Irreparableness
I HAVE been in the meadows all the day
And gathered there the nosegay that you see
Singing within myself as bird or bee
When such do field-work on a morn of May.
But, now I look upon my flowers, decay
Has met them in my hands more fatally
Because more warmly clasped,--and sobs are free
To come instead of songs. What do you say,
Sweet counsellors, dear friends ? that I should go
Back straightway to the fields and gather more ?
Another, sooth, may do it, but not I !
My heart is very tired, my strength is low,
My hands are full of blossoms plucked before,
Held dead within them till myself shall die.
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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The Dying Child
He could not die when trees were green,
For he loved the time too well.
His little hands, when flowers were seen,
Were held for the bluebell,
As he was carried o'er the green.
His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee;
He knew those children of the spring:
When he was well and on the lea
He held one in his hands to sing,
Which filled his heart with glee.
Infants, the children of the spring!
How can an infant die
When butterflies are on the wing,
Green grass, and such a sky?
How can they die at spring?
He held his hands for daisies white,
And then for violets blue,
And took them all to bed at night
That in the green fields grew,
As childhood's sweet delight.
And then he shut his little eyes,
And flowers would notice not;
Birds' nests and eggs caused no surprise,
He now no blossoms got;
They met with plaintive sighs.
When winter came and blasts did sigh,
And bare were plain and tree,
As he for ease in bed did lie
His soul seemed with the free,
He died so quietly.
poem by John Clare
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My heart is my hands
My hands
Is
Only my hands...
Not for
your hands....
So...
I want too work
My hands...
I want too serve
My hands...
I want to do about
Somthing of my
Hands...
My hands is
Free for only
Sleeping time only...
my hands is
working all the times
My hands not only
Hands...
It is human workers...
Allways for my friends...
My hands...is my heart...
My heart is my hands.....
Ok...How is your hands...?
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Spring Carol
WHEN loud by landside streamlets gush,
And clear in the greenwood quires the thrush,
With sun on the meadows
And songs in the shadows
Comes again to me
The gift of the tongues of the lea,
The gift of the tongues of meadows.
Straightway my olden heart returns
And dances with the dancing burns;
It sings with the sparrows;
To the rain and the (grimy) barrows
Sings my heart aloud -
To the silver-bellied cloud,
To the silver rainy arrows.
It bears the song of the skylark down,
And it hears the singing of the town;
And youth on the highways
And lovers in byways
Follows and sees:
And hearkens the song of the leas
And sings the songs of the highways.
So when the earth is alive with gods,
And the lusty ploughman breaks the sod,
And the grass sings in the meadows,
And the flowers smile in the shadows,
Sits my heart at ease,
Hearing the song of the leas,
Singing the songs of the meadows.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Heart Of Stone
A broken wing, and a broken bone
Of a bird, that met a stone
Lied helpless And was bit despair
Looked above If god was there.
Short of food And short of breath
Was silently waiting For his death
Asked his wings If they could fly.
Yes they said why don't you try
He gathered his strength and wiped his tears.
And soon he stood Without his fears
His eyes stared at the Dark blue sky
But just then when he was about to fly
they grabbed his neck they grabbed it hard
with all his strength he could move a yard
and yes those hands did hurt his bone
he had met a heart of stone
some ugly hands and a beautiful bird.
He cried for help But no one heard.
His wings were flawed And his muscles were stiff.
He begged them to throw him off a cliff
oh dumb bird, don't you get,
look at you, it's a stone you met.
To this, the half dead bird replied
So what, if I die
Just for once I ll meet the air.
And also see if god was there.
Stories of wisdom, that were once told
But now this world had been so cold.
He wished if those blind eyes could see.
The bird was dead though his soul was free.
poem by Kanav Justa
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At Nightfall
O little hands, long vanished in the night--
Sweet fairy hands that were my treasure here--
My heart is full of music from some sphere,
Where ye make melody for God's delight.
Though autumn clouds obscure the starry height,
And winds are noisy and the land is drear,
In this blank room I feel my lost love near,
And hear you playing--hands so small and white.
The shadowy organ sings its songs again,
The dead years turn to music at its voice,
And all the dreams come back my brain did store.
Once more, dear hands, ye soothe me in my pain,
Once more your music makes my heart rejoice--
God speed the day we clasp for evermore!
poem by Frederick George Scott
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Cor Cordium
O heart of hearts, the chalice of love's fire,
Hid round with flowers and all the bounty of bloom;
O wonderful and perfect heart, for whom
The lyrist liberty made life a lyre;
O heavenly heart, at whose most dear desire
Dead love, living and singing, cleft his tomb,
And with him risen and regent in death's room
All day thy choral pulses rang full choir;
O heart whose beating blood was running song,
O sole thing sweeter than thine own songs were,
Help us for thy free love's sake to be free,
True for thy truth's sake, for thy strength's sake strong,
Till very liberty make clean and fair
The nursing earth as the sepulchral sea.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Land Ho!
Grandma loved a sailor who sailed the frozen sea.
