A Rainy Day in April
When the clouds shake their hyssops, and the rain
Like holy water falls upon the plain,
'Tis sweet to gaze upon the springing grain
And see your harvest born.
And sweet the little breeze of melody
The blackbord puffs upon teh budding tree,
While the wild poppy lights upon the lea
And blazes 'mid the corn.
The skylark soars the freshening shower to hail,
And the meek daisy holds aloft her pail.
And Spring all radiant by the wayside pale
Sets up her rock and reel.
See how she weaves her mantle fold on fold,
Hemming the woods and carpeting the wold.
Her warp is of the green, her woof the gold,
The spinning world her wheel.
poem by Francis Ledwidge
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Related quotes
Song of the Wheat
We have sung the song of the droving days,
Of the march of the travelling sheep;
By silent stages and lonely ways
Thin, white battalions creep.
But the man who now by the land would thrive
Must his spurs to a plough-share beat.
Is there ever a man in the world alive
To sing the song of the Wheat!
It's west by south of the Great Divide
The grim grey plains run out,
Where the old flock-masters lived and died
In a ceaseless fight with drought.
Weary with waiting and hope deferred
They were ready to own defeat,
Till at last they heard the master-word—
And the master-word was Wheat.
Yarran and Myall and Box and Pine—
’Twas axe and fire for all;
They scarce could tarry to blaze the line
Or wait for the trees to fall,
Ere the team was yoked, and the gates flung wide,
And the dust of the horses’ feet
Rose up like a pillar of smoke to guide
The wonderful march of Wheat.
Furrow by furrow, and fold by fold,
The soil is turned on the plain;
Better than silver and better than gold
Is the surface-mine of the grain;
Better than cattle and better than sheep
In the fight with drought and heat;
For a streak of stubbornness, wide and deep,
Lies hid in a grain of Wheat.
When the stock is swept by the hand of fate,
Deep down in his bed of clay
The brave brown Wheat will lie and wait
For the resurrection day:
Lie hid while the whole world thinks him dead;
But the Spring-rain, soft and sweet,
Will over the steaming paddocks spread
The first green flush of the Wheat.
Green and amber and gold it grows
When the sun sinks late in the West;
And the breeze sweeps over the rippling rows
Where the quail and the skylark nest.
Mountain or river or shining star,
There’s never a sight can beat—
Away to the sky-line stretching far—
A sea of the ripening Wheat.
When the burning harvest sun sinks low,
And the shadows stretch on the plain,
The roaring strippers come and go
Like ships on a sea of grain;
Till the lurching, groaning waggons bear
Their tale of the load complete.
Of the world’s great work he has done his share
Who has gathered a crop of wheat.
Princes and Potentates and Czars,
They travel in regal state,
But old King Wheat has a thousand cars
For his trip to the water-gate;
And his thousand steamships breast the tide
And plough thro’ the wind and sleet
To the lands where the teeming millions bide
That say: “Thank God for Wheat!”
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Lilac And Gold And Green
Lilac and gold and green!
Those are the colours I love the best,
Spring's own raiment untouched and clean,
When the world is awake and yet hardly dressed,
And the stranger sun, her bridegroom shy,
Looks at her bosom and wonders why
She is so beautiful, he so blest.
Lilac and green and gold!
Those were the colours you wore to--day,
Robed you were in them fold on fold,
Clothed in the light of your love's delay.
And I held you thus in my arms, once only,
And wondered still, as you left me lonely,
How the world's beauty was changed to grey.
Lilac and gold and green!
I would die for the truth of those colours true!
Lilac for loyalty, gold for my queen,
And green the faith of my love for you.
Here is a posy of all the three.
My heart is with it. So think of me,
And our weeping skies shall once more be blue.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Wind
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold!
Oh the winter stark,
Oh the level dark,
On the wold, the wold, the wold!
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold!
Oh the mystery
Of the blasted tree
On the wold, the wold, the wold!
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold!
Oh the owlet's croon
To the haggard moon,
To the waning moon,
On the wold, the wold, the wold!
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold!
Oh the fleshless stare,
Oh the windy hair,
On the wold, the wold, the wold!
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold!
Oh the cold sigh,
Oh the hollow cry,
The lean and hollow cry,
On the wold, the wold, the wold!
