Related quotes: It was upon a July...

It Was Upon

It was upon a July evening.
At a stile I stood, looking along a path
Over the country by a second Spring
Drenched perfect green again. 'The lattermath
Will be a fine one.' So the stranger said,
A wandering man. Albeit I stood at rest,
Flushed with desire I was. The earth outspread,
Like meadows of the future, I possessed.

And as an unaccomplished prophecy
The stranger's words, after the interval
Of a score years, when those fields are by me
Never to be recrossed, now I recall,
This July eve, and question, wondering,
What of the lattermath to this hoar Spring?

poem by Edward Thomas
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Related quotes

It Was July

I am resurrected, after dying for want of you,
It all came down upon me in sunny July,
Where had you gone, I wish I knew,
That I care no more, should come as no surprise,

I can live without you now,
It's like I never loved you at all,
The numbness seeped in after my death,
It was in July, if you recall,

Things were fine in May and June,
I don't know what I did wrong,
But in July you sang a different tune,
And you left me all alone,

My heart once again belongs to me,
As I look back to last July,
The sunshine once again I see,
No tears to cloud my eyes,

So let me stay as you left me,
I won't even say goodbye,
You're now a fading memory,
But I'll never forget July,

poem by Vallerie Lobell
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Far North In The Green Fields

Far north in the green fields of old Lisnaboy
Just learning of Nature I used to enjoy
The warm winds of Summer from the south did blow
And young birds chirped on bushes and trees and hedgerow
And the meadows scented sweet of the newly mown hay
In July in Duhallow in a place far away
From this Southern Land that I live in today
Where the father of time has left me looking gray
Fond memories of a happy boyhood I retain
And in fancy I visit the old fields again
But the mentors of my young years with the dead do now lay
And all of those I grew up with walking slower today
But in memory the swallows above the fields fly
And the cuckoo he sings in the warmth of July.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Poem #065, Sonnet #25: Score

Now is the day, the boundary of July
The close of buoyancy, the end of play
Today my boyhood hums its elegye
To welcome ripeness, Lord! I’m score today.

Score… and the world is now a different place
A sober earth, a sky of gravity
I must inurn my years and wear the face
Of sapience… Ave fair Melancholy!

Score… and the word reechoes everywhere
I see it in the quiet of the thicket
I sense it in the stillness of the air
I feel it in the torpor of my spirit

Score… and my soul surrenders to the truth
I’m twenty now, farewell sweet days of youth!

Blaouza
July 31st 1989

poem by Samer Madbak
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I Knew You

I knew you before you knew
Who you wanted to be
Now I see the new you
She's a perfect stranger to me
Loves unkind, for I find
If only saw, the best of you
But my mind, not so blind
Showed my heart the rest of you
Scheming lies and alibis
That butter wouldn't melt disguise
With happy ever after eyes
That made a fool of me
I knew you before you knew
Who you wanted to be
Now I see the new you
She's a perfect stranger to me
She's a perfect stranger to me
Love is cruel It makes a fool
Of one who thought we had it all
All bridges burned, the lesson learned
You never really loved at all
Now you're gone, I'm on my own
Don't come around, don't even phone
Please leave a happy man alone
And we can both be free
I knew you before you knew
Who you wanted to be
Now I see the new you
She's a perfect stranger to me
She's a perfect stranger to me

song performed by by Ub40
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Reaching Out 2

Some days we reach out for someone
when our world is in despair.
We are confused with what life has given us
and feel our life spiralling down.
Then from no where two hands reach out
and with words of comfort
lift us back to solid ground.

The stranger who has helped us
has a face we cannot see;
they are not our god, but a stranger
from far across the sea.
The Good Samaritan whose arms
reach out to everyone
within their hour of need.

Are they one of God’s angels
or are they mortal like you and me?
It is a question we cannot answer,
however they are the answer to our prayers.
Someone who reaches out
and goes to the aid of whom
others sometimes fear.

7 July 2010

poem by David Harris
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Long Years Have Past Since Last I Stood

LONG years have past since last I stood
Alone amid this mountain scene,
Unlike the future which I dreamed,
How like my future it has been!
A cold grey sky o'erhung with clouds,
With showers in every passing shade,
How like the moral atmosphere
Whose gloom my horoscope has made!

I thought if yet my weary feet
Could rove my native hills again,
A world of feeling would revive,
Sweet feelings wasted, worn in vain.
My early hopes, my early joys,
I dreamed those valleys would restore;
I asked for childhood to return,
For childhood, which returns no more.

Surely the scene itself is changed!
There did not always rest as now
That shadow in the valley's depth,
That gloom upon the mountain-brow.
Wild flowers within the chasms dwelt
Like treasures in stone fairy hold,
And morning o'er the mountains shed
Her kindling world of vapoury gold.

Another season of the year
Is now upon the earth and me;
Another spring will light these hills—
No other spring mine own may be:
I must retune my unstrung harp,
I must awake the sleeping tomb,
I must recall the loved and lost,
Ere spring again for me could bloom.

