Old Spanish Song
I'm thinking of the wooing
That won my maiden heart
When he--he came pursuing
A love unused to art.
Into the drowsy river
The moon transported flung
Her soul that seemed to quiver
With the songs my lover sung.
And the stars in rapture twinkled
On the slumbrous world below--
You see that, old and wrinkled,
I'm not forgetful--no!
He still should be repeating
The vows he uttered then--
Alas! the years, though fleeting,
Are truer yet than men!
The summer moonlight glistens
In the favorite trysting spot
Where the river ever listens
For a song it heareth not.
And I, whose head is sprinkled
With time's benumbing snow,
I languish, old and wrinkled,
But not forgetful--no!
What though he elsewhere turneth
To beauty strangely bold?
Still in my bosom burneth
The tender fire of old;
And the words of love he told me
And the songs he sung me then
Come crowding to uphold me,
And I live my youth again!
For when love's feet have tinkled
On the pathway women go,
Though one be old and wrinkled,
She's not forgetful--no!
poem by Eugene Field
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Flower Of Aloe
HOW can I tell you how I love you, dear?
There is no music now the world is old;
The songs have all been sung, the tales all told
Broken the vows are all this many a year.
Had we but met when all the world was new,
When virgin blossoms decked untrodden fields,
I had plucked all the buds that summer yields
And woven a garland, worthy even of you.
Or had I sung when rhymes were yet unwed,
And crowned their marriage in the songs I made,
I had laid them down before you unafraid,
Meet offering to your grace and goodlihead.
But all the dreams are dreamed, and no new heat
Touches life's altars, all the scents are burnt,
The truths all taught and all the lessons learnt,
And no new stars lead kings to kiss Love's feet.
For now in this grey world, of youth bereft,
Love has no throne, no sceptre and no crown;
His groves are hushed, his altars are cast down,
And we who worship--we have nothing left.
And yet--your lips ! The God has built him there
An altar which has known nor flower nor flame:
There may we burn the incense to Love's name,
There the immortal virgin rose be fair.
So--since my lips have known but one desire,
And all my flowers of life are vowed to you--
For us, at least, the old world has something new:
For me the altar--and for you the fire!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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A Love Song from the North
Tell me no more of thy love, papeeha,
Wouldst thou recall to my heart, papeeha,
Dreams of delight that are gone,
When swift to my side came the feet of my lover
With stars of the dusk and the dawn?
I see the soft wings of the clouds on the river,
And jewelled with raindrops the mango-leaves quiver,
And tender boughs flower on the plain.....
But what is their beauty to me, papeeha,
Beauty of blossom and shower, papeeha,
That brings not my lover again?
Tell me no more of thy love, papeeha,
Wouldst thou revive in my heart, papeeha
Grief for the joy that is gone?
I hear the bright peacock in glimmering woodlands
Cry to its mate in the dawn;
I hear the black koel's slow, tremulous wooing,
And sweet in the gardens the calling and cooing
Of passionate bulbul and dove....
But what is their music to me, papeeha
Songs of their laughter and love, papeeha,
To me, forsaken of love?
poem by Sarojini Naidu
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A Song Thats Sung..
A song that's sung
tells more than a story
a song that's sung
is sung from the heart
a song that's sung
is a story from the soul
a song that's sung
is the greatest love
a song that's sung
is a give from above
a song that's sung
is an emotion in a melody
a song that's sung
can be whatever you want it to be
a song that's sung
can have a million meanings
a song that's sung
is a diary of emotions...
poem by Emily Summers
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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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Moonlight river.
moonlight river the eyes are shineing bright.
moonlight river love her with all you might.
moonlight river the darkness is falling.
moonligh river is there such thing off morning.
moonlight river makes my head sway.
moonlight river voice off the ocean on a sand beach bay.
moonlight river i think off her night and day.
moonlight river bring her back to me today.
moonlight river the star's are shineing bright.
moonlight river she is back with such delight.
moonlight river never let her go.
moonlight river tell her i love her so.
moolight river tear's in her eye.
moonlight river why did i have to die.
poem by Neil Derek Singleton
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Look Into The Sun
Took a sad song of one sweet evening
I smiled and quickly turned away.
Its not easy singing sad songs
But still the easiest way I have to say.
So when you look into the sun
And see the things we havent done --
Oh was it better then to run
Than to spend the summer crying.
Now summer cannot come anyway.
I had waited for time to change her.
The only change that came was over me.
She pretended not to want love --
I hope she was only fooling me.
