Charles Webster
The pine woods on the hill,
And the farmhouse miles away,
Showed clear as though behind a lens
Under a sky of peacock blue!
But a blanket of cloud by afternoon
Muffled the earth. And you walked the road
And the clover field, where the only sound
Was the cricket's liquid tremolo.
Then the sun went down between great drifts
Of distant storms. For a rising wind
Swept clean the sky and blew the flames
Of the unprotected stars;
And swayed the russet moon,
Hanging between the rim of the hill
And the twinkling boughs of the apple orchard.
You walked the shore in thought
Where the throats of the waves were like whippoorwills
Singing beneath the water and crying
To the wash of the wind in the cedar trees,
Till you stood, too full for tears, by the cot,
And looking up saw Jupiter,
Tipping the spire of the giant pine,
And looking down saw my vacant chair,
Rocked by the wind on the lonely porch --
Be brave, Beloved!
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Related quotes
Up On Helderberg Hill In A Vast Pine Forest
Up on Helderberg hill in a vast pine forest,
the wind gently rushes through the trees,
the scent of pine is everywhere about me,
while far beneath at the Strand beach
waves are forever braking against the shore,
a far off church bell rings somewhat solitary,
as the twilight falls all over us with silver,
with a magical garment that covers everything
and you look lovely, somewhat like a toy doll
with stars twinkling with twilight in your eyes,
in you my desire flames forever, rivers flow deep
while you send it where and when you will
aim glances, smiles and touching soft lips
while you are drawing all of my arrows,
silences have a own painful meaning
but our embraces, kisses and touch do anchor
in something much darker and deeper
than the coming of this approaching night,
while you kiss me breathless like the wind
that is dying, draw me tenderly in to the grass.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Song - Sea of Sand
You sent me to the moon
Across a silent sea of sand
I was reaching for your hand
But you were standing on a hill
You launched me to the moon
Across the wind between the stars
I was reaching through the sand
But I was fading out of view
I was just a photograph
An old fading black and white
Taken by a passer-by
When the sun was out of sight
You sent me to the moon
I caught the desolation bus
There was no-one there but us
I saw your shadow on the sand
You sent me to the moon
Down every road we’ve ever walked
Every place we strayed or talked
When we were higher than the wind
I went searching all the stars
Between the avenues and bars
You were everywhere I went
In a different universe
You sent me to the moon
Across the frozen wastes of old
Where the howling wind blew cold
Where I lost you in the snow
You sent me to the moon
Although I didn’t want to know
But I built myself a home
Between the rainbow and the stones
I was frozen to the bone
In the icy wind of truth
I was free and on my own
In my castle on the moon
You sent me to the moon
Across a silent sea of sand
I was reaching for your hand
But you were standing on a hill
(Thanks to Tailor Bell for 'higher than the wind')
The Three Voices
The waves have a story to tell me,
As I lie on the lonely beach;
Chanting aloft in the pine-tops,
The wind has a lesson to teach;
But the stars sing an anthem of glory
I cannot put into speech.
The waves tell of ocean spaces,
Of hearts that are wild and brave,
Of populous city places,
Of desolate shores they lave,
Of men who sally in quest of gold
To sink in an ocean grave.
The wind is a mighty roamer;
He bids me keep me free,
Clean from the taint of the gold-lust,
Hardy and pure as he;
Cling with my love to nature,
As a child to the mother-knee.
But the stars throng out in their glory,
And they sing of the God in man;
They sing of the Mighty Master,
Of the loom his fingers span,
Where a star or a soul is a part of the whole,
And weft in the wondrous plan.
Here by the camp-fire's flicker,
Deep in my blanket curled,
I long for the peace of the pine-gloom,
When the scroll of the Lord is unfurled,
And the wind and the wave are silent,
And world is singing to world.
poem by Robert William Service
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Nature’s call
Over the trees and hill, I wake up alone
I call the name in every wind
When nobody to find, the sound of bird’s crying
Inside the evening glow, I stare at sea of stars
The world is eaten by the dark
When the rain falls, the sound of river’s changed
Under the red sky, I wash my tears
The smell of dew and grass fill my lungs
When I hear your voice, the sound of thunder is distant
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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The Snow Man
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
poem by Wallace Stevens
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Spring Morning
Where am I going? I don't quite know.
Down to the stream where the king-cups grow-
Up on the hill where the pine-trees blow-
Anywhere, anywhere. I don't know.
Where am I going? The clouds sail by,
Little ones, baby ones, over the sky.
Where am I going? The shadows pass,
Little ones, baby ones, over the grass.
If you were a cloud, and sailed up there,
You'd sail on water as blue as air,
And you'd see me here in the fields and say:
'Doesn't the sky look green today?'
Where am I going? The high rooks call:
'It's awful fun to be born at all.'
