En.Citatepedia^®.ro

In a Breton Cemetery

They sleep well here,
These fisher-folk who passed their anxious days
In fierce Atlantic ways;
And found not there,
Beneath the long curled wave,
So quiet a grave.

And they sleep well,
These peasant-folk, who told their lives away,
From day to market-day,
As one should tell,
With patient industry,
Some sad old rosary.

And now night falls,
Me, tempest-tost, and driven from pillar to post,
A poor worn ghost,
This quiet pasture calls;
And dear dead people with pale hands
Beckon me to their lands.

poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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The Abandoned

The moonlight touched the sombre waters white.
Beneath the bridge 'twas darker. Was she cold?
She shivered. Her poor shawl was worn and old,
And she was desolate, and it was night.
The slow canal crept onward; to her sight
It seemed to beckon, and the lapping told
Of rest and quiet sleep: how sweet to fold
The hands from toil and close the eyes from light,
And so shut out all memory, and go
There where men sleep, and dreams, perhaps, are not.
O never any dreams, she murmured; so,
Longing for sleep, the sleep that comes with death,
She fell, she felt the water, and forgot
All, save the drowning agony of breath.

poem by Arthur Symons
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Shallow Grave

When I fall in endless sleep
I hope that I'll be buried deep
Let me be the one that fortune favours
Even good children got shallow graves
Throw another clown to the lions
Throw another Joan on the blaze
Cast me away on the cruel calm ocean
and leave me for days and days and days and days and days
I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
I won't lie, I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
Dig me down deep where the dead men sleep
I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
Bless the poor 'cos like the rich
They all end up in a ditch
In this world of fools and knaves
Even good children got shallow graves
The tinker, the tailor, the fabulous five
Nobody gets out of this alive
Chorus
Dig me down deep where the dead men sleep
I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
Dig me down deep where the dead men sleep
I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
Dig me down, dig me down, dig me down deep
I won't lie in this poor shallow grave

song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rain Along Shore

Wan white mists upon the sea,
East wind harping mournfully
All the sunken reefs along,
Wail and heart-break in its song,
But adown the placid bay
Fisher-folk keep holiday.

All the deeps beyond the bar
Call and murmur from afar,
'Plaining of a mighty woe
Where the great ships come and go,
But adown the harbor gray
Fisher-folk keep holiday.

When the cloudy heavens frown,
And the sweeping rain comes down,
Boats at anchorage must bide
In despite of time or tide;
Making merry as they may
Fisher-folk keep holiday.

Now is time for jest and song
All the idle shore along,
Now is time for wooing dear,
Maidens cannot choose but hear;
Daffing toil and care away
Fisher-folk keep holiday.

Oh, the fretted reefs may wail,
Every man has furled his sail!
Oh, the wind may moan in fear,
Every lad is with his dear!
Mirth and laughter have their way,
Fisher-folk keep holiday.

poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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Shallow Graves

When I fall in endless sleep
I hope that Ill be buried deep
Let me be the one that fortune favours
Even good children got shallow graves
Throw another clown to the lions
Throw another joan on the blaze
Cast me away on the cruel calm ocean
And leave me for days and days and days and days and days
I wont lie in this poor shallow grave
I wont lie, I wont lie in this poor shallow grave
Dig me down deep where the dead men sleep
I wont lie in this poor shallow grave
Bless the poor cos like the rich
They all end up in a ditch
In this world of fools and knaves
Even good children got shallow graves
The tinker, the tailor, the fabulous five
Nobody gets out of this alive
Chorus
Dig me down deep where the dead men sleep
I wont lie in this poor shallow grave
Dig me down deep where the dead men sleep
I wont lie in this poor shallow grave
Dig me down, dig me down, dig me down deep
I wont lie in this poor shallow grave

song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Requiem

Neobule, being tired,
Far too tired to laugh or weep,
From the hours, rosy and gray,
Hid her golden face away.
Neobule, fain of sleep,
Slept at last as she desired!

Neobule! is it well,
That you haunt the hollow lands,
Where the poor, dead people stray,
Ghostly, pitiful and gray,
Plucking, with their spectral hands,
Scentless blooms of asphodel?