Grandpa was that whaler and he took me on his knee.
He said son Im going crazy from living on the land
Got to find my shipmates and walk on foreign sand.
This old man was graceful with silver in his smile.
He smoked a briar pipe and he walked four country miles
Singing songs of shady sisters and old town liberty
Songs of love and songs of death, songs that set men free.
Ive got three ships and sixty men
A course for ports unread.
Ill stand at mast, let north winds blow
Till half of us are dead.
Land ho!
If I get my hands on a dollar bill
Gonna buy a bottle and drink my fill.
If I get my hands on a number five
Gonna skin that little girl alive.
If I get my hands on a number two
Come back home and marry you
Marry you, marry you.
Land ho!, land ho!
If I get back home and I feel all right
You dont baby gonna love you tonight
Land ho!
song performed by by Doors
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Amor Umbratilis
A gift of Silence, sweet!
Who may not ever hear:
To lay down at your unobservant feet,
Is all the gift I bear.
I have no songs to sing,
That you should heed or know:
I have no lilies, in full hands, to fling
Across the path you go.
I cast my flowers away,
Blossoms unmeet for you!
The garland I have gathered in my day:
My rosemary and rue.
I watch you pass and pass,
Serene and cold: I lay
My lips upon your trodden, daisied grass,
And turn my life away.
Yea, for I cast you, sweet!
This one gift, you shall take:
Like ointment, on your unobservant feet,
My silence, for your sake.
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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The Skylark's Message
SWEET little upturned faces,
Poor little hands and feet,
Little eyes that are careworn and anxious
From hunger and want in the street,
Hear ye that skylark singing
5
Like an angel far away?
'Tis bringing to you a message
From the Golden Gates of day.
Ah, little know ye of the meadows,
Poor little blistered feet,
10
Down in the smoke of the city,
Down in the noise of the street!
But it sings of a better country,
Where tired little hearts can rest;
Of a sun that shines for ever,
15
And the love of a Father's breast.
O poor little weary spirits,
I would that ye knew its song,
For the world is very heartless,
And your journey may be long;
20
And ye need such heavenly music
To cheer you in the night,
Little hearts that are now so noble,
Little souls that are now so white.
I would that ye heard it always,
25
That sweet bird's voice within,
When the heart is sad and lonely
In the long, long struggle with sin;
Till a rest comes out of the sunset
For the labouring hands and feet,
30
And a silence has fallen for ever
On the noise and the dust of the street.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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Sonnet LXXXVII: Death's Songsters
When first that horse, within whose populous womb
The birth was death, o'ershadowed Troy with fate,
Her elders, dubious of its Grecian freight,
Brought Helen there to sing the songs of home;
She whispered, “Friends, I am alone; come, come!”
Then, crouched within, Ulysses waxed afraid,
And on his comrades' quivering mouths he laid
His hands, and held them till the voice was dumb.
The same was he who, lashed to his own mast,
There where the sea-flowers screen the charnel-caves,
Beside the sirens' singing island pass'd,
Till sweetness failed along the inveterate waves. . . .
Say, soul,—are songs of Death no heaven to thee,
Nor shames her lip the cheek of Victory?
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Lost Time
On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time.
But it is never lost, my lord.
Thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own hands.
Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts,
buds into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness.
I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed
and imagined all work had ceased.
In the morning I woke up
and found my garden full with wonders of flowers.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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A Priceless Day
One day,
On my way,
I went to meet my granddaughter
and spend the day with her.
I shared her joy
As she showed me her new toys.
Later we went for a walk
To the deer park.
She held my hand,
But soon ran ahead
Without any fear
As she spotted the deer.
And tried to peer
Into the enclosure.
She would not pay heed
As she tried to feed
Them with her small hands
As they flocked to her like old friends
She laughed and danced with glee
And seemed utterly carefree.
Soon it was four
I dropped her at her door.
It was a priceless day
I felt as I drove away
I looked back and saw she was in her maid’s lap,
Tired and all set to have a nap.
She waved with both hands at me.
I too kept waving till I could see.
Then I put my against the back rest
Could feel the heart beat in my chest.
I recalled how she had hugged me,
And I didn’t want to set her free.
She really has a way
To make you happy and feel gay
She brings out the child in me
And I rediscover what it’s to just be.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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When Heaven Shuts The Door
When you are tired
and heaven shuts the door
are you going to just sit there
and wait for heaven
to open the door?
No my dear,
get up and gather your strength
run untill you find
the crowd of those who are tired.
The crowd is singing
songs for heaven
join them
and sing with them
songs for heaven.
Yes my dear,
sing out loud, so loud
untill heaven got no other choice
but to open the door
for all of you who are tired.
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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Sonnet: Harvest-time
In Summer, farmers scythe the harvest fast;
Their weary frames from morn till eve stay bent;
The produce sheaved is dried in fields so vast;
The air with songs of joy from heart is rent.
The scorching Sun doesn't bother their tanned skin;
Despite their speed, their work is ne’er over;
All hands labour, young, old, both kith and kin,
For golden harvest, thanking Lord- Giver.
