The Storm
O GRIP the earth, ye forest trees,
Grip well the earth to-night,
The Storm-God rides across the seas
To greet the morning light.
All clouds that wander through the skies
Are tangled in his net,
The frightened stars have shut their eyes,
The breakers fume and fret.
The birds that cheer the woods all day
Now tremble in their nests,
The giant branches round them sway,
The wild wind never rests.
The squirrel and the cunning fox
Have hurried to their holes,
Far off, like distant earthquake shocks,
The muffled thunder rolls.
In scores of hidden woodland dells,
Where no rough winds can harm,
The timid wild-flowers toss their bells
In reasonless alarm.
Only the mountains rear their forms,
Silent and grim and bold;
To them the voices of the storms
Are as a tale re-told.
They saw the stars in heaven hung,
They heard the great Sea's birth,
They know the ancient pain that wrung
The entrails of the Earth.
Sprung from great Nature's royal lines,
They share her deep repose,–
Their rugged shoulders robed in pines,
Their foreheads crowned with snows.
But now there comes a lightning flash,
And now on hill and plain
The charging clouds in fury dash,
And blind the world with rain.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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Related quotes
Storm-Music
O Music hast thou only heard
The laughing river, the singing bird,
The murmuring wind in the poplar-trees,--
Nothing but Nature's melodies?
Nay, thou hearest all her tones,
As a Queen must hear!
Sounds of wrath and fear,
Mutterings, shouts, and moans,
Madness, tumult, and despair,
All she has that shakes the air
With voices fierce and wild!
Thou art a Queen and not a dreaming child,--
Put on thy crown and let us hear thee reign
Triumphant in a world of storm and strain!
Echo the long-drawn sighs
Of the mounting wind in the pines;
And the sobs of the mounting waves that rise
In the dark of the troubled deep
To break on the beach in fiery lines.
Echo the far-off roll of thunder,
Rumbling loud
And ever louder, under
The blue-black curtain of cloud,
Where the lightning serpents gleam.
Echo the moaning
Of the forest in its sleep
Like a giant groaning
In the torment of a dream.
Now an interval of quiet
For a moment holds the air
In the breathless hush
Of a silent prayer.
Then the sudden rush
Of the rain, and the riot
Of the shrieking, tearing gale
Breaks loose in the night,
With a fusillade of hail!
Hear the forest fight,
With its tossing arms that crack and clash
In the thunder's cannonade,
While the lightning's forked flash
Brings the old hero-trees to the ground with a crash!
Hear the breakers' deepening roar,
Driven like a herd of cattle
In the wild stampede of battle,
Trampling, trampling, trampling, to overwhelm the shore!
Is it the end of all?
Will the land crumble and fall?
Nay, for a voice replies
Out of the hidden skies,
"Thus far, O sea, shalt thou go,
So long, O wind, shalt thou blow:
Return to your bounds and cease,
And let the earth have peace!"
O Music, lead the way--
The stormy night is past,
Lift up our hearts to greet the day,
And the joy of things that last.
The dissonance and pain
That mortals must endure,
Are changed in thine immortal strain
To something great and pure.
True love will conquer strife,
And strength from conflict flows,
For discord is the thorn of life
And harmony the rose.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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The Storm
The clouds turned to gray
The air turned to cold
And I knew by that day
Some evil would unfold.
It arrived without a warning
Along with the pounding rain
And it was gone by the morning
As violently as it came.
But for that night I lived in terror
That night I lived in fright
With every sound I heard
With every flash of light.
Violently came the wind
Terrorizing with no form
Then came the thunder and lightning,
Arriving, was the storm.
Many trees I saw bent
Then God clapped his mighty hand
While many trees were refusing to fall,
But then, a tree didn't stand.
Rushing came the wind
Pounding came the rain
Crashing came the thunder
Quickly, came my pain.
Underneath my bed I hid
From the terror of the storm
And in pain and terror I cried
In horror and pain I moaned.
That night I lived in terror
That night I lived in fright
With every sound I heard
With every flash of light.
And the rain just kept falling
More tears I began to weep
For the wind just kept calling,
Then that night; I fell asleep.
Then morning she finally came
I awoke to the sound of peace and birds
The sound of thunder and rain was gone
Which had awoke my sleeping world.
Then outside towards the sky I stared,
To the clouds God he did call
I saw Gods hand moving the wind
Commanding the rain not to fall.
