En.Citatepedia^®.ro

London To Folkestone (Half-Past One To Half-Past Five)

A constant keeping-past of shaken trees,
And a bewildered glitter of loose road;
Banks of bright growth, with single blades atop
Against white sky; and wires—a constant chain—
That seem to draw the clouds along with them
(Things which one stoops against the light to see
Through the low window; shaking by at rest,
Or fierce like water as the swiftness grows);
And, seen through fences or a bridge far off,
Trees that in moving keep their intervals
Still one 'twixt bar and bar; and then at times
Long reaches of green level, where one cow,
Feeding among her fellows that feed on,
Lifts her slow neck, and gazes for the sound.
There are six of us: I that write away;
Hunt reads Dumas, hard-lipped, with heavy jowl
And brows hung low, and the long ends of hair
Standing out limp. A grazier at one end
(Thank luck not my end!) has blocked out the air,
And sits in heavy consciousness of guilt.
The poor young muff who's face to face with me
Is pitiful in loose collar and black tie,
His latchet-button shaking as we go.
There are flowers by me, half upon my knees,
Owned by a dame who's fair in soul, no doubt:
The wind that beats among us carries off
Their scent, but still I have them for my eye.
Fields mown in ridges; and close garden-crops
Of the earth's increase; and a constant sky
Still with clear trees that let you see the wind;
And snatches of the engine-smoke, by fits
Tossed to the wind against the landscape, where
Rooks stooping heave their wings upon the day.
Brick walls we pass between, passed so at once
That for the suddenness I cannot know
Or what, or where begun, or where at end.
Sometimes a Station in grey quiet; whence,
With a short gathered champing of pent sound,
We are let out upon the air again.
Now nearly darkness; knees and arms and sides
Feel the least touch, and close about the face
A wind of noise that is along like God.
Pauses of water soon, at intervals,
That has the sky in it;—the reflexes
O' the trees move towards the bank as we go by,
Leaving the water's surface plain. I now
Lie back and close my eyes a space; for they
Smart from the open forwardness of thought
Fronting the wind——
——I did not scribble more,
Be certain, after this; but yawned, and read,
And nearly dozed a little, I believe;
Till, stretching up against the carriage-back,
I was roused altogether, and looked out
To where, upon the desolate verge of light,
Yearned, pale and vast, the iron-coloured sea.

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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The Calling Of The Trees

The wind.
The calling of the trees,
Whose leaves flow
Endlessly through the wind,
Calling the sound,
Of water,
Like waves
Of the beach.
Beyond.
The row of trees
Standing in line
Along the shore,
Through them
Pass to where
Green grey water
Meets the sand,
In constant push
Through the shorebirds legs.
Crows call, geese horn
And the wind
Flows steady, strong and sure.
The wind smelling of salt and green.

(7.18.7 The View)

poem by Heather Z. Hanna
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Love in Twilight

There is darkness behind the light -- and the pale light drips
Cold on vague shapes and figures, that, half-seen loom
Like the carven prows of proud, far-triumphing ships --
And the firelight wavers and changes about the room,

As the three logs crackle and burn with a small still sound;
Half-blotting with dark the deeper dark of her hair,
Where she lies, head pillowed on arm, and one hand curved round
To shield the white face and neck from the faint thin glare.

Gently she breathes -- and the long limbs lie at ease,
And the rise and fall of the young, slim, virginal breast
Is as certain-sweet as the march of slow wind through trees,
Or the great soft passage of clouds in a sky at rest.

I kneel, and our arms enlace, and we kiss long, long.
I am drowned in her as in sleep. There is no more pain.
Only the rustle of flames like a broken song
That rings half-heard through the dusty halls of the brain.

