En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Imitation

A dark unfathomed tide
Of interminable pride -
A mystery, and a dream,
Should my early life seem;
I say that dream was fraught
With a wild and waking thought
Of beings that have been,
Which my spirit hath not seen,
Had I let them pass me by,
With a dreaming eye!
Let none of earth inherit
That vision of my spirit;
Those thoughts I would control,
As a spell upon his soul:
For that bright hope at last
And that light time have past,
And my worldly rest hath gone
With a sigh as it passed on:
I care not though it perish
With a thought I then did cherish

poem by Edgar Allan Poe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Dreams

Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
My spirit not awakening, till the beam
Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.
Yes! tho' that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
'Twere better than the cold reality
Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,
And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,
A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.
But should it be- that dream eternally
Continuing- as dreams have been to me
In my young boyhood- should it thus be given,
'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.
For I have revell'd, when the sun was bright
I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light
And loveliness,- have left my very heart
In climes of my imagining, apart
From mine own home, with beings that have been
Of mine own thought- what more could I have seen?
'Twas once- and only once- and the wild hour
From my remembrance shall not pass- some power
Or spell had bound me- 'twas the chilly wind
Came o'er me in the night, and left behind
Its image on my spirit- or the moon
Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
Too coldly- or the stars- howe'er it was
That dream was as that night-wind- let it pass.

I have been happy, tho' in a dream.
I have been happy- and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life,
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality, which brings
To the delirious eye, more lovely things
Of Paradise and Love- and all our own!
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.

poem by Edgar Allan Poe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

A Dream

In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed-
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.

Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream- that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.

What though that light, thro' storm and night,
So trembled from afar-
What could there be more purely bright
In Truth's day-star?

poem by Edgar Allan Poe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Memoria

If only in my dreams I may behold thee,
Still hath the day a goal;
If only in my dreams I may enfold thee,
Still hath the night a soul.
Leaden the hours may press upon my spirit
Nor one dear pledge redeem;
I will not chide, so they at last inherit
And crown me with the rapture of that dream.

Ten thousand blossoms earth's gay gardens cherish;
One pale, pale rose is mine.
Of frost or blight the rest may quickly perish;
Not so that rose divine:
Deathless it blooms in quiet realms Elysian,
And when toil wins me rest,
Forgetful of all else, in blissful vision
I breathe my rose, and clasp it to my breast!

poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!

In Youth I have Known One

How often we forget all time, when lone
Admiring Nature's universal throne;
Her woods - her winds - her mountains - the intense
Reply of Hers to Our intelligence!

I.

In youth I have known one with whom the Earth
In secret communing held - as he with it,
In daylight, and in beauty, from his birth:
Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit
From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth
A passionate light - such for his spirit was fit -
And yet that spirit knew - not in the hour
Of its own fervour - what had o'er it power.

II.

Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought
To a fever by the moonbeam that hangs o'er,
But I will half believe that wild light fraught
With more of sovereignty than ancient lore
Hath ever told - or is it of a thought
The unembodied essence, and no more
That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass
As dew of the night time, o'er the summer grass?

III.

Doth o'er us pass, when as th' expanding eye
To the loved object - so the tear to the lid
Will start, which lately slept in apathy?
And yet it need not be - (that object) hid
From us in life - but common - which doth lie
Each hour before us - but then only bid
With a strange sound, as of a harpstring broken
T' awake us - 'Tis a symbol and a token -

IV.

Of what in other worlds shall be - and given
In beauty by our God, to those alone
Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven
Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone,
That high tone of the spirit which hath striven
Though not with Faith - with godliness - whose throne
With desperate energy 't hath beaten down;
Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.

poem by Edgar Allan Poe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Stanzas

How often we forget all time, when lone
Admiring Nature's universal throne;
Her woods- her wilds- her mountains- the intense
Reply of HERS to OUR intelligence! [BYRON, The Island.]

I

In youth have I known one with whom the Earth
In secret communing held- as he with it,
In daylight, and in beauty from his birth:
Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit
From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth
A passionate light- such for his spirit was fit-
And yet that spirit knew not, in the hour
Of its own fervor what had o'er it power.