Then the sun began to shine
So on my knees I fell to pray
Then again, I began to cry
Thanking God; the storm had went away.
poem by Randy McClave
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The Flower-School
When storm-clouds rumble in the sky and June showers come down.
The moist east wind comes marching over the heath to blow its
bagpipes among the bamboos.
Then crowds of flowers come out of a sudden, from nobody knows
where, and dance upon the grass in wild glee.
Mother, I really think the flowers go to school underground.
They do their lessons with doors shut, and if they want to
come out to play before it is time, their master makes them stand
in a corner.
When the rain come they have their holidays.
Branches clash together in the forest, and the leaves rustle
in the wild wind, the thunder-clouds clap their giant hands and the
flower children rush out in dresses of pink and yellow and white.
Do you know, mother, their home is in the sky, where the stars
are.
Haven't you see how eager they are to get there? Don't you
know why they are in such a hurry?
Of course, I can guess to whom they raise their arms; they
have their mother as I have my own.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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The Glowworm
The mountains lost in clouds, the giant firs
Standing out 'gainst the never-ceasing lightning,
Shaken by thunderpeals, in threefold strength,
As all the valleys echoed through the night.
The mighty heads stormbent, the branches tossed
Into the sheets of water, sky and earth
In lurid light, a never-ceasing flame.
There in the grass, beneath a tiny leaf
A firefly put forth its wondrous ray,
As if no storm, no rain, no hail were nigh,
A peaceful little flame, and yet so strong,
That it outshone the lightning. It would say:
I am the same as lightning! Storm thy life
And threat'ning thunder, but thy flame O minstrel,
Thy heart's own fire, is as strong, as true,
As elementary as Fate's wild raving,
And though it throws its light but on a leaf,
That leaf may be eternal by the light
Thy soul hath shed on it. That steady flame
Burns on, when all the clouds have spent their fire,
And when the bowels of the earth have ceased
To growl in answer. Undisturbed, thy flame
Will live, defying Fate's alarm, a fearless,
Undying mighty word, as strong as lightning
And love's own sheen, thy soul's unwavering beacon.
poem by Carmen Sylva
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Celestial Warfare
The sun has fallen to rest,
And the moon shows up to play,
Clouds glaze the skies,
Racing with the arctic winds,
Attacking the lunar sphere,
Skies turn to black,
It seems the moon has died,
'What fallacy is this! ',
the Moon exclaims,
Reflected light piercing through the clouds,
'I will not leave this plane! '
Stars join in the brawl,
Flash of light radiates the earth,
a Star victim to the clouds.
Sun
The lantern of earth awakes,
Moon and Stars flee,
this Solar star perforates the Clouds,
Its sword a burning flame,
the Clouds counter with thickening,
the Sun struggles to maintain,
And unleashes its true prowess,
a Red Giant is formed,
the Clouds meet their demise,
the giant grasps them,
With its mighty flair,
Hungry for growth,
It turns on the moon,
David vs. Goliath,
Darkness falls upon our earth,
Cloudless skies raining Red,
the Moon has killed itself.
poem by Brandon Griffee
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Dews make Grass and Leaves to Weep!
Neither I am Bruce lee,
I got only bruises fully,
I am not Tiger Woods,
Just fear to Tiger and woods,
I am not the Ronaldo who score
goal after goal,
Only I suffer a lot to achieve a goal,
I am not Jordan or Jackson,
Not even can sprint or jump,
Not I am Tagore or Gibran,
Not even like kayyam or Rumi,
Not my feelings or words can
make others feel,
Not I am Alexander,
the great,
Not That Chengez or Ghazni,
Nor that Ashoka the great, Still dogs and cats,
Trees and birds,
Sun and stars,
Moon and clouds,
Rainbows and flowers
Fruit trees love
me,
As they know how innocently I
love them,
Some day raining clouds may call
me,
the light in that lightning
may take me to my beloved!
Birds may sing farewell, flowers may say good bye,
The morning on which I will not be on earth,
At least, the morning dews make
grass and leaves to shed tears for
me!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Welcome Rain
The light of the smiling twilight
Is washed in a moment;
The thousand ships of clouds,
Throng and color the blue azure
With black paint-
The birds hurry to back to nest...
The silhouette of the tall trees
Stand solemnly;
A stroke of sudden mighty wind
Rushes to toss the heads of the
Waiting grove.....
