the dawn too early,
Let night be my stalwart shield,
Then maybe I can face another day,
When my sadness has been healed.

poem by Ernestine Northover
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A Kentish Garden

THERE is a grey-walled garden, far away
From noise and smoke of cities, where the hours
Pass with soft wings among the happy flowers,
And lovely leisure blossoms every day.

There, tall and white, the sceptral lily blows;
There grow the pansy, pink, and columbine,
Brave hollyhocks, and star-white jessamine,
And the red glory of the royal rose.

There greeny glow-worms gem the dusky lawn,
The lime-trees breathe their fragrance to the night,
Pink roses sleep, and dream that they are white,
Until they wake to colour with the dawn.

There, in the splendour of the sultry noon,
The sunshine sleeps upon the garden bed
Where the white poppy droops a drowsy head
And dreams of kisses from the white full moon.

And there, some days, all wild with wind and rain,
The tossed trees show the white side of their leaves,
While the great drops drip from the ivied eaves,
And birds are still--till the sun shines again.

And there, all days, my heart goes wandering,
Because there, first, my heart began to know
The glories of the summer and the snow,
The loveliness of harvest and of spring.

There may be fairer gardens; but I know
There is no other garden half so dear;
Because 'tis there, this many, many a year,
The sacred, sweet, white flowers of memory grow!

poem by Edith Nesbit
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On such a night, or such a night

146

On such a night, or such a night,
Would anybody care
If such a little figure
Slipped quiet from its chair—

So quiet—Oh how quiet,
That nobody might know
But that the little figure
Rocked softer—to and fro—

On such a dawn, or such a dawn—
Would anybody sigh
That such a little figure
Too sound asleep did lie

For Chanticleer to wake it—
Or stirring house below—
Or giddy bird in orchard—
Or early task to do?

There was a little figure plump
For every little knoll—
Busy needles, and spools of thread—
And trudging feet from school—

Playmates, and holidays, and nuts—
And visions vast and small—
Strange that the feet so precious charged
Should reach so small a goal!

poem by Emily Dickinson
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Day dawn

All yesterday the thought of you was resting in my soul,
And when sleep wandered o'er the world that very thought she stole
To fill my dreams with splendour such as stars could not eclipse,
And in the morn I wakened with your name upon my lips.

Awakened, my beloved, to the morning of your eyes,
Your splendid eyes, so full of clouds, wherein a shadow tries
To overcome the flame that melts into the world of grey,
As coming suns dissolve the dark that veils the edge of day.

Cool drifts the air at dawn of day, cool lies the sleeping dew,
But all my heart is burning, for it woke from dreams of you;
And O! these longing eyes of mine look out and only see
A dying night, a waking day, and calm on all but me.

So gently creeps the morning through the heavy air,
The dawn grey-garbed and velvet-shod is wandering everywhere
To wake the slumber-laden hours that leave their dreamless rest,
With outspread, laggard wings to court the pillows of the west.

Up from the earth a moisture steals with odours fresh and soft,
A smell of moss and grasses warm with dew, and far aloft
The stars are growing colourless, while drooping in the west,
A late, wan moon is paling in a sky of amethyst.

The passing of the shadows, as they waft their pinions near,
Has stirred a tender wind within the night-hushed atmosphere,
That in its homeless wanderings sobs in an undertone
An echo to my heart that sobbing calls for you alone.

The night is gone, beloved, and another day set free,
Another day of hunger for the one I may not see.
What care I for the perfect dawn? the blue and empty skies?
The night is always mine without the morning of your eyes.

poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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The End of the Day

The night darkens fast & the shadows darken,
Clouds & the rain gather about mine house,
Only the wood-dove moans, hearken, O hearken!
The moan of the wood-dove in the rain-wet boughs.

Loneliness & the night! The night is lonely
Star-covered the night takes to a tender breast
Wrapping them in her veil these dark hours only
The weary, the bereaved, the dispossessed.

When will it lighten? Once the night was kindly
Nor all her hours went by leaden & long.
Now in mine house the hours go groping blindly.
After the shiver of dawn, the first bird's song.

Sleep now! The night with wings of splendour swept
Hides heavy eyes from light that they may sleep
Soft & secure, under her gaze so tender
Lest they should wake to weep, should wake to weep.

poem by Katharine Tynan
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Awaiting Thee

When thou art gone;
I sing my lonely song.

When thou art gone;
My waking hours are filled only with thoughts of thee.
When I sleep,
My dreams are filled with thee-
As I long for thee.

My love;
I await thee-
Lonely day,
After lonely day.
Lonely night,
After lonely night.

When The sun shines bright,
And the songbirds sing their joyous chorus-
It reminds me of this love of ours-
As I long for thee.

I await thee,
My love-
Throughout the lonely day-
Till the setting sun dwindles in dusk’s twilight-
Beyond golden pastures-
Fading in the night.
My love;
I long for thee.

