En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Perished

I called to the summer sun,
“Come over the hills to-day!
Unlock the rivers, and tell them to run,
And kiss the snow-drifts and melt them away.”
And the sun came over – a tardy lover –
And unlocked the river, and told it to glide,
And kissed the snow-drift till it fainted and died.

I called to the robin, “Come back!
Come up from the south and sing! ”
And robin sailed up on an airy track,
And smoothed down his feathers and oiled his wing.
And the notes came gushing, gurgling, rushing,
In trills and quavers, clear, mellow, and strong,
Till the glad air quivered and rang with song.

I said to the orchard, “Blow! ”
I said to the meadow, “Bloom! ”
And the trees stood white, like brides in a row,
And the breeze was laden with rare perfume.
And over the meadows, in lights and shadows,
The daisies white and violets blue,
And yellow-haired buttercups blossomed and grew.

I called to a hope, that died
With the death of the flowers and grass,
“Come back! For the river is free to glide –
The robin sings, and the daisies bloom.” Alas!
For the hope I cherished too rudely perished
To ever awaken and live again,
Though a hundred summers creep over the plain.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Told You

I told you the winter would go, love,
I told you the winter would go,
That he'd flee in shame when the south wind came,
And you smiled when I told you so.
You said the blustering fellow
Would never yield to a breeze,
That his cold, icy breath had frozen to death
The flowers, the birds, and trees.

And I told you the snow would melt, love,
In the passionate glance o' the sun;
And the leaves o' the trees, and the flowers and bees,
Would come back again, one by one.
That the great, gray clouds would vanish,
And the sky turn tender and blue;
And the sweet birds would sing, and talk of the spring
And, love, it has all come true.

I told you that sorrow would fade, love,
And you would forget half your pain;
That the sweet bird of song would waken ere long,
And sing in your bosom again;
That hope would creep out of the shadows,
And back to its nest in your heart,
And gladness would come, and find its old home,
And that sorrow at length would depart.

I told you that grief seldom killed, love,
Though the heart might seem dead for awhile.
But the world is so bright, and full of warm light
That 'twould waken at length, in its smile.
Ah, love! was I not a true prophet?
There's a sweet happy smile on your face;
Your sadness has flown - the snow-drift is gone,
And the buttercups bloom in its place.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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I Dreamt Of Robin

I opened the casement this morn at starlight,
And, the moment I got out of bed,
The daisies were quaking about in their white
And the cowslip was nodding its head.
The grass was all shivers, the stars were all bright,
And Robin that should come at e'en--
I thought that I saw him, a ghost by moonlight,
Like a stalking horse stand on the green.

I went bed agen and did nothing but dream
Of Robin and moonlight and flowers.
He stood like a shadow transfixed by a stream,
And I couldn't forget him for hours.
I'd just dropt asleep when I dreamed Robin spoke,
And the casement it gave such a shake,
As if every pane in the window was broke;
Such a patter the gravel did make.

So I up in the morning before the cock crew
And to strike me a light I sat down.
I saw from the door all his track in the dew
And, I guess, called 'Come in and sit down.'
And one, sure enough, tramples up to the door,
And who but young Robin his sen?
And ere the old folks were half willing to stir
We met, kissed, and parted agen.

poem by John Clare
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The River Sings

The river sings
A voice rises above
Fairer than the water, rings

I know you well
For the river has told
All there is to tell

It sung of a maiden
Fair as the water’s song
Her heart heavy laden

Though she sang
Her song was sorrowed
In voice the sadness rang

No words were needed
The river knew
Her voice it heeded

She walked alone
Her gaiety was lost
River, her only home

She listened to the water
Telling a story
Calling her River Daughter

The river sang, through day and night
Sang for her, the only listener
She joined the song, through dark and light

She called to her lover
Come free me!
Called with song and river

poem by Rachel Harris
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May's Come To Ireland