Suddenly the sun is blinded with
The shroud of the black gauge;
The silver sparkling invites
The thunderbolt to scare
The timid earth; A metallic
Scale is pulled from one side to
The other of the blind firmament;
Lightning fills the sky
With his wild laughter;
The clouds leak the pools of
Water thru the pores;
The shower cools the soil,
Wets it, the rain soaked earth
Lets out a sweet smell;
To welcome rain.
Clouds barricades the limitless
Span of the ether..
In no time evening drops
With her veiled face,
To be one with her Night!
poem by Nilakshi Das
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Fragment I
I round the threshold wandering here,
Vainly the tempest and the rain invoke,
That they may keep my lady prisoner.
And yet the wind was howling in the woods,
The roving thunder bellowing in the clouds,
Before the dawn had risen in the sky.
O ye dear clouds! O heaven! O earth! O trees!
My lady goes! Have mercy, if on earth
Unhappy lovers ever mercy find!
Awake, ye whirlwinds! storm-charged clouds, awake,
O'erwhelm me with your floods, until the sun
To other lands brings back the light of day!
Heaven opens; the wind falls; the grass, the leaves
Are motionless, around; the dazzling sun
In my tear-laden eyes remorseless shines.
poem by Count Giacomo Leopardi
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The Rising Of The Storm
THE lake's dark breast
Is all unrest,
It heaves with a sob and a sigh.
Like a tremulous bird,
From its slumber stirred,
The moon is a-tilt in the sky.
From the silent deep
The waters sweep,
But faint on the cold white stones,
And the wavelets fly
With a plaintive cry
O'er the old earth's bare, bleak bones.
And the spray upsprings
On its ghost-white wings,
And tosses a kiss at the stars;
While a water-sprite,
In sea-pearls dight,
Hums a sea-hymn's solemn bars.
Far out in the night,
On the wavering sight
I see a dark hull loom;
And its light on high,
Like a Cyclops' eye,
Shines out through the mist and gloom.
Now the winds well up
From the earth's deep cup,
And fall on the sea and shore,
And against the pier
The waters rear
And break with a sullen roar.
Up comes the gale,
And the mist-wrought veil
Gives way to the lightning's glare,
And the cloud-drifts fall,
A sombre pall,
O'er water, earth, and air.
The storm-king flies,
His whip he plies,
And bellows down the wind.
The lightning rash
With blinding flash
Comes pricking on behind.
Rise, waters, rise,
And taunt the skies
With your swift-flitting form.
Sweep, wild winds, sweep,
And tear the deep
To atoms in the storm.
And the waters leapt,
And the wild winds swept,
And blew out the moon in the sky,
And I laughed with glee,
It was joy to me
As the storm went raging by!
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Evening Hymn
The crag-pent breezes sob and moan where hidden waters glide;
And twilight wanders round the earth with slow and shadowy stride.
The gleaming clouds, above the brows of western steeps uphurled,
Look like the spires of some fair town that bounds a brighter world.
Lo, from the depths of yonder wood, where many a blind creek strays,
The pure Australian moon comes forth, enwreathed with silver haze.
The rainy mists are trooping down the folding hills behind,
And distant torrent-voices rise like bells upon the wind.
The echeu's* songs are dying, with the flute-bird's mellow tone,
And night recalls the gloomy owl to rove the wilds alone;
Night, holy night, in robes of blue, with golden stars encrowned,
Ascending mountains like to walls that hem an Eden round.
Oh, lovely moon! oh, holy night! how good your God must be,
When, through the glories of your light, He stoops to look at me!
Oh, glittering clouds and silvery shapes, that vanish one by one!
Is not the kindness of our Lord too great to think upon?
If human song could flow as free as His created breeze,
When, sloping from some hoary height, it sweeps the vacant seas,
Then should my voice to heaven ascend, my tuneful lyre be strung,
And music sweeter than the winds should roam these glens among.
Go by, ye golden-footed hours, to your mysterious bourne,
And hide the sins ye bear from hence, so that they ne'er return.
Teach me, ye beauteous stars, to kiss kind Mercy's chastening rod,
And, looking up from Nature's face, to worship Nature's God.
poem by Henry Kendall
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Sonnet: Man Must Do The Will Of God
When clouds give rain and Sun gives warmth and light,
When trees give shade and flowers, fruits, perfume,
When God gives sleep and food gives muscle-might,
Why can't men sweat at work; not fret and fume?
When birds sing songs to glorify Nature,
When wind blows cool from sea to land as breeze,
When air gives breath and skies at night rapture;
Why men curse God and dwell on earth sans peace?
