En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Omeo

Up and down the roads they go
Vale to hill, and hill to vale
Leading on to Omeo
Over many an olden trail
Dainty lady of the hills,
Rosy-cheecked amid her snows;
Beauty that her landscape fills
Tips the peak and downward spills,
Down to where old Tambo flows.

As Tambo winds, so winds the road;
Cascades sparkly by the way
Where o'er granite, waters flowed
Since some pre-historic day.
Limestone glints and marble gleams,
Beautiful and many-hued,
Bared by ever flowing streams
To recapture long-lost dreams
Of an age-old solitude.

Six grey horses drew the coach.
Climbing up and clattering down,
To the picturesque approach
Of this quaint, old-fashioned town.
While the driver yarned apace,
Six grey horses, coats agleam,
Straining steady at the trace,
Drew up at the stopping place
The Blue Duck Inn where anglers dream.

Dainty lady of the hills.
Rosy-cheeked amid her snows,
Peace her quiet hamlet fills
As full well the angler knows.
Peace and quiet pride inform
All her moods as seasons go.
Summer sun nor winter storm
Naught may change that welcome warm
Of the Lady Omeo.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Lady in Grey

On this road, I did meet,
In the wee hours, a lady,
frail and petit.

I spoke to her softly,
and bid her good day.

This little old lady,
all dressed in grey.

Just a slight nod, was her
greeting you see,
as she continued her walk,
up the hill past me.

I had to know, on this very night,
why this lady in grey, gave me
such a fright.

I turned my head quickly,
to ask her, her name
but gone was the lady,
I had met in the rain.

This story you see, really is
true.
fore I met her that morning,
around the hour of two.

The lady in grey, was Mrs.
Metler, you see,
a lady from a time, long
before you and me.

Dec.01 2012

poem by Earl Spencer
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The Red House

On the wide fields the water gleams like snow,
And snow like water pale beneath pale sky,
When old and burdened the white clouds are stooped low.
Sudden as thought, or startled near bird's cry,
The whiteness of first light on hills of snow
New dropped from skiey hills of tumbling white
Streams from the ridge to where the long woods lie;
And tall ridge-trees lift their soft crowns of white
Above slim bodies all black or flecked with snow.
By the tossed foam of the not yet frozen brook
Black pigs go straggling over fields of snow;
The air is full of snow, and starling and rook
Are blacker amid the myriad streams of light.
Warm as old fire the Red House burns yet bright
Beneath the unmelting snows of pine and larch,
While February moves as slow, as slow
As Spring might never come, never come March.

Amid such snows, by generations haunted,
By echoes, memories and dreams enchanted,
Firm when dark winds through the night stamp and shout,
Brightest when time silvers the world all about,
That old house called _The Heart_ burns, burns, and still
Outbraves the mortal threat of the hanging hill.

poem by John Freeman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lilydale

Three hills lead on to Lilydale,
Where runs the White Horse Road.
Three slopes dip down into the vale
The placid vale of Lilydale,
That somnolent abode
Of dreams that compass olden days,
Of tranquil life and easy ways,
Where transient beauty tints her trees
With golden Autumn's harmonies.

For Lilydale is now a dame
Unhurried and content.
Traditions that attend her name
Serve her from all she needs of fame,
Who scorns the brandishment
Of modern haste and modern show.
And, as the speeding motors go
Down thro' her street, to hasten by,
She marks them with a sleepy sigh.

Amid her grazing kine she goes
The 'milkers', 'stores' and 'fats.'
A cow she venerates, and knows
How well to hoard the wealth that flows
From her rich river flats
One passion lures her from her course;
Her great love for a likely horse.
Tempting to revels now and then
With her twin dreamer, Yarra Glen.

Three hills lead on to Lilydale,
Three slopes dip down below.
And every hill, and every vale
Tell once more the olden tale
Of days when life moved slow;
Save when the dashing fours-in-hand
Came clattering to this new-found land,
And wakened this bucolic spot
To life's high fever - long forgot.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Lady red—amid the Hill

74

A Lady red—amid the Hill
Her annual secret keeps!
A Lady white, within the Field
In placid Lily sleeps!

