En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Walhalla

Dark lady of the laggard dawn,
Hiding within her gully deep;
Long have night's curtains been withdrawn
Before her earliest sun-shaft's peep.
And, long before the sun sinks down,
Eve's eager shadows creep her way,
Committing to the sheltered town
Nought but a niggard glimpse of day.

And shy enough she seems these days
Who was, long since, belle of them all;
When booted diggers went their way
Around about her ramparts tall.
Full generous she was and proud,
Proffering gold by ton on ton,
Where once the toiling, teaming crowd
Made most of her ungenerous fun.

For rich she was beyond belief
Full rich enough to make man's strife;
But her youth, like her day, was brief
Too brief, but filled with glamorous life
While her wealth spread her wide renown,
While gold called to man's highest hopes
And urgent diggers crowded round
By these, her mighty timbered slopes.

Now, as calm days come and go
Peaceful her quiet hamlet sleeps
A full three thousand feet below
The far crests of her wooded steeps;
And nought, save gnarled old English trees,
Stir to recall dead day passed on,
To leave her with proud memories
Of great and golden youth long gone.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Golden Years

Golden years, gold whop whop whop
Golden years, gold whop whop whop
Don't let me hear you say life's taking you nowhere, angel
Come here baby
Look at that sky, life's begun
Nights are warm and the days are young
Come here baby
There's my baby, lost that's all
Once I'm begging you save her little soul
Golden years, gold whop whop whop
Come here baby
Last night they loved you, opening doors and pulling some strings, angel
Come here baby
In walked luck and you looked in time
Never look back, walk tall, act fine
Come here baby
I'll stick with you baby for a thousand years
Nothing's gonna touch you in these golden years, gold
Golden years, gold whop whop whop
Come here baby
Some of these days, and it won't be long
Gonna drive back down where you once belonged
In the back of a dream car twenty foot long
Don't cry my sweet, don't break my heart
Doing all right, but you gotta get smart
Wish upon, wish upon, day upon day, I believe oh lord
I believe all the way
Come here baby
There's my baby, lost that's all
Once I'm begging you save her little soul
Golden years, gold whop whop whop
Come here baby
Don't let me hear you say life's taking you nowhere, angel
Come get up my baby
Run for the shadows, run for the shadows
Run for the shadows in these golden years
I'll stick with you baby for a thousand years
Nothing's gonna touch you in these golden years, gold
Golden years, gold whop whop whop

song performed by by Marilyn Manson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bright

Where Feathertop frowns thro' the winter scud,
Where Buffalo broods on high,
Dwells she, a lass of royal blood,
And a sparkle lights her eye
The clear, clean glint of the sun on snow,
Where the small streams, singing down,
Into the golden Ovens flow,
To decorate her town.

Wild was she on an olden day
And a wilful lass, forsooth,
When the rough, tough diggers came her way
Ere she emerged from youth.
From her river flats they dredged the gold
And laid sad waste to these,
While they drove in thousands from their fold
The thrifty, scared Chinese.

Waxing in beauty, she has grown
To a maid of wide renown;
For the wild, swift days have long since flown.
Now, by her tree-girt town,
Where her plaited river murmuring flows
Thro' sylvan scenes and rare,
A maiden clad in beauty goes
To her hop-fields gleaming there.

Yet men still scheme to dredge these fields,
And filch their loveliness,
All for the sake of bigger yields
In gold, that count far less
Than the rare, rich harvests won today
In calm security.
Leaving but ruin and decay
To sad posterity.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Golden Gully

