Possession
THERE is a cloud above the sunset hill,
That wends and makes no stay,
For its goal lies beyond the fiery west;
A lingering breath no calm can chase away,
The onward labour of the wind's last will;
A flying foam that overleaps the crest
Of the top wave: and in possession still
A further reach of longing; though at rest
From all the yearning years,
10 Together in the bosom of that day
Ye cling, and with your kisses drink your tears.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Song of the Sea-Wind
When the sun sets over the long blue wave
I spring from my couch of rest,
And I hurtle and boom over leagues of foam
That toss in the weltering west,
I pipe a hymn to the headlands high,
My comrades forevermore,
And I chase the tricksy curls of foam
O'er the glimmering sandy shore.
The moon is my friend on clear, white nights
When I ripple her silver way,
And whistle blithely about the rocks
Like an elfin thing at play;
But anon I ravin with cloud and mist
And wail 'neath a curdled sky,
When the reef snarls yon like a questing beast,
And the frightened ships go by.
I scatter the dawn across the sea
Like wine of amber flung
From a crystal goblet all far and fine
Where the morning star is hung;
I blow from east and I blow from west
Wherever my longing be-
The wind of the land is a hindered thing
But the ocean wind is free!
poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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A Wave of the Sea
I am a wave of the sea
And the foam of the wave
And the wind of the foam
And the wings of the wind.
My soul’s in the salt of the sea
In the weight of the wave
In the bubbles of foam
In the ways of the wind.
My gift is the depth of the sea
The strength of the wave
The lightness of foam
The speed of the wind.
poem by by unknown author
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Vanitas Vanitatis, Etc.
In all we do, and hear, and see,
Is restless Toil and Vanity;
While yet the rolling earth abides,
Men come and go like Ocean tides;
And ere one generation dies,
Another in its place shall rise.
That sinking soon into the grave,
Others succeed, like wave on wave;
And as they rise, they pass away.
The sun arises every day,
And hastening onward to the west
He nightly sinks but not to rest;
Returning to the eastern skies,
Again to light us he must rise.
And still the restless wind comes forth
Now blowing keenly from the north,
Now from the South, the East, the West;
For ever changing, ne'er at rest.
The fountains, gushing from the hills,
Supply the ever-running rills;
The thirsty rivers drink their store,
And bear it rolling to the shore,
But still the ocean craves for more.
'Tis endless labour everywhere,
Sound cannot satisfy the ear,
Sight cannot fill the craving eye,
Nor riches happiness supply,
Pleasure but doubles future pain;
And joy brings sorrow in her train.
Laughter is mad, and reckless mirth,
What does she in this weary earth?
Should wealth or fame our life employ,
Death comes our labour to destroy,
To snatch th' untasted cup away,
For which we toiled so many a day.
What then remains for wretched man?
To use life's comforts while he can:
Enjoy the blessings God bestows,
Assist his friends, forgive his foes,
Trust God, and keep His statutes still
Upright and firm, through good and ill --
Thankful for all that God has given,
Fixing his firmest hopes on heaven;
Knowing that earthly joys decay,
But hoping through the darkest day.
poem by Anne Brontë
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Peace
The red-rose flush fades slowly in the west.
The golden water, basking in the light,
Pales to clear amber and to silver white.
The velvet shadow of a flame-crowned crest
Lies dark and darker on its shining breast,
Till lonely mere and isle and mountain-height
Grow dim as dreams in tender mist of night,
And all is tranquil as a babe at rest.
So still! So calm! Will our life's eve come thus?
No sound of strife, of labour or of pain,
No ring of woodman's axe, no dip of oar.
Will work be done, and night's rest earned, for us?
And shall we wake to see sunrise again?
Or shall we sleep, to see and know no more?
poem by Ada Cambridge
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Vanitas Vanitatum, Omnia Vanitas
In all we do, and hear, and see,
Is restless Toil and Vanity.
While yet the rolling earth abides,
Men come and go like Ocean tides;
And ere one generation dies,
Another in its place shall rise;
That, sinking soon into the grave,
Others succeed, like wave on wave;
And as they rise, they pass away.
The sun arises every day,
And, hastening onward to the West,
He nightly sinks, but not to rest:
Returning to the eastern skies,
Again to light us, he must rise.
And still the restless wind comes forth,
Now blowing keenly from the North;
Now from the South, the East, the West,
For ever changing, ne'er at rest.
The fountains, gushing from the hills,
Supply the ever-running rills;
The thirsty rivers drink their store,
And bear it rolling to the shore,
But still the ocean craves for more.
'Tis endless labour everywhere!