The tidy Breezes, with their Brooms—
Sweep vale—and hill—and tree!
Prithee, My pretty Housewives!
Who may expected be?

The Neighbors do not yet suspect!
The Woods exchange a smile!
Orchard, and Buttercup, and Bird—
In such a little while!

And yet, how still the Landscape stands!
How nonchalant the Hedge!
As if the "Resurrection"
Were nothing very strange!

poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Adopted Child

'Why wouldst thou leave me, oh! gentle child?
Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild,
A straw-roof'd cabin, with lowly wall“
Mine is a fair and a pillar'd hall,
Where many an image of marble gleams,
And the sunshine of picture for ever streams.'

'Oh! green is the turf where my brothers play,
Thro' the long bright hours of the summer-day;
They find the red cup-moss where they climb,
And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme,
And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they know“
Lady, kind lady! oh! let me go.'

'Content thee, boy! in my bower to dwell,
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well;
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon,
Harps which the wandering breezes tune;
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird,
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard.'

'Oh! my mother sings, at the twilight's fall,
A song of the hills far more sweet than all;
She sings it under our own green tree,
To the babe half slumb'ring on her knee;
I dreamt last night of that music low“
Lady, kind lady! oh! let me go.'

'Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest,
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast;
Thou would'st meet her footstep, my boy, no more,
Nor hear her song at the cabin door.
Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh,
And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye.'

'Is my mother gone from her home away?“
But I know that my brothers are there at play.
I know they are gathering the foxglove's bell,
Or the long fern-leaves by the sparkling well;
Or they launch their boats where the bright streams flow,“
Lady, kind lady! oh! let me go.'

'Fair child, thy brothers are wanderers now,
They sport no more on the mountain's brow,
They have left the fern by the spring's green side,
And the streams where the fairy barks were tried.
Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot,
For thy cabin-home is a lonely spot.'

'Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill?“
But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still;
And the red-deer bound in their gladness free,
And the heath is bent by the singing bee,
And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow,“
Lady, kind lady! oh! let me go.'

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Helderberg Hill (Sestina)

You are the high hill with numerous peaks,
that in summer looks magnificent and cheery,
where I have climbed up to waterfalls, to heights,
where I got a view of sun, beach and sea,
felt as if in presence of God, with tranquillity
with your moods you remind me of a lady.

Once I wandered with a young lady
on a twisting trail among your high peaks
to find some inner peace, some tranquillity
and she was quite happy and rather cheery
gazing up at the blue sky, down at the sea
from both of those dazing heights.

Climbing up to the sheer heights
was like exploring the body of a lady
as if finding a secret kind of sea
with beautiful rising pointed peaks
and the experience was quite cheery,
suddenly leaving an own tranquillity.

My privacy is invaded by her tranquillity
as from far I still do watch her heights
and although feeling rather cheery
there is danger in this lovely lady
that beacons me with her high peaks
to look upon an endless open sea.

I long to gaze out upon the sea,
to be with her in tranquillity,
to wander among her peaks,
to again explore her heights
as if to visit a dear kind old lady
but I wonder if I will find her cheery?

But I must now continually stay cheery,
keep far away from the troubled sea,
avoid all of the dangerous heights
of live to be able to find tranquillity
but still the beautiful ageless lady
is luring me continually with her peaks.

How glimmering and cheery with ice her peaks
high above the sea, do glow from their heights,
she is without tranquillity, a chilly frozen lady.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Grey Lady Of The Sea

(lebon)
Youve whispered out loud
But your breeze doesnt bend
Were lying in the palm of your hand
No land we see, no place to be
The salt of your tears, adds stain to our hearts
Theres no long years can tear us apart
Our futures entwined with your past
Because when we lie awake
Well be thinking of you
Blow, grey lady blow your ships back home
Blow, grey lady blow your ships back home
Bravado is all but gone
And patience is down
You scared us and youve turned us around
But you wont let us drown
Because when we lie asleep
Well be dreaming of you
Blow, grey lady blow your ships back home
Blow, grey lady blow your ships back home
So answer us when we call
And say if you think were old
When life is so short we can stay long
But youll never be alone
Because one day well return
Well be waiting for you
Blow, grey lady blow your ships back home
Blow, grey lady blow your ships back home
Blow, grey lady blow your ships back home
Blow, grey lady blow your ships back home
Blow, grey lady blow your ships back home

song performed by by Duran Duran
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In some fields of grass under the hills (sestina)

This afternoon the peaks throw a big shade
with the black cliffs shining up on the hills,
while we lay together in the long grass,
I look in your eyes that are amber-green
while under my head there is a small stone
and you smile at me like the prettiest lady.

