En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Daybreak In The Desert

No cheerful note of bird in leafy bower,
No glistening water dancing in the light,
No dewdrop trembling on some modest flower,
No early cock to crow farewell to-night.

Only a greater stillness in the air,
Save for hot sighs of desert-heated breath,
Only the stars, ceasing their sleepless stare,
Only the east, rose-flushing, fresh from death.

All the wide plain, hid ’neath the waning round
Of a tired moon, grew dimly into view;
With a dull haze hung on its furthest bound,
Then sprang the sun into the steely blue.

poem by Ernest Favenc
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Violet

DOWN in a green and shady bed,
A modest violet grew;
Its stalk was bent, it hung its head
As if to hide from view.

And yet it was a lovely flower,
Its colour bright and fair;
It might have graced a rosy bower,
Instead of hiding there.

Yet thus it was content to bloom,
In modest tints arrayed;
And there diffused a sweet perfume,
Within the silent shade.

Then let me to the valley go
This pretty flower to see;
That I may also learn to grow
In sweet humility.

poem by Ann Taylor
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The Violet

Down in a green and shady bed,
A modest violet grew;
Its stalk was bent, it hung its head
As if to hide from view.
And yet it was a lovely flower,
Its colour bright and fair;
It might have graced a rosy bower,
Instead of hiding there.

Yet thus it was content to bloom,
In modest tints arrayed;
And there diffused a sweet perfume,
Within the silent shade.

Then let me to the valley go
This pretty flower to see;
That I may also learn to grow
In sweet humility.

poem by Jane Taylor
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The Primrose Dance

Skirts like the amber petals of a flower,
A primrose dancing for delight
In some enchantment of a bower
That rose to wizard music in the night;

A rhythmic flower whose petals pirouette
In delicate circles, fain to follow
The vague aerial minuet,
The mazy dancing of the swallow;

A flower's caprice, a bird's command
Of all the airy ways that lie
In light along the wonder-land,
The wonder-haunted loneliness of sky:

So, in the smoke-polluted place,
Where bird or flower might never be,
With glimmering feet, with flower-like face,
She dances at the Tivoli.

poem by Arthur Symons
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The Toadstool

THERE 's a thing that grows by the fainting flower,
And springs in the shade of the lady's bower;
The lily shrinks, and the rose turns pale,
When they feel its breath in the summer gale,
And the tulip curls its leaves in pride,
And the blue-eyed violet starts aside;
But the lily may flaunt, and the tulip stare,
For what does the honest toadstool care?
She does not glow in a painted vest,
And she never blooms on the maiden's breast;
But she comes, as the saintly sisters do,
In a modest suit of a Quaker hue.
And, when the stars in the evening skies
Are weeping dew from their gentle eyes,
The toad comes out from his hermit cell,
The tale of his faithful love to tell.

Oh, there is light in her lover's glance,
That flies to her heart like a silver lance;
His breeches are made of spotted skin,
His jacket 'is tight, and his pumps are thin;
In a cloudless night you may hear his song,
As its pensive melody floats along,
And, if you will look by the moonlight fair,
The trembling form of the toad is there.

And he twines his arms round her slender stem,
In the shade of her velvet diadem;
But she turns away in her maiden shame,
And will not breathe on the kindling flame;
He sings at her feet through the live-long night,
And creeps to his cave at the break of light;
And whenever he comes to the air above,
His throat is swelling with baffled love.

poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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A Love Song

I gave her a rose in early June,
Fed with the sun and the dew,
Each petal I said is a note in the tune,
The rose is the whole tune through and through,
The tune is the whole red-hearted rose,
Flush and form, honey and hue,
Lull with the cadence and throb to the close,
I love you, I love you, I love you.

She gave me a rose in early June,
Fed with the sun and the dew,
Each petal she said is a mount in the moon,
The rose is the whole moon through and through,
The moon is the whole pale-hearted rose,
Round and radiance, burnish and blue,
Break in the flood-tide that murmurs and flows,
I love you, I love you, I love you.