Neobule, tired to death
Of the flowers that I threw
On her flower-like, fair feet,
Sighed for blossoms not so sweet,
Lunar roses pale and blue,
Lilies of the world beneath.

Neobule! ah, too tired
Of the dreams and days above!
Where the poor, dead people stray,
Ghostly, pitiful and gray,
Out of life and out of love,
Sleeps the sleep which she desired.

poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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Helpless Trust

Curled up on your lap,
you fingers caressing my head,
the comfort of trust,
lulling me to sleep.

Curled up on your lap,
rocking me to sleep,
the sound of your heart,
lulling me to sleep.

Curled up on your lap,
the warmth of your care,
putting my mind to rest,
lulling me to sleep.

Curled up on your lap,
your arms wrapped protectively around me,
a fierce love, burns in my heart,
lulling me to sleep.

Curled up on your lap,
memories of childhood,
flood back,
lulling me to sleep.

Curled up on your lap,
the beating of your heart,
the warmth of your body,
lulling me to sleep.

Curled up on your lap,
like a helpless child,
fiercely protected,
love lulling me to sleep.

Curled up on your lap,
I fall asleep,
like I have done in years past,
your love and care comforting me,
the special bond
shared by a father and a daughter.
burning like fire in my soul.

poem by Shanise Gelaude
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A Death At Sea

(Coral Sea, Australia)

I
DEAD in the sheep-pen he lies,
Wrapped in an old brown sail.
The smiling blue sea and the skies
Know not sorrow nor wail.
Dragged up out of the hold,
Dead on his last way home,
Worn-out, wizened, a Chinee old, —
O he is safe — at home!
Brother, I stand not as these
Staring upon you here.
One of earth's patient toilers at peace
I see, I revere!
II
In the warm cloudy night we go
From the motionless ship;
Our lanterns feebly glow;
Our oars drop and drip.
We land on the thin pale beach,
The coral isle's round us;
A glade of driven sand we reach;
Our burial ground's found us.
There we dig him a grave, jesting;
We know not his name.
What heeds he who is resting, resting?
Would I were the same!
Come away, it is over and done!
Peace and he shall not sever,
By moonlight nor light of the sun,
For ever and ever!
III
Dirge
'Sleep in the pure driven sand,
(No one will know)
In the coral isle by the land
Where the blue tides come and go.
'Alive, thou wert poor, despised;
Dead, thou canst have
What mightiest monarchs have prized,
An eternal grave!
'Alone with the lovely isles,
With the lovely deep,
Where the sea-winds sing and the sunlight smiles,
Thou liest asleep!'

poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
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The Gloucester Mother

When autumn winds are high,
They wake and trouble me
With thoughts of people lost
A-coming on the coast,
And all the ships at sea.

How dark, how dark and cold
And fearful in the waves,
Are tired folk who lie not still
And quiet in their graves
In moving waters deep
That will not let men sleep
As they may sleep on any hills,
May sleep ashore till time is old
And all the earth is frosty cold.
Under the flowers a thousand springs
They sleep and dream of many things.

God bless them all who die at sea!
If they must sleep in restless waves,
God make them dream they are ashore
With grass above their graves!

poem by Sarah Orne Jewett
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The Day Of Days

Each eve earth falleth down the dark,
As though its hope were o’er;
Yet lurks the sun when day is done
Behind to-morrow’s door.

Grey grows the dawn while men-folk sleep,
Unseen spreads on the light,
Till the thrush sings to the coloured things,
And earth forgets the night.

No otherwise wends on our Hope:
E’en as a tale that’s told
Are fair lives lost, and all the cost
Of wise and true and bold.

We’ve toiled and failed; we spake the word;
None hearkened; dumb we lie;
Our Hope is dead, the seed we spread
Fell o’er the earth to die.

What’s this? For joy our hearts stand still,
And life is loved and dear,
The lost and found the Cause hath crowned,
The Day of Days is here.

poem by William Morris
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Sleeper

Sleep that half dead,
sleep the body not the head.