When God gave time so precious and fleeting,
When things of worth all men can surely do,
When brain works well, heart always keeps beating,
Why should most souls on earth the demons woo?
When Nature works as per the Will of God;
Why can't all human beings, made from clod?
poem by John Celes
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The Burden of Time
Before the seas and mountains were brought forth,
I reigned. I hung the universe in space,
I capped earth's poles with ice to South and North,
And set the moving tides their bounds and place.
I smoothed the granite mountains with my hand,
My fingers gave the continents their form;
I rent the heavens and loosed upon the land
The fury of the whirlwind and the storm.
I stretched the dark sea like a nether sky
Fronting the stars between the ice-clad zones;
I gave the deep his thunder; the Most High
Knows well the voice that shakes His mountain thrones.
I trod the ocean caverns black as night,
And silent as the bounds of outer space,
And where great peaks rose darkly towards the light
I planted life to root and grow apace.
Then through a stillness deeper than the grave's,
The coral spires rose slowly one by one,
Until the white shafts pierced the upper waves
And shone like silver in the tropic sun.
I ploughed with glaciers down the mountain glen,
And graved the iron shore with stream and tide;
I gave the bird her nest, the lion his den,
The snake long jung~le-grass wherein to hide.
In lonely gorge and over hill and plain,
I sowed the giant forests of the world;
The great earth like a human heart in pain
Has quivered with the meteors I have hurled.
I plunged whole continents beneath the deep,
And left them sepulchred a million years;
I called, and lo, the drowned lands rose from sleep,
Sundering the waters of the hemispheres.
I am the lord and arbiter of man --
I hold and crush between my finger-tips
Wild hordes that drive the desert caravan,
Great nations that go down to sea in ships.
In sovereign scorn I tread the races down,
As each its puny destiny fulfils,
On plain and island, or where huge cliffs frown,
Wrapt in the deep thought of the ancient hills.
The wild sea searches vainly round the land
For those proud fleets my arm has swept away;
Vainly the wind along the desert sand
Calls the great names of kings who once held sway.
Yea, Nineveh and Babylon the great
Are fallen -- like ripe ears at harvest-tide;
I set my heel upon their pomp and state,
The people's serfdom and the monarch's pride.
One doom waits all -- art, speech, law, gods, and men,
Forests and mountains, stars and shining sun, --
The hand that made them shall unmake again,
I curse them and they wither one by one.
Waste altars, tombs, dead cities where men trod,
Shall roll through space upon the darkened globe,
Till I myself be overthrown, and God
Cast off creation like an outworn robe.
poem by Frederick George Scott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Spirit of Poetry, The
There is a quiet spirit in these woods,
That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind blows;
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast ushering star of morning comes
O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve,
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade;
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,
Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.
And frequent, on the everlasting hills,
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself
In all the dark embroidery of the storm,
And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid
The silent majesty of these deep woods,
lts presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,
As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.
For them there was an eloquent voice in all
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,
The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,
In many a lazy syllable, repeating
Their old poetic legends to the wind.
And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill
The world; and, in these wayward days of youth,
My busy fancy oft embodies it,
As a bright image of the light and beauty
That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues
That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds
When the sun sets. Within her tender eye
The heaven of April, with its changing light,
And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,
And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair
Is like the summer tresses of the trees,
When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek
Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,
It is so like the gentle air of Spring,
As, front the morning's dewy flowers, it comes
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy
To have it round us, and her silver voice
Is the rich music of a summer bird,
Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Earlier Poems : The Spirit Of Poetry
There is a quiet spirit in these woods,
That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind blows;
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast ushering star of morning comes
O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandalled Eve,
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade;
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,
Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.
And frequent, on the everlasting hills,
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself
In all the dark embroidery of the storm,
And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid
The silent majesty of these deep woods,
lts presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,
As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.
For them there was an eloquent voice in all
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,
The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,
In many a lazy syllable, repeating
Their old poetic legends to the wind.
And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill
The world; and, in these wayward days of youth,
My busy fancy oft embodies it,
As a bright image of the light and beauty
That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues
That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds
When the sun sets. Within her tender eye
The heaven of April, with its changing light,
And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,
And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair
Is like the summer tresses of the trees,
When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek
Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,
It is so like the gentle air of Spring,
As, front the morning's dewy flowers, it comes
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy
To have it round us, and her silver voice
Is the rich music of a summer bird,
Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Weather Maker
The Weather Maker reigns above, creating all weather we speak of,
The One and Only True Creator, from both the poles to the equator,
Over this planet that we call earth, He’s the Only One who can birth,
All the weather that men shall see, upon all the lands and every sea.