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold!
Oh the white sight,
Oh the shuddering night,
The shivering shuddering night,
On the wold, the wold, the wold!
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Spring Torrents
Will it always be like this until I am dead,
Every spring must I bear it all again
With the first red haze of the budding maple boughs,
And the first sweet-smelling rain?
Oh I am like a rock in the rising river
Where the flooded water breaks with a low call --
Like a rock that knows the cry of the waters
And cannot answer at all.
poem by Sara Teasdale
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Old is gold
Old is gold
Gold never old.
I gaze at you
And you become
Fold and fold.
I gaze at you
You and I
Cast in the same mould.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Blanche
Breeze! brisk breeze! that movest with the morn!
Breeze! lithe breeze! that creepest through the corn!
Breeze! O breeze! that fannest the forlorn!
Oh linger by the lattice of sweet Blanche of mine!
Breeze! coy breeze! that loiterest for noon!
Breeze! true breeze! that hast a tryst with June!
Breeze! kind breeze! I beg of thee a boon!
Oh peep in through the lattice of poor Blanche of mine!
Breeze! fleet breeze! that goest with the day!
Breeze! dear breeze! that hastenest away!
Breeze! breeze! breeze! I beg of thee to stay,
And breathe upon the pillow of pale Blanche of mine!
Breeze! night-breeze! that wailest on the wold!
Breeze! lost breeze! that wanderest in the cold!
Breeze! dread breeze! oh flit not by the mould
Which shelters what is left me of lost Blanche of mine!
poem by Alfred Austin
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At Evening Time There Shall Be Light
THE day was wild with wind and rain,
One grey wrapped sky and sea and shore,
It seemed our marsh would never again
Wear the rich robes that once it wore.
The scattered farms looked sad and chill,
Their sheltering trees writhed all awry,
And waves of mist broke on the hill
Where once the great sea thundered by.
Then God remembered this His land,
This little land that is our own,
He caught the rain up in His hand,
He hid the winds behind His throne,
He soothed the fretful waves to rest,
He called the clouds to come away,
And, by blue pathways, to the west,
They went, like children tired of play.
And then God bade our marsh put on
Its holy vestment of fine gold;
From marge to marge the glory shone
On lichened farm and fence and fold;
In the gold sky that walled the west,
In each transfigured stone and tree,
The glory of God was manifest,
Plain for a little child to see!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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A Loom of Years
In the light of the silent stars that shine on the struggling sea,
In the weary cry of the wind and the whisper of flower and tree,
Under the breath of laughter, deep in the tide of tears,
I hear the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
The leaves of the winter wither and sink in the forest mould
To colour the flowers of April with purple and white and gold:
Light and scent and music die and are born again
In the heart of a grey-haired woman who wakes in a world of pain.
The hound, the fawn, and the hawk, and the doves that croon and coo,
We are all one woof of the weaving and the one warp threads us through,
One flying cloud on the shuttle that carries our hopes and fears
As it goes thro’ the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
The green uncrumpling fern and the rustling dewdrenched rose
Pass with our hearts to the Silence where the wings of music close,
Pass and pass to the Timeless that never a moment mars,
Pass and pass to the Darkness that made the suns and stars.
Has the soul gone out in the Darkness? Is the dust sealed from sight?
Ah, hush, for the woof of the ages returns thro’ the warp of the night!
Never that shuttle loses one thread of our hopes and fears,
As it comes thro’ the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
O, woven in one wide Loom thro’ the throbbing weft of the whole,
One in spirit and flesh, one in body and soul,
Tho’ the leaf were alone in its falling, the bird in its hour to die,
The heart in its muffled anguish, the sea in its mournful cry,
One with the flower of a day, one with the withered moon
One with the granite mountains that melt into the noon
One with the dream that triumphs beyond the light of the spheres,
We come from the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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The Loom of Years
In the light of the silent stars that shine on the struggling sea,
In the weary cry of the wind and the whisper of flower and tree,
Under the breath of laughter, deep in the tide of tears,
I hear the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
The leaves of the winter wither and sink in the forest mould
To colour the flowers of April with purple and white and gold:
Light and scent and music die and are born again
In the heart of a grey-haired woman who wakes in a world of pain.