One shaking and fragile moment of ecstasy,
While the grey gloom flutters and beats like an owl above.
And I would not move or speak for the sea or the sky
Or the flame-bright wings of the miraculous Dove!

poem by Stephen Vincent Benet
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Close To The Wind

Written by gerry beckley and steve levine, 1994
Found on hourglass.
Ah
Lately, it hasnt been easy
Ive been wanderin all night
Searchin, tryin to find an answer
Why Im in this situation
Ive been sailing close to the wind
Trying to keep my head above water
Close to the wind, without you
Ive been sailing close to the wind
Everyday it just gets harder
But youre all I need to survive
For so long it felt like
I was walking on the water
I found the hard part
Is waking without you in the morning
Ive been sailing close to the wind
The weight of the worlds on my shoulders (everyday now)
Close to the wind, without you
Ive been sailing close to the wind
The loneliness its neverending (yes Im falling)
Open your heart, come aboard
And if were back together
I know our love will be everlasting
I still believe that theres a chance
For us to have a happy ending
Peace will reign on earth
Life for all its worth, oh yeah
I pray every single morning
That this time we will be much stronger
Ive been sailing close to the wind
Help me try to find a shelter (to protect you)
Close to the wind without you
Ive been sailing close to the wind
But inside its safe and warm now (were together)
Dont be afraid of the storm
Ive been sailing close, close to the wind (been sailing in)
(close to the wind) dont be afraid of the storm
Ive been sailing close, close to the wind (been sailing in)
(close to the wind) dont be afraid of the storm ...

song performed by by America
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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From this High Window

From this high window
the invisible wind
moves silent trees:
motion without sound,
dance without song.

Behind painted walls
and heavy curtains,
I cannot not hear
the tumult,

but opening the heavy door,
at last I hear the trees sing,
stirred to passion
by unseen hands
waving branches
swept up
by the compelling wind,

and drawn outside,
exposed and complete,
finally I face the clear maelstrom,
my own hair flying free,

and gaze at the trees,
wild men
dancing as they chant
savage hymns
to their howling god.

poem by Steven Federle
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On The Road