Sound cannot satisfy the ear,
Light cannot fill the craving eye,
Nor riches half our wants supply;
Pleasure but doubles future pain,
And joy brings sorrow in her train;
Laughter is mad, and reckless mirth
What does she in this weary earth?
Should Wealth, or Fame, our Life employ,
Death comes, our labour to destroy;
To snatch the untasted cup away,
For which we toiled so many a day.
What, then, remains for wretched man?
To use life's comforts while he can,
Enjoy the blessings Heaven bestows,
Assist his friends, forgive his foes;
Trust God, and keep his statutes still,
Upright and firm, through good and ill;
Thankful for all that God has given,
Fixing his firmest hopes on heaven;
Knowing that earthly joys decay,
But hoping through the darkest day.
poem by Anne Brontë from Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (1846)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Dreamer on the Sea-shore
What are the dreams of him who may sleep
Where the solemn voice of the troubled deep
Steals on the wind with a sullen roar,
And the waters foam along the shore?
Who shelter'd lies in some calm retreat,
And hears the music of waves at his feet?
He sees not the sail that passes on
O'er the sunny fields of the sea, alone,
The farthest point that gleams on the sight,
A vanishing speck of glittering light.
He sees not the spray that, spreading wide,
Throws its lines of snow on the dark green tide;
Or the billows rushing with crests of foam
As they strove which first should reach their home—
Their home! What home has the restless main,
Which only arrives to return again,
Like the wand'rer she bears on her stormy breast,
Who seeks in vain for a place of rest.
Lo! His visions bear him along
To rocks that have heard the mermaid's song:
Or, borne on the surface of some dark surge,
Unharm'd he lies, while they onward urge
Their rapid course, and waft him away
To islands half hid 'midst the shadowy spray,
Where trees wave their boughs in the perfum'd gale,
And bid the wave-borne stranger hail;
Where birds are flitting like gems in the sun,
And streams over emerald meadows run,
That whisper in melody as they glide
To the flowers that blush along their side.
Sorrow ne'er came to that blissful shore,
For no mortal has entered that isle before:
There the Halcyon waits on the sparkling strand
Till the bark of her lover the Nautilus land;
She spreads her purple wings to the air,
And she sees his fragile vessel there—
She sees him float on the summer sea,
Where no breath but the sigh of his love may be.
The dreamer leaps towards that smiling shore—
When, lo! the vision is there no more!
Its trees, its flowers, its birds are gone—
A waste of waters is spread alone.
Plunged in the tide, he struggles amain—
High they pour, and he strives in vain:
He sinks—the billows close over his head,
He shrieks—'tis over—the dream is fled;
Secure he lies in his calm retreat,
And the idle waters still rave at his feet.
poem by Louisa Stuart Costello
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Reach my 6oal with all my 5oul
With all My might
Ill reach the light
If i drop
Ill never stop
The sun calls
cant walk then crawl
Ill reach the sun
Ill be number one
Can't be stopped now
No way no how
break my legs
Have my body dead
Still my soul, is on the go
Running through, that snowy road
I'll follow it down
I will astound
I'll reach my goal
With all my Soul
Follow the sun
down the road it runs
I'll reach my goal
With all my Soul
Stay in the shade
The sun will fade
Its alright, just feel the light
Feel the light, you'll feel the might
Dont bother looking at the kite
Or that sun will run out of sight
If you want it made
Drink some gatorade
cuz thats one, big long road
and its dam, winter cold
Stay with the flow
Stay on the go
Acheive your goal
and its yours to hold
poem by Stephen Gonzalez
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Beaumont and Fletcher:IV
AN HOUR ere sudden sunset fired the west,
Arose two stars upon the pale deep east.
The hall of heaven was clear for night’s high feast,
Yet was not yet day’s fiery heart at rest
Love leapt up from his mother’s burning breast
To see those warm twin lights, as day decreased,
Wax wider, till when all the sun had ceased
As suns they shone from evening’s kindled crest
Across them and between, a quickening fire,
Flamed Venus, laughing with appeased desire.
Their dawn, scarce lovelier for the gleam of tears,
Filled half the hollow shell ’twixt heaven and earth
With sound like moonlight, mingling moan and mirth,
Which rings and glitters down the darkling years.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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My butterfly kisses
Standing at the shore
the cool wind in my hair, my skin
and I remember one spring
you were here always
Shining over me graciously
I felt your butterfly kisses
my butterfly kisses mean so much to me
shall never let u go
This I promise our friendship
strongest of all rocks
Your love for me can't be fathom
The wave's crash on the rocks and hill
the white twirling waves
so close I am to you
So I never stray
You are beautiful beyond description
So close to the edge,
And I hold on tight
Knowing you're my anchor
my anchor, my breath
Oh my butterfly kisses
always at ease with you
Feel like home
you're butterfly kisses
Warm me to the core
And our butterfly kisses will last
on and on …………..
poem by Blessing Ekpe
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Book Of Suleika - Suleika 02
WHAT is by this stir reveal'd?