No one lives in Golden Gully, for its golden days are o’er,
And its clay shall never sully blucher-boots of diggers more,
For the diggers long have vanished — nought but broken shafts remain,
And the bush, by diggers banished, fast reclaims its own again.
Now, when dying Daylight slowly draws her fingers from the “Peak”,
The Weird Empress Melancholy rises from the reedy creek —
In the gap above the gully, while the dismal curlews scream
Loud to welcome her as ruler of the dreary night supreme —
Takes her throne, and by her presence fills the strange, uncertain air
With a ghostly phosphorescence of the horrors hidden there.
None would think, by camp-fire blazy, lighting fitfully the scene,
In the seasons that are hazy, how in seasons gone between,
Diggers yarned or joined in jolly ballads of the field and foam,
Or grew sad and melancholy over songs like “Home, Sweet Home” —
Songs of other times, demanding sullen tears that would not start,
Every digger understanding what was in his comrade’s heart.
It may seem to you a riddle how a poet’s fancies roam,
But methinks I hear a fiddle softly playing “Home, Sweet Home”
’Mid the trees, while meditative diggers round the camp-fire stand.
(Those were days before Australians learned to love their native land.)
Now the dismal curlew screeches round the shafts when night winds sough;
Startling murmurs, broken speeches, shake each twisted, tangled bough,
And whene’er the night comes dreary, darkened by the falling rain,
Voices, loud and dread and eerie, come again and come again —
Come like troubled souls forbidden rest until their tales are told —
Tales of deeds of darkness hidden in the whirl of days of gold —
Come like troubled spirits telling tales of dire and dread mishaps,
Kissing, falling, rising, swelling, dying in the dismal gaps.
When the coming daylight slowly lays her fingers on the “Peak”
Then the Empress Melancholy hurries off to swamps that reek.
But the scene is never cheery, be it sunshine, be it rain,
For the Gully keeps its dreary look till darkness comes again.
As you stand beside the broken shafts, where grass is growing thick,
You can almost hear a spoken word, or hear a thudding pick;
And your very soul seems sinking, foetid grows the morning air,
For you cannot help believing that there’s something buried there.
There’s a ring amid the saplings by a travelling circus worn,
That amused the noisy diggers e’er the rising race was born;
There’s a road where scrub encroaches that was once the main highway,
Over which two rival coaches dashed in glory twice a day;
Gone — all gone from Golden Gully, for its golden days are o’er,
And its clay shall never sully wheels of crowded coaches more.

poem by Henry Lawson
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Bombarded!

Our town
Full of laughter
Full of joy
Full of happiness
Full of life, it was.

In a flash of seconds,

Our town
Full of cries
Full of misery
Full of sympathy
And as silent as glass, now.
No one to be seen walkin'
No houses or trees standin'
Except the miraculous, little church
Standing tall, proud and lonely.

poem by Arsiema Berhane
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Pocket Full Of Gold

He slipped the ring off his finger
When he walked in the room
And he found him some stranger
And promised her the moon
How many lies you must have told
You think youre a rich man
With your pocket full of gold
For another mans treasure
Youd say anything
But is one night of pleasure
Worth the trouble youll bring
Dont look so surprised
cause son I should know
I once was a rich man
With my pocket full of gold
Some night youre gonna wind up
On the wrong end of a gun
Some jealous guys gonna show up
And youll pay for what youve done
What will it say on your tombstone
Here lies a rich man
With his pocket full of gold
Yeah, here lies a rich man
With his pocket full of gold

song performed by by Vince Gill
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Golden years (Lyrics)

Don't let me hear you say life's taking you nowhere, angel
Come get up my baby
Look at that sky, life's begun
Nights are warm and the days are young
Come get up my baby

There's my baby, lost that's all
Once I'm begging you save her little soul
Golden years, golden years whop whop
Come get up my baby

Last night they loved you, opening doors and pulling some strings, angel
Come get up my baby
In walked luck and you looked in time
Never look back, walk tall, act fine
Come get up my baby

I'll stick with you baby for a thousand years
Nothing's gonna touch you in these golden years, gold
Golden years, golden years whop whop
Come get up my baby

Some of these days, and it won't be long
Gonna drive back down where you once belonged
In the back of a dream car twenty foot long
Don't cry my sweet, don't break my heart
Doing all right, but you gotta get smart
Wish upon, wish upon, day upon day, I believe oh lord
I believe all the way
Come get up my baby
Run for the shadows, run for the shadows, run for the shadows in these golden years

There's my baby, lost that's all
Once I'm begging you save her little soul
Golden years, golden years whop whop
Come get up my baby

Don't let me hear you say life's taking you nowhere, angel
Come get up my baby
Run for the shadows, run for the shadows
Run for the shadows in these golden years

I'll stick with you baby for a thousand years
Nothing's gonna touch you in these golden years.

poem by Satan's Sibling
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Laura Days

Dreaming to-day in a forest green
Where the great gums rake the sky,
My thoughts turn back to another scene
And to old days, long gone by;
To a land of youth, and a youth's employ,
And - to filch another's phrase -
To the men who were boys, when I was a boy,
In the long gone Laura days.