So when you look into the sun
Look for the pleasures nearly won.
Or was it better then to run
Than to spend the summer singing.
And summer could have come in a day.
So if you hear my sad song singing
Remember who and what you nearly had.
Its not easy singing sad songs
When you can sing the song to make me glad.
So when you look into the sun
And see the words you could have sung:
Its not too late, only begun,
We can still make summer.
Yes, summer always comes anyway.
So when you look into the sun
And see the words you could have sung:
Its not too late, only begun.
Look into the sun.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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At A Meeting Of Friends
AUGUST 29, 1859
I REMEMBER--why, yes! God bless me! and was it so long ago?
I fear I'm growing forgetful, as old folks do, you know;
It must have been in 'forty--I would say 'thirty-nine--
We talked this matter over, I and a friend of mine.
He said, 'Well now, old fellow, I'm thinking that you and I,
If we act like other people, shall be older by and by;
What though the bright blue ocean is smooth as a pond can be,
There is always a line of breakers to fringe the broadest sea.
'We're taking it mighty easy, but that is nothing strange,
For up to the age of thirty we spend our years like Change;
But creeping up towards the forties, as fast as the old years fill,
And Time steps in for payment, we seem to change a bill.'
'I know it,' I said, 'old fellow; you speak the solemn truth;
A man can't live to a hundred and likewise keep his youth;
But what if the ten years coming shall silver-streak my hair,
You know I shall then be forty; of course I shall not care.
'At forty a man grows heavy and tired of fun and noise;
Leaves dress to the five-and-twenties and love to the silly boys;
No foppish tricks at forty, no pinching of waists and toes,
But high-low shoes and flannels and good thick worsted hose.'
But one fine August morning I found myself awake
My birthday:--By Jove, I'm forty! Yes, forty, and no mistake!
Why, this is the very milestone, I think I used to hold,
That when a fellow had come to, a fellow would then be old!
But that is the young folks' nonsense; they're full of their
foolish stuff;
A man's in his prime at forty,--I see that plain enough;
At fifty a man is wrinkled, and may be bald or gray;
I call men old at fifty, in spite of all they say.
At last comes another August with mist and rain and shine;
Its mornings are slowly counted and creep to twenty-nine,
And when on the western summits the fading light appears,
It touches with rosy fingers the last of my fifty years.
There have been both men and women whose hearts were firm and bold,
But there never was one of fifty that loved to say 'I'm old';
So any elderly person that strives to shirk his years,
Make him stand up at a table and try him by his peers.
Now here I stand at fifty, my jury gathered round;
Sprinkled with dust of silver, but not yet silver-crowned,
Ready to meet your verdict, waiting to hear it told;
Guilty of fifty summers; speak! Is the verdict _old_.
No! say that his hearing fails him; say that his sight grows dim;
Say that he's getting wrinkled and weak in back and limb,
Losing his wits and temper, but pleading, to make amends,
The youth of his fifty summers he finds in his twenty friends.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Brokedown Palace
Fare you well, my honey, fare you well my only true one.
All the birds that were singing are flown, except you alone.
Going to leave this brokedown palace,
On my hand and knees, I will roll, roll, roll.
Make myself a bed in the waterside,
In my time, I will roll, roll roll.
In a bed, in a bed, by the waterside I will lay my head.
Listen to the river sing sweet songs, to rock my soul.
River going to take me, sing sweet and sleepy,
Sing me sweet and sleepy all the way back home.
Its a far gone lullaby, sung many years ago.
Mama, mama many worlds Ive come since I first left home.
Goin home, goin home, by the riverside I will rest my bones,
Listen to the river sing sweet songs, to rock my soul.
Going to plant a weeping willow,
On the banks green edge it will grow, grow, grow.
Sing a lullaby beside the water,
Lovers come and go, the river roll, roll, roll.
Fare you well, fare you well, I love you more than words can tell,
Listen to the river sing sweet songs, to rock my soul.
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gone Are Those Sad Songs Sung
Gone are those sad songs,
Sung begun some sang.
With the singing of those sad songs,
Gone
Once sung 'then' now no one sings,
With a wish to begin them again.
Too many on the streets.
Now too accustomed to fresh beats,
Declare they will not be defeated.
By a repeating of old tunes.
Too many collectively.
Have decided to leave.
Gone are those sad songs,
Sung begun some sang.
With the singing of those sad songs,
Gone.
Once sung now no one chooses to sing,
With a wish to begin them again.
Solos and duets seem for many more accepted.
With a clouding once done to dim overcasting skies.