The robin he sings on green sycamore bough
And calf drink from udder of her mother cow
And the dark otters play in quiet pools of the stream
And May's come to Ireland and meadows are green,
The sun in the morning shine through the gray fog
And the turf cutters shlaun out dark peat in brown bog
And the gorse bloom with yellow flowers on the brown hill
And golden buttercups bloom on green banks of the rill,
The skylark is carolling his clear notes of joy
As he soars towards the heavens a speck in the sky
And the plain mottled pheasant she sits on her nest
Her twelve olive brown eggs so warm neath her breast
And the swallows fly o'er the green meadows all day
And the hedgerows scent sweet with the blossoms of May.

poem by Francis Duggan
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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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In Faith

When the soft sweet wind o' the south went by,
I dwelt in the light of a dark brown eye;
And out where the robin sang his song,
We lived and loved, while the days were long.

In the sweet, sweet eves, when the moon swung high,
We wandered under the starry sky;
Or sat in the porch, and the moon looked through
The latticed wall where the roses grew.

My lips, that hd no lover's kiss,
You taught the art, till they trilled in bliss;
And the moon, and the stars, and the roses knew
That the heart you won was pure and true.

But true hearts weary men, maybe,
For you grew weary of love, and me.
Over the porch the dead vines hang,
And a mourning dove sobs where the robin sang.

In a warmer clime does another sigh
Under the light of your dark brown eye?
Did you follow the soft sweet wing o' the south,
And are you kissing a redder mouth?

Lips may be redder, and eyes more bright;
The face may be fairer you see to-night;
But never, love, while the stars shall shine,
Will you find a heart that is truer than mine.

Sometime, perhaps, when south winds blow,
You will think of a love you used to know;
Sometime, perhaps, when a robin sings,
Your heart will go back to olden things.

Sometime you will weary of this world's arts,
Of deceit and change and hollow hearts,
And, wearying, sigh for the 'used to be, '
And your feet will turn to the porch, and me.

I shall watch for you here when days grow long;
I shall list for your step through the robin's song;
I shall sit in the porch where the moon looks through,
And a vacant chair will wait - for you.

You may stray, and forget, and rove afar,
But my changeless love, like the polar star,
Will draw you at length o'er land and sea -
And I know you will yet come back to me.

The years may come, and the years may go,
But sometime again, when south winds blow,
When roses bloom, and the moon swings high,
I shall live in he light of your dark brown eye.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Bleak Weather

Dear Love, where the red lilies blossomed and grew

The white snows are falling;

And all through the woods where I wandered with you

The loud winds are calling;

And the robin that piped to us tune upon tune,

Neath the oak, you remember,

O'er hill-top and forest has followed the June

And left us December.

He has left like a friend who is true in the sun

And false in the shadows;

He has found new delights in the land where he's gone,

Greener woodlands and meadows.

Let him go! what care we? let the snow shroud the lea,

Let it drift on the heather;

We can sing through it all: I have you, you have me.

And we'll laugh at the weather.

The old year may die and a new year be born

That is bleaker and colder:

It cannot dismay us; we dare it, we scorn,

For our love makes us bolder.

Ah, Robin! sing loud on your far distant lea,

You friend in fair weather!

But here is a song sung that's fuller of glee,

By two warm hearts together.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Robin Redbreast

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer!
For Summer's nearly done;
The garden smiling faintly,
Cool breezes in the sun;
Our Thrushes now are silent,
Our Swallows flown away, --
But Robin's here, in coat of brown,
With ruddy breast-knot gay.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
Robin singing sweetly
In the falling of the year.

Bright yellow, red, and orange,
The leaves come down in hosts;
The trees are Indian Princes,
But soon they'll turn to Ghosts;
The scanty pears and apples
Hang russet on the bough,
It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late,
'Twill soon be Winter now.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
And welaway! my Robin,
For pinching times are near.