I had once known another charming lady;
that part of my life is now left in shade,
bad churchmen were casting stone upon stone,
while I had to flee from them to the hills
to pastures were everything is green
to find the Lord in divine fields of grass.

Under your head there is a crown of grass
and your mother is a gracious, kind lady,
around us everything is lovely green
while we are still resting in the cool shade,
we are softly chatting about life’s hills,
about walls of very hard granite stone.

Your eyes are much brighter than emerald stone
while all of your words are softer than grass,
reaching higher and beyond all the hills,
the high mountain which is dangerous lady,
while from our pain nothing gives any shade,
nowhere is a place of rest that is green.

Your summer dress is lovely, is bright green,
suddenly all our ails have turned to stone
I follow you further; see your small shade,
I am seen as one that woos any lady,
we walk past some flowers growing in grass,
climbing up higher into the foothills.

Bright streams are splashing down some of the hills,
with water transparent, sometimes cold and green,
love and lust burns like in a youthful lady
while I at that moment feel cold as stone,
we notice a deer feeding on lone grass
while our garments lie under a tree’s shade.

Far into the hills you want love till dusk’s shade,
where you peep like some green moss from the grass,
are tossing me with a stone like no lady.

poem by Gert Strydom
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A Chord of Colour

My Lady clad herself in grey,
That caught and clung about her throat;
Then all the long grey winter day
On me a living splendour smote;
And why grey palmers holy are,
And why grey minsters great in story,
And grey skies ring the morning star,
And grey hairs are a crown of glory.

My Lady clad herself in green,
Like meadows where the wind-waves pass;
Then round my spirit spread, I ween,
A splendour of forgotten grass.
Then all that dropped of stem or sod,
Hoarded as emeralds might be,
I bowed to every bush, and trod
Amid the live grass fearfully.

My Lady clad herself in blue,
Then on me, like the seer long gone,
The likeness of a sapphire grew,
The throne of him that sat thereon.
Then knew I why the Fashioner
Splashed reckless blue on sky and sea;
And ere 'twas good enough for her,
He tried it on Eternity.

Beneath the gnarled old Knowledge-tree
Sat, like an owl, the evil sage:
'The World's a bubble,' solemnly
He read, and turned a second page.
'A bubble, then, old crow,' I cried,
'God keep you in your weary wit!
'A bubble--have you ever spied
'The colours I have seen on it?'

poem by G.K. Chesterton from The Wild Knight and Other Poems (1900)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sophisticated Lady (She's A Different Lady)

Written by Chuck Jackson, Marvin Yancy and Natalie Cole
Sophisticated lady, sophisticated lady
She's a different lady with a different style
She stands tall and steady like the Eiffel Tower
She is hip to politics but loves her jazz
She's got lots of rhythm she's got lots of class
Everybody knows how she got her name, yeah
Oh, ha, she wears knee length dresses with her high heel steppers
She's not no back stabber but she's sure a pleaser
She talks quiet and gentle, she acts very cool
She sticks close to her lover, she obey God's rules, woh
(Sophisticated lady) Sophisticated lady, yeah
(Sophisticated lady) Oh
(Sophisticated lady) That's her name, that's her name
(Sophisticated lady) Woh, woh
Everybody knows how she got her name
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah----
Woh--, oh, oh, oh, oh
She's the kind of person that you'd like to meet
'Cause she's always smiling and she's always neat
She can start a fire in the coldest man
She's a hip slick sister known throughout the land, oh
(Sophisticated lady) That's her name
Sophisticated lady (sophisticated lady) yeah
Oh, well, woo, woo, woo, woo, woo, woo, hoo, that's her name
Sophisticated lady (sophisticated lady) lady, lady
Sophisticated lady (sophisticated lady) oh
Sophisticated lady, (sophisticated lady) ah
Sophisticated lady (sophisticated lady)
Ooh, ooh (sophisticated lady)
Repeat (Sophisticated lady

song performed by by Natalie Cole
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Sunnydale