October, and eleven after dark:
Both mist and night. Among us in the coach
Packed heat on which the windows have been shut:
Our backs unto the motion—Hunt's and mine.
The last lamps of the Paris Station move
Slow with wide haloes past the clouded pane;
The road in secret empty darkness. One
Who sits beside me, now I turn, has pulled
A nightcap to his eyes. A woman here,
Knees to my knees—a twenty-nine-year-old—
Smiles at the mouth I open, seeing him:
I look her gravely in the jaws, and write.
Already while I write heads have been leaned
Upon the wall,—the lamp that's overhead
Dropping its shadow to the waist and hands.
Some time 'twixt sleep and wake. A dead pause then,
With giddy humming silence in the ears.
It is a Station. Eyes are opening now,
And mouths collecting their propriety.
From one of our two windows, now drawn up,
A lady leans, hawks a clear throat, and spits.
Hunt lifts his head from my cramped shoulder where
It has been lying—long stray hairs from it
Crawling upon my face and teazing me.
Ten minutes' law. Our feet are in the road.
A weak thin dimness at the sky, whose chill
Lies vague and hard. The mist of crimson heat
Hangs, a spread glare, about our engine's bulk.
I shall get in again, and sleep this time.
A heavy clamour that fills up the brain
Like thought grown burdensome; and in the ears
Speed that seems striving to o'ertake itself;
And in the pulses torpid life, which shakes
As water to a stir of wind beneath.
Poor Hunt, who has the toothache and can't smoke,
Has asked me twice for brandy. I would sleep;
But man proposes, and no more. I sit
With open eyes, and a head quite awake,
But which keeps catching itself lolled aside
And looking sentimental. In the coach,
If any one tries talking, the voice jolts,
And stuns the ear that stoops for it.
Amiens.
Half-an-hour's rest. Another shivering walk
Along the station, waiting for the bell.
Ding-dong. Now this time, by the Lord, I'll sleep.
I must have slept some while. Now that I wake,
Day is beginning in a kind of haze
White with grey trees. The hours have had their lapse.
A sky too dull for cloud. A country lain
In fields, where teams drag up the furrow yet;
Or else a level of trees, the furthest ones
Seen like faint clouds at the horizon's point.
Quite a clear distance, though in vapour. Mills
That turn with the dry wind. Large stacks of hay
Made to look bleak. Dead autumn, and no sun.
The smoke upon our course is borne so near
Along the earth, the earth appears to steam.
Blanc-Misseron, the last French station, passed.
We are in Belgium. It is just the same:—
Nothing to write of, and no good in verse.
Curse the big mounds of sand-weed! curse the miles
Of barren chill,—the twentyfold relays!
Curse every beastly Station on the road!
As well to write as swear. Hunt was just now
Making great eyes because outside the pane
One of the stokers passed whom he declared
A stunner. A vile mummy with a bag
Is squatted next me: a disgusting girl
Broad opposite. We have a poet, though,
Who is a gentleman, and looks like one;
Only he seems ashamed of writing verse,
And heads each new page with “Mon cher Ami.”
Hunt's stunner has just come into the coach,
And set us hard agrin from ear to ear.
Another Station. There's a stupid horn
Set wheezing. Now I should just like to know
—Just merely for the whim—what good that is.
These Stations for the most part are a kind
Of London coal-merchant's back premises;
Whitewashed, but as by hands of coal-heavers;
Grimy themselves, and always circled in
With foul coke-loads that make the nose aroint.
Here is a Belgian village,—no, a town
Moated and buttressed. Next, a water-track
Lying with draggled reeds in a flat slime.
Next, the old country, always all the same.
Now by Hans Hemmling and by John Van Eyck,
You'll find, till something's new, I write no more.
(4 HOURS)
There is small change of country; but the sun
Is out, and it seems shame this were not said:
For upon all the grass the warmth has caught;
And betwixt distant whitened poplar-stems
Makes greener darkness; and in dells of trees
Shows spaces of a verdure that was hid;
And the sky has its blue floated with white,
And crossed with falls of the sun's glory aslant
To lay upon the waters of the world;
And from the road men stand with shaded eyes
To look; and flowers in gardens have grown strong,
And our own shadows here within the coach
Are brighter; and all colour has more bloom.
So, after the sore torments of the route:—
Toothache, and headache, and the ache of wind,
And huddled sleep, and smarting wakefulness,
And night, and day, and hunger sick at food,
And twentyfold relays, and packages
To be unlocked, and passports to be found,
And heavy well-kept landscape;—we were glad
Because we entered Brussels in the sun.

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Until they lose everything

In the Springtime
The wind beats the trees
Until they lose
Their most beautiful flowers
In the Summertime
The wind beats the trees
Until they lose
Their most beloved fruits
In the Autumn time
The wind beats the trees
Until they lose
Their most painful leaves
In the Winter time
The wind beats the trees
Until they lose
Their hope.
And the wind beats again those trees
Until they lose
Their most important spring buds
Again and again
Until they lose their sap
Moreover
The wind beats the trees
Until they collapse down
To the ground.

poem by Marieta Maglas
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Nothin' Shakin'

I tried to find out
What love is all about,
And every day
It sure lets out.
I see my baby
I get week in my knees.
There's nothing shaking
But the leaves on the trees.
My pappie told me
There'd be times like these.
There's nothing shaking
But the leaves on the trees.
We meet the gang
And go to rocking joes.
The cats are something
On the heels and toes.
I grab my baby,
Tried to give her a squeeze.
There's nothing shaking
But the leaves on the trees.
Why must she be
Such a doggone tease?
There's nothing shaking
But the leaves on the trees.
She's got a way
That makes me act like a fool.
Spent my money,
Then she plays me cool.
I beg her for kisses
On my bended knees.
Oh won't you give me
Some loving, baby,
Please please please.
Though i keep trying hard
To make her mine,
One day the wind will blow
And the sun will shine.
Till that time
She puts my heart at ease.
There's nothing shaking
But the leaves on the trees
She locked my heart
And threw away the keys.
There's nothing shaking
But the leaves on the trees, yeah.
She's got a way
That makes me act like a fool.
Spent my money,
Then she plays me cool.
I'm begging her for kisses
On my bended knees.
Oh won't you give me
Some of your loving, baby,
Please please please.
Though i keep trying hard
To make her mine,
One day the wind will blow
And the sun will shine.
Till that time
She puts my heart at ease.
There's nothing shaking
But the leaves on the trees
She locked my heart
And threw away the keys.
There's nothing shaking
But the leaves on the trees
There's nothing shaking
But the leaves on the trees
There's nothing shaking
But the leaves on the trees
There's nothing shaking
But the leaves on the trees

song performed by by Beatles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nothin Shaking (But The Leaves On The Tree)

