Ballad by the Fire
Slowly I smoke and hug my knee,
The while a witless masquerade
Of things that only children see
Floats in a mist of light and shade:
They pass, a flimsy cavalcade,
And with a weak, remindful glow,
The falling embers break and fade,
As one by one the phantoms go.
Then, with a melancholy glee
To think where once my fancy strayed,
I muse on what the years may be
Whose coming tales are all unsaid,
Till tongs and shovel, snugly laid
Within their shadowed niches, grow
By grim degrees to pick and spade,
As one by one the phantoms go.
But then, what though the mystic Three
Around me ply their merry trade? --
And Charon soon may carry me
Across the gloomy Stygian glade? --
Be up, my soul! nor be afraid
Of what some unborn year may show;
But mind your human debts are paid,
As one by one the phantoms go.
ENVOY
Life is the game that must be played:
This truth at least, good friend, we know;
So live and laugh, nor be dismayed
As one by one the phantoms go.
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Related quotes
Life is the game that must be played, this truth at least, good friends, we know; so live and laugh, nor be dismayed as one by one the phantoms go.
quote by Arthur Rubinstein
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Phantoms Of Death
There are phantoms here on earth who take away our lives
They kill your kids and they rape your wives
They rip your flesh tear your heart take you down to hell
They dont give a damn on any kind of life
Phantoms bring evil, destruction and death
Night after night the same old game
They all look so harmless but deep in their hearts
Satan is lurking, and he will break out
Always someone at your back only waiting to attack
Chorus phantoms of death, phantoms of death
The empire of deceivers is built upon your fear
Youll have to lose it cause the end is near
Warheads, armies stand to strike I know it isnt right
I wanna get out of here I dont wanna die
Infernal destruction of fire youll burn
Then youll be helpless but its not too late
Stand up right now and youll be the winner
Or satan will get you, take you forever
Genocide everywhere, wheres the saviour of this world
Chorus phantoms of death, phantoms of death
Where is he the promised saviour the one wholl save the earth
Perhaps hell come to bury us but then itll be too late
Who are they who are the phantoms who will end our lives
Its you and me, you and me open up your eyes
Phantoms bring evil, destruction and death
Night after night the same old game
They all look so harmless but deep in their hearts
Satan is lurking, and he will break out
We are all parasites of this world we shall die
Chorus phantoms of death, phantoms of death
song performed by by Helloween
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Divided We Stand
Morphed by fear, a mask to wear
But all must carry on
Desperate fights for the final light
The last straw to be drawn
Disbelieve or contribute
Revaluate your soul
A radical way to live
That undivides our rules
Open up your eyes and see the mirror of your life. Hunted every moment by the
phantoms in the night
Bow down ,time has been tolled
Rise now ,to remain
The chains of dawn will reveal
The truth and what to come
Systematized synchronized
Life is on the hold
Faith by night a shallow light
Our innocence will guide
And silent saved from decay
We rearrange our ways
Open up your eye and see the
mirror of your life
Hunted every moment by the
phantoms in the night
Bow down ,time has been tolled
Rise now ,to remain
song performed by by Zonata
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rainforest Phantoms
The leopards listen to each noise
Of their surrounding sounds...
On steadfast feet they gently poise,
Resisting fearful bounds.
Perhaps it isn't time to run,
Like cowards fearing pain,
Or just like girls who love the sun,
Yet flee from falling rain...
The leopards like the spot they've seen,
It suits them to a tee...
They'll stay till others intervene,
Like phantoms on their tree...
The forest has its moody times,
Its fierce and frantic days,
Its pleasant passing sunny climes
And melting dew-dropped phase...
The sun shines through the trees above,
The clouds go gliding by...
And soon the moon will shine with love,
To grace the midnight sky...
The leopards lack for nothing now,
True friends in harmony...
Receiving what the Fates allow,
Like phantoms, fancy free...
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Rainforest Phantoms'.
Consider the UK Sky Digital Rainforest Rescue
charity appeal found on the UK sky-dot-com as
this explains how losing the rain forests destroys
the lives of those humans, animals and plants
in the name of progress for some, but not for all.
poem by Denis Martindale
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The Haunted Chamber. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Third)
Each heart has its haunted chamber,
Where the silent moonlight falls!
On the floor are mysterious footsteps,
There are whispers along the walls!
And mine at times is haunted
By phantoms of the Past
As motionless as shadows
By the silent moonlight cast.
A form sits by the window,
That is not seen by day,
For as soon as the dawn approaches
It vanishes away.
It sits there in the moonlight
Itself as pale and still,
And points with its airy finger
Across the window-sill.
Without before the window,
There stands a gloomy pine,
Whose boughs wave upward and downward
As wave these thoughts of mine.
And underneath its branches
Is the grave of a little child,
Who died upon life's threshold,
And never wept nor smiled.
What are ye, O pallid phantoms!
That haunt my troubled brain?
That vanish when day approaches,
And at night return again?
What are ye, O pallid phantoms!
