The Last Envoy
THIS wind, that through the silent woodland blows,
O'er rippling corn and dreaming pastures goes
Straight to the garden where the heart of spring
Faints in the heart of summer's earliest rose.
Dimpling the meadow's grassy green and grey,
By furze that yellows all the common way,
Gathering the gladness of the flowering broom,
And too persistent fragrance of the may--
Gathering whatever is of sweet and dear,
The wandering wind has passed away from here,
Has passed to where within your garden waits
The concentrated sweetness of the year.
And in your leafed enclosure as you stood,
Training your flowers to new beatitude--
Ah! did you guess the wind that kissed your hair
Had kissed my forehead in this solitude--
Had kissed my lips, and gathered there the heat
It breathed upon your mouth, my only sweet--
Had gathered from my eyes the tender thought
That drooped your eyes, and stirred your pulses' beat?
You only thought the sun's caress too warm
That lay upon your bosom and your arm;
You did not guess the wind had brought from me
The unacknowledged fancy's fire and charm--
You only said, 'Too strong these sunlit skies,
More dear the moments when the daylight dies!'
And then you dreamed of meetings by your gate
In sanctity of sunset and moonrise.
To-night, when he shall come and meet you there,
To kiss your lips and hands and eyes and hair,
To light with love and hope youth's waiting shrine--
Think of my love, and my assured despair!
To-night the wind will rob the languid flowers
Of secret scents kept close through daylit hours;
It will blow coolly over dewy lawns,
Where the laburnums fall in silent showers.
I, too, shall learn a secret then--shall wrest
Life's hidden things from out her languorous breast,
Shall learn the way that leads away from life
Into the land where nothing lives but rest.
You will not know that the cold air you prize,
After the stormy sweetness of his sighs,
Is cold from blowing through a moonlit wood
Over the hollow where a dead man lies!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Related quotes
The Wind That Ever Blows
The wind that ever blows,
opens my heart's Rose.
The clouds on the face of Sun,
playing with wind and all over Run.
The chirp of sparrow makes me to feel,
gazing in the sky standing on my heel.
The wind that ever blows,
Opens my heart's Rose.
The Blue color of the Sky gives pleasure to my eyes,
like, wants to take me out from the world of lies.
The rustling of leaves makes me gay,
to stand up and with them play.
The wind that ever blows,
opens my heart's Rose.
This time I just want one,
The ALLAH EXALTED (GOD) and NONE,
and this time except HIM no one my feeling knows,
The Wind that ever Blows,
Opens my heart's Rose....
(SEEMA REHMAN)
poem by Seema Rehman
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The December Rose
Here's a rose that blows for Chloe,
Fair as ever a rose in June was,
Now the garden's silent, snowy,
Where the burning summer noon was.
In your garden's summer glory
One poor corner, shelved and shady,
Told no rosy, radiant story,
Grew no rose to grace its lady.
What shuts sun out shuts out snow too;
From his nook your secret lover
Shows what slighted roses grow to
When the rose you chose is over.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Straight From The Heart
(bryan adams/ eric kagna)
Producer for bonnie: jim steinman
I could start dreaming but it never ends
As long as youre gone we may as well pretend
Ive been dreaming
And thats straight from the heart
You said its easy but whos to say
That wed be able to keep it this way
But its easier
Coming straight from the heart
Give it to me straight from the heart
Tell me we could make another start
You know Ill never go
As long as I know
Its coming straight from the heart
Ill see you on the street some other time
But all our words will just fall out of line
While were dreaming
Straight from the heart
Give it to me straight from the heart
Tell me we could make another start
You know Ill never go
As long as I know
Its coming straight from the heart
Instrumental
Give it to me straight from the heart
Tell me we could make another start
You know Ill never go
As long as lknow
Its coming straight from the heart
Give it to me straight from the heart
Tell me we could make another start
You know Ill never go
As long as I know
Its coming straight from the heart
You know Ill never go
As long as I know
Its coming straight from the heart
You know Ill never go
As long as I know
Its coming straight from the heart
song performed by by Bonnie Tyler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Still women love men
Wind in spring blows;
Petals wither.
Wind in summer blows;
Fruits fall down.
Wind in autumn blows;
Leaves are shed.
Wind in winter blows;
Barks get cracks.
Still trees love wind.
Still women love men.
27.10.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The wind
(THE TALE)
Cometh the Wind from the garden, fragrant and full of sweet singing--
Under my tree where I sit cometh the Wind to confession.
"Out in the garden abides the Queen of the beautiful Roses--
Her do I love and to-night wooed her with passionate singing;
Told I my love in those songs, and answer she gave in her blushes--
She shall be bride of the Wind, and she is the Queen of the Roses!"