This is our love in early June,
Fed with the sun and the dew,
Moonlight and roses hid in a tune,
The roses are music through and through,
The moonlight falls in the breath of the rose,
Light and cadence, honey and hue,
Mingle, and murmur, and flow to the close,
I love you, I love you, I love you.

poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
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Little Black Bird

little black bird of Lia
flying away to Arizona

how is that little black
bird? what is it doing

in the desert? watching
how God paints a very

red orange sunset and
how the wind of the night

erases everything? Little
Black bird of Lia, what

is the reason for the
the leaving of devotion?

is sincerity still found
on that desert flower

blooming without water?
the cactus and some thorns

my loneliness deep like
the desert night, my longing

wide like the wind, my
illusions that life still

imitate art, that i can be
myself. Blackness and wings.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Swamp

FOR one whole day and a long night through
We made our camp
In a she-oak grove by a coastal swamp.
Our tent gleamed white in the she-oak trees,
Whose falling hair
Made a soft, brown mist in the sweet blue air.
A sound subdued from their tresses rose —
A moan, a sigh
As of unseen seas, when the breeze went by.
'Twas wattle-time, and the scented bloom,
New lit and young,
In a mass of gold from the still trees hung.
There music dwelt, and a splendour moved
Through all the day
From the green of dawn to the twilight gray.
For careless ever, like one who goes
Where Joyance leads,
Sang the little reed-bird in the tall, green reeds.
Blue, swift and slender the dragonflies
A-hawking flew,
And a hawk hung poised in the burning blue.
A crane, slow-flapping its great wings, passed
Across the scene,
And a parrot jewelled the leafy screen.
In twos and threes from the hills around
The peewits came,
And the brush-flower burnt like a crimson flame.
On ti-tree trunk and on frond and log
The lizards slept,
While the sun moved west, and the shadows crept.
The sun moved west, and the tall hills sent
Broad shadows east,
And the reed-bird's song in the reed-beds ceased.
Then fell a hush, and within that hush
Rose, clear and shrill,
A cicada note on a distant hill.
A note of farewell, it seemed to us,
Its singing bore;
And the night came down, and it sang no more.
Night came with shadows and fitful gleams
And mist and damp,
And our fire burned red by the coastal swamp.
Then life not known of the daytime woke —
That life that preys
On the feathered things of the leafy ways.
We heard feet moving, and velvet wings
On swamp and height,
And a dingo howling across the night.
As, faces lit by the red camp-fire,
We mused enthralled.
Like a lone, lost spirit a curlew called;
Brown crickets sang in the moisty mould,
And every breeze
Drew a moaning note from the she-oak trees.
And all night long, as they swayed and moaned,
Strange fancies woke,
And we could not rest for the things they spoke.
Thus much and more through the hours we saw;
Thus much we heard
In that place of blossom and tree and bird.
Since then gold wattles have bloomed and bloomed,
And moons aloft
In the sky have wizened and waned full oft.
And yet, at times, when the night is still,
In dreams I tramp
Through the white sand-dunes to that coastal camp.

poem by Roderic Quinn
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A Royal Flush!

The ‘Assuies’ are levying a tax on water output, so called the ‘flushing tax’,
Some are not flushing as much do reduce their water bill,
Some are going “outside” in their outback, if you will,
In this world wide economic slow down you can’t be lax.
Some businesses are getting to point of developing ‘waterless toilets’,
The composting toilets are great for saving water and money,
They come in a variety of styles and you have much to gain,

With the average household flushing up to 35,000 litres of potable water down the drain each year,
Ecoflo waterless toilets will save you from flushing water and money down the drain.

This is about as good as it gets,
I hope that this will not lead banning of the term flushing,
Because where will the USTA US Open be played?
In Compost Meadows?
That doesn’t sound right.

(2-21-09)

poem by Joe Rosochacki
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The Journey Of Life

Beneath the waning moon I walk at night,
And muse on human life--for all around
Are dim uncertain shapes that cheat the sight,
And pitfalls lurk in shade along the ground,
And broken gleams of brightness, here and there,
Glance through, and leave unwarmed the death-like air.

The trampled earth returns a sound of fear--
A hollow sound, as if I walked on tombs!
And lights, that tell of cheerful homes, appear
Far off, and die like hope amid the glooms.
A mournful wind across the landscape flies,
And the wide atmosphere is full of sighs.

And I, with faltering footsteps, journey on,
Watching the stars that roll the hours away,
Till the faint light that guides me now is gone,
And, like another life, the glorious day
Shall open o'er me from the empyreal height,
With warmth, and certainty, and boundless light.

poem by William Cullen Bryant
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The Wishing Star.