I found it out, what love is all about
And every day at three, when school lets out
I see my baby, I get weak in the knees
There's nothing shaking, but the leaves on the trees
My pappy told me there'll be times like these
There's nothing shaking, but the leaves on the trees
We meet the gang and go to rocking shows
The cats are stomping on their heels and toes
I got my baby, trying to give her a squeeze
There's nothing shaking, but the leaves on the trees
Well, why must she be such a doggone tease?
There's nothing shaking, but the leaves on the trees
She's got a way that makes me act like a fool
Spends my money, then she plays me cruel
I'm begging for kisses on my bended knees
Oh, won't you give me some more loving
Baby, please, please, please?
Though I keep trying hard to make her mine
One day, teh wind will blow and the sun will shien
Till that time, she puts my heart at ease
There's nothing shaking, but the leaves on the trees
She locked my heart and threw away the keys
There's nothing shaking, but the leaves on the trees
Yeah
She's got a way that makes me act like a fool
She spends my money, then she plays me cruel
I'm begging for kisses on my bended knees
Oh, won't you give me some more loving
Baby, please, please, please?
Though I keep trying hard to make her mine
One day, the wind will blow and the sun will shine
Till that time, she puts my heart at ease
There's nothing shaking, but the leaves on the trees
She locked my heart and threw away the keys
There's nothing shaking, but the leaves on the trees
There's nothing shaking, but the leaves on the trees
There's nothing shaking, but the

song performed by by Beatles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There Is a Solemn Wind Tonight

There is a solemn wind to-night
That sings of solemn rain;
The trees that have been quiet so long
Flutter and start again.

The slender trees, the heavy trees,
The fruit trees laden and proud,
Lift up their branches to the wind
That cries to them so loud.

The little bushes and the plants
Bow to the solemn sound,
And every tiniest blade of grass
Shakes on the quiet ground.

poem by Katherine Mansfield
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Antwerp To Ghent

We are upon the Scheldt. We know we move
Because there is a floating at our eyes
Whatso they seek; and because all the things
Which on our outset were distinct and large
Are smaller and much weaker and quite grey,
And at last gone from us. No motion else.
We are upon the road. The thin swift moon
Runs with the running clouds that are the sky,
And with the running water runs—at whiles
Weak 'neath the film and heavy growth of reeds.
The country swims with motion. Time itself
Is consciously beside us, and perceived.
Our speed is such the sparks our engine leaves
Are burning after the whole train has passed.
The darkness is a tumult. We tear on,
The roll behind us and the cry before,
Constantly, in a lull of intense speed
And thunder. Any other sound is known
Merely by sight. The shrubs, the trees your eye
Scans for their growth, are far along in haze.
The sky has lost its clouds, and lies away
Oppressively at calm: the moon has failed:
Our speed has set the wind against us. Now
Our engine's heat is fiercer, and flings up
Great glares alongside. Wind and steam and speed
And clamour and the night. We are in Ghent.

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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The Wind.

Who has seen the wind?
Of course, neither you nor I!
It's weak or strong
No body sees its appearance

Who has seen the wind?
Of course, neither I nor you!
Only feel trees are shaking,
I know the wind is passing through.

There are some winds called typhoon.
The residents are afraid when it's coming.
People most fear about the tornados mostly.
Everything’s being terribly pulled up to the sky.

It brings three days raining if a typhoon passed.
Therefore I don’t think they are too hateful.
There will be some affection when wind is coming.
It may bring us happiness or sadness.

