En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Orchard-Pit

The Orchard-Pit
Piled deep below the screening apple-branch
They lie with bitter apples in their hands:
And some are only ancient bones that blanch,
And some had ships that last year's wind did launch,
And some were yesterday the lords of lands.

In the soft dell, among the apple-trees,
High up above the hidden pit she stands,
And there for ever sings, who gave to these,
That lie below, her magic hour of ease,
And those her apples holden in their hands.

This in my dreams is shown me; and her hair
Crosses my lips and draws my burning breath;
Her song spreads golden wings upon the air,
Life's eyes are gleaming from her forehead fair,
And from her breasts the ravishing eyes of Death.

Men say to me that sleep hath many dreams,
Yet I knew never but this dream alone:
There, from a dried-up channel, once the stream's,
The glen slopes up; even such in sleep it seems
As to my waking sight the place well known.

My love I call her, and she loves me well:
But I love her as in the maelstrom's cup
The whirled stone loves the leaf inseparable
That clings to it round all the circling swell,
And that the same last eddy swallows up.

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sweet Sour Apple Bites

Orchard of apple and variety
Here you come, the apples lover
Come sing and praise like always
'Shining around the skin
Your colour is my favorite apple
The fresh one
So is your taste'

Apples smile and sing
'If i am green
A sweet sour love
Bite one, bite two
Bite still
Taste me my apples lover
Taste my sweet sour love
I'm green and sour
Pluck me bite me my lover'

The hunter replies
Bite one and some
Tasted your sour love
Bite still because i am the apple lover'

Apples smile continue the song
'If i am red apple
Sweet and moist
Bite one, then two
Bite more
Taste my sweet life
I'm red and taste nice
Bite one bite some
Taste me sweet you will like it'

'Green or Red
Bite sweet or bite sour
I must love you my apples
simply because...
I am the true apple lover'
Explained hunter

Sweet red or sour green
Sugar rich energy will reach your heart sooner
Running in your blood and pump the beat so dear
'O apples my dear i grow you in orchard to be with me so near'
Confessed by gardener, before apple answered
'You work hard and love so sincere, will fruit you love every year'

Bite one, sweet or sour everyday
Promise keeps you away from doctor
Bite one Bite some Bite all say the lover
Energy, Protect you always said apple

If you love something, make it further
This is what apple and hunter tell you, No Fears

Credit to Ahmed Khaled to point some issues of apples
so what i can say here it was inspired by Ahmed Khaled and fair to say this is our collaboration. Took of the chance to dedicate this poem for Steve, Co founder of Apple...All his courage to chase his dream is what i really called as an apple lover...

Meaning of this poem,
I want to talk about 'Do what you want' choose what you like
It's not all about apples, it is about...if you have a dream (your future)
make it real either you taste it difficult or easy you will always enjoyed it
just like i tell you in the story, green or red, sweet or sour
the apple hunter/gardener still like it, why simple cause the hunter like it
..As you know what you like and nod for the challenge, you will
get satisfied with what are you having, doing...it's your favorite choice
..Include the words 'An apple a day keeps doctor away' hoping you
understand, you will safe and satisfy if you choose the path you like
and you will safe from regret..Chase your dream :) _Unwritten Soul

poem by Unwritten Soul
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Apples

I love apples,
Apples have crunch,
Lovely red apples,
Red, pink color, punch.
I love apple pies,
Family ties,

I love apple juice,
I call it zapple juice,
Without the fizz,
Or sugary twist,
Healthy fibre, Apple is.

poem by Philo Yan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Country Scrumping

Your country cousin took you
Across a field to a vast orchard
Where low hung branches
Made the green apples within
Reach of your young boy’s hands.
Don’t eat too many of them
Or you’ll get gut ache, she said.
Your eyes had never seen so
Many apples, row after row
In long lines down the field and
Fields beyond. You picked an apple
And bit into it. They make cider
From these, she said, picking off
An apple too and biting with relish.
Your younger sister looked nervously
On wondering if she too should pick.
Go on, your cousin said, pick and eat.
Your sister reached up and pulled
And a few apples fell to the ground
With soft sounds of thump on the
Short grass. She picked up one and
Brushed it off on her dress. Have to
Run if the farmer comes, your cousin
Said, and don’t tell of this or we’ll be
For it. For what? Your sister asked.
Your cousin looked around and replied,
A good telling off or a good tanned ass.
You stood all three of you eating, beneath
The apple trees, in the short green grass.

poem by Terry Collett
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Madona Mia

UNDER green apple-boughs
That never a storm will rouse,
My lady hath her house
Between two bowers;
In either of the twain
Red roses full of rain;
She hath for bondwomen
All kind of flowers.