The reapers everywhere must work quite hard;
There is no time to eat or drink water!
Their sweat-drenched land has yielded them reward;
The struggle involved ain't a great matter.
Each morn they stand and pray to Sun- their God,
Without which, there's no food, peasant, landlord.
poem by John Celes
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The New Man
THE hands must touch and handle many things,
The eyes long waste their glances all in vain;
The feet course still in idle, mazy rings,
E'er man himself, the lost, shall back regain;
The hand that ever moves, the eyes that see,
While day holds out his shining lamp on high,
And strait as flies the honey-seeking bee,
Direct the feet to unseen flowers they spy,
These, when they come, the man revealed from heaven,
Shall labor all the day in quiet rest,
And find at eve the covert duly given,
Where with the bird they find sweet sleep and rest;
That shall their wasted strength to health restore,
And bid them seek the morn the hills and fields once more.
poem by Jones Very
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Our Hands
My hands once warm,
And clothed in yours,
my hands once full,
and held in yours.
Empty hands,
Cold hands,
my hands have lost their,
Partner as you once were for me,
Your hands at once rough,
and soft,
Always gentle when in mine,
our hands would meet to fill the cold,
My hands now empty cover tears,
my hands once warm now with
a freezing touch,
your hands are gone,
the warmth they held has left,
these hands of mine.
poem by Rebecca Adams
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Ashes, Dirt, and Wicker
dead bird lying
in a wicker cage.
hands on the old clock...
...... stopped!
train tracks that tremor,
and nothing comes.
you cant build a fire
in ashes....
look back. the fields
behind you are brown,
and barren...
the memory of rows
gone back to dirt...
just dirt!
the stranger at the door
never speaks, never asks,
never waits for you
to gather yourself...
words lose their form
and fall like raindrops
that disappear into thirst...
thirst, that creates anew,
and never remembers falling!
ashes to ashes... remember,
you cant build a fire
in ashes...
dead bird lying
in a wicker cage...
hands on the old clock...
....... stopped!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Empty Hands
He rode in town on a white horse
With nothing in his hands
He came to gather his people
And take them to their promised land
When he came he knew there would be bloodshed
But still no violence made his plans
He came to fight in a battle
With no guns or money
But with his empty hands
With his empty hands
With his empty hands
With his empty hands
They said hey boy what you lookin'at
As they eyed his dreaded mane
He said my father has sent me
I've come back to reclaim
The children whose hearts
Were so whole and pure
Now it's you who'll die in pain
So they lynched the man
Who fooled the word
And all the children gathered
In his empty hands
In his empty hands
The children ..... empty hands
In his empty hands
With his empty hands
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
song performed by by Lenny Kravitz from Let Love Rule
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That The Rain Rains On
I stand by the grave the old-time grave
In the drift of the falling rain ;
My heart goes back to an afternoon
In the spring of life again,
When mother was carried the churchyard thro',
When April was dead and gone ;
And a voice said ' Happy, happy, happy,
Happy the corpse that the rain rains on.'
My heart went back much further yet,
To a time when mother and I
Stood out on the wet and the shining grass,
While above was the clearing sky ;
She plucked a lilac all drooping wet
And dark with its perfume on,
' The lilac is sweet the lilac is sweet,
The lilac is sweet that the rain rains on.'
Boy as I was when mother died,
I stole thro' the creeping wet,
And placed in her dear white hands a bunch
Of lilacs and mignonette ;
And the rain fell soft in the May morn light
Her glistening coffin on ;
And the voice said ' Happy, happy, happy,
Happy tbe corpse that the rain rains on.'
poem by Robert Kirkland Kernighan
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Parted Presence
LOVE, I speak to your heart,
Your heart that is always here.
Oh draw me deep to its sphere,
Though you and I are apart,
And yield, by the spirit's art,
Each distant gift that is dear.
O love, my love, you are here!
Your eyes are afar to-day,
Yet, love, look now in mine eyes.
Two hearts sent forth may despise
All dead things by the way.
All between is decay,
Dead hours and this hour that dies.
O love, look deep in mine eyes!
Your hands to-day are not here,
Yet lay them, love, in my hands.
The hourglass sheds its sands
All day for the dead hours' bier;
But now, as two hearts draw near,
This hour like a flower expands.
O love, your hands in my hands!
Your voice is not on the air,
Yet, love, I can hear your voice:
It bids my heart to rejoice
As knowing your heart is there,—
A music sweet to declare
The truth of your steadfast choice.
O love, how sweet is your voice!
To-day your lips are afar,
Yet draw my lips to them, love.
Around, beneath, and above,
Is frost to bind and to bar;
But where I am and you are,
Desire and the fire thereof.
O kiss me, kiss me, my love!
Your heart is never away,
But ever with mine, for ever,
For ever without endeavour,
To-morrow, love, as to-day;
Two blent hearts never astray,
Two souls no power may sever,
Together, O my love, for ever!
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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