II

Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought
To a fever by the moonbeam that hangs o'er,
But I will half believe that wild light fraught
With more of sovereignty than ancient lore
Hath ever told- or is it of a thought
The unembodied essence, and no more,
That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass
As dew of the night-time o'er the summer grass?

III

Doth o'er us pass, when, as th' expanding eye
To the loved object- so the tear to the lid
Will start, which lately slept in apathy?
And yet it need not be- (that object) hid
From us in life- but common- which doth lie
Each hour before us- but then only, bid
With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken,
To awake us- 'Tis a symbol and a token

IV

Of what in other worlds shall be- and given
In beauty by our God, to those alone
Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven
Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone,
That high tone of the spirit which hath striven,
Tho' not with Faith- with godliness- whose throne
With desperate energy 't hath beaten down;
Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.

poem by Edgar Allan Poe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Soul Within A Dream (Dream Within a Soul)

Near the sea,
I filled the earth with fan leaf tree
To give chirping robins a clasp, and hide
Late the day, one enjoys the ebbs of tide

Someday, one could tell what nature be
a dream that stays with me
All worries, pressure of the day subside
The future of the unborn child

Under which a soul could rest
From crux, a tortured crest
This place hath done whats fair
Epitaph of my sweet ember's care

Dream is noble for the soul
Whose soul dream not
Faint -hearted dream it is without soul
and soul it is that dream, if by dream is soul we ennoble

I dream and filled the earth today
Hoped that dream would always stay
The time will I expire and rest on the ground
My dream will grow, stand, and live this land

poem by Kristoffer Randolf Ramos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Earth’s Moments Of Gloom

“The heart knoweth its own bitterness”

The heart hath its moments of hopeless gloom,
As rayless as is the dark night of the tomb;
When the past has no spell, the future no ray,
To chase the sad cloud from the spirit away;
When earth, though in all her rich beauty arrayed,
Hath a gloom o’er her flowers—o’er her skies a dark shade,
And we turn from all pleasure with loathing away,
Too downcast, too spirit sick, even to pray!

Oh! where may the heart seek, in moments like this,
A whisper of hope, or a faint gleam of bliss?
When friendship seems naught but a cold, cheerless flame,
And love a still falser and emptier name;
When honors and wealth are a wearisome chain,
Each link interwoven with grief and with pain,
And each solace or joy that the spirit might crave
Is barren of comfort and dark as the grave.

Lift—lift up thy sinking heart, pilgrim of life!
A sure spell there is for thy spirit’s sad strife;
’Tis not to be found in the well-springs of earth,—
Oh! no, ’tis of higher and holier birth.

poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Happiest Day, the Happiest Hour

The happiest day- the happiest hour
My sear'd and blighted heart hath known,
The highest hope of pride and power,
I feel hath flown.

Of power! said I? yes! such I ween;
But they have vanish'd long, alas!
The visions of my youth have been-
But let them pass.

And, pride, what have I now with thee?
Another brow may even inherit
The venom thou hast pour'd on me
Be still, my spirit!

The happiest day- the happiest hour
Mine eyes shall see- have ever seen,
The brightest glance of pride and power,
I feel- have been:

But were that hope of pride and power
Now offer'd with the pain
Even then I felt- that brightest hour
I would not live again:

For on its wing was dark alloy,
And, as it flutter'd- fell
An essence- powerful to destroy
A soul that knew it well.

poem by Edgar Allan Poe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

the Happeist Day' - Edgar A. Poe

The happiest day - the happiest hour
My sear'd and blighted heart hath known,
The highest hope of pride and power,
I feel hath flown.

Of power! said I? yes! such I ween;
But they have vanish'd long, alas!
The visions of my youth have been-
But let them pass.

And, pride, what have I now with thee?
Another brow may even inherit
The venom thou hast pour'd on me
Be still, my spirit!

The happiest day - the happiest hour
Mine eyes shall see - have ever seen,
The brightest glance of pride and power,
I feel- have been:

But were that hope of pride and power
Now offer'd with the pain
Even then I felt - that brightest hour
I would not live again:

For on its wing was dark alloy,
And, as it flutter'd - fell
An essence - powerful to destroy
A soul that knew it well.