The fireside for the Cricket,
The wheatstack for the Mouse,
When trembling night-winds whistle
And moan all round the house;
The frosty ways like iron,
The branches plumed with snow, --
Alas! in Winter, dead and dark,
Where can poor Robin go?
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
And a crumb of bread for Robin,
His little heart to cheer.

poem by William Allingham
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My Memories Of Childhood Are Fading

My memories of childhood are fading as I grow older and more gray
Yet in my wild flights of fancy I get the sweet scent of hay
In the mown meadows of Summer in the far northern July
And upwards above the rank rushes the brown lark carols as he fly.

I'm not what you would call a poet I only pen doggerel
Yet I can relate to my memories and I too have stories to tell
Of my childhood close to Nature in the fields and groves by the Town
Where the deciduous green leaves of Summer in late Autumn faded to brown.

Where male bullfinch the quiet sort of a fellow in his cloak of pink, black and slate blue
A beautiful bird of rare beauty to his wife till death he is true
At dawn at the edge of his borders his quiet though familiar song sing
The orchardists they do not like them they eat their fruit tree buds in the Spring.

In my childhood I grew to love Nature and like every other country boy
To me the voice of the cuckoo in late Spring was always a thing of great joy
But I grew to manhood too quickly and time for me too did not wait
And each day I live sees me closer and closer to my use by date.

I fancy I still hear the dipper his voice is not distant 'twould seem
On a black river rock in the shallows in the heart of the babbling stream
His snow white breast to me familiar his wings and his back darkish brown
And as he pipes forth his scratchy notes his head always bobs up and down.

My memories of childhood are fading suppose nothing ever does last
And 'tis said we should live for tomorrow still we all remember the past
And still in my wild flights of fancy the robin sings on the hedgerow
And in the rank grass in the headland the shy pheasant out of sight crow.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Summer Song

THERE are white moon daisies in the mist of the meadow
Where the flowered grass scatters its seeds like spray,
There are purple orchis by the wood-ways' shadow,
There are pale dog-roses by the white highway;
And the grass, the grass is tall, the grass is up for hay,
With daisies white like silver and buttercups like gold,
And it's oh! for once to play thro' the long, the lovely day,
To laugh before the year grows old!

There is silver moonlight on the breast of the river
Where the willows tremble to the kiss of night,
Where the nine tall aspens in the meadow shiver,
Shiver in the night wind that turns them white.
And the lamps, the lamps are lit, the lamps are glow-worms light,
Between the silver aspens and the west's last gold.
And it's oh! to drink delight in the lovely lonely night,
To be young before the heart grows old!

poem by Edith Nesbit
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The First Flowers

For ages on our river borders,
These tassels in their tawny bloom,
And willowy studs of downy silver,
Have prophesied of Spring to come.

For ages have the unbound waters
Smiled on them from their pebbly hem,
And the clear carol of the robin
And song of bluebird welcomed them.

But never yet from smiling river,
Or song of early bird, have they
Been greeted with a gladder welcome
Than whispers from my heart to-day.

They break the spell of cold and darkness,
The weary watch of sleepless pain;
And from my heart, as from the river,
The ice of winter melts again.

Thanks, Mary! for this wild-wood token
Of Freya's footsteps drawing near;
Almost, as in the rune of Asgard,
The growing of the grass I hear.

It is as if the pine-trees called me
From ceiled room and silent books,
To see the dance of woodland shadows,
And hear the song of April brooks!

As in the old Teutonic ballad
Of Odenwald live bird and tree,
Together live in bloom and music,
I blend in song thy flowers and thee.

Earth's rocky tablets bear forever
The dint of rain and small bird's track
Who knows but that my idle verses
May leave some trace by Merrimac!

The bird that trod the mellow layers
Of the young earth is sought in vain;
The cloud is gone that wove the sandstone,
From God's design, with threads of rain!

So, when this fluid age we live in
Shall stiffen round my careless rhyme,
Who made the vagrant tracks may puzzle
The savants of the coming time;

And, following out their dim suggestions,
Some idly-curious hand may draw
My doubtful portraiture, as Cuvier
Drew fish and bird from fin and claw.