Where am I going? The ring-doves coo:
'We do have beautiful things to do.'
If you were a bird, and lived on high,
You'd lean on the wind when the wind came by,
You'd say to the wind when it took you away:
'That's where I wanted to go today!'
Where am I going? I don't quite know.
What does it matter where people go?
Down to the wood where the blue-bells grow-
Anywhere, anywhere. I don't know.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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Full Moon Behind The Broken Femur Of A Jack Pine
Full moon behind the broken femur of a jack pine
shattered by the wind on the ridge of the hill,
its pagoda of boughs, nothing but a lean-to now
for deer mice, fox, rabbit, groundhogs.
Old manuscripts of rock striated and stacked
by retreating glaciers
washing their hands of themselves.
The hill has never known a messiah
and the glaciers wrote for themselves.
The mast of the moon boat wrecked,
The rectal stake of Vlad the Impaler.
The axis of the world for the auto de fe
of some future heretic
with a penchant for the tragic.
No culpability in the event.
Hawk with an injured wing,
molar, stalagmite, Cinderella
sweeping up the pieces of a broken chandelier
so she won't cut her feet on the stars.
This tree talked to God.
This tree broke like an arrow
to make a truce with the wind.
Detonations of juniper and red ground willow,
splashes of tears and blood
going off like improvised explosive devices
in a mine-field covered in snow.
This tree was caught in a war-zone.
This tree is trying to flag a fighter back on deck.
This tree sailed out and met the French at Trafalgar.
This tree is a seasoned cannoneer
without a leg to stand on.
This tree is the capital A of a sacred alphabet.
The moon rises and shrinks from apricot
to blue-white toward zenith
and somehow metaphors
run off the back of the silence here
like water off a water bird
as a fractured pine
puts its finger up to my lips
and says shhhhhhh
there's nothing that can be said
that's going to make me whole again.
It's not me that you're trying to mend.
The wind shudders
with a bleak chill it doesn't recognize
like a power surge up its spine
as a cult of bats sweep the air helter skelter
like lunar butterflies with teeth.
The brutal clarity of broken things in the wild,
beautiful beyond compare
with anyone's reflexive remedies,
a wound more sublime
than the whole and the healed
among these groves that surround the hill
like devotees at Stonehenge
pouring blood libations
over the dolmen of a Druid
talking in tree language to the full moon
about things that haven't happened yet
and the things that inconceivably have.
poem by Patrick White
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The Withering Of The Boughs
I CRIED when the moon was mutmuring to the birds:
'Let peewit call and curlew cry where they will,
I long for your merry and tender and pitiful words,
For the roads are unending, and there is no place to my mind.'
The honey-pale moon lay low on the sleepy hill,
And I fell asleep upon lonely Echtge of streams.
No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.
I know of the leafy paths that the witches take
Who come with their crowns of pearl and their spindles of wool,
And their secret smile, out of the depths of the lake;
I know where a dim moon drifts, where the Danaan kind
Wind and unwind their dances when the light grows cool
On the island lawns, their feet where the pale foam gleams.
No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.
I know of the sleepy country, where swans fly round
Coupled with golden chains, and sing as they fly.
A king and a queen are wandering there, and the sound
Has made them so happy and hopeless, so deaf and so blind
With wisdom, they wander till all the years have gone by;
I know, and the curlew and peewit on Echtge of streams.
No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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The Old Pine Tree
'Listen my child,' said the old pine
tree, to the little one nestling near,
'For the storm clouds troop together to-night,
and the wind of the north I hear
And perchance there may come some echo of
the music of long ago,
The music that rang when the White Host
sang, marching across the snow.'
'Up and away Saint George! up thro' the
mountain gorge,
Over the plain where the tempest blows, and
the great white flakes are flying
Down the long narrow glen! faster my merry
men,
Follow the trail, tho' shy moon hides, and
deeply the drifts are lying.'
'Ah! mother.' the little pine tree replied,
'you are dreaming again to-night
Of ghostly visions and phantom forms that for-
ever mock your sight
'Tis true moan of the winter wind comes
to my list'ning ear
But the White Host marching, I cannot see,
and their music I cannot hear.'
'When the northern skies were all aflame
where the trembling banners swung,
When up in the vaulted heavens the moon of
the Snow Shoe hung,
When the hurricane swept the hillside, and the
crested drifts ran high
Those were the nights,' said the old pine tree,
'the great White Host marched by.'
And the storm grew fiercer, fiercer, and the
snow went hissing past,
But the little pine tree still listened, till she
heard above the blast
The music her mother loved to hear in the
nights of the long ago
And saw in the forest the white-clad Host
marching across the snow.