But the statues without breath,
That stand on the bridge overarching
The silent river of death?
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Mummers (a waltz poem)
When
the moon
does
veil
the sun in
shadow
then
appears
the ghostly
masquerade where
masked phantoms
waltz in
an
endless
dance to then
fade in
the
bright sun's
rays
poem by Sheri Hockman
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Burns’s Statue At Irvine
Yes! let His place be there!
Where the lone moorland gazes on the sea,
Not in the squalid street nor pompous square:
So that he again may be
From contamination free,
His pedestal the plain, his canopy the air!
There leave him all alone!
Too much, too long, he herded with his kind,
Lured by the frolic phantoms that dethrone
Honest heart and homely mind,
Phantoms that besot and blind,
Then leave the troubled soul to suffer and atone.
From city stain and broil
Hither his rustic memory reclaim,
Leading him back, strayed suckling of the soil,
Homeward, that forgiving Fame
May around his shriven name
A halo wind, shall Time nor Truth itself despoil.
Quickly the Poet learns
The little that the alien world can teach.
Then he, if wise, to solitude returns,
Communing on brae and beach
With old Ocean's rhythmic speech,
Message of wandering winds, or lore of mountain burns.
'Tis there that Nature fills
His brooding heart with all he needs to know,
Moan of the main, and rapture of the rills;
So that, whether joy or woe
Fire his verse, it still may glow
Clear as her heaven-fed streams, and soaring as her hills.
poem by Alfred Austin
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Voices Of The Night : The Beleaguered City
I have read, in some old, marvellous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.
Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.
White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
The river flowed between.
No other voice nor sound was there,
No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.
But when the old cathedral bell
Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmed air.
Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled;
Up rose the glorious morning star,
The ghastly host was dead.
I have read, in the marvellous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,
That an army of phantoms vast and wan
Beleaguer the human soul.
Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.
Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
Flows the River of Life between.
No other voice nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,
But the rushing of Life's wave.
And when the solemn and deep churchbell
Entreats the soul to pray,
The midnight phantoms feel the spell,
The shadows sweep away.
Down the broad Vale of Tears afar
The spectral camp is fled;
Faith shineth as a morning star,
Our ghastly fears are dead.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Beleaguered City, The
I have read, in some old, marvellous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.
Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.
White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
The river flowed between.
No other voice nor sound was there,
No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.
But when the old cathedral bell
Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmed air.
Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled;
Up rose the glorious morning star,
The ghastly host was dead.
I have read, in the marvellous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,
That an army of phantoms vast and wan
Beleaguer the human soul.
Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.
Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
Flows the River of Life between.
No other voice nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,
But the rushing of Life's wave.
And when the solemn and deep churchbell
Entreats the soul to pray,
The midnight phantoms feel the spell,
The shadows sweep away.
Down the broad Vale of Tears afar
The spectral camp is fled;
Faith shineth as a morning star,
Our ghastly fears are dead.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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I see the state of all of us who live, nothing more than phantoms or a weightless shadow.
Befriending Our Wounds...
the wounds of the soul
are our friends
these pains of being human
how can this body negate
what it really is?
our friends have never for
once been ugly
we are our friends too
beautiful and enduring
show them the right paths
beyond grieving
phantoms from our humble
beginnings
the purity of parities
those flaming flumes
levitating
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ultima Thule: Night
Into the darkness and the hush of night
Slowly the landscape sinks, and fades away,
And with it fade the phantoms of the day,
The ghosts of men and things, that haunt the light,
The crowd, the clamor, the pursuit, the flight,
The unprofitable splendor and display,
The agitations, and the cares that prey
Upon our hearts, all vanish out of sight.
The better life begins; the world no more
Molests us; all its records we erase
From the dull commonplace book of our lives,
That like a palimpsest is written o'er
With trivial incidents of time and place,
And lo! the ideal, hidden beneath, revives.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Ghost Rider
Pack up all those phantoms
shoulder that invisible laod
keep on riding north and west
haunting that wilderness raod
Like a ghost rider
carry all those phantoms
through bitter winds and stormy skies
from the desert to the mountain
from the lowest low to the highest high
Like a ghost rider
Keep on riding north and west
circle south and east
show me beauty, but there is no peace
for the ghost rider
shadows on the road behind
shadows on the road ahead
nothing can stop you now
there's a shadow on the road behind
there's a shadow on the road ahead
nothing can stop you now
sunrise in the mirror
lightens that invisable load
riding on that namless quest
haunting that wilderness road
like a ghost rider
just an escape artist
racing against the night
a wandering hermit
racing towards the light
for the whote sands
to the canyonlands
to the redwood stands
to the barren lands
sunrise on the road behind
sunset on the road ahead
there's nothing to stop you now
nothing can stop you now
song performed by by Rush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet XXVIII: Weak Is the Sophistry
Weak is the sophistry, and vain the art
That whispers patience to the mind's despair!
That bids reflection bathe the wounds of care,
While Hope, with pleasing phantoms, soothes their smart.