She hath no handmaid fair
To draw her curled gold hair
Through rings of gold that bear
Her whole hair’s weight;
She hath no maids to stand
Gold-clothed on either hand;
In all the great green land
None is so great.

She hath no more to wear
But one white hood of vair
Drawn over eyes and hair,
Wrought with strange gold,
Made for some great queen’s head,
Some fair great queen since dead;
And one strait gown of red
Against the cold.

Beneath her eyelids deep
Love lying seems asleep,
Love, swift to wake, to weep,
To laugh, to gaze;
Her breasts are like white birds,
And all her gracious words
As water-grass to herds
In the June-days.

To her all dews that fall
And rains are musical;
Her flowers are fed from all,
Her joy from these;
In the deep-feathered firs
Their gift of joy is hers,
In the least breath that stirs
Across the trees.

She grows with greenest leaves,
Ripens with reddest sheaves,
Forgets, remembers, grieves,
And is not sad;
The quiet lands and skies
Leave light upon her eyes;
None knows her, weak or wise,
Or tired or glad.

None knows, none understands,
What flowers are like her hands;
Though you should search all lands
Wherein time grows,
What snows are like her feet,
Though his eyes burn with heat
Through gazing on my sweet,
Yet no man knows.

Only this thing is said;
That white and gold and red,
God’s three chief words, man’s bread
And oil and wine,
Were given her for dowers,
And kingdom of all hours,
And grace of goodly flowers
And various vine.

This is my lady’s praise:
God after many days
Wrought her in unknown ways,
In sunset lands;
This was my lady’s birth;
God gave her might and mirth
And laid his whole sweet earth
Between her hands.

Under deep apple-boughs
My lady hath her house;
She wears upon her brows
The flower thereof;
All saying but what God saith
To her is as vain breath;
She is more strong than death,
Being strong as love.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Still You

There's a stream through a glen
Where wild apples grow
It runs down to old cliffs
Where foxes and deer
Watch the wild waters foam
White upon winter shores

And I know it's still you
In the waves on the shore
In the stream through the glen
Still you in the moonlight
Where apple blossom glows
And sweet breezes still blow

On the braes by that stream
In cool morning dew
There's a world fresh and free
and still time to dream
of the old and the new
to remember what's true

And I know it's still you
In the waves on the shore
In the stream through the glen
Still you in the moonlight
Where apple blossom glows
And sweet breezes still blow

Now the stream calls me home
And in its wild song
There's a lost harmony
And here in this glen
By the moon's rise and fall
I know where I belong

And it's with you, still with you
By the waves on the shore
By the stream through the glen
With you in the moonlight
Where apple blossom glows
And sweet breezes still blow
where I'm with you, still with you

poem by Jim Hogg
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The Crossed Apple

I’ve come to give you fruit from out my orchard,
Of wide report.
I have trees there that bear me many apples.
Of every sort:

Clear, streaked; red and russet; green and golden;
Sour and sweet.
This apple’s from a tree yet unbeholden,
Where two kinds meet, -

So that this side is red without a dapple,
And this side’s hue
Is clear and snowy. It’s a lovely apple.
It is for you.

Within are five black pips as big as peas,
As you will find,
Potent to breed you five great apple trees
Of varying kind:

To breed you wood for fire, leaves for shade,
Apples for sauce.
Oh, this is a good apple for a maid,
It is a cross,

Fine on the finer, so the flesh is tight,
And grained like silk.
Sweet Burning gave the red side, and the white
Is Meadow Milk.