Doth the East glad tidings bring?
For my heart's deep wounds are heal'd
By his mild and cooling wing.
He the dust with sports doth meet,
And in gentle cloudlets chase;
To the vineleaf's safe retreat
Drives the insects' happy race,
Cools these burning cheeks of mine,
Checks the sun's fierce glow Adam,
Kisses, as he flies, the vine,
Flaunting over hill and plain.
And his whispers soft convey
Thousand greetings from my friend;
Ere these hills own night's dark sway,
Kisses greet me, without end.
Thus canst thou still onward go,
Serving friend and mourner too!
There, where lofty ramparts glow,
Soon the loved one shall I view.
Ah, what makes the heart's truth known,--
Love's sweet breath,--a newborn life,--
Learn I from his mouth alone,
In his breath alone is rife!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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The Awakening River
The gulls are mad-in-love with the river,
And the river unveils her face and smiles.
In her sleep-brooding eyes they mirror their shining wings.
She lies on silver pillows: the sun leans over her.
He warms and warms her, he kisses and kisses her.
There are sparks in her hair and she stirs in laughter.
Be careful, my beautiful waking one! You will catch
on fire.
Wheeling and flying with the foam of the sea on their
breasts,
The ineffable mists of the sea clinging to their wild wings,
Crying the rapture of the boundless ocean,
The gulls are mad-in-love with the river.
Wake! we are the dream thoughts flying form your heart.
Wake! we are the songs of desire flowing from your
bosom.
O, I think the sun will lend her his great wings
And the river will fly to the sea with the mad-in-
love birds.
poem by Katherine Mansfield
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Off Riviere Du Loup
O ship incoming from the sea
With all your cloudy tower of sail,
Dashing the water to the lee,
And leaning grandly to the gale,
The sunset pageant in the west
Has filled your canvas curves with rose,
And jeweled every toppling crest
That crashes into silver snows!
You know the joy of coming home,
After long leagues to France or Spain
You feel the clear Canadian foam
And the gulf water heave again.
Between these somber purple hills
That cool the sunset's molten bars,
You will go on as the wind wills,
Beneath the river's roof of stars.
You will toss onward toward the lights
That spangle over the lonely pier,
By hamlets glimmering on the heights,
By level islands black and clear.
You will go on beyond the tide,
Through brimming plains of olive sedge,
Through paler shadows light and wide,
The rapids piled along the ledge.
At evening off some reedy bay
You will swing slowly on your chain,
And catch the scent of dewy hay,
Soft blowing from the pleasant plain.
poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
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Song
WE sail toward evening’s lonely star
That trembles in the tender blue;
One single cloud, a dusky bar,
Burnt with dull carmine through and through,
Slow smouldering in the summer sky,
Lies low along the fading west.
How sweet to watch its splendors die,
Wave-cradled thus and wind-caressed!
The soft breeze freshens, leaps the spray
To kiss our cheeks, with sudden cheer;
Upon the dark edge of the bay
Lighthouses kindle, far and near,
And through the warm deeps of the sky
Steal faint star-clusters, while we rest
In deep refreshment, thou and I,
Wave-cradled thus and wind-caressed.
How like a dream are earth and heaven,
Star-beam and darkness, sky and sea;
Thy face, pale in the shadowy even,
Thy quiet eyes that gaze on me!
O realize the moment’s charm,
Thou dearest! we are at life’s best,
Folded in God’s encircling arm,
Wave-cradled thus and wind-caressed.
poem by Celia Thaxter
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A Noon Song
There are songs for the morning and songs for the night,
For sunrise and sunset, the stars and the moon;
But who will give praise to the fulness of light,
And sing us a song of the glory of noon?
Oh, the high noon, the clear noon,
The noon with golden crest;
When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns
With his face to the way of the west!
How swiftly he rose in the dawn of his strength;
How slowly he crept as the morning wore by;
Ah, steep was the climbing that led him at length
To the height of his throne in the wide summer sky.
Oh, the long toil, the slow toil,
The toil that may not rest,
Till the sun looks down from his journey's crown,
To the wonderful way of the west!