To a little town that nestles down
By the hills of Beetaloo,
Where a youth dreamed dreams of fair renown,
And a man's ambition grew,
'Twas here his earliest songs were sung
And he won his earliest praise
From men who were young when he was young
In the long gone Laura days.

Spicer, Stockdale, Ballantyne,
Marrie, Mitchell and Braund;
How many a right good pal of mine
Has gone from that sunlit land.
How many a man, how many a lad,
Whose head now slowly greys,
To a song grew glad as I grew glad
In those long gone Laura days.

Susman, Sibly and Dr Cook,
Blume and Barrington,
Oh! the lives of some are a long-closed book,
But many a tale runs on.
Hollis and Harvey, Chandler, Green
Are gone their various ways,
But I see them all in the olden scene
Of the long gone Laura days.

I see them still, I see the town
Under those scrub-clad hills,
The shops where the quiet street runs down,
Wilson, Rowland, Bills.
Taylor, Weste, Felstead too,
Cole of the kindly ways,
And many other friends I knew
In the long gone Laura days.

And the names of some come slow to mind,
But the faces greet me clear,
And I hold them all as men most kind,
As I hold the old town dear;
And so in memory to the end
That old time picture stays,
For I see each face as a faithful friend
Of the far off Laura days.

To the ladies all I lift a glass,
And toast with a right good will,
Every matron, every lass, who
Shine in memory still,
Fair would I hymn them all in rhyme
With soaring song of praise,
Friends of mine from a golden time
In the long gone Laura days.

When the evening sun slants through the gums,
By my forest-rimmed abode,
Once more the old clear picture comes,
And my mind drifts down the road;
Back to the town by Beetaloo,
Where the Rocky River strays;
Back to the old kind friends I knew
In the dear dead Laura days.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Road to Old Man's Town

The fields of youth are filled with flowers,
The wine of youth is strong:
What need have we to count the hours?
The summer days are long.
But soon we find to our dismay
That we are drifting down
The barren slopes that fall away
Towards the foothills grim and grey
That lead to Old Man's Town.

And marching with us on the track
Full many friends we find:
We see them looking sadly back
For those who've dropped behind

But God forfend a fate so dread --
Alone to travel down
The dreary road we all must tread,
With faltering steps and whitening head,
The road to Old Man's Town!

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Old Times

Friend of my youth, let us talk of old times;
Of the long lost golden hours.
When "Winter" meant only Christmas chimes,
And "Summer" wreaths of flowers.
Life has grown old, and cold, my friend,
And the winter now, means death.
And summer blossoms speak all too plain
Of the dear, dead forms beneath.

But let us talk of the past to-night;
And live it over again,
We will put the long years out of sight,
And dream we are young as then.
But you must not look at me, my friend,
And I must not look at you,
Or the furrowed brows, and silvered locks,
Will prove our dream untrue.

Let us sing of the summer, too sweet to last,
And yet too sweet to die.
Let us read tales, from the book of the past,
And talk of the days gone by.
We will turn our backs to the West, my friend,
And forget we are growing old.
The skies of the Present are dull, and gray,
But the Past's are blue, and gold.

The sun has passed over the noontide line
And is sinking down the West.
And of friends we knew in days Lang Syne,
Full half have gone to rest.
And the few that are left on earth, my friend
Are scattered far, and wide.
But you and I will talk of the days
Ere any roamed, or died.