And loud they sang as they tramped along of
the glorious bygone days
Whan valley and hill re-echeoed the snow-
shoer's hymn of praise
Till the shy moon gazed down smiling, and the
north wind pause to hear
And the old pine tree felt young again as the
little one nestling near.
'Up and away Saint George! up thro' the
mountain gorge.
Over the plain where the tempest blows, and
the great white flakes are flying.
Down the long narrow glen! faster my merry
men.
Follow the trail, tho' the shy moon hides, and
deeply the drifts are lying.'
poem by William Henry Drummond
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Dirt
Washed up on shore...
Washed up on shore...
Id like to live beneath the dirt
A tiny space to move and breathe is all that I would ever need
I want to live beneath the dirt
Where Id be free from push and shove like all those swarming up above
Beneath your heals Ill spend my time
Shout your name into the wind
Ill wiggle in the earth and dew
Shout your name into the wind
And somtimes I will think of you
Shout your name into the wind
And if you ever think of me
Kneel down and kiss the earth
And show me what this thought is worth
Ill never hear your voice again
Shout your name into the wind...
Shout your name into the wind...
Shout your name into the wind...
Shout your name into the wind...
Shout your name into the wind...
Shout yout name into the wind...
Shout your name into the wind...
Shout your name into the wind...
song performed by by Phish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In A Northern Wood
FRAGRANT are the cedar-boughs stretching green and level,
Feasting-halls where waxwings flit at their spicy revel,
But O the pine, the questing pine, that flings its arms on high
To search the secret of the sun and escalade the sky!
Rueful hemlocks, gaunt and old, with boughs a-droop, despairing,
Clutch for touch of mother-earth; the while the pine is daring
To rock the stars amid its cones and lull them with its croon,
And snare the silver eagle that is nested in the moon.
poem by Katharine Lee Bates
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On a stormy sea
When the waves of the sea
became bigger and the wind
started to blow at storm strength,
the boat didn’t sail anymore
and it rocked in the waves
bobbing up and down in the water.
The men were afraid of death
while the Christ
walked on the stormy sea between the waves,
scared to sink and afraid of drowning
and also of seeing a ghost
appearing on the water,
but His calm voice brought serenity
to the wind, waves, sea and men on the boat.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Blueberry Hill
I found my thrill ......on blueberry hill
On blueberry hill ......when I found you
The moon stood still ......on blueberry hill
And lingered until ......my dreams came true
(the wind in the willow played.......loves sweet melody
But all of those vows we made...... were never to be)
Though were apart......youre part of me still
For you were my thrill......on blueberry hill
(I found my thrill)...........come climb the hill with me, baby
(on blueberry hill)............well see what we shall see
(on blueberry hill)...............Ill bring my horn with me
(when I found you)................. Ill be with you where berries are blue
(the moon stood still)................ each afternoon well go
(on blueberry hill)..................... higher than the moon well go
(and lingered until).................... then, to a weddin in june well go
(my dreams came true).................ba-ba-da-d-bzz-bzz-va-d-in-da-day
The wind in the willow played .................. (do you really love me)
Loves sweet melody .........................(as I love you)
But all of those vows we made ................ (will you still remember)
Were never to be .......................... (when the night is through)
Though were apart......youre part of me still
For you were my thrill......on blueberry hill
song performed by by Louis Armstrong
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Where the Blue Begins
In the southern Adriatic, where the blue begins,
We came to rest awhile and play
On sun-drenched islands known as Tremiti,
Where the breeze blows fresh
And pine trees shiver and the salt sea
Washes the likes of you and me,
In the southern Adriatic, in the wind-blown spray.
In the bluest water, just where it begins,
We came to play awhile, came to rest
On rocky shores of barren coves,
As the swells arrived and water splashed
And reflected sunlight jumped and shimmered
Among the cliffs and overhangs and grottoes,
In the Adriatic, where that sort of thing begins.
In the clear blue water that the swells bring by
Out of the sunny Adriatic Sea,
We came to rest and play and bathe ourselves,
As the pine trees swayed on the bluffs above
And wind dispersed the salt sea spray,
In the sunny Adriatic, where a way of life begins.
We came seeking an immersion, to find ourselves
In waters clear enough to fathom
A bottom profoundly blue, to see it seemed
All the way to Greece or any other site
That water washed as well or sun could so ignite,
Came to see ourselves in a world of dreams,
That words might furnish what place implies,
That place might finish what a word begins.
We came seeking clearest water, sunniest sky,
Came, you and I, to see what would be seen
Immersed in waters consummately blue,
In sunlit swells that carried their dark secret,
Tiny hosts known as meduse, whose fragile arms
Glanced and stung and burned all day
And raised the blush that blossomed on our skins,
Aggravated by the sun and spray,
By our own attempts to hold each other,
As we swam out of ourselves and were swept away,
In the southern Adriatic, where the blue begins.
poem by George Bradley
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Descry
I stood in a grand wood alone
whispering to God upon his throne:
' Is it truly true
nothing is more powerful
than magnificent You? '
Then, I stood by the great ocean
and whispered to God:
'Can You hear me above the roar?