There lies the trail to Sunnydale,
Amid the lure of laughter.
Oh, how can we unhappy be
Beneath its leafy rafter!
Each perfect hour is like a flower,
Each day is like a posy.
How can you say the skies are grey?
You're wrong, my friend, they're rosy.

With right good will let's climb the hill,
And leave behind all sorrow.
Oh, we'll be gay! a bright to-day
Will make a bright to-morrow.
Oh, we'll be strong! the way is long
That never has a turning;
The hill is high, but there's the sky,
And how the West is burning!

And if through chance of circumstance
We have to go bare-foot, sir,
We'll not repine -- a friend of mine
Has got no feet to boot, sir.
This Happiness a habit is,
And Life is what we make it:
See! there's the trail to Sunnydale!
Up, friend! and let us take it.

poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Despair

SMILE on me, mouth of red--so much too red,
Shine on me, eyes which darkened lashes shade,
Turn, turn my way, oh glorious golden head,
My soul is lost, then let the price be paid!
Amid rich flowers your rosy lamplight gleams,
Amid rich hangings pass your scented hours,
And woods and fields are green but in my dreams,
And only in my dreams grow meadow-flowers.

I have forgotten everything but you--
The apple orchard where the whitethroat sings,
The quiet fields, the moonlight, and the dew,
The virgin's bower that in wet hedgerow clings.
I have forgotten how the cool grass waves
Where clean winds blow, and where good women pray
For happy, honest men, safe in their graves;
And--oh, my God! I would I were as they!

poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Snowdrop In The Snow

O full of Faith! The Earth is rock,-the Heaven
The dome of a great palace all of ice,
Russ-built. Dull light distils through frozen skies
Thickened and gross. Cold Fancy droops her wing,
And cannot range. In winding-sheets of snow
Lies every thought of any pleasant thing.
I have forgotten the green earth; my soul
Deflowered, and lost to every summer hope,
Sad sitteth on an iceberg at the Pole;
My heart assumes the landscape of mine eyes
Moveless and white, chill blanched with hoarest rime;
The Sun himself is heavy and lacks cheer
Or on the eastern hill or western slope;
The world without seems far and long ago;
To silent woods stark famished winds have driven
The last lean robin-gibbering winds of fear!
Thou only darest to believe in spring,
Thou only smilest, Lady of the Time!
Even as the stars come up out of the sea
Thou risest from the Earth. How is it down
In the dark depths? Should I delve there, O Flower,
For beauty? Shall I find the summer there
Met manifold, as in an ark of peace?
And Thou, a lone white Dove, art thou sent forth
Upon the winter deluge? It shall cease,
But not for thee-pierced by the ruthless North
And spent with the Evangel. In what hour
The flood abates thou wilt have closed thy wings
For ever. When the happy living things
Of the old world come forth upon the new
I know my heart shall miss thee; and the dew
Of summer twilights shall shed tears for me
-Tears liker thee, ah, purest! than mine own-
Upon thy vestal grave, O vainly fair!