Day floated down the sky; a perfect day,
Leaving a footprint of pale primrose gold
Along the west, that when her lover, Night,
Fled with his starry lances in pursuit,
Across the sky, the way she went might shew.
From the faint ting'd ridges of the sea, the Moon
Sprang up like Aphrodite from the wave,
Which as she climb'd the sky still held
Her golden tresses to its swelling breast,
Where wide dispread their quiv'ring glories lay,
(Or as the shield of night, full disk'd and red,
As flowers that look forever towards the Sun),
A terrace with a fountain and an oak
Look'd out upon the sea: The fountain danced
Beside the huge old tree as some slim nymph,
Rob'd in light silver might her frolics shew
Before some hoary king, while high above,
He shook his wild, long locks upon the breeze--
And sigh'd deep sighs of 'All is vanity!'
Behind, a wall of Norman William's time
Rose mellow, hung with ivy, here and there
Torn wide apart to let a casement peer
Upon the terrace. On a carv'd sill I leant
(A fleur-de-lis bound with an English rose)
And look'd above me into two such eyes
As would have dazzl'd from that ancient page
That new old cry that hearts so often write
In their own ashes, 'All is vanity!'
'Know'st thou--' she said, with tender eyes far-fix'd,
On the wide arch that domes our little earth,
'That when a star hurls on with shining wings,
'On some swift message from his throne of light,
'The ready heart may wish, and the ripe fruit--
'Fulfilment--drop into the eager palm?'
'Then let us watch for such a star,' quoth I.
'Nay, love,' she said, ''Tis but an idle tale.'
But some swift feeling smote upon her brow
A rosy shadow. I turn'd and watch'd the sky--
Calmly the cohorts of the night swept on,
Led by the wide-wing'd vesper; and against the moon
Where low her globe trembl'd upon the edge
Of the wide amethyst that clearly paved
The dreamy sapphire of the night, there lay
The jetty spars of some tall ship, that look'd
The night's device upon his ripe-red shield.
And suddenly down towards the moon there ran--
From some high space deep-veil'd in solemn blue,
A little star, a point of trembling gold,
Gone swift as seen. 'My wishing-star,' quoth I,
'Shall tell my wish? Did'st note that little star?
'Its brightness died not, it but disappeared,
'To whirl undim'd thro' space. I wish'd our love
'Might blot the 'All is vanity' from this brief life,
'Burning brightly as that star and winging on
'Thro' unseen space of veil'd Eternity,
'Brightened by Immortality--not lost.'
'Awful and sweet the wish!' she said, and so--
We rested in the silence of content.

poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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Blood Bound

Countdown, descending down to zero
Bursting into flames
Can't you see the coming of a hero
On this enchanting day
So stand up and be counted
In the solar glance in the desert sand
No longer the hunted
United we are 'til the day we fall
A chain unbreakable
Every link is allied to our mighty vow
We're Blood Bound - We aim for the sun
The luminous moon will take us high over ground
We're Blood Bound - Collecting the stars
We hold a power that is greater than all
We're Blood Bound
Watch out, the heathen's all around us
Always watch you back
We've got a lust for freedom
Whatever they say we know we'll stay
We are indestructible
And no matter what happens we will rise above
We're Blood Bound - We aim for the sun
The luminous moon will take us high over ground
We're Blood Bound - Collecting the stars
We hold a power that is greater than all
We're Blood Bound
Look into my eyes
Tell me what is hidden deep inside
Chains about to break
It's the everlasting freedom for us all
We're Blood Bound - We aim for the sun
The luminous moon will take us high over ground
We're Blood Bound - Collecting the stars
We hold a power together
We're Blood Bound - We aim for the sun
The luminous moon will take us high over ground
We're Blood Bound - Collecting the stars
We hold a power together - Blood Bound
Power forever - Blood Bound
Power - We're Blood Bound

song performed by by Hammerfall
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rosy Hannah

A Spring o'erhung with many a flow'r,
The grey sand dancing in its bed,
Embank'd beneath a Hawthorn bower,
Sent forth its waters near my head:
A rosy Lass approach'd my view;
I caught her blue eye's modest beam:
The stranger nodded 'How d'ye do!'
And leap'd across the infant stream.

The water heedless pass'd away:
With me her glowing image stay'd.
I strove, from that auspicious day,
To meet and bless the lovely Maid.
I met her where beneath our feet
Through downy Moss the Wild-Thyme grew;
Nor Moss elastic, flow'rs though sweet,
Match'd Hannah's cheek of rosy hue.