How will You find me,
my footprints have washed away all along the shore? '
Finally, I stood upon the highest mountain top
and whispered to God:
'Can you see me now,
the mere speck that I am,
even just a glimpse, somehow? '
No reply came.
Not in words
I could hear.
No powerful voice
loud and clear.
I waited
'til the end
of day.
Then quietly, alone,
I simply walked away.
On my way home
travelling into the dusk,
a desert I did pass through
with a quiet and lonely
darkened view.
Nothing moved,
not a sound.
Except, for the slightest breeze
whisper wonders my way,
through the tops of a few scraggly trees.
I stoped
I looked
I stood.
Amazed at this wind
passing by through the twisted and bent woods.
It was at that moment
in the darkness,
at the edge of desolation, among the lowly trees,
that I became fully aware,
God is everywhere, even right here next to me.
poem by Smoky Hoss
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Epiphany
Outside the surge of the wind, the wind in the trees,
The rush of leaves, and the sighing in the pine-needles,
Outside the sound of the sea-shore, distant, remembered,
The waves breaking on the gray rocks, and the evening approaching,
The restlessness, and the interminable noise.
Silence in the room, and solitude,
A sense of spaces, remoteness and nearness, and the soul's awareness,
Desolate is the hearts desire
And the loving knows no end,
When the morning in the clouds breaks across the sky,
And the forests sway and bend.
Outside the wind, the wind in the trees,
And the sighing in the tree-tops.
Noises from the town, heedless, unthinking, indistinct,
Recurring, fading,
And silence in the room, and solitude,
The shadowy dimness, the darkness of evening,
A pause in time, and the soul's awareness.
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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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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Complete; Rising Crimson With Love
Do you remember the time we walked on the beach
to the sound of the surf as it beat at our feet
and the sun was rising crimson with love
as we walked hand in hand and flew like the doves.
Do you remember the feel of the wind in our hair
as we sat on the sands without any cares
and the tears in our eyes were for joy not for grief
as we sat and felt as one with the beach.
Do you remember the time we walked on the beach
to the sound of the surf as it beat at our feet
your heart was in mine and mine was in yours
as we walked hand in hand on those magical shores.
Do you remember the feel of the wind in our hair
as we sat on the sands without any cares
and we joined with the ocean that came to our feet
making us the beach and the ocean complete.
Do you remember the time we walked on the beach
with the healing, the feeling, of being at peace
the sand at our feet, the surf in our mind
an ocean of stillness in one heart that's combined.
Do you remember the feel of the wind in our hair
with our eyes full of stars our hearts without cares
and a sun that was rising crimson with love
as our souls were set free into the sky up above.
Do you remember the time we walked on the beach
to the sound of the surf as it beat at our feet
and the sun was rising crimson with love
as we walked hand in hand and flew like the doves.
poem by David Taylor
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The Piper On The Hills
A CHILD'S SONG
There sits a piper on the hill
Who pipes the livelong day,
And when he pipes both loud and shrill,
The frightened people say
‘The wind, the wind is blowing up,
'Tis rising to a gale.’
The women hurry to the shore
To watch some distant sail.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Is blowing to a gale.
But when he pipes all sweet and low,
The piper on the hill,
I hear the merry women go
With laughter, loud and shrill
‘The wind, the wind is coming south,
'Twill blow a gentle day.’
They gather on the meadow-land,
To toss the yellow hay.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Is blowing south to-day.
And in the morn, when winter comes,
To keep the piper warm,
The little Angels shake their wings
To make a feather storm
‘The snow, the snow has come at last!’
The happy children call,
And ‘ring around’ they dance in glee,
And watch the snowflakes fall.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Has spread a snowy pall.
But when at night the piper plays,
I have not any fear,
Because God's windows open wide
The pretty tune to hear;
And when each crowding spirit looks,
From its star window-pane,
A watching mother may behold
Her little child again.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
May blow her home again.
poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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After a Long Insomniac Night
I walked down to the sea in the early morning
after a long insomniac night.
I climbed over the giant gull-colored rocks
and moved past the trees,
tall dancers stretching their limbs
and warming up in the blue light.
I entered the salty water, a penitent
whose body was stained,
and swam toward a red star rising
in the east—regal, purple-robed.
One shore disappeared behind me
and another beckoned.
I confess
that I forgot the person I had been
as easily as the clouds drifting overhead.
My hands parted the water.
The wind pressed at my back, wings
and my soul floated over the whitecapped waves.
poem by Edward Hirsch
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