For mem'ry still, reluctant to depart
From the dear spot, once rich in prospects fair,
Bids the fond soul enamour'd there,
And its least charm is grateful to the heart!
He never lov'd, who could not muse and sigh,
Spangling the sacred turf with frequent tears,
Where the small rivulet, that ripples by,
Recalls the scenes of past and happier years,
When, on its banks he watch'd the speaking eye,
And one sweet smile o'erpaid an age of fears!
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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I would love to spend all my time writing to you; I'd love to share with you all that goes through my mind, all that weighs on my heart, all that gives air to my soul; phantoms of art, dreams that would be so beautiful if they could come true.
quote by Luigi Pirandello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Darkness
Day fades into semidarkness
And night’s ravenous appetite
Slowly consumes remaining light
Leaving nothing but shadowy
Phantoms slow dancing with the wind
Under a new moon cloudy night.
Darkness- The great equalizer
Where the sense of sight is useless
And Seeing Eye dogs are not seen;
Where sinners and saints are lovers
And transgression and grace are words
Having utterly no meaning;
Where truth becomes irrelevant
Until the mornings piercing light.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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In A/C With Ghosts
You can shuffle and scuffle and scold,
You can rattle the knockers and knobs,
Or batter the doorsteps with buckets of gold
Till the Deputy-Governor sobs.
You can sneak up a suitable plank
In a frantic endeavor to see—
But what do they do in the Commonwealth Bank
When the Big Door bangs at Three?
Listen in the cellars, listen in the vaults,
Can’t you hear the tellers turning somersaults?
Can’t you hear the spectres of inspectors and directors
Dancing with the phantoms in a Dead Man’s Waltz?
Some are ghosts of nabobs, poverty and stray bobs,
Midas and his mistress, Mammon and his wife;
Other ones are sentries, guarding double entries,
Long-forgotten, double-dealing, troubled double-life.
Down among the pass-books, money lent and spent,
Down among the forests of the Four Per Cent.,
Where the ledgers meet and moulder, and the overdrafts grow older,
And the phantoms shrug a shoulder when you ask ’em for the rent.
They are bogies of Grandfather’s cheques,
They are spectres of buried accounts,
They are crinoline sweethearts with pearls on their necks,
Demanding enormous amounts.
They are payment for suppers and flowers,
For diamonds to banish a tear,
For sweet, pretty ladies in opulent hours . . .
And tombstones . . . and bailiffs . . . and beer . . .
Down in the bowels of the bank, the ledgers lie rank upon rank,
The debts of the ages come out of their pages,
The bones of old loans creak and clank—
Oh, if you could peep through the door
To day at a Quarter Past Four,
You’d find all the ghosts at their usual posts,
And you wouldn’t sign cheques any more!
poem by Kenneth Slessor
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Phantom Call
At the death of day
the phantoms come
from their river home,
like children that want to frolic and play
and they are ever hiding from the sun’s brooding beam,
while they rise like fog from where the river flow,
sometimes are mistaken for vapour or steam,
but have fevering eyes that continually glow
whispering on the winds breath:
“follow me” and again “follow me,
I have gifts to bequeath, ”
while ethereal they are in body
and come calling to claim the young and gay
in gestures that obscure the adult eye
trying to carry them away
under a brooding, dark black sky.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Lost Children
Down the hall their voices ring, their feet are on the run
Phantoms on the winter sky, together they do come
Faded lips and eyes of blue theyre carried in the wind
Their laughter filled the countryside but theyll not laugh again
All the games are ended now, their voices have been stilled
Their fathers built the tools of war by which they all were killed
Their fathers made the uniforms showing which side they were on
And the young boys wear the middle name for guns to pray upon
Youve seen the fires in the night, watched the devil as he smiles
Youve heard a mothers mournful cry as she searches for her child
Youve seen the lines of refugees, the faces of despair
And wondered at the wise men who never seem to care
Goodbye you lost children, God speed you on your way
Your little beds are empty now, your toys are put away
Your mother sings a lullaby as she gazes at the floor
Your father builds more weapons and marches out once more
Down the hall their voices ring, their feet are on the run
Phantoms on the winter sky, together they do come
Faded lips and eyes of blue theyre carried in the wind
Their laughter filled the countryside but theyll not laugh again
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Blind Summit
[A Viennese gentleman, who had climbed the Hoch-König
without a guide, was found dead, in a sitting posture, near the
summit, upon which he had written, 'It is cold, and clouds shut
out the view.'-
Vide
the
Daily News
of September 10, 1891.]
So mounts the child of ages of desire,
Man, up the steeps of Thought; and would behold
Yet purer peaks, touched with unearthlier fire,
In sudden prospect virginally new;
But on the lone last height he sighs: ''Tis cold,
And clouds shut out the view.'
Ah, doom of mortals! Vexed with phantoms old,
Old phantoms that waylay us and pursue,-
Weary of dreams,-we think to see unfold
The eternal landscape of the Real and True;
And on our Pisgah can but write: ''Tis cold,
And clouds shut out the view.'
poem by William Watson
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