- Edgar Allen Poe

poem by Erica Green
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Moonlight

The moon hath risen o'er the silent height
Of the blue vaulted heaven—and each star
Is faintly glimmering in its silver light,
That dimly shows the mountain-tops afar,
And lights the fleecy clouds that, floating there,
By turns obscure its brightness—while around,
The spell of silence hangs o'er earth and air;
And not a rude intruding voice, or sound,
Falls on the ear, or mars the solitude profound.

Prompter of wild imagination's flight!
How soft the witchery that enrobes thy beam,
That sheds its magic o'er the gloom of night,
And wraps the soul within its brightest dream,
Till heaven and earth are mingled—and we seem,
With airy beings of the land of thought,
To hold high converse—till we almost deem
They are indeed with life and being fraught,
And not in fancy's wild unreal visions wrought.

Now rise the treasured thoughts of other days,
And all the scenes that by-past years have known;
And memory sheds her reminiscent rays
Around the hopes and pleasures that have flown,
And gives again to being every tone,
That once like music on our pulses thrill'd;
When childhood's gaiety was all our own,
And even tears, like dew in flowers distill'd,
Gave brightness to the dreams that hope delights to build.

Star-spangled vault of glory! who could gaze
With coldness or with carelessness at thee?
Or view the earth illumined by thy rays,
Nor feel the spirit for a moment free
From all terrestrial feelings?—Can it be
That in yon spheres translated spirits dwell?
It may be fancy's whisper—but to me
It sounds scarce strangely—though we may not tell
Of what awaits beyond our shortly pealing knell

poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!

Lines On the Death of Two Children

WRITTEN WHEN BUT FIFTEEN YEARS OF AGE.

They sleep! but not theirs is the slumber that breaketh,
When night with its gloom and its darkness hath flown;
The morn in the light of its beauty awaketh,
But in silence and darkness they still slumber on:
They sleep, but no visions of sleep are around them,
That silence, that darkness, can never confound them;
For death, icy death, in his fetters hath bound them,
And round the young spirit his cold spell hath thrown.

Together in youth's brightest bloom they have wither'd,
Ere grief their young spirits had clouded with gloom,
And like flowers, in the light of their loveliness gather'd,
Whose fragrance is sweetest when faded their bloom;
So still shall their memory fondly be nourish'd,
In the hearts of their friends shall their virtues be cherish'd,
And though in the prime of their life they have perish'd,
Their remembrance shall be as a grateful perfume.

It is sad to see youth in its loveliness dying,
Ere the freshness of spirit hath wasted away,
While the earth seems around like a paradise lying,
And the hopes of the bosom too bright for decay—
Before life's cup of care hath imparted its fever—
Ere hope, smiling hope hath been proved a deceiver—
This world seems too lovely to part with forever,
To mingle again with inanimate clay.

And thus have they died while their hopes were the fairest,
While life only seem'd like a beautiful dream,
Adorn'd with whatever is richest or rarest,
Whatever most bright to the senses may seem—
They died, and the cold turf is resting above them—
They heed not the grief of the bosoms that love them,
The tears of affection no longer can move them,
Or wake them again to the day's joyous beam.

Consumption! 't is thou that their life-springs hast wasted!
'T is thou that hast wither'd the bud in its bloom!
“T is thou the young tree in its greenness hast blasted,
And o'er them hast thrown the dark veil of the tomb!
Thou foe to the lovely, the gay, and the blooming!
How soon the bright spirit, the features illuming,
Will fade from the cheek and the eye at thy coming,
Save when the bright hectic disperses their gloom.

O Death! it is strange how thy cold touch will alter
The forms that so lately were healthy and gay—
On the lips once so bright, life a moment will falter,
The next, they are pallid and motionless clay.
The lips and the eyes with bright happiness glowing,
The bosom proud beating of sorrow unknowing,
The gush of emotion around the heart glowing,
How soon will they perish and wither away!