"Wind, there is spice in thy breath; thy rapture hath fragrance Sabaean!"
"Straight from my wooing I come--my lips are bedewed with her kisses--
My lips and my song and my heart are drunk with the rapture of loving!"
(THE SONG)
The Wind he loveth the red, red Rose,
And he wooeth his love to wed:
Sweet is his song
The Summer long
As he kisseth her lips so red;
And he recketh naught of the ruin wrought
When the Summer of love is sped!
(AGAIN THE TALE)
Cometh the Wind from the garden, bitter with sorrow of winter.
"Wind, is thy love-song forgot? Wherefore thy dread lamentations?"
Sigheth and moaneth the Wind: "Out of the desolate garden
Come I from vigils with ghosts over the grave of the Summer!"
"Thy breath that was fragrant anon with rapture of music and loving,
It grieveth all things with its sting and the frost of its wailing
displeasure."
The Wind maketh ever more moan and ever it giveth this answer:
"My heart it is numb with the cold of the love that was born of the
Summer--
I come from the garden all white with the wrath and the sorrow of Winter;
I have kissed the low, desolate tomb where my bride in her loveliness
lieth
And the voice of the ghost in my heart is the voice that forever
outcrieth!"
(AGAIN THE SONG)
The Wind he waileth the red, red Rose
When the Summer of love is sped--
He waileth above
His lifeless love
With her shroud of snow o'erspread--
Crieth such things as a true heart brings
To the grave of its precious dead.
poem by Eugene Field
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In The Rose Garden
RED roses bright, pink roses and white
That bud and blossom and fall;
The very sight of my heart's delight
Is more than worth them all!
Is worth far more than the whole sweet store
That ever a garden grew--
She plucked the best to die at her breast,
But it laughed and it bloomed anew!
The red rose lay at her lips to-day,
And flushed with the joy thereof;
She said a word that the white rose heard,
And the white rose paled with love.
But the west wind blows, and my lady goes,
And she leaves the world forlorn;
And every rose that the garden grows,
Might just as well be a thorn!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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When the wind blows
When the wind blows in autumn
Falling leaves are the outcome
As the trees become lonesome
Naked without leaves
But with the believe
Again to become wholesome
When the wind blows in winter
It welcomes a chilling breeze
With it comes the familiar freeze
Everything becomes cheaper
Activities decrease, the only increase
Are the utility bills
When the wind blows in spring
Plants spring back to life
All natural life awakens and sings
With the honeybees buzzing and cheering
The wind begins to show signs of caring
For it is awaiting summer and preparing
Whilst gently airing
When the wind blows in summer
Its power is less fierce and dimmer
Like a beginner of a swimmer
The winds touch is a lot calmer
As it turns on its gentle charmer
Allowing us to get carried away
On the hot beaches as dreamers
To a winters wind
They say no, no, no
To a summers wind
They say blow, blow, blow
Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Once
I SET a lily long ago;
I watched it whiten in the sun;
I loved it well, I had but one.
Then summer-time was done,
The wind came and the rain,
My lily bent, lay low.
Only the night-time sees my pain—
Alas, my lily long ago!
I had a rose-tree born in May;
I watched it burgeon and grow red,
I breathed the perfume that it shed.
Then summer-time had sped,
The frost came with its sleep
My rose-tree died away.
Only the silence hears me weep—
Alas, lost rose-tree! lost, lost May!
The garden's lily blows once more;
The buried rose will wake and climb;
There is no thought of rain and rime
After, next summer-time.
But the heart's blooms are weak;
Once dead for ever o'er.
Not night, not silence knows me seek
My joy that waned and blooms no more.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Bridal Eve
GOOD-NIGHT, my Heart, my Heart, good-night--
Oh, good and dear and fair,
With lips of life and eyes of light
And roses in your hair.
To-morrow brings the other crown,
The orange blossoms, Sweet,
And then the rose will be cast down
With lilies at your feet.
But in your soul a garden stands
Where fair the white rose blows--
God, teach my foolish clumsy hands
The way to tend my rose.
That in the white-rose garden still
The lily may bloom fair
God help my heart and soul and will
To keep the lily there.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Life In Her Creaking Shoes
Life in her creaking shoes
Goes, and more formal grows,
A round of calls and cues:
Love blows as the wind blows.
Blows! . . . in the quiet close
As in the roaring mart,
By ways no mortal knows
Love blows into the heart.
The stars some cadence use,
Forthright the river flows,
In order fall the dews,
Love blows as the wind blows:
Blows! . . . and what reckoning shows
The courses of his chart?