My love;
I await thee-
Throughout the lonely night,
As the crickets chirp their symphony,
And in the darkness,
Like floating candles,
The fireflies glow.

And I remember our love,
As I gaze at the silver moon,
And diamond stars.
Forever embracing this love of ours.

As I sleep at night,
I dream only of being with thee,
My love.

As I awake,
And the sun rises at dawn over the emerald mountain tops,
I await thee,
My love.

Longing for you-
Day through day,
Night through night-
I await thee,
My love.

My love;
When thou art gone;
I sing my lonely song…

poem by Philip Alarie
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In the night with you

Last night I saw the full moon
hang yellow-gold through the window,
above your shoulder over the bed.

Your big eyes
mirrored the starry lights from outside
and your beautiful face,
looked soft and full of rest
and peaceful.

The smell of jasmine
from the garden
glided into the room
and while I laid and looked at you,
I knew that I am really living.

Somewhere from one of the trees
a bird called to its mate
and in the night
and for hours,
I laid and waited
for the red morning light to arrive
and for you to awake.

poem by Gert Strydom
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I Await Thee

When thou art gone;
I sing my lonely song.

When thou art gone;
My waking hours are filled only with thoughts of thee.
When I sleep,
My dreams are filled with thee-
As I long for thee.

My love;
I await thee-
Lonely day,
After lonely day.
Lonely night,
After lonely night.

When The sun shines bright,
And the songbirds sing their joyous chorus-
I remember our love-
As I long for thee.

I await thee,
My love-
Throughout the lonely day-
Till the setting sun dwindles in dusk’s twilight-
Beyond golden pastures-
Fading in the night.
My love;
I long for thee.

My love;
I await thee-
Throughout the lonely night,
As the crickets chirp their symphony,
And in the darkness,
Like floating candles,
The fireflies glow.

And I remember our love,
As I gaze at the silver moon,
And diamond stars.
And I Forever embrace this love of ours.

As I sleep at night,
I dream only of being with thee,
My love.

As I awake,
And the sun rises at dawn over the emerald mountain tops,
I await thee,
My love.

Longing for thee-
Day through day,
Night through night-
I await thee,
My love.

My love;
When thou art gone;
I sing my lonely song…

poem by Philip Alarie
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Our Love

Youre my morning star, shining brightly beside me
And if we keep this love, we will last through all eternity
Just the way we are, I love it, love it,
Its just the way it should be
Cuz our love will stand tall as the trees
Our love will spread wide as the sea
Our love will shine bright in the night
Like the stars above and well always be together
(our love)
My love is surely one thing you can surely depend on
In times of darkness and fear I go to you
I know youll make me strong
Youre gonna make me happy and youre gonna make me smile
Cuz our love will stand tall as the trees
Our love will be for the whole world to see
Our love will change peoples wrongs to right
And well never die, cuz well always have each other------
Ha--ooh, ooh, ooh, ha, ha
Our love will stand tall as the trees
Our love will spread wide as the sea
Our love will shine bright in the night
Like the stars above and well always be together, yeh
Our love, we got a good old fashion love, hey, hey baby
Our love, we got a mighty, mighty good love, hey, ha
Our love, we got a mighty, mighty good love
Ooh thats right, bring it down, just a little
Cuz love is soft, love is sweet, love is nice, love is gentle
Love is joy, love is pain, love is laughing in the rain
I got love on my mind
Love is always right on time
Love is you, love is me
Love is just a little baby
I got love on my mind
Love is always right on time
Love is you and love is me
Love is gonna set you free, yeah
(our love)
Ah yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Ooh, ooh, (repeat)

song performed by by Natalie Cole
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What Mother Tells Me

she is always the first to wake up in the house
as she prays the rosary
and father follows to check the carabao on the side
of the hill and transfer it to a greener pasture

while we their children are still asleep
always wanting more sleep on those cold days
curled in our bed covered with thick blankets
and soft pillows on our heads and our ears all covered up
against the sound of the kitchen
our eyes hiding from the light of the morning sun

and mother pulls my blanket
and takes my arm and hugs me and tells me

wake up! wake up! the night is over
go to the river and take your bath

there is no one on your side now
the rest have gone to their respective tasks

wake up! wake up! my son
go and clean yourself and face the day because
the night is over

and these words still cling to my ears:
the night is over
and another one will be coming

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Hope

O thrush, is it true?
Your song tells
Of a world born anew,
Of fields gold with buttercups, woodlands all blue
With hyacinth bells;
Of primroses deep
In the moss of the lane,
Of a Princess asleep
And dear magic to do.
Will the sun wake the princess? O thrush, is it true?
Will Spring come again?

Will Spring come again?
Now at last
With soft shine and rain
Will the violet be sweet where the dead leaves have lain?
Will Winter be past?
In the brown of the copse
Will white wind-flowers star through
Where the last oak-leaf drops?
Will the daisies come too,
And the may and the lilac? Will Spring come again?
O thrush, is it true?

poem by Edith Nesbit
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