And yet, it were better to die in life's morning,
Before we have seen its illusions depart,
Than to live when the flowers that our life were adorning,
Have wither'd, and hope hath deserted the heart—
'T were better, when mandate of death has been spoken,
That slowly and singly life's chords should be broken,
Than in health's brightest bloom without warning or token
At once to be stricken by death's fatal dart.

Had they lived, other ties to the earth would have bound them,
Withholding the spirit from rising on high,
And dearer and warmer affections twined round them,
Embittering doubly the life-parting sigh—
When parents for stay on the young are reclining
When husband or wife round the bosom are twining,
Or orphans are left in the cold world repining,
Oh! then it indeed must be anguish to die.

It is painful to stand by the couch of the dying,
And watch the pale form speeding fast to decay,
In anguish to list to the half-broken sighing,
That tells from the heart life is stealing away,
Yet then—while its flight the loved spirit is winging
While in agony round the pale form we are clinging,
Even then—brighter hopes in the bosom are springing,
As we feel that our parting is but for to-day.

poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!

The Last Song of Sappho

SOUND on, thou dark unslumbering sea!
My dirge is in thy moan;
My spirit finds response in thee,
To its own ceaseless cry-'Alone, alone !'

Yet send me back one other word,
Ye tones that never cease !
Oh ! let your secret caves be stirr'd,
And say, dark waters! will ye give me peace?

Away! my weary soul hath sought
In vain one echoing sigh,
One answer to consuming thought
In human hearts-and will the wave reply ?

Sound on, thou dark, unslumbering sea!
Sound in thy scorn and pride !
I ask not, alien world, from thee,
What my own kindred earth hath still denied.

And yet I loved that earth so well,
With all its lovely things!
-Was it for this the death-wind fell
On my rich lyre, and quench'd its living strings?

-Let them lie silent at my feet !
Since broken even as they,
The heart whose music made them sweet,
Hath pour'd on desert-sands its wealth away.

Yet glory's light hath touch'd my name,
The laurel-wreath is mine-
-With a lone heart, a weary frame-
O restless deep ! I come to make them thine !

Give to that crown, that burning crown,
Place in thy darkest hold!
Bury my anguish, my renown,
With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold.

Thou sea-bird on the billow's crest,
Thou hast thy love, thy home;
They wait thee in the quiet nest,
And I, the unsought, unwatch'd-for-I too come!

I, with this winged nature fraught,
These visions wildly free,
This boundless love, this fiery thought-
Alone I come-oh ! give me peace, dark sea!

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Sonnet V

Dreamt I today the dream of yesternight,
Sleep ever feigning one evolving theme -
Of my two lives which should I call the dream?
Which action vanity? Which vision sight?
Some greater waking must pronounce aright,
If aught abides still of the things that seem,
And with both currents swell the flooded stream
Into an ocean infinite of light.

Even such a dream I dream, and know full well
My waking passes like a midnight spell,
But know not if my dreaming could break through
Into the deeps of heaven and of hell.
I know but this of all I would I knew:
Truth is a dream, unless my dream is true.

poem by George Santayana
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Death-Day Of Korner

A song for the death-day of the brave
A song of pride!
The youth went down to a hero's grave,
With the sword, his bride.

He went, with his noble heart unworn,
And pure, and high;
An eagle stooping from clouds of morn,
Only to die!

He went with the lyre, whose lofty tone
Beneath his hand
Had thrill'd to the name of his God alone,
And his Father-land.

And with all his glorious feelings yet
In their first glow,
Like a southern stream that no frost hath met
To chain its flow.

A song for the death-day of the brave
A song of pride!
For him that went to a hero's grave,
With the sword, his bride.

He hath left a voice in his trumpet-lays
To turn the flight,
And a guiding spirit for after days,
Like a watch-fire's light.

And a grief in his father's soul to rest,
Midst all high thought;
And a memory unto his mother's breast,
With healing fraught.

And a name and fame above the blight
Of earthly breath,
Beautiful beautiful and bright,
In life and death!

A song for the death-day of the brave
A song of pride!
For him that went to a hero's grave,
With the sword, his bride!