A spirit that comes and goes,
Love blows into the heart.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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A Wind From... Elsewhere
The wind blows here... the wind blows there
The wind seems to blow from... everywhere.
But the wind I love... when it blows... blows fair...
This wind... when it blows... blows from... ELSEWHERE! Can you see its graceful fingers... playing in your hair?
Nay! You cannot see the wind... e'en though you know it's there.
It's flitting... it's flirting... it's prancing everywhere
This wind... when it blows... blows from... ELSEWHERE! It blows unexpectedly... with a gentle breeze... it blows...
The Great Hand of Miracles... brings it... then it goes
To greet the early morning sun... to dance to and fro
From the highest, loftiest mountain heights... to valleys... far below. 'Who is He that sitteth upon the circle of the earth...
Who gathereth the winds in his fists—Who maketh a wind to pass over...
Thou hearest the sound thereof...
But canst not tell whence it cometh... and wither it goeth.' The wind blows here... the wind blows there...
The wind seems to blow... from everywhere.
But the wind I love... when it blows... blows fair—
This wind... when it blows... blows from... ELSEWHERE!
poem by Elga Haymon White
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Absence
Sometimes I know the way
You walk, up over the bay;
It is a wind from that far sea
That blows the fragrance of your hair to me.
Or in this garden when the breeze
Touches my trees
To stir their dreaming shadows on the grass
I see you pass.
In sheltered beds, the heart of every rose
Serenely sleeps to-night. As shut as those
Your garded heart; as safe as they fomr the beat, beat
Of hooves that tread dropped roses in the street.
Turn never again
On these eyes blind with a wild rain
Your eyes; they were stars to me.--
There are things stars may not see.
But call, call, and though Christ stands
Still with scarred hands
Over my mouth, I must answer. So
I will come--He shall let me go!
poem by Charlotte Mary Mew
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A Masque Of The Seasons
Scene.--_A kitchen.--Group of Children, popping corn.--The Fairy Queen
of the Seasons discovered in the smoke of the corn-popper.--Waving her
wand, and, with eerie, sharp, imperious ejaculations, addressing the
bespelled auditors, who neither see nor hear her nor suspect her
presence._
QUEEN
Summer or Winter or Spring or Fall,--
Which do you like the best of all?
LITTLE JASPER
When I'm dressed warm as warm can be,
And with boots, to go
Through the deepest snow,
Winter-time is the time for me!
QUEEN
Summer or Winter or Spring or Fall,--
Which do you like the best of all?
LITTLE MILDRED
I like blossoms, and birds that sing;
The grass and the dew,
And the sunshine, too,--
So, best of all I like the Spring.
QUEEN
Summer or Winter or Spring or Fall,--
Which do you like the best of all?
LITTLE MANDEVILLE
O little friends, I most rejoice
When I hear the drums
As the Circus comes,--
So Summer-time's my special choice.
QUEEN
Summer or Winter or Spring or Fall,--
Which do you like the best of all?
LITTLE EDITH
Apples of ruby, and pears of gold,
And grapes of blue
That the bee stings through.--
Fall--it is all that my heart can hold!
QUEEN
Soh! my lovelings and pretty dears,
You've _each_ a favorite, it appears,--
Summer and Winter and Spring and Fall.--
That's the reason I send them _all_!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Margaret
I KNOW a garden where white lilies grow,
Under the grey sweet-laden apple boughs;
It is a garden where the roses blow,
And honeysuckle covers half the house.
O happy garden, do you keep the vows
Breathed in your quiet ear beneath the rose,
Or do you tell the tale to each soft wind that blows?
Across your grassy paths she used to stray,
She moved among you like a living flower,
Her beauty drank your beauty every day,
Your beauty decked her beauty every hour.
You gave her rose and lily for a dower,
With all sweet flowers and fruits your bosom bore--
She took them all--and now she comes not any more.
O garden, if you breathe such secret things
To the south wind who loves you, tell him this:
To spread the scented softness of his wings,
And seek that other garden where she is,
And bid him bear no blossom and no kiss;
Only, dear garden, tell the wind to say
How grey the world is grown since Margaret went away!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Mi Vida Loca
(pam tillis/jess leary)
If you're coming with me you need nerves of steel
'cause i take corners on two wheels
It's a never-ending circus ride
The faint of heart need not apply
Mi vida loca over and over
Destiny turns on a dime
I go where the wind blows
You can't tame a wild rose
Welcome to my crazy life
Sweetheart before this night is through
I could fall in love with you
Come dancing on the edge with me
Let my passion set you free
Mi vida loca over and over
Destiny turns on a dime
I go where the wind blows
You can't tame a wild rose
Welcome to my crazy life
Here in the firelight i see your tattoo
Mi vida loco, so you're crazy too
Mi vida loca over and over
Destiny turns on a dime
I go where the wind blows
You can't tame a wild rose
Welcome to my crazy life
We'll go where the wind blows
And i'll be a wild rose
Welcome to my crazy life
song performed by by Pam Tillis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Know I Am But Summer To Your Heart
I know I am but summer to your heart,
And not the full four seasons of the year;
And you must welcome from another part
Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear.