I met her where the dark Woods wave,
And shaded verdure skirts the plain;
And when the pale Moon rising gave
New glories to her cloudy train.
From her sweet Cot upon the Moor
Our plighted vows to Heaven are flown;
Truth made me welcome at her door,
And rosy Hannah is my own.

poem by Robert Bloomfield
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Song Of The Bower

SAY, is it day, is it dusk in thy bower,
Thou whom I long for, who longest for me?
Oh! be it light, be it night, 'tis Love's hour,
Love's that is fettered as Love's that is free.
Free love has leaped to that innermost chamber,
Oh! the last time, and the hundred before:
Fettered love, motionless, can but remember,
Yet something that sighs from him passes the door.
Nay, but my heart when it flies to thy bower,
What does it find there that knows it again?
There it must droop like a shower-beaten flower,
Red at the rent core and dark with the rain.
Ah! yet what shelter is still shed above it,—
What waters still image its leaves torn apart?
Thy soul is the shade that clings round it to love it,
And tears are its mirror deep down in thy heart.
What were my prize, could I enter thy bower,
This day, to-morrow, at eve or at morn?
Large lovely arms and a neck like a tower,
Bosom then heaving that now lies forlorn.
Kindled with love-breath, (the sun's kiss is colder!)
Thy sweetness all near me, so distant to-day;
My hand round thy neck and thy hand on my shoulder,
My mouth to thy mouth as the world melts away.
What is it keeps me afar from thy bower,—
My spirit, my body, so fain to be there?
Waters engulfing or fires that devour?—
Earth heaped against me or death in the air?
Nay, but in day-dreams, for terror, for pity,
The trees wave their heads with an omen to tell;
Nay, but in night-dreams, throughout the dark city,
The hours, clashed together, lose count in the bell.
Shall I not one day remember thy bower,
One day when all days are one day to me?—
Thinking, “I stirred not, and yet had the power!”—
Yearning, “Ah God, if again it might be!”
Peace, peace! such a small lamp illumes, on this highway,
So dimly so few steps in front of my feet,—
Yet shows me that her way is parted from my way….
Out of sight, beyond light, at what goal may we meet?

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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The Thought

Into the skies, one summer's day,
I sent a little Thought away;
Up to where, in the blue round,
The sun sat shining without sound.

Then my Thought came back to me.—
Little Thought, what did you see
In the regions whence you come?
And when I spoke, my Thought was dumb.

But she breathed of what was there,
In the pure bright upper air;
And, because my Thought so shone,
I knew she had been shone upon.

Next, by night a Thought I sent
Up into the firmament;
When the eager stars were out,
And the still moon shone about.

And my Thought went past the moon
In between the stars, but soon
Held her breath and durst not stir,
For the fear that covered her;
Then she thought, in this demur:

'Dare I look beneath the shade,
Into where the worlds are made;
Where the suns and stars are wrought?
Shall I meet another Thought?

'Will that other Thought have wings?
Shall I meet strange, heavenly things?
Thought of Thoughts, and Light of Lights,
Breath of Breaths, and Night of Nights?'

Then my Thought began to hark
In the illuminated dark,
Till the silence, over, under,
Made her heart beat more than thunder.

And my Thought, came trembling back,
But with something on her track,
And with something at her side;
Nor till she has lived and died,
Lived and died, and lived again,
Will that awful thing seem plain.

poem by William Brighty Rands
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Mother and child

One night a tiny dewdrop fell
Into the bosom of a rose,--
"Dear little one, I love thee well,
Be ever here thy sweet repose!"

Seeing the rose with love bedight,
The envious sky frowned dark, and then
Sent forth a messenger of light
And caught the dewdrop up again.

"Oh, give me back my heavenly child,--
My love!" the rose in anguish cried;
Alas! the sky triumphant smiled,
And so the flower, heart-broken, died.

poem by Eugene Field
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Ghosts.

Grew
That soft scented flower.
Between the rocks of my life.
Choking
In that desert of no hope.
Dying of thirst.
A balloon
Must float away or burst.

Blue
The lips of death.
Between a beating heart
And a lovers last breath.
Cascading
From the clouds
Masquerading
In the crowds.
That sunstruck smile.
From the wand of a wizard
Skating
On moonbeams
Of a lake
That doesn't exist.
Like the first time we kissed.

Flew
Like a bird of silver wing.
In silent sky.
Froze in its flight.
To pose
Memory in white.
As brushstrokes of black
Paint
The night.