Auburn ringlets, and hazel eyes
Blue eyes and tresses of gold.
Winds joy laden, and azure skies,
Belong to those days of old.
We will leave the Present's shores awhile
And float on the Past's smooth sea.
But I must not look at you, my friend,
And you must not look at me.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Colac

A lady plump and pleasing
And generous and free,
Her life is spent in sleek content
Beside her inland sea;
And, round its pleasant waters,
Her pastures, rich and green,
Their treasures yield from many a field
To make her way serene.

A placid, laughing lady,
And prone to placid ways;
But yet, withal, she heeds the call
0f labor all her days
Of kind, congenial labor,
That holds nor fret nor stress
A farmer's wife whose busy life
Brings full, free happiness.

Men say the ocean covered
These fields in some dim age;
And seas, long fled, vast riches spread
To be the heritage
Of this plump Aphrodite,
Now risen from the wave
To thrive apace and wax in grace
On all the wealth they gave.

A happy, hearty lady,
She turns the gift to good,
And wins in toil from this rich soil
A fine fat livelihood.
Now, where seas long since thundered,
Her cars ply up and down
To evidence sound thrift and sense
In Colac's smiling town.

Her land of lakes and pastures
Could never harbor here,
In this lush place, a dour, hard race
Wed to an outlook drear.
And so she smiles and prospers,
A happy, hearty wife,
Whose ample charms, whose thriving farms
Reveal her zest in life.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Warrnambool

A civic lady, peerly proud
Of excellences that here crowd
About her trim, well-ordered streets:
The visitor she warmly greets
E'er with a bland and kindly smile,
Full conscious of her grace the while
A grace that comes of duty done
Thro' long years in her grateful sun.

Fit cause for pride lies in her past:
Her solid buildings, reared to last,
And all her old-world atmosphere
Hinting at Holland quaintly here,
With windmills turning in the breeze
Wafted from her historic seas
That knew the sails of venturers
Long ere this pleasant land was hers.

The stone man's footprints, graved in stone,
About her ancient rocks are known;
Here, too, the Spaniard, 'neath her wave,
Found with his stately ship a grave.
And thus, thro' hist'ry, can she show
How men may wax and men may grow
By wisely planned development
To an estate of proud content.

So, 'mid her rich lands of the south
Cast from a burning mountain's mouth
She grows her fruits and lives her life
Remote from hectic city strife.
And who shall come to her wide sea,
Seeking her hospitality,
In this contented dame shall find
A gracious lady, calm and kind.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Time Enough

I know it is early morning,
And hope is calling aloud,
And your heart is afire with Youth’s desire
To hurry along with the crowd.
But linger a bit by the roadside,
And lend a hand by the way,
‘Tis a curious fact that a generous act
Brings leisure and luck to a day.

I know it is only the noontime –
There is chance enough to be kind;
But the hours run fast when the noon has passed,
And the shadows are close behind.
So think while the light is shining,
And act ere the set of the sun,
For the sorriest woe that a soul can know
Is to think what it might have done.

I know it is almost evening,
But the twilight hour is long.
If you listen and heed each cry of need
You can right full many a wrong.
For when we have finished the journey
We will all look back and say:
‘On life’s long mile there was nothing worth while
But the good we did by the way.’

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Solvitur acris Hiems

Youth, that went, is come again,
Youth, for which we all were fain;
With soft pleasure and sweet pain
In each nerve and every vein,
Circling through the heart and brain,
Whence and wherefore come again?
Eva, tell me!

Dead and buried when we thought him,
Who the magic spell hath taught him?
Who the strong elixir brought him?
Dead and buried as we thought,
Lo! unasked for and unsought
Comes he, shall it be for nought?
Eva, tell me!

Youth that lifeless long had lain,
Youth that long we longed in vain for,
Used to grumble and complain for,
Thought at last to entertain
A decorous cool disdain for,
On a sudden see again
Comes, but will not long remain,
Comes, with whom too in his train,
Comes, and shall it be in vain?
Eva, tell me!

poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Days Of 49

Im old tom moore from the bummers shore in that good old golden days
They call me a bummer and a ginsot too, but what cares I for praise ?
I wander around from town to town just like a roving sign
And all the people say, there goes tom moore, in the days of 49
In the days of old, in the days of gold
How ofttimes I repine for the days of old
When we dug up the gold, in the days of 49.
My comrades they all loved me well, a jolly saucy crew
A few hard cases I will recall though they all were brave and true
Whatever the pitch they never would flinch, they never would fret or whine
Like good old bricks they stood the kicks in the days of 49
In the days of old, in the days of gold
How ofttimes I repine for the days of old
When we dug up the gold, in the days of 49.
There was new york jake, the butcher boy, he was always getting tight
And every time that hed get full he was spoiling for a fight
But jake rampaged against a knife in the hands of old bob stein
And over jake they held a wake in the days of 49
In the days of old, in the days of gold
How ofttimes I repine for the days of old
When we dug up the gold, in the days of 49.
There was poker bill, one of the boys who was always in a game
Whether he lost or whether he won, to him it was always the same
He would ante up and draw his cards and he would you go a hatful blind
In the game with death bill lost his breath, in the days of 49
In the days of old, in the days of gold
How ofttimes I repine for the days of old
When we dug up the gold, in the days of 49.
There was ragshag bill from buffalo, I never will forget
He would roar all day and hed roar all night and I guess hes roaring yet
One day he fell in a prospect hole, in a roaring bad design
And in that hole he roared out his soul, in the days of 49
In the days of old, in the days of gold
How ofttimes I repine for the days of old
When we dug up the gold, in the days of 49.
Of the comrades all that Ive had, theres none thats left to boast
And Im left alone in my misery like some poor wandering ghost
And I pass by from town to town, they call me a rambling sign
There goes tom moore, a bummer shore in the days of 49
In the days of old, in the days of gold
How ofttimes I repine for the days of old
When we dug up the gold, in the days of 49.

song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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His Youth

Dying? I am not dying. Are you mad?
You think I need to ask for heavenly grace?
\I\ think \you\ are a fiend, who would be glad
To see me struggle in death's cold embrace.

'But, man you lie! for I am strong-in truth
Stronger than I have been in years; and soon
I shall feel young again as in my youth,
My glorious youth-life's one great priceless boon.

'O youth, youth, youth! O God, that golden time,
When proud and glad I laughed the hours away.
Why, there's no sacrifice (perhaps no crime)
I'd pause at, could it make me young to-day.

'But I'm not \old\! I grew-just ill, somehow;
Grew stiff of limb, and weak, and dim of sight.
It was but sickness. I am better now,
Oh, vastly better, ever since last night.

'And I could weep warm floods of happy tears
To think my strength is coming back at last,
For I have dreamed of such an hour for years,
As I lay thinking of my glorious past.

'You shake your head? Why, man, if you were sane
I'd strike you to my feet, I would, in truth.
How dare you tell me that my hopes are vain?
How dare you say I have outlived my youth?

''In heaven I may regain it?' Oh, be still!
I want no heaven but what my glad youth gave.
Its long, bright hours, its rapture and its thrill-
O youth, youth, youth! it is my \youth\ I crave.

'There is no heaven! There's nothing but a deep
And yawning grave from which I shrink in fear.
I am not sure of even rest or sleep;
Perhaps we lie and \think\, as I have here.

'Think, think, think, think, as we lie there and rot,
And hear the young above us laugh in glee.
How dare you say I'm dying! \I am not\.
I would curse God if such a thing could be.

'Why, see me stand! why, hear this strong, full breath-
Dare you repeat that silly, base untruth?'
A cry-a fall-the silence known as death
Hushed his wild words. Well, has he found his youth?

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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A Madrigal

Crabbed Age and Youth
Cannot live together:
Youth is full of pleasance,
Age is full of care;
Youth like summer morn,
Age like winter weather;
Youth like summer brave,
Age like winter bare:
Youth is full of sports,
Age's breath is short,
Youth is nimble, Age is lame:
Youth is hot and bold,
Age is weak and cold,
Youth is wild, and Age is tame:-
Age, I do abhor thee;
Youth, I do adore thee;
O! my Love, my Love is young!
Age, I do defy thee-
O sweet shepherd, hie thee,
For methinks thou stay'st too long.

poem by William Shakespeare
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Too Long, O Spirit Of Storm

Too long, O Spirit of Storm,
Thy lightning sleeps in its sheath!
I am sick to the soul of yon pallid sky,
And the moveless sea beneath.