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

It Is No Spirit Who From Heaven Hath Flown

IT is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown,
And is descending on his embassy;
Nor Traveller gone from earth the heavens to espy!
'Tis Hesperus--there he stands with glittering crown,
First admonition that the sun is down!
For yet it is broad day-light: clouds pass by;
A few are near him still--and now the sky,
He hath it to himself--'tis all his own.
O most ambitious Star! an inquest wrought
Within me when I recognised thy light;
A moment I was startled at the sight:
And, while I gazed, there came to me a thought
That I might step beyond my natural race
As thou seem'st now to do; might one day trace
Some ground not mine; and, strong her strength above,
My Soul, an Apparition in the place,
Tread there with steps that no one shall reprove!

poem by William Wordsworth
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Night

Earth! thou art lovely, when the sinking sun
Hath bathed the clouds in his departing flush,
And, with the moon-lit evening, hath begun
The voiceless, and yet spirit-calming hush,
That thrills around the heart, till tear-drops rush,
Unbidden and uncall'd for, to the eye;
When, save the music of the fountain's gush,
Or the far wailing of the night-bird's cry,
Unbroken silence hangs o'er earth, and wave, and sky.

But now the majesty of midnight storm
Is gathering, in its grandeur, o'er the sky;
The deep black clouds in mustering squadrons form,
And the low, fitful blast, that passes by,
Hath a strange fearful thrilling—like the sigh
Of a sick slumberer; even that hath died,
And in their quiet sleep the waters lie,
As though the winds ne'er curl'd them in its pride,
Or shook the still bent leaves that hang above the tide.

How steadily that ebon mass moves on!
Stretching across the sky in one dark line,
Like a huge wall of blackness; there do none
Of the thin silvery vapours hang supine,
Or those bright clouds that sometimes seem to twine
A coronal to grace the brow of night;
Stars in Orion's studded baldric shine,
In all their wonted brightness; and the light
Of an unclouded moon half dims the dazzled sight.

The tempest hurries onward—how the flash
Of the red lightning leaps from cloud to cloud!
The gathering thunder bursts in one wild crash,
And sinks a moment—then, returning loud,
Seems bounding o'er the sky, as if 't were proud
Of its own potency. We need not now,
A sharer in the thoughts that round us crowd;
The soul is its own world, and the deep glow
Of the rapt spirit seeks no fellowship below.

The wildness of the storm hath pass'd; the rain
Drips from the wet leaves only, and the sky,
With its deep azure beauty, gleams again
Through the rent clouds; the sunken wind swells by,
With a low sobbing; and the clouds, heap'd high,
With the rich moonbeams’ streaming flood of light
Pour'd full upon them, swell before the eye
Like distant snow-clad mountains. Night! O night!
Thou art most glorious! most beautifully bright!

poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!

The Prison Bell

Hark to the bell of sorrow! - 'tis awak'ning up again
Each broken spirit from its brief forgetfulness of pain.
Its sad sound seems to me to be a deathwail from the past,
An elegy for buried joys too pure and bright to last.
It haunts me like an echo from the dark depths of despair,
And conjures up the fiend-like forms of misery and care;
The saddest of the sorrowful, its tones bright dreams dispel,
For waking woes are summoned by the harsh-toned prison bell.

It tells me that I am not now what once I used to be,
A dearly loved and loving boy whose heart was light with glee;
It tells me that life's coming years must be long years of pain,
And that my brow with innocence can ne'er be wreathed again:
That I must wander through this world all friendless and forlorn,
Unsolaced by affection's smile, the thing of shame and scorn.
Those fearful tones, those dirge-like tones, what fearful tales they tell!
It rings the death of hope and joy, that sadly sounding bell.

How oft when some bright vision of the days of olden time
Comes o'er me like an angel dream from heaven's own hallowed clime,
And beautiful and holy things - the bright stars and the flowers,
And childhood's prayer - were dear to me as in life's sinless hours.
How oft, too, when in such dreams I wander by the side
Of one fair form whom virtue might have won me for my bride,
They come, those tones so horrible, those drear tones through my cell,
And memory shuddereth to hear the harsh-toned prison bell.