Then a quietness falls over meadow and hill,
The wings of the wind in the forest are furled,
The river runs softly, the birds are all still,
The workers are resting all over the world.
Oh, the good hour, the kind hour,
The hour that calms the breast!
Little inn half-way on the road of the day,
Where it follows the turn to the west!
There's a plentiful feast in the maple-tree shade,
The lilt of a song to an old-fashioned tune,
The talk of a friend, or the kiss of a maid,
To sweeten the cup that we drink to the noon.
Oh, the deep noon, the full noon,
Of all the day the best!
When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns
To his home by the way of the west.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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By the Cliffs of the Sea
In a far-away glen of the hills,
Where the bird of the night is at rest,
Shut in from the thunder that fills
The fog-hidden caves of the west—
In a sound of the leaf, and the lute
Of the wind on the quiet lagoon,
I stand, like a worshipper, mute
In the flow of a marvellous tune!
And the song that is sweet to my sense
Is, “Nearer, my God, unto Thee”;
But it carries me sorrowing hence,
To a grave by the cliffs of the sea.
So many have gone that I loved—
So few of the fathers remain,
That where in old seasons I moved
I could never be happy again.
In the breaks of this beautiful psalm,
With its deep, its devotional tone,
And hints of ineffable calm,
I feel like a stranger, alone.
No wonder my eyes are so dim—
Your trouble is heavy on me,
O widow and daughter of him
Who sleeps in the grave by the sea!
The years have been hard that have pressed
On a head full of premature grey,
Since Stenhouse went down to his rest,
And Harpur was taken away.
In the soft yellow evening-ends,
The wind of the water is faint
By the home of the last of my friends—
The shrine of the father and saint.
The tenderness touching—the grace
Of Ridley no more is for me;
And flowers have hidden the face
Of the brother who sleeps by the sea.
The vehement voice of the South
Is loud where the journalist lies;
But calm hath encompassed his mouth,
And sweet is the peace in his eyes.
Called hence by the Power who knows
When the work of a hero is done,
He turned at the message, and rose
With the harness of diligence on.
In the midst of magnificent toil,
He bowed at the holy decree;
And green is the grass on the soil
Of the grave by the cliffs of the sea.
I knew him, indeed; and I knew,
Having suffered so much in his day,
What a beautiful nature and true
In Bennett was hidden away.
In the folds of a shame without end,
When the lips of the scorner were curled,
I found in this brother a friend—
The last that was left in the world.
Ah! under the surface austere
Compassion was native to thee;
I send from my solitude here
This rose for the grave by the sea.
To the high, the heroic intent
Of a life that was never at rest,
He held, with a courage unspent,
Through the worst of his days and the best.
Far back in the years that are dead
He knew of the bitterness cold
That saddens with silver the head
And makes a man suddenly old.
The dignity gracing his grief
Was ever a lesson to me;
He lies under blossom and leaf
In a grave by the cliffs of the sea.
Above him the wandering face
Of the moon is a loveliness now,
And anthems encompass the place
From lutes of the luminous bough.
The forelands are fiery with foam
Where often and often he roved;
He sleeps in the sight of the home
That he built by the waters he loved.
The wave is his fellow at night,
And the sun, shining over the lea,
Sheds out an unspeakable light
On this grave by the cliffs of the sea.
poem by Henry Kendall
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Ye Wearie Wayfarer
Hark! the bells of distant cattle
Waft across the range,
Through the golden-tufted wattle
Music low and strange;
Like the marriage of peal fairies
Comes the tinkling sound,
Or like chimes of sweet St Mary's
On far English ground.
How my courser champs the snaffle,
And with nostrils spread,
Snorts and scarcely seems to ruffle
Fern leaves with his tread;
Cool and pleasant on his haunches
Blows the evening breeze,
Through the overhanging branches
Of the wattle trees;
Onward! to the Southern Ocean
Glides the breath of Spring.
Onward! with a dreamy motion,
I, too, glide and sing
Forward! forward! still we wander
Tinted hills that lie
In the red horizon yonder
Is the goal so nigh?
Whisper, spring wind, softly singing,
Whisper in my ear;
Respite and nepenthe bringing,
Can the goal be near?
Laden with the dew of vespers,
From the fragrant sky,
In my ear the wind that wispers
Seems to make reply
'Question not, but live and labour
'Til yon goal be won,
Helping every feeble neighbour,
Seeking help from none;
Life is mostly froth and bubble,
Two things stand like stone,
Kindness in another's trouble,
Courage in your own.
poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
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Beyond The Sunset
We all know of heaven
and all know where it lies,
beyond the sunset
of our passing lives.