No gracious weight of golden fruits to sell
Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing;
And I have loved you all too long and well
To carry still the high sweet breast of Spring.
Wherefore I say: O love, as summer goes,
I must be gone, steal forth with silent drums,
That you may hail anew the bird and rose
When I come back to you, as summer comes.
Else will you seek, at some not distant time,
Even your summer in another clime.
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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A Kentish Garden
THERE is a grey-walled garden, far away
From noise and smoke of cities, where the hours
Pass with soft wings among the happy flowers,
And lovely leisure blossoms every day.
There, tall and white, the sceptral lily blows;
There grow the pansy, pink, and columbine,
Brave hollyhocks, and star-white jessamine,
And the red glory of the royal rose.
There greeny glow-worms gem the dusky lawn,
The lime-trees breathe their fragrance to the night,
Pink roses sleep, and dream that they are white,
Until they wake to colour with the dawn.
There, in the splendour of the sultry noon,
The sunshine sleeps upon the garden bed
Where the white poppy droops a drowsy head
And dreams of kisses from the white full moon.
And there, some days, all wild with wind and rain,
The tossed trees show the white side of their leaves,
While the great drops drip from the ivied eaves,
And birds are still--till the sun shines again.
And there, all days, my heart goes wandering,
Because there, first, my heart began to know
The glories of the summer and the snow,
The loveliness of harvest and of spring.
There may be fairer gardens; but I know
There is no other garden half so dear;
Because 'tis there, this many, many a year,
The sacred, sweet, white flowers of memory grow!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Memory Pictures
I
A wide-spring meadow in a rosy dawn
Bedropt with virgin buds; an orient sky
Fleeced with a dappled cloud but half withdrawn;
A mad wind blowing by,
O'er slopes of rippling grass and glens apart;
A brackened path to a wild-woodland place
A limpid pool with a fair, laughing face
Mirrored within its heart.
II
An ancient garden brimmed with summer sun
Upon a still and slumberous afternoon;
Old walks and pleasances with shadows spun
Where honeyed odors swoon;
A velvet turf with blossoms garlanded;
A hedge of Mary-lilies white and tall;
And, shining out against a lichened wall,
A stately-golden head.
III
An autumn hilltop in the sunset hue,
Pine boughs uptossed against the crystal west,
And, girdled with the twilight dim and blue,
A valley peace-possessed;
A high-sprung heaven stained with colors rare,
A sheen of moonrise on the sea afar,
And, bright and soft as any glimmering star,
Eyes holy as a prayer.
poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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I Plucked A Rose From A Garden Green......
By Murtaza Abt
I plucked a rose from a garden green,
Of beauty never felt or seen,
Hoping that it would never wilt,
And always be as always been.
I plucked a rose from a garden green,
with a happy blissful heart,
And promised i would hold it tight,
And never would we part.
I plucked a rose from a garden green,
But little did i know,
That not in endless love and care,
But gardens do they grow.
I plucked a rose from a garden green,
And took it home with me,
But little did it stay the way,
The way t'was meant to be.
I plucked a rose from a garden green,
And it began to grieve,
Over gardens green and meadows lush,
As it was sad to leave.
I plucked a rose from a garden green,
And it began to wilt,
And wither in that unknown land,
it filled my heart with guilt.
I plucked a rose from a garden green,
And it began to die,
For happiness i had only asked,
But i began to cry.
....................................
I have p L ucked y O u from a garden green,
Your beauty i VE never felt or seen,
Hoping that YOU will never wilt,
And always be as always been.
09/Nov/09
poem by Murtaza Abt
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A Rose Arose
Of all that nature’s garden grows
the fairest flower is the Rose,
bending to each breeze that blows.
Rose beauty, joy, together sows, -
‘Tis true, as everybody knows, -
inadequately penned in prose.
For from her crown all colour flows,
her petals pink or red she shows,
with white or amber, golden glows.
‘Tis said, or so the story goes,
her spiny thorns are elf arrows
to scare the sprites from the meadows.
In slumber see her heart enclose
bee’s happiness, in sweet repose,
unsullied by harsh winter snows.
Both dark and bright, white, virgin shows, -
the rose from Paradise arose,
and on Time's wing she blows, she blows.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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