And maidens in the far-off twilights,
Singing my words to breeze and stream,
Shall wonder if the old-time Mary
Were real, or the rhymer's dream!

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Wild Daisies

They are Nature's natural survivors though they seem so dainty and small
And they bloom in all Seasons and weather In Winter, Spring, Summer and Fall
With yellow hearts and snow white petals the wildflowers everybody does know
Even on the coldest days of Winter they bloom in the shade by hedgerow
Wild daisies distinct from all others the flowers everyone recognize
They close their petals to the night air and open their hearts to the sunrise
Even in the coldest days of Winter the wildflowers one often does see
So dainty looking yet so hardy they always do look disease free
When I was young in depths of Winter they bloomed in the fields far away
The very same species of wild daisies I see in the town park today
They must have been around forever the hardiest of little wildflowers
They even bloom in the coldest of weather in the sleety and wintery showers
They are Nature's natural survivors the poets their praises do sing
They bloom in all Seasons and weather Summer, Autumn and Winter and Spring.

poem by Francis Duggan
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What Does It Show

What does it show
When a cold wind does blow
And a robin, sings you a song,
Are you in love
Or are you just a hug
Looking for a love for so long.
So what does it mean
After that you have seen
A robing singing a song,
Do you think of the past
And the love you thought would last
And think of the love that ran away,
So when you listen to the robin
And do you feel your heart throbbing
To a scene, you have received.
And while the cold wind just blows
And while the river still flows
Your feelings just grows and grow,
And if your sitting by the river
To a cold wind you begin to shiver
As you think of the things you've seen,
And the robin only sings
And in the mind her heart rings
To the feeling that you have been,
So sing her a song
And with you she’ll sing along
With you, and the world aloud.

Randy L. McClave

poem by Randy McClave
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Drift Glow

Drift glow
Drift glow
As white as snow
Into the openness
Of bright sky heaven fresh

Mighty in its blue
Into going and renew
Drift glow
White as snow

I hear the birds singing
Outside - in a tree
Wonderful tones bringing
Up and down the scale free
Love songs for their nest
And hope to come and see
When with young it's blessed
And cared for compassionately

Drift glow
Drift glow
As white as snow
Into the openness
Of space and clear enmesh

Something to come here through
When tomorrow is up to do
Drift glow
White as snow

In with its many days singing

poem by Peter S. Quinn
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Drift Glow (from, MySpace)

Drift glow
Drift glow
As white as snow
Into the openness
Of bright sky heaven fresh

Mighty in its blue
Into going and renew
Drift glow
White as snow

I hear the birds singing
Outside - in a tree
Wonderful tones bringing
Up and down the scale free
Love songs for their nest
And hope to come and see
When with young it's blessed
And cared for compassionately

Drift glow
Drift glow
As white as snow
Into the openness
Of space and clear enmesh

Something to come here through
When tomorrow is up to do
Drift glow
White as snow

In with its many days singing

poem by Peter S. Quinn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Winds Message

There came a whisper down the Bland between the dawn and dark,
Above the tossing of the pines, above the river's flow;
It stirred the boughs of giant gums and stalwart iron-bark;
It drifted where the wild ducks played amid the swamps below;
It brought a breath of mountain air from off the hills of pine,
A scent of eucalyptus trees in honey-laden bloom;
And drifting, drifting far away along the Southern line
It caught from leaf and grass and fern a subtle strange perfume.

It reached the toiling city folk, but few there were that heard--
The rattle of their busy life had choked the whisper down;
And some but caught a fresh-blown breeze with scent of pine that stirred
A thought of blue hills far away beyond the smoky town;
And others heard the whisper pass, but could not understand
The magic of the breeze's breath that set their hearts aglow,
Nor how the roving wind could bring across the Overland
A sound of voices silent now and songs of long ago.