I've wandered, but it was in vain,
In many a far and foreign clime,
Absence is not forgetfulness,
And distance cannot vanquish time.
One face was ever in my sight,
One voice was ever on my ear,
From all earth's loveliness I turned
To wish, Ah that the dead were here!

Oh! weary wandering to no home,
Oh! weary wandering alone,
I turned to childhood's once glad scenes
And found life's last illusion flown.
Ah! those who left their childhood's scenes
For after-years of toil and pain,
Who but bring back the breaking heart
Should never seek those scenes again.

poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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July!

Raindrops of one July
gifted me flowers of friendship
and for the change in season
the same July offered
me flowers of hatred,
I turned speechless
without any words
like a silent earth...

July 10,2009

poem by Rema Prasanaa
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Stranger On A Quiet Street

When all the thrills have been forgotten
The chill of night can call them home
And all the dreams that you left stranded
Will slowly start to come along
I felt it as she slipped away, slipped away
I didnt have the words to say
When I saw the stranger
A stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
You can go straight as an arrow
You can go straight as you dare
Walkin the old straight and narrow
Dont always get you there
The sun was shining when I saw it all
She was moving to a different beat
When I met a stranger
A stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
It came to me out of the blue, out of the blue
There came the moment that I really knew
When I met a stranger
A stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street, on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street

song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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New Spring

Spring!

Spring! How beautiful is the
Spring! How wonderful is the
Spring! How majestic is the
Spring! How fantastic is the
Spring! How tantalizing is the
Spring! How glorious is the
Spring! How melodious is the
Spring! How joyful is the
Spring! How breathtaking is the
Spring! How uplifting the
Spring! How happy is the
Spring! How magnificent is the
Spring! How colorful is the
Spring! How tasteful is the
Spring! How memorable was the
Spring! How flavorful is the
Spring! How aromic is the
Spring! How sweet is
Spring! How beautiful is the
Spring!

poem by Mario Saboundjian
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Ode To Back Old Days

poem by Sunnetra Basu
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Nostos

There was an apple tree in the yard --
this would have been
forty years ago -- behind,
only meadows. Drifts
of crocus in the damp grass.
I stood at that window:
late April. Spring
flowers in the neighbor's yard.
How many times, really, did the tree
flower on my birthday,
the exact day, not
before, not after? Substitution
of the immutable
for the shifting, the evolving.
Substitution of the image
for relentless earth. What
do I know of this place,
the role of the tree for decades
taken by a bonsai, voices
rising from the tennis courts --
Fields. Smell of the tall grass, new cut.
As one expects of a lyric poet.
We look at the world once, in childhood.
The rest is memory.

poem by Louise Gluck
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Flower God, God Of The Spring

FLOWER god, god of the spring, beautiful, bountiful,
Cold-dyed shield in the sky, lover of versicles,
Here I wander in April
Cold, grey-headed; and still to my
Heart, Spring comes with a bound, Spring the deliverer,
Spring, song-leader in woods, chorally resonant;
Spring, flower-planter in meadows,
Child-conductor in willowy
Fields deep dotted with bloom, daisies and crocuses:
Here that child from his heart drinks of eternity:
O child, happy are children!
She still smiles on their innocence,
She, dear mother in God, fostering violets,
Fills earth full of her scents, voices and violins:
Thus one cunning in music
Wakes old chords in the memory:
Thus fair earth in the Spring leads her performances.
One more touch of the bow, smell of the virginal
Green - one more, and my bosom
Feels new life with an ecstasy.

poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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The Gardener LXXXIII: She Dwelt on the Hillside

She dwelt on the hillside by edge
of a maize-field, near the spring that
flows in laughing rills through the
solemn shadows of ancient trees. The
women came there to fill their jars,
and travellers would sit there to rest
and talk. She worked and dreamed
daily to the tune of the bubbling
stream.
One evening the stranger came down
from the cloud-hidden peak; his locks
were tangled like drowsy snakes. We
asked in wonder, "Who are you?"
He answered not but sat by the
garrulous stream and silently gazed at
the hut where she dwelt. Our hearts
quaked in fear and we came back home
when it was night.
Next morning when the women
came to fetch water at the spring by
the deodar trees, they found the doors
open in her hut, but her voice was gone
and where was her smiling face?
The empty jar lay on the floor and her
lamp had burnt itself out in the
corner. No one knew where she had
fled to before it was morning--and the
stranger had gone.
In the month of May the sun grew
strong and the snow melted, and we
sat by the spring and wept. We
wondered in our mind, "Is there a
spring in the land where she has gone
and where she can fill her vessel in
these hot thirsty days?" And we
asked each other in dismay, "Is there
a land beyond these hills where we
live?"
It was a summer night; the breeze
blew from the south; and I sat in her
deserted room where the lamp stood
still unlit. When suddenly from
before my eyes the hills vanished like
curtains drawn aside. "Ah, it is
she who comes. How are you, my
child? Are you happy? But where
can you shelter under this open sky?
And, alas! our spring is not here to
allay your thirst."
"Here is the same sky," she said,
"only free from the fencing hills,--
this is the same stream grown into a
river,--the same earth widened into
a plain." "Everything is here," I
sighed, "only we are not." She
smiled sadly and said, "You are in
my heart." I woke up and heard the
babbling of the stream and the rustling
of the deodars at night.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Food for thought