The hound, the fawn, and the hawk, and the doves that croon and coo,
We are all one woof of the weaving and the one warp threads us through,
One flying cloud on the shuttle that carries our hopes and fears
As it goes thro’ the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
The green uncrumpling fern and the rustling dewdrenched rose
Pass with our hearts to the Silence where the wings of music close,
Pass and pass to the Timeless that never a moment mars,
Pass and pass to the Darkness that made the suns and stars.
Has the soul gone out in the Darkness? Is the dust sealed from sight?
Ah, hush, for the woof of the ages returns thro’ the warp of the night!
Never that shuttle loses one thread of our hopes and fears,
As it comes thro’ the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
O, woven in one wide Loom thro’ the throbbing weft of the whole,
One in spirit and flesh, one in body and soul,
Tho’ the leaf were alone in its falling, the bird in its hour to die,
The heart in its muffled anguish, the sea in its mournful cry,
One with the flower of a day, one with the withered moon
One with the granite mountains that melt into the noon
One with the dream that triumphs beyond the light of the spheres,
We come from the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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An English Spring Ramble
Spring is here in every new budding leaf
that flourishes beneath
this vast expansive sky of baby blue.
Wild pink cherry in blossom by the road
covers soft yellow daffodils on show,
fav'rite colours in a nursery hue.
Push'd into this expectant painted world
first lambs, tails unfurled
wobble under udders in fields of green.
Along hedgerows where I slowly amble,
deep within the ancient knotted bramble
Tree Sparrows flitter and twitter unseen.
Walking with my eyes and heart wide open
silent words unspoken,
the wayside has its own story to tell.
The wild birds' spring symphony holds me
standing here beneath the sunlit cherry
looking through branches at a clear blue sky.
poem by Diana Rosser
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Sweet Little Rock & Roller
By: chuck berry as done by nazareth
Nineteeen years old and as sweet as she can be
Dressed up like a downtown christmas tree
Dancin and hummin a rock-roll melody
Shes the daughter of a well-respected man
Who taught her how to judge and understand
Soon she became a rock-roll music fan
Sweet little rock and roller, sweet little rock and roller
Papa dont have to scold her, says he cant hardly hold her
She never gets any older, sweet little rock and roller
Shouldve seen her eyes when the band began to play
Famous singers sang and barred away
Stars performed, she screamed and yelled hooray!
Ten thousand eyes were watching her leave the floor
Five thousand tongues were screaming out more! more!
About fifteen hundred waitin outside the door
Sweet little rock and roller
Sweet little rock and roller
Papa dont have to scold her, says he cant hardly hold her
She never gets any older, sweet little rock and roller
Sweet little rock and roller
Sweet little rock and roller
Sweet little rock and roller
Sweet little rock and roller
Sweet little rock and roller
song performed by by Nazareth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rock & Roll People
Were the rock and roll people, born to pick the news;
Yeah, rock and people,
Just couldnt change it if Id choose.
Dont tell me where your head is, man,
You know it wont be missed.
Dont play the virgin mary,
We all know shes been kissed.
Rock and roll people, born to be the news;
Yeah, were rock and roll people,
Just couldnt change it if Id choose.
My father was a mother,
My mother was a son.
Dont play the mona lisa,
Weve all been twenty-one.
Rock and roll people, born to be the news;
Yeah, the rock and roll people,
Just couldnt change it if I choose.
Dont ask me bout the time of day,
Or how much space I need.
Dont feed me dog for dinner,
We all know you get green.
Rock and roll people, born to be the news;
Yes, the rock and roll people,
Just couldnt change it if I choose.
Sweet, sweet, rock and roll,
Sweet, sweet, rock and roll,
Sweet, sweet, rock and roll,
Sweet, sweet, rock and roll,
Sweet, sweet, rock and roll,
Sweet, sweet, rock and roll,
Sweet, sweet, rock and roll,
Sweet, sweet, rock and roll,
Rock and roll.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rock & Roll People
Were the rock and roll people, born to pick the news;
Yeah, rock and people,
Just couldnt change it if Id choose.
Dont tell me where your head is, man,
You know it wont be missed.
Dont play the virgin mary,
We all know shes been kissed.