Eat it, and you will taste more than the fruit:
The blossom, too,
The sun, the air, the darkness at the root,
The rain, the dew,

The earth we came to, and the time we flee,
The fire and the breast.
I claim the white part, maiden, that’s for me.
You take the rest.

poem by Louise Bogan
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After Apple Picking

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still.
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples; I am drowsing off.
I cannot shake the shimmer from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the water-trough,
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and reappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
And I keep hearing from the cellar-bin
That rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking; I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall,
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised, or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.

poem by Robert Frost
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Nobody Loves Me Like You Do

duet with Jermaine Jackson

Like a candle burning bright
Love is glowing in your eyes
A flame to light our way
That burns brighter everyday
But now I have you
Nobody loves me like you do

Like a leaf upon the wind
I could find no place to land
I dreamed the hours away
And wondered everyday
Do dreams come true
Nobody loves me like you do

Chorus:
What if I'd never met you
Where would I be right now
Funny how life just falls in place somehow
You've touched my heart in places that I never even knew
Cause nobody loves me like you do

I was words without a tune
I was a song still unsung

A poem with know rhyme
A dancer out of time
But now there's you
Baby

song performed by by Whitney Houston from Whitney Houston
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Ballad of Dreamland

I hid my heart in a nest of roses,
Out of the sun's way, hidden apart;
In a softer bed than the soft white snow's is,
Under the roses I hid my heart.
Why would it sleep not? why should it start,
When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred?
What made sleep flutter his wings and part?
Only the song of a secret bird.

Lie still, I said, for the wind's wing closes,
And mild leaves muffle the keen sun's dart;
Lie still, for the wind on the warm seas dozes,
And the wind is unquieter yet than thou art.
Does a thought in thee still as a thorn's wound smart?
Does the fang still fret thee of hope deferred?
What bids the lips of thy sleep dispart?
Only the song of a secret bird.

The green land's name that a charm encloses,
It never was writ in the traveller's chart,
And sweet on its trees as the fruit that grows is,
It never was sold in the merchant's mart.
The swallows of dreams through its dim fields dart,
And sleep's are the tunes in its tree-tops heard;
No hound's note wakens the wildwood hart,
Only the song of a secret bird.

ENVOI

In the world of dreams I have chosen my part,
To sleep for a season and hear no word
Of true love's truth or of light love's art,
Only the song of a secret bird.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hermaphroditus

I.
LIFT UP thy lips, turn round, look back for love,
Blind love that comes by night and casts out rest;
Of all things tired thy lips look weariest,
Save the long smile that they are wearied of.
Ah sweet, albeit no love be sweet enough,
Choose of two loves and cleave unto the best;
Two loves at either blossom of thy breast
Strive until one be under and one above.
Their breath is fire upon the amorous air,
Fire in thine eyes and where thy lips suspire:
And whosoever hath seen thee, being so fair,
Two things turn all his life and blood to fire;
A strong desire begot on great despair,
A great despair cast out by strong desire.

II.
Where between sleep and life some brief space is,
With love like gold bound round about the head,
Sex to sweet sex with lips and limbs is wed,
Turning the fruitful feud of hers and his
To the waste wedlock of a sterile kiss;
Yet from them something like as fire is shed
That shall not be assuaged till death be dead,
Though neither life nor sleep can find out this.
Love made himself of flesh that perisheth
A pleasure-house for all the loves his kin;
But on the one side sat a man like death,
And on the other a woman sat like sin.
So with veiled eyes and sobs between his breath
Love turned himself and would not enter in.

III.
Love, is it love or sleep or shadow or light
That lies between thine eyelids and thine eyes?
Like a flower laid upon a flower it lies,
Or like the night’s dew laid upon the night.
Love stands upon thy left hand and thy right,
Yet by no sunset and by no moonrise
Shall make thee man and ease a woman’s sighs,
Or make thee woman for a man’s delight.
To what strange end hath some strange god made fair
The double blossom of two fruitless flowers?
Hid love in all the folds of all thy hair,
Fed thee on summers, watered thee with showers,
Given all the gold that all the seasons wear
To thee that art a thing of barren hours?

IV.
Yea, love, I see; it is not love but fear.
Nay, sweet, it is not fear but love, I know;
Or wherefore should thy body’s blossom blow
So sweetly, or thine eyelids leave so clear
Thy gracious eyes that never made a tear—
Though for their love our tears like blood should flow,
Though love and life and death should come and go,
So dreadful, so desirable, so dear?
Yea, sweet, I know; I saw in what swift wise
Beneath the woman’s and the water’s kiss
Thy moist limbs melted into Salmacis,
And the large light turned tender in thine eyes,
And all thy boy’s breath softened into sighs;
But Love being blind, how should he know of this?