Come down in thy strength on the deep!
Worse dangers there are in life,
When the waves are still, and the skies look fair,
Than in their wildest strife.

A friend I knew, whose days
Were as calm as this sky overhead;
But one blue morn that was fairest of all,
The heart in his bosom fell dead.

And they thought him alive while he walked
The streets that he walked in youth --
Ah! little they guessed the seeming man
Was a soulless corpse in sooth.

Come down in thy strength, O Storm!
And lash the deep till it raves!
I am sick to the soul of that quiet sea,
Which hides ten thousand graves.

poem by Henry Timrod
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Yarrawonga

Yarrawonga by herself
Lived too long upon a shelf
She a stolid farmer's wife.
Far remote from modern strife
Drowsily beside her door
Dreamed of hectic days long o'er.

Yarrawonga dreamed in peace,
Watched her flocks and herds increase,
Drugged by wealth she sleepier grew,
Scorned the strenuous and new,
Scorned all haste and modern ways,
Yet oozed contentment all her days.

Yarrawonga now awakes,
And a sudden interest takes
In the schemes of eagr men,
Who'd restore her youth again
Who'd renew a youth half lost
And, at her contentment's cost,
Bring life-giving waters down
To rejuvenate her town.

Yarrawonga soon shall be
Resting in an inland sea
Gazing on a man-made lake
That new fruitfulness hall wake
O'er wide fields where drought has spread
Vague alarm and sudden dread.
Then shall Yarrawonga know
The dignity of years ago.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Train Of Gold

I saw her there from across the street, she was dressed in black
And when she moved she moved to a beat, like a cadillac
She rode a train, train train train, a train of gold
She was a woman of suspicious ways, never saw daylight
And in her room she sat and passed the days
And shed creep out at night
She rode a train, train train train, a train of gold
Chorus: train of gold, train of gold
It took me so long to find out I was wrong
Now I wait for her in the night
Looked through a window saw a velvet sky, a shade of green
A violin was playing soft and sweet, like it was a dream
She rode a train, train train train, a train of gold
Train of gold, train of gold
It took me so long to find out I was wrong
Now I wait for her in the night
Train of gold, train of gold
I dont believe her, it just couldnt be her
I cant get it out of my mind

song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Friendship!

Resting over midnight's bosom a careless heart...
The other beneath a ceiling gaze in perplexity
Ov'r the seventh hour beyond his day he lives...
Dreading wicked malice and atrocity

The day rises wide
From some nook of night...
Night seems to disappear forever like a dream...
Still there in hollow deep of a heart it finds its refuge...
Somber and bleak too yearns a day, longs a friend to restore to life.
And so a bright day came to me too,
Basking in warmth of a light hearted fellow,
Gliding over life with ease
Tossing off the lumber in her toe...
Folks and friends lest merry days...
Surpass nought the shallow's deep...
Down tread utmost linger's laughter...
Steeps high up through all alone...

And so a fortnight flee into an uneven thousand...
Long days and short nights...
Shorter the days over night the same...
Careless heart and Perplexed...
Merry and Weary they both remain...

Differ far more the poles...
East and west rift drifts apart with age...
Twain met, hearty n solemn,
Long hither, long enough now for here to stay.

In amok and hustle...
Seems so, life strolled by...
Carless dreamy eyed...
Life to life returns in youth...
Sapling Sores the sky...

Warmth and laughter flung the porch...
Hung over the gates low wretch...
Wisdom high beyond years in earnest thoughtfulness...
And stupid fix to sillier affairs...
Sweethearts all around...
If not hearts sweet faces for sure...
Namby-Pamby you go...
Red and pink...
Grinning ear to ear...

And so I say we have lived lot, a lot that trifle too
Which rejoiced, which hurt, which gave hope
Together we give life its expression
Its fullness
It's content...
Together we are sober, are mad...
And all the life to be we are
Two great fools and the best of friends...

poem by Lama Abbas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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