Sleep that bad said,
Poor owns that bed,
Dreams are found on that herd.

Sleep while awake,
Sleep that dead not closed eye fake.

Sleep that weak,
Tommorow u gona take.
Eat that sleep and enjoy its steak.

Sleep still stands,
None to overtake.
Sleep that height dare for cake.

Sleep that stress and have the bless,
Sleep to confess as she do to embrance,
Sleep for paid cash as he do to love false.

Sleep that sleep as no one sleep ever deep.

Sleep that better as no other sleeper.

Wear that sweater as did Brother Peter,
Sleep that firm to dream that greater,
Sleep not slopy arrise all the weaker.

poem by Abdallah Mpogole
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Hide Away Folk Family

Hide away folk family
Or else someones gonna get ya (someones gonna get ya)
Someones gonna get ya
Hide away folk family
Better hide away
Better hide away
Tippy-toe to the front door, mother,
cause theres a guy with a long, long fuse
And the one thing you cant hide is all the fear you feel inside
As the fuse is spelling out these words
Hide away folk family
Or else someones gonna get ya (someones gonna get ya)
Someones gonna get ya
Hide away folk family
Better hide away
Better hide away
Tippy-toe to the flat-bed, father,
Because theyre pouring out our gasoline
And sadly the cross-eyed bears been put to sleep behind the stairs
And his shoes are laced with irony
Hide away folk family
Or else someones gonna get ya (someones gonna get ya)
Someones gonna get ya
Hide away folk family
Better hide away
Better hide away
Hello. this is leslie down with the daily home astrology report.
Taurus: contemplate domestic turmoil.
Aquarius: abandon hope for future plans.
Hide away folk family
Or else someones gonna get ya (someones gonna get ya)
Someones gonna get ya
Hide away folk family
Better hide away
Better hide away (hide away)
Hide away (folk family) folk family (or else someones gonna get ya)
Someones gonna get ya
Hide away
Hide away

song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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16days

I got sixteen days
One for every time Ive gone away
One for every time I should have stayed
You should have worn my wedding ring
I got sixteen days
Fifteen of those are nights
Cant sleep when the bed sheet fights
Its way back to your side
The ghost has got me running
The ghost has got me running
Away from you, away from you, away from you.
The ghost has got me running
The ghost has got me running
Away from you, away from you, away from you.
I got sixteen days
Got a Bible and a rosary
God, I wish that you were close to me
Guess I owe you an apology
I got sixteen days
Fifteen of those are nights
Cant sleep when the bed sheet fights
Its way back to your side
The ghost has got me running
Yeah, the ghost has got me running
Away from you, away from you, away from you.
The ghost has got me running
Yeah, the ghost has got me running
Away from you, away from you, away...
Old tin cups, little paper dolls
All wrapped up, in ribbons, bowed with hearts
Old tin cups, and little paper dolls
All wrapped up, in the ribbons of your heart
The ghost has got me running
Yeah, the ghost has got me running
Away from you, away from you, away from you.
The ghost has got me running
Yeah, the ghost has got me running
Away from you, away from you, away from you.
Sixteen days
I got sixteen days
Its like before I hang

song performed by by Whiskeytown
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Leda

Do you remember, Leda?

There are those who love, to whom Love brings
Great gladness: such things have not I.
Love looks and has no mercy, brings
Long doom to others. Such was I.
Heart breaking hand upon the lute
Long last made musical by you?
Sharp bird-beak in the swelling fruit,
Or raise the eyelids of these flowers?

I dare not watch that hidden pool,
Nor see the wild bird's sudden wing
Lifting the wide, brown shaken pool,
But round me falls that secret wing,
And in that sharp, perverse, sweet pain
That is half-terror and half-bliss
My withered hands are curled on pain
That were so wide once, after bliss.
And gold is springing in my hair
As my thought spring and flower with it,
Though I sit hid in my grey hair,
Without love or the pain of it.

Yet, oh my Swan, if love have wings,
As the gods tell us, you were love
Who took and broke me with those wings.
I, weak, and being far gone in love
Let blushless things be breathed and done-
Things flowered out now in bitter fruit
That once done are no more undone
Than last year's frost and last year's fruit.