We look to the west
at sunset in hope to see
a glimpse of heaven
that waits for us there.
A place that is wonderful
and peace reins everywhere
beyond the sunset none ever wants
to come back from there.
We go there with our dreams,
hopes, and ambitions
to rest forever
doing the things we want to do.
Beyond the sunset,
we reunite with old friends and loved ones
never with any worries
as our long sleep transcends.
28 January 2008
poem by David Harris
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Round The Compass Twice With The Wind
The wind’s in a whirl
In a cyclonic spin,
A mischievous girl
With intentions to sin.
With sharp cloven hoofs,
This she-devil conspires
To tear from our roofs
All the chimneys and tiles.
The wind’s in the north,
A philosopher’s stone,
For all that it’s worth,
Turning water to bone.
It’s longing to tell
Bedtime stories at night
To earth, in its spell,
Tucked in blankets of white.
The wind’s in the south,
Bringing soothing, warm balm
Breathed out from its mouth,
An oasis of calm,
Negating the strife
Of the winter’s harsh fling
And bringing new life
To the meadows in spring.
The wind’s in the east
As it tears through the sky,
A mythical beast
That’s inclined to be dry.
It fanned all the flames
To devour London town
By banks of the Thames,
Eaten down to the bone.
The wind’s in the west
Bringing drink after drought,
Salvation, so blest,
For each thirsty, green shoot.
High up, on the hills,
With a gardener’s hand,
It fills lakes and rills
From its watering can.
The wind, it is still
So, without it, the fog
Can flourish so chill
And develop as smog,
Whose dark, dismal gloom
Hangs about like a shroud
Of petrol-blue fume
In a thick, choking cloud.
The wind’s in a whirl
As it rises again
And longs to unfurl
All its might and its main
To break and destroy
Every tree in its path,
An imp of a boy
With a hideous laugh.
The wind’s in the north
And all nature’s in thrall
But yearns to break forth
From the ice-prison’s wall
But, under the gaze
Of a gaoler so grim,
There can be no ways
Of escaping from him.
The wind’s in the south:
Flames shoot out of the length
Of dragon-like mouth
Enervating our strength.
We accept defeat:
Shelter cannot supply
Escape from its heat
As we swelter and fry.
The wind’s in the east
And it bears, in its blast,
Hard hail’s sharp white teeth
On our gardens to cast.
Its bitterness blows,
In its underhand way,
Like thorns of sweet rose
Or a needle in hay.
The wind’s in the west,
A purveyor of rain,
From cloud treasure-chest,
From Atlantic’s domain,
With rich rainbow jewels,
He entices the girls
With deep, diamond pools
Filled with pure, raindropp pearls.
The wind, it is still;
It has run out of breath.
Each valley and hill
Is as silent as death.
The vertical smoke
Rises straight as a rod
As tall chimneys spoke
Sooty prayers to God.
poem by C. Richard Miles
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Book Of Suleika - Suleika 03
ZEPHYR, for thy humid wing,
Oh, how much I envy thee!
Thou to him canst tidings bring
How our parting saddens me!
In my breast, a yearning still
As thy pinions wave, appears;
Flow'rs and eyes, and wood, and hill
At thy breath are steeped in tears.
Yet thy mild wing gives relief,
Soothes the aching eyelid's pain;
Ah, I else had died for grief,
Him ne'er hoped to see again.
To my love, then, quick repair,
Whisper softly to his heart;
Yet, to give him pain, beware,
Nor my bosom's pangs impart.
Tell him, but in accents coy,
That his love must be my life;
Both, with feelings fraught with joy,
In his presence will be rife.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Sunset On L. A.
Blow east wind blow
Blow as you may
Wish I had the power
To take your breath away
This life is golden
But its only deep as the skin
Feelin much colder
Though Im standin in the warm desert wind
Gotta leave this town
Else Ill go crazy if I stay
If I see one more sunset on l.a.
Ill miss you blue sky
But not so much
Too much of a good thing
Keeps this old soul out of touch
Sometimes youre empty
Though your dreams they all seem fulfilled
Youre cool on the outside
Though the real you is slowly being killed
Gotta leave this town
Else Ill go crazy if I stay
If I see one more sunset on l.a.
Left a girl lyin neath an old willow tree
At times I think shell still be waitin there for me
Gotta leave this town
But its always one day away
Just saw one more sunset on l.a.
Gotta leave this town
Else Ill go crazy if I stay
If I see one more sunset on l.a.
One more sunset on l.a.
Dont want to see
One more sunset on l.a.
Baby wait for me
song performed by by Gino Vanelli
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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