Rock and roll people, born to be the news;
Yeah, were rock and roll people,
Just couldnt change it if Id choose.
My father was a mother,
My mother was a son.
Dont play the mona lisa,
Weve all been twenty-one.
Rock and roll people, born to be the news;
Yeah, the rock and roll people,
Just couldnt change it if I choose.
Dont ask me bout the time of day,
Or how much space I need.
Dont feed me dog for dinner,
We all know you get green.
Rock and roll people, born to be the news;
Yes, the rock and roll people,
Just couldnt change it if I choose.
Sweet, sweet, rock and roll,
Sweet, sweet, rock and roll,
Sweet, sweet, rock and roll,
Sweet, sweet, rock and roll,
Sweet, sweet, rock and roll,
Sweet, sweet, rock and roll,
Sweet, sweet, rock and roll,
Sweet, sweet, rock and roll,
Rock and roll.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Special Pleading
THE world's a path all fresh and sweet,
A sky all fresh and fair,
With daisies underneath your feet
And roses for your hair;
Red roses for your pretty hair,
Green trees to shade your way,
And lavish blossoms everywhere,
Because the time is May.
How gold the sun shines through the green!
How soft the turf is spread!
How richly falls the shimmering sheen
About your darling head!
How in the dawn of Paradise
Should you foresee the night?
How, with the sunlight in your eyes,
See aught beyond the light?
The world's a path all rough and wild,
A sky all black with fears,
Among the ghosts, unhappy child,
You stumble, blind with tears;
The track is faint, and far the fold,
And very far the day:
Unless you have a hand to hold,
How will you find the way?
poem by Edith Nesbit
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You Can't Have Everything
The Queensland sun shines early in the morning
And keeps on burning hotter through the day
And though the Parklands watered by the sprinklers
Through the pale green patches of brown through gray.
But I know of a Land of natural greeness
Where Spring doesn't often come till early May
Though birds from early April on nest building
In that green Country half a World away.
I close my eyes I hear the dipper singing
And wild flowers bloom along the mountain stream
And chaffinch pipes his happy notes to April
And grass is growing and fields look lush and green.
Here in the Gold Coast in deep south of Queensland
The lorikeets and noisy miners sing
They have only known the warmth of the sub tropics
Where Winter's warmer than the northern Spring.
In distant Land above the bracken mountain
The lark is piping in the morning sky
Till lost to view he soars towards gathering rain clouds
And singing ever singing as he fly.
In South Queensland the rain is always welcome
And sun shine all year round and wild birds sing
But I know of a Country green and wetter
Which goes to prove you can't have everything.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Invitation
BEST and brightest, come away!
Fairer far than this fair Day,
Which, like thee to those in sorrow,
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
To the rough Year just awake
In its cradle on the brake.
The brightest hour of unborn Spring,
Through the winter wandering,
Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn
To hoar February born.
Bending from heaven, in azure mirth,
It kiss'd the forehead of the Earth;
And smiled upon the silent sea;
And bade the frozen streams be free;
And waked to music all their fountains;
And breathed upon the frozen mountains;
And like a prophetess of May
Strew'd flowers upon the barren way,
Making the wintry world appear
Like one on whom thou smilest, dear.
Away, away, from men and towns,
To the wild wood and the downs--
To the silent wilderness
Where the soul need not repress
Its music lest it should not find
An echo in another's mind,
While the touch of Nature's art
Harmonizes heart to heart.
I leave this notice on my door
For each accustom'd visitor:--
'I am gone into the fields
To take what this sweet hour yields.
Reflection, you may come to-morrow;
Sit by the fireside with Sorrow.
You with the unpaid bill, Despair,--
You, tiresome verse-reciter, Care,--
I will pay you in the grave,--
Death will listen to your stave.
Expectation too, be off!
To-day is for itself enough.
Hope, in pity mock not Woe
With smiles, nor follow where I go;
Long having lived on your sweet food,
At length I find one moment's good
After long pain: with all your love,
This you never told me of.'
Radiant Sister of the Day,
Awake! arise! and come away!