For what has come of love and me
Who knew the first joy that loving is?
Where has love led and beckoned me
But to the end where nothing is?
I have seen my blood beat out again
Red in the hands of all my line,
My sin has swelled and flowered again
Corrupt and fierce through Sparta's line.
Bred through me-bred through delicate hands
And wandering eyes and wanton lips,
Sighing after strange flesh as sighed these lips,

Straying after new sin as strayed these hands.
Mother of Helen! She whose breasts
To new desires unshaped the world;
Above Troy's summit towered these breasts
Helen who wantoned with the world!
Helen is dead (she had love enough
To mock at doom and laugh at shrine)
And Clytemnestra, quiet enough
To-night beneath Apollo's shrine.
And I am left, the source, the spring
Of all their madness. They are dead
While I still sit here, the old spring
That fouled them flows above the dead.

But I have paid. I have borne enough.
I am very old in love and woe.
For all souls these things are enough-
Who have known love are the friends of woe.
There those who love, and who escape,
There are those who love and do not die.
I loved, and there was no escape,
Long since I died and daily die.
And death alone makes hate and love
Friends with each other and with sleep . . .
All's quiet here that once was love,
This that is left belongs to sleep.

poem by Muriel Stuart
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Alienation

For the first time since he was born
Her son, her rose without a thorn,
They are at variance, they who were
Always such closest friends and dear.
Another face is in his dreams
Under the sunbeams and moonbeams.

In his changed glances she discovers
Something, some chill between two lovers --
Something of fear, and oh, it hurts!
But shall not Love have its deserts
And win forgiveness, though she still
Sets her poor will against his will?

For all day long the battle calls,
And in the quiet evenfalls,
And in the night which else is dumb,
He hears the bugle and the drum.
And the wild longing in him stirs
For the fierce battle. He's not hers,

But she her hidden way will keep,
Striving against him even in sleep,
Praying against him loud and low,
'Pity me, so he may not go!'
Calling on Heaven that it conspire
Against him and his heart's desire.

God pity mothers when their sons
Grow cold, that were their little ones!

poem by Katharine Tynan
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Dead Folk Don't Talk

On the day she died they all came,
though I was shocked they recalled her name
but they drank our booze and ate our cake
yeah they ate our cake alright.

Maybe they meant well
maybe not
but you can't keep dead folk company
for dead folk, they don't talk.

Nobody came and nobody called
when she was ill and dying.
Nobody seemed to care at all
and now they're all here crying.

Maybe they meant well
maybe not
but you can't keep dead folk company
for dead folk, they don't talk.

So I sat there dazed and out of control
listening to them talking,
but when she were alive, the house was still,
just me and mother sighing.

Maybe they meant well
maybe not
but you can't keep dead folk company
for dead folk, they don't talk.

And afterwards, when they all went
I carried out her last requests.
I moved her gas fire, paid the rent
and left a note to the dairyman.

Nobody came and nobody called
when she was ill and dying.
Nobody seemed to care at all
and if they say they did, they're lying.

poem by Ruth Walters
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Work, Sleep, Work, Sleep, Work

Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work:

Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work.

Oh free me please with gentle ease
From work, sleep, work, sleep, work!
This odium, pounding tedium
Of my work, sleep, work, sleep, work.

Just whisk me off to lands afar
From work, sleep, work, sleep, work -
That grinding train of rhythmic pain
Called ‘Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.’

Poor neural circuits fizzle and pop
In work, sleep, work, sleep, work,
In trying to make some sense of all this
Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.

But Hark! I see a golden gleam -
A saving spirit of hope:
‘You’re fired! ’ He screams. What news to bear,
This wondrous hangman’s rope!

So now I’m free, released from all this
Work, sleep, work, sleep, work -
Eternal peace and rest for me, no
Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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A Hero

He was so foolish, the poor lad,
He made superior people smile
Who knew not of the wings he had
Budding and growing all the while;
Nor that the laurel wreath was made
Already for his curly head.