Clearing now as a harmony begins,
To find eyes brightening.
With a listening to voices heard.
And giving each one specific attention.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Love And Life
LOVE only sings when Love is young,
When Love is young and still at play,
How shall we count the sweet songs sung
When Love and Joy kept holiday?
But now Love has to earn his bread
By lifelong stress and toil of tears,
He finds his nest of song-birds dead
That sang so sweet in other years.
For Love's a man now, strong and brave,
To fight for you, for you to live,
And Love, that once such bright songs gave,
Has better things than songs to give;
He gives you now a lifelong faith,
A hand to help in joy or pain,
And he will sing no more, till Death
Shall come to make him young again!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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In the Old Age of the Soul
I do not choose to dream; there cometh on me
Some strange old lust for deeds.
As to the nerveless hand of some old warrior
The sword-hilt or the war-worn wonted helmet
Brings momentary life and long-fled cunning,
So to my soul grown old -
Grown old with many a jousting, many a foray,
Grown old with namy a hither-coming and hence-going -
Till now they send him dreams and no more deed;
So doth he flame again with might for action,
Forgetful of the council of elders,
Forgetful that who rules doth no more battle,
Forgetful that such might no more cleaves to him
So doth he flame again toward valiant doing.
poem by Ezra Pound
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Love blossoms as it grows
When we were young we walked together hand in hand
looked into each others' eyes thinking love was grand.
Life can't get any better than it is now we thought
and as we walked down life's pathway God's will we sought.
There walking and talking life sped by at a pace
and now we look into each others' wrinkled face.
Our love though more mature is still so young at heart
and the trials of life have not forced us apart.
With hands gnarled by time we embrace one another
you are still my belovèd and I your lover.
Our eyes may have dimmed but still retain their sparkle
a love like ours is so very remarkable.
By The River Of Time
by the river of time
no one stands still
the river of time
carries everyone away
on wrinkled creeks
on waterfalls that stop
to fall on rains that
consume themselves
on leaves that crack
to the power of the sun
the river of time drowns
us all to the comfort of oblivion.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Footprints in the Snow
footprints in the snow.
tiny unnamed orphan lifetimes
that melt without a sound
and are lost forever.
candlewax melted to the formless,
mountains worn down over a millennia...
the faces of wrinkled old men
and newborn babies, one and the same.
the fleeting dance of a butterfly,
a river singing across centuries.
70 years,50 years,20 years, ...
or maybe just tonite!
coming back over and over again,
or dissolving like ash into the wind.
a dropp of rain, or the surge of an ocean,
stone stacked upon stone, or thistle?
footprints in the snow...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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There is a song in my heart......
There is a song in my heart
and I want to sing it for you in the misty night
No one will ever knows what I have written for you
because it has been written with my heart only for you
Let us be alone when I sing my song for you
and let the melody of my song echo in the sky
I want our world to sleep deep when I sing for you
then only my song will get into your heart softly
My nights are not enough to love you
nor my songs cannot be sung without you
I sing with my heart to tell you how much I love you
I sing with my soul to tell you how much I miss you
My song will wipe your tears away
and immerse my body into your arms for thirsting love
These feelings of loving song comes when I am only with you
and let my love song, sing in your living heart forever
poem by Ravi Sathasivam
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Freeze Love
You went away without glance
You went away uttering no word
Shall we meet again or it was last?
Without seeing you how could I pass days?
Eyes are becoming river thinking you
Sky is on the ladder of sorrow, because of your love
Unfathomable water in river departs room on bank
If sky is clouded over it must be rain some where
When high tidal pain in sea what to happen of puzzled sailor?
Because of love when you lose all you become lost Simon
Our love is like river
Love at white snow of Himalaya
Love over flowing the Padma- the Meghna river
As the sea is whereabouts of river’s love-
Love of river mixes at out let of sea
Packing in envelop love of snow is send
Our love is like river
You went away without glance
Do not leave in this manner o loveliness
Defiled air at heart causes the love freeze.
poem by Bongokobida Zakaria
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By Night The muses told me.
By night the muses snatched me away, in to their
loveliest
Abode where the gods grow fond of. But poor I am in word to describe
The heavenly refinement of this humble paradise.
Laying me helplessly on this sour grass and looking into the early skies as a lover
On the tour of painful love and yet whispering in my ears as my ears quiver for answers
My dear poet the fairest of them all, whose heart is as loveliest as a thousand bouquets of roses laid by the lover's bed.
Grow within your thought the learning of love and let the world be indeed a beautiful place for you.