To the wild woods and the plains;
And the pools where winter rains
Image all their roof of leaves;
Where the pine its garland weaves
Of sapless green and ivy dun
Round stems that never kiss the sun;
Where the lawns and pastures be,
And the sandhills of the sea;
Where the melting hoar-frost wets
The daisy-star that never sets,
And wind-flowers, and violets
Which yet join not scent to hue,
Crown the pale year weak and new;
When the night is left behind
In the deep east, dun and blind,
And the blue noon is over us,
And the multitudinous
Billows murmur at our feet
Where the earth and ocean meet,
And all things seem only one
In the universal sun.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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On The Downs
THE little moon is dead,
Drowned in the flood of rain
That drips from roof of byre and shed,
And splashes in the lane:
The leafless lean-flanked lane where last year's leaves are spread.
The sheep cower in the fold,
Where the rain beats them blind,
Where scarce the rotten hurdles hold
Against the weary wind
That moans with angry tears across the pathless wold.
Dim lights across the down
Show where the lone farms lie,
The twisted trees have lost their brown,
Are black against the sky,
And far below blink lights, gay lights of Brighton town.
Ah, was the moon once bright?
And did the thyme smell sweet
Where, between dewy dusk and light,
The warm turf felt our feet,
And bean-flowers scented all the enchanted summer night?
Did sheep-bells tinkle clear
Across the golden haze?
Were the woods ever leafy-dear,
In those forgotten days?
The wet wind shrieks denial: no other voice speaks here.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Bullfinches
Bother Bulleys, let us sing
From the dawn till evening! -
For we know not that we go not
When the day's pale pinions fold
Unto those who sang of old.
When I flew to Blackmoor Vale,
Whence the green-gowned faeries hail,
Roosting near them I could hear them
Speak of queenly Nature's ways,
Means, and moods,--well known to fays.
All we creatures, nigh and far
(Said they there), the Mother's are:
Yet she never shows endeavour
To protect from warrings wild
Bird or beast she calls her child.
Busy in her handsome house
Known as Space, she falls a-drowse;
Yet, in seeming, works on dreaming,
While beneath her groping hands
Fiends make havoc in her bands.
How her hussif'ry succeeds
She unknows or she unheeds,
All things making for Death's taking!
--So the green-gowned faeries say
Living over Blackmoor way.
Come then, brethren, let us sing,
From the dawn till evening! -
For we know not that we go not
When the day's pale pinions fold
Unto those who sang of old.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Chains Invisible
THE lilies in my garden grow,
Wide meadows ring my garden round,
In that green copse wild violets blow,
And pale, frail cuckoo flowers are found.
For all you see and all you hear,
The city might be miles away,
And yet you feel the city near
Through all the quiet of the day.
Sweet smells the earth--wet with sweet rain--
Sweet lilac waves in moonlight pale,
And from the wood beyond the lane
I hear the hidden nightingale.
Though field and wood about me lie,
Hushed soft in dew and deep delight,
Yet can I hear the city's sigh
Through all the silence of the night.
For me the skylark builds and sings,
For me the vine her garland weaves;
The swallow folds her glossy wings
To build beneath my cottage eaves.
But I can feel the giant near,
Can hear his slaves by daylight weep,
And when at last the night is here,
I hear him moaning in his sleep.
Oh! for a little space of ground,
Though not a flower should make it gay,
Where miles of meadows wrapped me round,
And leagues and leagues of silence lay.
Oh! for a wind-lashed, treeless down,
A black night and a rising sea,
And never a thought of London town,
To steal the world's delight from me.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Fancy
listen to the voices falling into my bosom
gaze at my newly aroused eyes
let us go..let us go before comes th dawn
together with you my love together to the infinite horizon
when the first flames of the morning are in blazes
let us enter a fancy..a ligtened tree
let us ascend to the summit of that mountain suddenly
let dissappear beyond the houses of the city
a yellow canary is on a green limb of a tree
let her sing with her merriest voice
with a melody noone knows
let us get drunk in the most transparent waters
with the sweet senses swaddling our souls
like babies running to their mothers
let us sing and mourn like a dove
let drink our voices the waters in love
there is nothing more beautiful than a fancy in this world
as reconciling as heaven.as sweet as loves
let us fly with the wind winged birds
to a new world which rises up in our fancies
Ekrem TASKINSEL
translation Metin SAHIN
poem by Metin Sahin
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