Silly and childish in his ways;
They said: 'His future comes to naught.'
His future! In the dreadful days
When in a toil his feet were caught
He hacked his way to glory bright
Before his day went down in night.

He fretted wiser folk--small blame!
Such futile, feeble brains were his.
Now we doff hats to hear his name,
Ask pardon where his spirit is,
Because we never guessed him for
A hero in the disguise he wore.

It matters little how we live
So long as we may greatly die.
Fashioned for great things, O forgive
Our dullness in the days gone by!
Now glory wraps you like a cloak
From us, and all such common folk.

poem by Katharine Tynan
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A Sleep of Dreams

Travelled road ~ rough and worn
I've walked with ease on many morn
Down your path of known delights
I've trodden through on many nights
To sleep a dreamless sleep

My footsteps echo not within
Within the paths where I have been
Oh, how I crave my soul's respite
To dream of life within this night
To sleep a sleep of dreams

Oh, travelled road ~ you're all I've known
But fever deep inside has grown
To walk the walk that others might
And realize a dream tonight
To sleep a sleep of dreams

This trodden path is worn and long
Each day does bring a seasoned song
That's sung till light has turned to night
And dulls the life with no delight
To sleep a dreamless sleep

I see a field of emerald green
No foot has passed ~ nor ever been
Down unseen path toward dawning light
I'll stay until the sweetest night
To sleep my sleep of dreams....

poem by Hazelmarie Elliott
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In Memory of John Fairfax

Because this man fulfilled his days,
Like one who walks with steadfast gaze
Averted from forbidden ways
With lures of fair, false flowerage deep,
Behold the Lord whose throne is dim
With fires of flaming seraphim—
The Christ that suffered sent for him:
“He giveth His beloved sleep.”
Think not that souls whose deeds august
Put sin to shame and make men just
Become at last the helpless dust
That wintering winds through waste-lands sweep!
The higher life within us cries,
Like some fine spirit from the skies,
“The Father’s blessing on us lies—
‘He giveth His beloved sleep.’”

Not human sleep—the fitful rest
With evil shapes of dreams distressed,—
But perfect quiet, unexpressed
By any worldly word we keep.
The dim Hereafter framed in creeds
May not be this; but He who reads
Our lives, sets flowers on wayside weeds—
“He giveth His beloved sleep.”

Be sure this hero who has passed
The human space—the outer vast—
Who worked in harness to the last,
Doth now a hallowed harvest reap.
Love sees his grave, nor turns away—
The eyes of faith are like the day,
And grief has not a word to say—
“He giveth His beloved sleep.”

That fair, rare spirit, Honour, throws
A light, which puts to shame the rose,
Across his grave, because she knows
The son whose ashes it doth keep;
And, like far music, this is heard—
“Behold the man who never stirred,
By word of his, an angry word!—
‘He giveth His beloved sleep.’”

He earned his place. Within his hands,
The power which counsels and commands,
And shapes the social life of lands,
Became a blessing pure and deep.
Through thirty years of turbulence
Our thoughts were sweetened with a sense
Of his benignant influence—
“He giveth His beloved sleep.”

No splendid talents, which excite
Like music, songs, or floods of light,
Were his; but, rather, all those bright,
Calm qualities of soul which reap
A mute, but certain, fine respect,
Not only from a source elect,
But from the hearts of every sect—
“He giveth His beloved sleep.”

He giveth His beloved rest!
The faithful soul that onward pressed,
Unswerving, from Life’s east to west,
By paths austere and passes steep,
Is past all toil; and, over Death,
With reverent hands and prayerful breath,
I plant this flower, alive with faith—
“He giveth His beloved sleep.”

poem by Henry Kendall
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At Night

Sunk deep in the night
I sink in the night
Standing alone underneath the sky
I feel the chill of ice
On my face
I watch the hours go by
The hours go by
You sleep
Sleep in a safe bed
Curled and protected
Protected from sight
Under a safe roof
Deep in your house
Unaware of the changes at night
At night
I hear the darkness breathe
I sense the quiet despair
Listen to the silence
At night
Someone has to be there
Someone has to be there
Someone must be there

song performed by by Cure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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