Do you love the wind?
I love spring wind kisses on my face;
it is so soft like a lady’s touch.
I love autumn wind blows on fruit trees;
it brings the fruit’s smell to my nose.

Do you hate the wind?
My heart might be broken if it’s too strong.
I pray God lets lovely wind blowing.
I wish bad wind never causes harmful again.

Pray for people get help from the wind;
No body hates wind for the whole year;
I hope get more love from the wind.
Hope every body loves them as the friends.

poem by Albert Wong
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In The Train, And At Versailles

In a dull swiftness we are carried by
With bodies left at sway and shaking knees.
The wind has ceased, or is a feeble breeze
Warm in the sun. The leaves are not yet dry
From yesterday's dense rain. All, low and high,
A strong green country; but, among its trees,
Ruddy and thin with Autumn. After these
There is the city still before the sky.
Versailles is reached. Pass we the galleries
And seek the gardens. A great silence here,
Through the long planted alleys, to the long
Distance of water. More than tune or song,
Silence shall grow to awe within thine eyes,
Till thy thought swim with the blue turning sphere.

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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When I Go Alone At Night

WHEN I go alone at night to my love-tryst, birds do not sing, the wind does not stir, the houses on both sides of the street stand silent.
It is my own anklets that grow loud at every step and I am ashamed.

When I sit on my balcony and listen for his footsteps, leaves do not rustle on the trees, and the water is still in the river like the sword on the knees of a sentry fallen asleep.
It is my own heart that beats wildly -- I do not know how to quiet it.

When my love comes and sits by my side, when my body trembles and my eyelids droop, the night darkens, the wind blows out the lamp, and the clouds draw veils over the stars.
It is the jewel at my own breast that shines and gives light. I do not know how to hide it.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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The Gardener IX: When I Go Alone at Night

When I go alone at night to my
love-tryst, birds do not sing, the wind
does not stir, the houses on both sides
of the street stand silent.
It is my own anklets that grow loud
at every step and I am ashamed.
When I sit on my balcony and listen
for his footsteps, leaves do not rustle
on the trees, and the water is still in
the river like the sword on the knees
of a sentry fallen asleep.
It is my own heart that beats wildly
--I do not know how to quiet it.
When my love comes and sits by
my side, when my body trembles and
my eyelids droop, the night darkens,
the wind blows out the lamp, and the
clouds draw veils over the stars.
It is the jewel at my own breast
that shines and gives light. I do not
know how to hide it.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Oranges On Apple Trees

Oranges on apple trees
Birds that mate with bumblebees
Oranges on apple trees
Water comes and water goes
Where it ends up no one really knows
Water rises, water falls
Where it comes from no one knows for sure
It seeps from every pore
We have seen the rain before
Not like this - its flooding every shore
People come and people go
I can hear their laughter through the door
But no ones keeping score
Oranges on apple trees
Birds that mate with bumblebees
One big happy family
Endless possibilities
(yeah and more)
Oranges and apple trees
I see your face in front of me
Cant believe what no one else could see
I feel it deep inside of me
Everything we love shall be released
And everyone will see
Oranges on apple trees (for sure)
I used to be the only one
Not now since youve come
You and I have seen the signs
Thats why the wind died
The wind died
Thats why oranges on apple trees
Birds that mate with bumblebees
Endless possibilities (now)
Oranges on apple trees
All the things that we can see
Multi-gender wannabes
Oranges on apple trees
Birds that mate with bumblebees
One big happy family
Endless possibilities (yeah yeah yeah)
Oranges on apple trees (for sure)

song performed by by A-Ha
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Dawn Wind

The Fifteenth Century

At two o'clock in the morning, if you open your window and
listen,
You will hear the feet of the Wind that is going to call the sun.
And the trees in the shadow rustle, and the trees in the moonlight
glisten,
And though it is deep, dark night, you feel that the night is
done.

So do the cows in the field. They graze for an hour and lie down,
Dozing and chewing the cud; or a bird in the ivy wakes,
Chirrups one note and is still, and the restless Wind stares on,
Fidgeting far down the road, till, softly, the darkness breaks.