Though I do not challenge your words great muses, whose radiate skin bring light in darkness, whose word flow from your mouth as you were present when the world came to being, my great and wonderful muses, whose song feels the heart of the faint lover and bring to tame the proudest heart of the lion on a mid day hunt.
Your beauty I as a mortal i dare not compare any beauty with.
How should I love, how should I give my heart and not get pain in return,
You trained my heart and though I am weak, spirit me away in to your humble blossom
And let me rest my head on your golden lap.
For my lips are so moisten with words from my heart, I am not in control of my self.
If I, a lover of a thousand women, how then should I, a god like me
In mortal flesh prevent my pleasures for over taking me.
Hence my muse answered,
my dear poet and god, who I bestow my graces upon, who
Are the hands I write my songs and poem with, do no despair, write what ever I tell you through your heart and understand my plight, but if still you do not comprehend go and listen to my dear god Ovid, it was him Venus thought the art of love
But oh my dear lord and love muses, your words grace my heart, but my mind is not at peace
Ovid my great and wonderful love teacher, who none compares not even Shakespeare with his renown wits and words' sit with open eyes and heart applaud when he delivers the speech of love. But still I am a lover of thousand women.
My dearest, whom I endowed with the riches of words, hear me, your heart though full of wonder love, it is with it I deliver the power of love through, learn to live with it my young poet.
Tell the loveliest women how you feel and if she does not comprehend, craft them into words on paper, go my young poet and tell the ladies of the world through your words how elegant they seem in there natural beauty, how beauty grows and fade. Tell them to grace there appearance with inner beauty for the goddess and muses shall be with you.
You are my handy work, the man of a thousand lover, forgive cupid for his jealous looks my dear poet live and enjoy your fruitful days as young, soon old age comes fleeting in a chariot.
poem by Samuel Donkor
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While Yet we may
Ancient, wrinkled dames and jealous -
They whom joyless Age downcasts -
And the sere, gray-bearded fellows
Who would fain re-live their pasts -
These, the ancients, grimly tell us:
'Vows are vain, and no love lasts.'
Fleeting years fulfil Fate's sentence,
Eyes must dim, and hair turn gray,
Age bring wrinkles, p'rhaps repentance;
Youth shall quickly hie away,
And that time when youth has went hence,
We - and love - have had our day.
Let the world, and fuming, fretting,
Busy worldlings pass us by,
Bent on piles of lucre getting -
They shall lose it when they die;
Past and future, sweet! forgetting -
Seize the present ere it fly.
Your bright eyes are soft and smiling,
Pouting lips are moist and red,
And your whispers wondrous wiling -
Surely they would quick the dead -
And these hours they're now beguiling,
All too hasty will have fled.
Years may bring a dole of sorrow,
Time enough to fast and pray,
From the present pleasures borrow,
Let the distant future pay;
Leave the penance for the morrow,
Sweetheart! love and laugh to-day.
poem by Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant
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The Awakening River
The gulls are mad-in-love with the river,
And the river unveils her face and smiles.
In her sleep-brooding eyes they mirror their shining wings.
She lies on silver pillows: the sun leans over her.
He warms and warms her, he kisses and kisses her.
There are sparks in her hair and she stirs in laughter.
Be careful, my beautiful waking one! You will catch
on fire.
Wheeling and flying with the foam of the sea on their
breasts,
The ineffable mists of the sea clinging to their wild wings,
Crying the rapture of the boundless ocean,
The gulls are mad-in-love with the river.
Wake! we are the dream thoughts flying form your heart.
Wake! we are the songs of desire flowing from your
bosom.
O, I think the sun will lend her his great wings
And the river will fly to the sea with the mad-in-
love birds.
poem by Katherine Mansfield
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Corn Grinders
O little mouse, why dost thou cry
While merry stars laugh in the sky?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead!
Ah, who will ease my bitter pain?
He went to seek a millet-grain
In the rich farmer's granary shed;
They caught him in a baited snare,
And slew my lover unaware:
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.
O little deer, why dost thou moan,
Hid in thy forest-bower alone?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead!
Ah! who will quiet my lament?
At fall of eventide he went
To drink beside the river-head;
A waiting hunter threw his dart,
And struck my lover through the heart.
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.
O little bride, why dost thou weep
With all the happy world asleep?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead!
Ah, who will stay these hungry tears,
Or still the want of famished years,
And crown with love my marriage-bed?
My soul burns with the quenchless fire
That lit my lover's funeral pyre:
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.
poem by Sarojini Naidu
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