But some that heard the whisper clear were filled with vague unrest;
The breeze had brought its message home, they could not fixed abide;
Their fancies wandered all the day towards the blue hills' breast,
Towards the sunny slopes that lie along the riverside,
The mighty rolling western plains are very fair to see,
Where waving to the passing breeze the silver myalls stand,
But fairer are the giant hills, all rugged though they be,
From which the two great rivers rise that run along the Bland.

Oh! rocky range and rugged spur and river running clear,
That swings around the sudden bends with swirl of snow-white foam,
Though we, your sons are far away, we sometimes seem to hear
The message that the breezes bring to call the wanderers home.
The mountain peaks are white with snow that feeds a thousand rills,
Along the rive banks the maize grows tall on virgin land,
And we shall live to see once more those sunny southern hills,
And strike once more the bridle track that leads along the Bland.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Middle Man

There was a mountain and there were three trees
There was a good man and there were two thieves
A man called Barabas was doomed for the tree
But Jesus took the middle one and Barabas went free
I love that man in the middle because I know he first loved me
Praise to that man who died on Mount Calvary
The middle man made it possible that I could go free
A hill called Golgotha the place of a skull
No yellow flowers, no trees in bloom the scenery was so dull
Three crosses stood black and bold against a darkened sky
And not from pain but a broken heart that middle man died
I love that man in the middle because I know he first loved me
Praise to that man who died on Mount Calvary
The middle man made it possible that I could go free
I love that man in the middle because I know he first loved me
Praise to that man who died on Mount Calvary
The middle man made it possible that I could go free
Praise to that man who died on Mount Calvary
The middle man made it possible that I could go free.

song performed by by LeAnn Rimes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Robin

Robin and Robin!
Come to my cabin.
We can play in
With fuss and fun.

You can fly being gay
And catch insect prey.
As you like you play:
I won’t be in the way.

A beauty is your tail.
How ably you waggle!
When in air you sail
You are not fragile.

When you sing a song,
By your tail you clang.
You hold it upright,
Swing it down to spread

And gather it up
Like a drum beat,
Much in a rhythm
To your crooning rhyme.

Black in white is good.
White in black is good.
You’re black and white
And are superbly bright.

Chest and dorsal are black.
Ventral is velvet white.
Wings too bear white
You are white by black.

Koel like is Latha;
You are my Asha,
With look seductive
And voice captive.

You are nice to sing..
You’re nicer by wing.
Love, can you spring?
I love you, Robin.

With me, you are free.
Anytime you can flee.
I make you happy
When you are with me.

Don’t feel it a sin
To be with me in.
You will have fun,
Which is your win

Robin and Robin!
Come to my cabin.
I’ll play a tune.
You rest and preen.
28.04.2001, Pmdi

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Christopher Robin

I must think suddenly of matters too difficult for a bear of little brain. I have never asked myself what lies beyond the place where we live, I and Rabbit, Piglet and Eeyore, with our friend Christopher Robin. That is, we continued to live here, and nothing changed, and I just ate my little something. Only Christopher Robin left for a moment.

Owl says that immediately beyond our garden Time begins, and that it is an awfully deep well. If you fall in it, you go down and down, very quickly, and no one knows what happens to you next. I was a bit worried about Christopher Robin falling in, but he came back and then I asked him about the well. 'Old bear,' he answered. 'I was in it and I was falling and I was changing as I fell. My legs became long, I was a big person, I grew old, hunched, and I walked with a cane, and then I died. It was probably just a dream, it was quite unreal. The only real thing was you, old bear, and our shared fun. Now I won't go anywhere, even if I'm called in for an afternoon snack.'

poem by Czeslaw Milosz
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Right Across The River Bend

Right across the river bend there’s a warm gentle breeze.
Right across the river-bend are trees with yellow leaves.
Right across the river bend the water reflects the sun.
Right across the river bend is a smell of innocence.

Right across the river bend a robin’s egg is broken.
Right across the river-bend are peaceful mountain valleys.
Right across the river bend a dandelion is carried.
Right across the river bend are fields of shiny green grass.

Right across the riverbend are memories made to last.

poem by Alicia Page
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