Back comes the Wind full strength with a blow like an angel's
wing,
Gentle but waking the world, as he shouts: "The Sun! The
Sun!"
And the light floods over the fields and the birds begin to sing,
And the Wind dies down in the grass. It is day and his work
is done.

So when the world is asleep, and there seems no hope of her
waking
Out of some long, bad dream that makes her mutter and moan,
Suddenly, all men arise to the noise of fetters breaking,
And every one smiles at his neighbor and tells him his soul is
his own!

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Wanting The Moon

Not the moon. A flower
on the other side of the water.

The water sweeps past in flood,
dragging a whole tree by the hair,

a barn, a bridge. The flower
sings on the far bank.

Not a flower, a bird calling
hidden among the darkest trees, music

over the water, making a silence
out of the brown folds of the river's cloak.

The moon. No, a young man walking
under the trees. There are lanterns

among the leaves.
Tender, wise, merry,

his face is awake with its own light,
I see it across the water as if close up.

A jester. The music rings from his bells,
gravely, a tune of sorrow,

I dance to it on my riverbank.

poem by Denise Levertov
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The way it goes. (BY A 12 YEAR OLD)

The wind in your hair,
the wind in your face, the wind in your toes,
the wind up in space.

The wind down below,
or even up higher.
as cold as ice,
or as hot as fire.

When the wind tieds down,
the grass stops moving.
The trees are still,
and grandma starts snoring.

The day comes to night,
The sun turns to moon.
Then I have to wait,
till morning to use a spoon.

Good night my child,
now, you rest up good!
for now you'll be sleeping,
aswell as the neighborhood.

So as you sleep,
I'll continue to sing.
and when the day comes
you'll get the chance,
to sing to your kids, my love.

poem by Braylyn Thomasson
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Moonlight Sonata

The Moonlight Sonata
coaxes light through the window
a warm glow is between us.
Then air turns to ash and
we close our eyes.
Once when we could still see,
there were hands between us.
One a teacup, the kind saved
for the careful company
the other a nesting bird
enveloping, gentle, weightless.
I could feel in your arms
steel bands that hummed
with precision over a vast
network of machinery,
driving one day into the next.
The smell of heat hung on you,
white heat, blast furnace heat.
Skin seared to ochre, a badge,
medallion, a sign of your time.
The heavy scent of oil, grease
and solvents hung like
a shroud around your shoulders.
The shoulders from where I could
see a world shaped by the will
of your vision,
the will of your back.
I could see your hair
black, curled, swept back
by the wind or tide as
you leaned in to stand your ground
or go under for the third time.
The leather chair smelled of
smoke and grass. I could
wait for you there while you
slept, slumped, heavy breath
moist, warm on the back of
my neck.
Then our eyes are open
you speak, finally, your voice
is soft and hollow the way
mourning doves purr as the
streetlights go out. All the
sadness and regret is in your eyes
so your voice can carry across
the room to meet the music halfway.
I hold your hand like a teacup
the taste of ash, the grit, on
my tongue. I wish for wind
any expansion of air so I can see
light through the window and
feel again
the warm glow between us.

poem by Ronald Shields
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The Fishes' Message, Poet: Sohrab Sepehri

I went to the pond
Hoping to see the reflection of my loneliness in the water

There was no water in the pond.
The fishes were saying:
'"It is not the trees' fault at all.
It was a sultry summer noon,
The bright son of water, sat by the pond's edge
And the eagle of the sun dived down and lifted him up & up in the air.

To hell with our not reaching any oxygen from water.
And the glitter has left our scales all together.
Instead, that big light,
The reflection of that red carnation in the water
Whose heart, if the wind was blowing, would beat behind the layers of neglect,
was our eyes.
It was a window to the confession of paradise.

If you see God in the palpitations of the garden,
Make an effort and tell him that the fishes'' pond is dry.'"

The wind was going to visit the plane tree,
I was going to visit God.

poem by Mehraneh Hosseini
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