The fields are bare, the harvest safe in store
Now is the time for man and beast to rest
King winter will enforce his frigid rule.
The fields are white, the harvest safe in store
In time the sun will shine and spring return
The earth will show renewed vitality
When sunshine puts an end to winters reign,
the frost retreats to let the spring return.
The farmers and the peasants know the score.
The city folk are merely parasites
who do not know nor want to know the score.
They are convinced they do not need to learn.
Confident that gold can buy anything,
this is not true. When famine strikes they’ll learn.

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Two Doors

A long time ago in a land far away,
a stranger appeared from nowhere.
He had journeyed through a portal
that govern time and space.
It pulled him through to a place
of which he knew not where.

On his arrival, he was arrested
and sent before the King
who was a wise old man,
and who loved to play games.
He looked at the stranger,
asked where he had come from.
The stranger could not say.

To say he did not know
was a crime throughout the land.
It was a plea of guilty.
The King looked at the stranger and said.
The punishment for your answer
under our law is certain death.
However, you are a stranger
so I am giving you the choice of two doors.

One door leads to happiness,
the other leads to instant death.
The choice will be all yours.
You will be taken to the arena,
given a special key
that will fit both of the doors.

At the stroke of twelve,
the stranger was marched to the arena
and left standing there.
The two doors stood side by side,
all he had to do was choose.
He moved towards them
and stood for a moment of two.

Finally, he advanced towards the left,
but at the last moment,
changed his mind and opened the right.
As the door opened,
the stranger gasped at what was inside.
Did the stranger open the right door?
I will let you the reader to decide.

30 October 2007

poem by David Harris
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July....

July is the month where the families get the barbeque grills fired up.
July is the month where the night sky is light up with fire works.
July is the month where many families go out of town to be with family.
July is the month where many kids are dreary because it’s a month away for school.
July is the month where America gets to celebrate its independence from England.
July is the month where many people are dying of the heat of the summer.
July is my favorite month because it’s the time that I get to be myself around my family.

poem by Natasha Ligons
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Grey and Mournful Stranger

Years haunted by that stranger
That dark stranger from my past
Now diminished in his influence
With his picture fading fast.

You ask me who’s that stranger
And why did he have that power
To regulate my daily life
And render sweetness sour?

That stranger was false memories
That stranger was a dream
Of how I seemed to others
Not what I might have been.

That stranger would forbid me
From seeking freedom’s goals
That stranger like a tourniquet
Was slow strangling my soul.

That grey and mournful stranger
Now a stranger clear to me
Was simply an illusion
And was never meant to be.

But now his picture’s fading
My feelings now feel real once more
I shan’t seek out that stranger
Nor invite him to my door.

For I’d mistaken that cold stranger
For a person I once knew
But that person was not ever me
And it’s now time to start anew.

poem by David Keig
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The past lends value

In late sixty, she stood
Like an autumn tree
To all who stood around.
To me she was not so.
I have seen her with flushes
Of leaves fully green
When she was in her spring.
24.09.2006

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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A Country Path in Late Spring

The path of mossy ground nestled
In between maternal hedgerows,
That overgrew atop, dimming down
The brilliance of the day.
Embosomed, a calm-cool vision –
Abstract takes of nature, in
Leaf-spattered green shades;
Stem-speckled brown hues;
Shards of sunlight percolating
Through the random flaws to
Up glittering sprites upon the leaves.

And avian chatter bounced along the burrow,
Smattered by the crosstalk
Of busybody insects;
But outside the green comfort zone,
Other worlds of other sounds of other life
Otherwise gave a hint of
Other dozy goings on.

Hawthorn filled the air,
Filled the nose,
Filled the head –
Pungency had overpowered all –
Gave the late-spring-early-summer haze.

Here and there a break of colour:
Odd bluebells – escapees from nearby woods –
Blue-blushing bell faces glancing down,
Aware of their erectness in the stem;
The flaming wing of red admirals
Broke through a hedge hole to
Break up the calm backdrop,
While flitting blue tits gave
To greater-bodied animation.

Nature’s warm narration –
The undertones of life.

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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Perfect Stranger

Stranger are you waiting
For someone to come down and love you in time
Stranger you're debating
Can you get the words in your head
And you're heart to rhyme

Feel like a perfect stranger
You been gone so long
It's come down to feeling
And you're feeling wrong

I know how you want to

song performed by by Heart from Private Audition
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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