Thou should'st have noble destiny, who, like
A Prophet, art shut out from kind and kin:
Who on the winter silence comest in
A still small voice. Pale Hermit of the Year,
Flower of the Wilderness! oh, not for thee
The jocund playmates of the maiden spring.
For when she danceth forth with cymballed feet,
Waking a-sudden with great welcoming,
Each calling each, they burst from hill to dell
In answering music. But thou art a bell,
A passing bell, snow-muffled, dim and sweet.
As is the Poet to his fellow-men,
So mid thy drifting snows, O Snowdrop, Thou.
Gifted, in sooth, beyond them, but no less
A snowdrop. And thou shalt complete his lot
And bloom as fair as now when they are not.
Thou art the wonder of the seasons, O
First-born of Beauty. As the Angel near
Gazed on that first of living things which, when
The blast that ruled since Chaos o'er the sere
Leaves of primeval Palms did sweep the plain,
Clung to the new-made sod and would not drive,
So gaze I upon thee amid the reign
Of Winter. And because thou livest, I live.
And art thou happy in thy loneliness?
Oh couldst thou hear the shouting of the floods,
Oh couldst thou know the stir among the trees
When-as the herald-voice of breeze on breeze
Proclaims the marriage pageant of the Spring
Advancing from the South-each hurries on
His wedding-garment, and the love-chimes ring
Thro' nuptial valleys! No, serene and lone,
I will not flush thy cheek with joys like these.
Songs for the rosy morning; at grey prime
To hang the head and pray. Thou doest well.
I will not tell thee of the bridal train.
No; let thy Moonlight die before their day
A Nun among the Maidens, thou and they.
Each hath some fond sweet office that doth strike
One of our trembling heartstrings musical.
Is not the hawthorn for the Queen of May?
And cuckoo-flowers for whom the cuckoo's voice
Hails, like an answering sister, to the woods?
Is not the maiden blushing in the rose?
Shall not the babe and buttercup rejoice,
Twins in one meadow! Are not violets all
By name or nature for the breast of Dames?
For them the primrose, pale as star of prime,
For them the wind-flower, trembling to a sigh,
For them the dew stands in the eyes of day
That blink in April on the daisied lea?
Like them they flourish and like them they fade,
And live beloved and loving. But for thee-
For such a bevy how art thou arrayed,
Flower of the Tempests? What hast thou with them?
Thou shalt be pearl unto a diadem
Which the Heavens jewel. They shall deck the brows
Of joy and wither there. But thou shalt be
A Martyr's garland. Thou who, undismayed,
To thy spring dreams art true amid the snows
As he to better dreams amid the flames.

poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To My Lady

When the tender hand of Night
Like a rose-leaf falls
Softly on your starry eyes;
When the Sleep-God calls,
And the gate of dreams is wide,
Wide the painted halls,
Dream the dream I send to you
Through your spirit’s walls!
Dream a lowly lover came,
Lady fair to woo;
Dream that I the lover was,
And the lady—you;
Dream your answer was a kiss,
Warm as summer dew—
Waking, in the rosy dawn,
Let the dream be true!

poem by Victor James Daley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sophisticated Lady

Written by chuck jackson, marvin yancy and natalie cole
Sophisticated lady, sophisticated lady
Shes a different lady with a different style
She stands tall and steady like the eiffel tower
She is hip to politics but loves her jazz
Shes got lots of rhythm shes got lots of class
Everybody knows how she got her name, yeah
Oh, ha, she wears knee length dresses with her high heel steppers
Shes not no back stabber but shes sure a pleaser
She talks quiet and gentle, she acts very cool
She sticks close to her lover, she obey gods rules, woh
(sophisticated lady) sophisticated lady, yeah
(sophisticated lady) oh
(sophisticated lady) thats her name, thats her name
(sophisticated lady) woh, woh
Everybody knows how she got her name
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah----
Woh--, oh, oh, oh, oh
Shes the kind of person that youd like to meet
cause shes always smiling and shes always neat
She can start a fire in the coldest man
Shes a hip slick sister known throughout the land, oh
(sophisticated lady) thats her name
Sophisticated lady (sophisticated lady) yeah
Oh, well, woo, woo, woo, woo, woo, woo, hoo, thats her name
Sophisticated lady (sophisticated lady) lady, lady
Sophisticated lady (sophisticated lady) oh
Sophisticated lady, (sophisticated lady) ah
Sophisticated lady (sophisticated lady)
Ooh, ooh (sophisticated lady)
Repeat (sophisticated lady)

song performed by by Natalie Cole
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Dreary Change {The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill}

The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,
In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet;
The westland wind is hush and still,
The lake lies sleeping at my feet.
Yet not the landscape to mine eye
Bears those bright hues that once it bore;
Though evening, with her richest dye,
Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore.