That bell! - how many hear it sound who've ceased to struggle long,
Who, reckless of crime's after doom, have linked themselves to wrong;
And heard it is with shuddering and tearful vain regret
By those who for one first bad act for years must suffer yet.
'Tis also sadly heard by some strange-struggling beings who
Cling to the false and evil while they love the good and true;
And some - a few - all innocent, who've learned, alas! Too well
That man's best judgement sometimes errs, may weep to hear that bell.

I've heard it when bright memories have crowded to my brain,
When hopes and aspirations high have whispering come again;
And it hath sought to crush each thought that fain would save from ill.
As wildly it hath chanted forth, 'Despair; be evil still.'
But no, a prison oft hath proved a holy place of yore,
And if the heart yearns for the good, God will the good restore,
Then courage soul: let faith's bright beams grief's darksome shades dispel,
And days of joy may yet be thine far from the prison bell.

poem by Owen Suffolk
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Waking dream

Ooh waking dream ooh waking dream
That causes all my agony
I heave with anguish meshed with misery
For your departure like the rapture
Has taken any hope for a blissful eternity

Ooh waking dream ooh waking dream
Pawn has made its move to take the queen
A lonely king to make seven moves
To escape with pride and not to loose

Waking dream that fades away
Like a beautiful sunset that ends a day
Usher darkness into my life
With madness is how I cope at nights

Hide any weakness in murkiness
Having every answer and still I guess

Ooh waking dream ooh waking dream
Your a reflection of a dying memory

poem by Raymond Valadez
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Fancy and the Poet

Poet --

Enchanting spirit! -- at thy votive shrine
I lowly bend a simple wreath to twine;
O Come from the ideal world and fling
Thy airy fingers o'er my rugged string;
Sweep the dark chords of thought and give to earth
The thrilling song that tells thy heavenly birth --

Fancy --

Happiness when from earth she fled
I passed on her heavenward flight --
"Take this crown," the spirit said
"Of heaven's own golden light --
To the sons of sorrow the token give,
And bid them follow my steps and live!" --

I took the crown from the snowy hand,
It flashed like a living star;
I turned this dark earth to a fairy land
When I hither drive my car;
But I placed the crown round my tresses bright,
And man only saw its reflected light --

Many a lovely dream I've given,
And many a song divine;
But never! -- oh never -- that gift of heaven
Shall mortals temples twine --
Hope and love in the circlet glow!
'Tis all too bright for a world of woe --

Poet --

Hist -- Beautiful spirit! -- why silent so soon?
My ear drinks each word of thy magical tune;
My lyre owns thy touch -- and its tremulous strings
Vibrate beneath the soft play of thy wings;
Resume thy sweet lay, and reveal, ere we part
Thy home lovely spirit -- and say what thou art?" --

Fancy --

The gleam of a star thou cans't not see --
Of an eye 'neath its sleeping lid,
The sound of a far off melody
The voice of a stream that's hid;
Such must I still remain to thee
A wonder and a mystery! --

I live in the poet's dream
I flash on the painter's eye;
I dwell in the moon's pale beam,
In the depths of the star lit sky;
I traverse the earth, the air, the main,
And bind young hearts in my magic chain --

I float on the fleecy cloud
My voice is in ev'ry breeze;
I speak in the tempest loud,
In the sigh of the waving trees --
To the sons of earth -- in a mystic tone,
I tell of a world more bright than their own! --

poem by Susanna Strickland Moodie
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

To One Of The Author's Children

On His Birthday, 27 August, 1825.

THOU wak'st from happy sleep to play
With bounding heart, my boy!
Before thee lies a long bright day
Of summer and of joy.

Thou hast no heavy thought or dream
To cloud thy fearless eye;?
Long be it thus?life's early stream
Should still reflect the sky.

Yet ere the cares of life lie dim
On thy young spirit's wings,
Now in thy morn forget not Him
From whom each pure thought springs!

So in the onward vale of tears,
Where'er thy path may be,
When strength hath bowed to evil years?
He will remember thee.

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!