Au Musée du Louvre, Mars 1863.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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The Song Of Wandering Aengus

I WENT out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands.
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

poem by William Butler Yeats
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Black Is The Color Of My True Loves Hair

Traditional
Black is the color of my true loves hair
His face so soft and wondrous fair
The purest eyes
And the strongest hands
I love the ground on where he stands
I love the ground on where he stands
Black is the color of my true loves hair
Of my true loves hair
Of my true loves hair
Oh I love my lover
And where he goes
Yes, I love the ground on where he goes
And still I hope
That the time will come
When he and I will be as one
When he and I will be as one
So black is the color of my true loves hair
Black is the color of my true loves hair
Black is the color of my true loves hair

song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Why still I love you!

A very mysterious, a very miraculous
A Very high and very deep
A Very wide and very charming
A Very holy and very hidden
Pulling my dream my hope
My desires my courage
My likes, my eyes, my mind
My lungs, my blood
My hands and my feet
My soul and my heart
The every part
The whole universe
And attracted towards
You the curious
The fantabulous
The gift
The bliss
The secret essence of life
The sweet
The delicious
The delicate
The means
The meaning
The driving force
The revolving center
The wonder
The surprise
Do you feel the same?
If yes,
Then we are in love
As the moon loves the sun
As the sky loves the ground
As the winds loves the cloud
As the river loves the ocean
If you not, I don't care
As I love the butterflies
The trees
The leaves
The flowers
The fruits
The air
The water
The nature
The whole universe
And they do feel the same
So I am alive
You are the part of
And the bees
Of all these
If they sting
I don't care
As I love myself
More wide than the sky
More deep than the ocean
More high than the hills
The life is very baffling
I feel uneasy
I am in jittery
I cant eat
I cant sleep
I am very angry
Not because
You don't love me
Because why still I love you!

poem by Abdul Wahab
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My Lullaby (Song)

Close your eyes
Go to sleep.
Find your soul
In arms I'll keep
Dream you Little dark Dream
In your eyes
There's a glow
See your dreams
Now you know
Dream you Little dark Dreams
See your dreams
Come alive
Watch them dance
Through your eyes
Dream you Little dark Dreams
Coming now into eternal
Slumber, Sleep your Life's infernal
Lies called dreams within our sorrow
Never waking for tomorrow
Bow your head
Lay on down
Wipe your tears
Do not frown
Dream Dream Dream Dream Dream Dream
Dream you Little dark Dreams
Tonight.

poem by Sans Serif
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Fiammetta

BEHOLD Fiammetta, shown in Vision here.
Gloom-girt 'mid Spring-flushed apple-growth she stands;
And as she sways the branches with her hands,
Along her arm the sundered bloom falls sheer,
In separate petals shed, each like a tear;
While from the quivering bough the bird expands
His wings. And lo! thy spirit understands
Life shaken and shower'd and flown, and Death drawn near.
All stirs with change. Her garments beat the air:
The angel circling round her aureole
Shimmers in flight against the tree's grey bole:
While she, with reassuring eyes most fair,
A presage and a promise stands; as 'twere
On Death's dark storm the rainbow of the Soul.

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Ballade of Summer's Sleep

Sweet summer is gone; they have laid her away-
The last sad hours that were touched with her grace-
In the hush where the ghosts of the dead flowers play;
The sleep that is sweet of her slumbering space
Let not a sight or a sound erase
Of the woe that hath fallen on all the lands:
Gather, ye dreams, to her sunny face,
Shadow her head with your golden hands.

The woods that are golden and red for a day
Girdle the hills in a jewelled case,
Like a girl's strange mirth, ere the quick death slay
The beautiful life that he hath in chase.
Darker and darker the shadows pace
Out of the north to the southern sands,
Ushers bearing the winter's mace:
Keep them away with your woven hands.

The yellow light lies on the wide wastes gray,
More bitter and cold than the winds that race,
From the skirts of the autumn, tearing away,
This way and that way, the woodland lace.
In the autumn's cheek is a hectic trace;
Behind her the ghost of the winter stands;
Sweet summer will moan in her soft gray place:
Mantle her head with your glowing hands.

Envoi.

Till the slayer be slain and the spring displace
The might of his arms with her rose-crowned bands,
Let her heart not gather a dream that is base:
Shadow her head with your golden hands.

poem by Archibald Lampman
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Choriambics

Love, what ailed thee to leave life that was made lovely, we thought, with love?
What sweet visions of sleep lured thee away, down from the light above?