Then fire
From the dragons mouth.
And smoke.
Forcing migrant dreams
To fly south.
And evoke
A far off spirit
That rang
Of innocence.
With sweet eyes,
Like a bell
Of Sunday sacrament.
Now
Lost in a haze
Of unsaid goodbyes.
Blown out to sea
On the hiss of a wind.
That love never pinned
On its sleeve.
Left alone.
Our bright star,
And forgotten cantata
Will kiss those ghosts
We all grieve.

poem by Kevin East
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Love Magical

IF you had been where I have been
(Grey, grey the skies above),
And you had seen what I have seen,
You would not laugh at love.
Seek, seek till you find a rose
Red all through to its petal-tips,
And you shall know the curve of her mouth,
The scent of her breath and the red of her lips.
If you had heard what I have heard
(Dull, dull the beat of the sea).
Your heart would leap like a singing bird
Troubled and thrilled by ecstasy.
Stars sing in the dark o' the night,
Birds sing in the gold o' the noon;
Melody reigned in her speech a queen,
The song of the stars and the birds' tune.
The rose is dead that was her mouth
(Pale, pale on the earth it lies),
And East and West and North and South
The world is full of weeping eyes.
A noon is dark, a star is gone,
A rose is dead, a bird is mute;
And love that made sounds magical
Is silent like a broken lute.

poem by Roderic Quinn
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The Giant Puff-Ball

From what sad star I know not, but I found
Myself new-born below the coppice rail,
No bigger than the dewdrops and as round,
In a soft sward, no cattle might assail.

And so I gathered mightiness and grew
With this one dream kindling in me, that I
Should never cease from conquering light and dew
Till my white splendour touched the trembling sky.

A century of blue and stilly light
Bowed down before me, the dew came again,
The moon my sibyl worshipped through the night,
The sun returned and long abode; but then

Hoarse drooping darkness hung me with a shroud
And switched at me with shrivelled leaves in scorn.
Red morning stole beneath a grinning cloud,
And suddenly clambering over dike and thorn

A half-moon host of churls with flags and sticks
Hallooed and hurtled up the partridge brood,
And Death clapped hands from all the echoing thicks,
And trampling envy spied me where I stood;

Who haled me tired and quaking, hid me by,
And came again after an age of cold,
And hung me in the prison-house adry
From the great crossbeam. Here defiled and old

I perish through unnumbered hours, I swoon,
Hacked with harsh knives to staunch a child's torn hand;
And all my hopes must with my body soon
Be but as crouching dust and wind-blown sand.

poem by Edmund Blunden
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Bound for Sourabaya!

OH, the moon shines bright, and we sail to-night,
And we’re bound for Sourabaya!
So it’s ‘Farewell, Jane!’ for we’re off again
With the turning of the tide!
Oh, the Java girls haven’t got no curls,
But they’ll meet us on the Praya,
And, Malay or Dutch, well, the odds ain’t much,
And the ocean’s deep and wide!

We’re bound for Sourabaya, boys,
Where the girls are kind and brown!
By the break of day we’ll be far away!
Farewell to Sydney town!

Oh, the girls look glum, when the parting’s come,
And we’re bound for Sourabaya!
And they weep and wail, cos’ the ship must sail
With the turning of the tide!
But we soon forget, when our sheets are wet
And the dancing dolphins play—ah,
And the gale pipes high in the mackerel sky,
And the ocean’s deep and wide!

We’re bound for Sourabaya, boys,
Where the girls are kind and brown,
And they hope and pray that we’ve come to stay!
Farewell to Sydney town!

When the coin’s all gone, and the hatches on,
And we’re bound for Sourabaya,
There’s a kiss for Nell, and a long farewell,
With the turning of the tide!
But there’s not much wrong, and it don’t last long,
Tho’ she mourns you for a day—ah!
And she wears no black if you don’t come back!
For the ocean’s deep and wide!

And we’re bound for Sourabaya, boys,
Where the girls are kind and brown,
So we’ll drink once more,
While we’re on the shore,
Farewell to Sydney town!

poem by Charles Henry Souter
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2 Twinkling Stars

Across a sky of indigo blue
On a cold and lonely night
Two twinkling stars hung silently
Just out of each others sight

Each star looking wistfully
At a moon that turned to blue
Wishing on another star
To find a love so true

Then a comet streaked across the sky
They stared in star struck wonder
As if drawn by some greater force
They moved toward one another

Suspended in the heavens
The stars began to dance
Spinning ever gracefully
In a heavenly romance

Two twinkling stars in the heavens
Now shine as one sparkling light
Across a sky of indigo blue
Suspended in the night.

poem by Mestup Poems
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