With listless look along the plain,
I see Tweed's silver current glide,
And coldly mark the holy fane
Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride.
The quiet lake, the balmy air,
The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,-—
Are they still such as once they were?
Or is the dreary change in me?

Alas, the warp'd and broken board,
How can it bear the painter's dye!
The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord,
How to the minstrel's skill reply!
To aching eyes each landscape lowers,
To feverish pulse each gale blows chill;
And Araby's or Eden's bowers
Were barren as this moorland hill.

poem by Sir Walter Scott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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That Lady

Who's that lady (who's that lady)
Beautiful lady (who's that lady)
Lovely lady (who's that lady)
Real fine lady (who's that lady)
Hear me calling out to you
'Cause that's all that I can do
Your eyes tell me to pursue
But you say "Look yeah, but don't touch, baby"
Nah, nah, nah don't touch
Who's that lady (who's that lady)
Sexy lady (who's that lady)
Beautiful lady (who's that lady)
Real fine lady (who's that lady)
I would dance upon a string
Any gift she'd want I'd bring
I would give her anything
If she would just do what I say
Come 'round my way, baby
Shine my way
Who's that lady (who's that lady)
Beautiful lady (who's that lady)
Lovely lady (who's that lady)
Real real fine lady (who's that lady)
I would love to take her home
But her heart is made of stone
Gotta keep on keepin' on
If I don't she'll do me wrong
Do me wrong, yeah
(Instrumental)

song performed by by Isley Brothers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wangaratta

At the meeting of the waters
Where the dark tree shadows play
Wangaratta's sons and daughters
Dream the drowsy hours away;
Placid see the season's greeting
Winter storm and summer sun
Wed, to flow henceforth as one.
Where two northbound rivers meeting,

Long since prone to sudden dangers
When, to dim her dawning pride,
Morgan and his wild bushrangers
Thronged her pleasant countryside,
Now in her quiet graveyard resting
Lies old shame and that rash lad,
Where a mate, on tin attesting,
Pleads that 'he was not all bad.'

Crime and she are almost strangers
Now, since those ill doers died.
Bishops reign where once bushrangers
Slew her peace and shamed her pride.
And content within her waxes
In this pious atmosphere
Where naught now save threat-worn taxes
Wakens echoes of past fear.

At the meeting of the waters
Where tree shadows shift and sway,
Nothing lingers here that slaughters
Her bucolic calm away.
Done at last with Youth's adventure
Quiet lady slow to move,
And wealthier grown she lives down censure
As she drifts in one straight groove.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Who's That Lady

Who's that lady (who's that lady)
Beautiful lady (who's that lady)
Lovely lady (who's that lady)
Real fine lady (who's that lady)
Hear me callin' out to you
'Cause it's all that I can do
Your eyes tell me to pursue
But you say look yeah, but don't touch (but don't touch), baby
nah, nah, nah don't touch
Who's that lady (who's that lady)
Sexy lady (who's that lady)
Beautiful lady (who's that lady)
Real fine lady (who's that lady)
I would dance upon a string
Any gift she'd wanna bring
I would give her anything
If she would just do what I say (just do what I say)
Come 'round my way, baby
Shine my way
Who's that lady (who's that lady)
Beautiful lady (who's that lady)
Lovely lady (who's that lady)
Real fine lady (who's that lady)
I would love to take her home
But her heart is made of stone
I would keep on keepin' on
If I don't she'll do me wrong
Do me wrong, yeah

song performed by by Isley Brothers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Montserrat

Peace waits among the hills;
I have drunk peace,
Here, where the blue air fills
The great cup of the hills,
And fills with peace.

Between the earth and sky,
I have seen the earth
Like a dark cloud go by,
And fade out of the sky;
There was no more earth.

Here, where the Holy Graal
Brought secret light
Once, from beyond the veil,
I, seeing no Holy Graal,
See divine light.

Light fills the hills with God,
Wind with his breath,
And here, in his abode,
Light, wind, and air praise God,
And this poor breath.

poem by Arthur Symons
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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