What strange faces of dreams, voices that called, hands that were raised to wave,
Lured or led thee, alas, out of the sun, down to the sunless grave?

Ah, thy luminous eyes! once was their light fed with the fire of day;
Now their shadowy lids cover them close, hush them and hide away.

Ah, thy snow-coloured hands! once were they chains, mighty to bind me fast;
Now no blood in them burns, mindless of love, senseless of passion past.

Ah, thy beautiful hair! so was it once braided for me, for me;
Now for death is it crowned, only for death, lover and lord of thee.

Sweet, the kisses of death set on thy lips, colder are they than mine;
Colder surely than past kisses that love poured for thy lips as wine.

Lov'st thou death? is his face fairer than love's, brighter to look upon?
Seest thou light in his eyes, light by which love's pales and is overshone?

Lo the roses of death, grey as the dust, chiller of leaf than snow!
Why let fall from thy hand love's that were thine, roses that loved thee so?

Large red lilies of love, sceptral and tall, lovely for eyes to see;
Thornless blossom of love, full of the sun, fruits that were reared for thee.

Now death's poppies alone circle thy hair, girdle thy breasts as white;
Bloodless blossoms of death, leaves that have sprung never against the light.

Nay then, sleep if thou wilt; love is content; what should he do to weep?
Sweet was love to thee once; now in thine eyes sweeter than love is sleep.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Thoughts at the Trysting Stile

Come, May, and hang a white flag on each thorn,
Make truce with earth and heaven; the April child
Now hides her sulky face deep in the morn
Of your new flowers by the water wild
And in the ripples of the rising grass,
And rushes bent to let the south wind pass
On with her tumult of swift nomad wings,
And broken domes of downy dandelion.
Only in spasms now the blackbird sings.
The hour is all a-dream.

Nets of woodbine
Throw woven shadows over dreaming flowers,
And dreaming, a bee-luring lily bends
Its tender bell where blue dyke-water cowers
Thro' briars and folded ferns, and gripping ends
Of wild convolvulus.

The lark's sky-way
Is desolate.
I watch an apple-spray
Beckon across a wall as if it knew
I wait the calling of the orchard maid.
Inly I fell she will come in blue,
With yellow on her hair, and two curls strayed
Out of her comb's loose stocks, and I shall steal
Behind and lay my hands upon her eyes,
'Look not, but be my Psyche! '

And her peal
Of laughter will ring far, and as she tries
For freedom I will call her names of flowers
That climb up walls; then thro' the twilight hours
We'll talk about the loves of ancient queens,
And kisses like wasp-honey, false and sweet,
And how we are entangled in love's snares
Like wind-looped flowers.

poem by Francis Ledwidge
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His Love Rejected

his pain is still there when she said no.
the pain of rejection

his pain spreads like cancer throughout his body.
he is sick, and he does not want to say a word about his pain.

he wants to continue living though as a matter of an obligation.
the parents that he loves, the friends that he likes to be with.

her picture.
yes her picture is the one left for him.
he gazes upon her lips and kisses them like he is a passionate lover
loved by her.
he touches her hair, her cheeks, her neck, he dreams of her body
and makes love with her.
it is all in the mind, he says to himself on dark nights.

he closes his eyes and dreams of her

inside his dream she becomes a dove
he looks at her but it will just be that
just that.

he devises no traps, or concocts magic potions so she may love him
in return, or cage so he may trap her in his sole gaze forever,
he keeps his hands on his side his feet on the right ground
he opens his heart like a window looking out to sea

he is in pain and keeps on chanting he loves this dove very much
but still, still even
inside his dream, he wants her to fly and be happy and be peaceful
and be so free
away from him.

he keeps his tears inside his pockets.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Our Tree

When spring comes round, our apple tree
Is very full of flowers,
And when a bird sits on a branch
The petals fall in showers.

When summer comes, our apple tree
Is very full of green,
And everywhere you look in it
There is a leafy screen.

When autumn comes, our apple tree
Is full of things to eat.
The apples hang from every branch
To tumble at our feet.

When winter comes, our apple tree
Is full of snow and ice
And rabbits come to visit it...
We think our tree is nice.

poem by Marchette Chute
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