God alone hides the day’s light, with ominous clouds dark as night,
And whether it is snow, hail or rain, it is The Lord, Who does ordain,
All earth’s precipitation, as it falls, while, God’s mighty thunder rolls,
With piercing lights from the sky, as His lightning catches every eye.
All the winds blow where they may, whether it is the night or the day,
Winds blowing, as The Maker wills, as His purpose, The Lord fulfills,
God stirring up many angry waves, in an ocean that rants and raves,
Or moving wind on desert sands, creating dust storms on the lands.
Hurricane winds, by Him, are spawn, as their path, by God, is drawn,
With tornados, also cutting their path, from God’s destructive Wrath,
This as the very Finger of God, scores the very ground that we trod,
As The Lord God shows His Power, both day and night, at any hour.
This is The Creator, known by some, showing to all, what is to come,
Upon this earth, created by Him, that has been tainted, by man’s sin,
For soon, He’ll purge from this world, all of the evil, sin has unfurled,
Filling it with eternal joy and mirth, when our God makes a New Earth.
(Copyright ©05/2010)
Tantrum for Sidi Mahtrow
Storm clouds massing threateningly
had turned the sky gun metal gray.
The world waited expectantly,
a thunder storm was on its way.
Silence reigned and nothing stirred.
The breeze disturbed no single leaf
There were no bird calls to be heard.
It was as if I had gone deaf.
The silence was itself a threat
a promise of what was to come.
A copper plated certain bet.
The thunder rolling like a drum.
Foretold the coming of the rain
in driving sheets across the moors.
The wind was howling out its pain,
behind the rain the driving force.
The scattered trees stood patiently
As the dry earth absorbed the flow
of rain which fell incessantly.
The trees were wise enough to know.
The storm would pass it could not last
The clouds disperse, the skies turn blue.
The sun break through the overcast
Reveal a well washed world anew.
It lasted but an hour or so
and then departed suddenly
as summer storms are wont to do.
A lesson in futility.
The earth abides but storms move on.
The brief show of authority
which they display is quickly gone.
A return to normality.
25-May-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Woods Wanderer
Day after day, I wander'd on alone—
The stricken heart is fearless; and the woods,
Amidst whose far-stretch'd depths a solemn moan
Of winds was ever sounding, and whose floods,
Pour'd ‘midst unbroken solitudes, had ceased
To waken mine to terror. I had learn'd,
E'en when no moon-beam the pale night clouds fleeced,
To thread their trackless mazes, while I turn'd
For guidance to the stars that high above me burn'd.
They who have never seen the broad blue sky,
Save through the smoke-dimm'd air of crowded streets,
Can never know how truly gloriously
It bendeth o'er the wilderness, and meets
The tall brows of the mountains. It must be
The veriest clod that wears a human form,
Who round him those majestic forms could see,
And o'er his head the eagle and the storm,
Nor feel a nobler pulse within his bosom warm.
I had laid down to slumber—but there came
A sound that night upon the fitful wind,
That kept me waking. No electric flame
Flash'd o'er the heavens—yet my thoughts could find
No sound more like to it, than the low growl
Of worn-out thunder; wrapt in thought I lay,
With nature's glory telling to my soul
Of God's own presence, till the coming day
O'er the fair orient stole, to light me on my way.
I stood, at sunrise, where Lake Erie's wave
Caught on its foamy crest the rosy light;
All round was solitude and silence, save
The voice of nature's joy. Against the bright
And pearly sky, a thin blue smoke-curl rose
From the far shore, and floated on the air,
And the slant sunbeam might to view disclose
One distant piroque that its waters bare;
All else was lone and wild, as it was lovely, there.
Still sent that deep sound forth its solemn tone,
Louder and louder, as I onward fared,
Northward where Niagara led me on,
O'er tangled brake, and green, and flower-strewn sward.
At length I reached the spot—and such a sight!
Even now the wild blood rushes through my brain,
And my heart reels with faintness, as the light
Of memory restores that scene again,
And paints it to my view as I beheld it then.
Broad, dark, and deep, the river hurried on,
Pouring the volume of its mighty flood
Right to the yawning steep!—no pause—down—down
The gather'd sea was hurl'd! half stunn'd I stood
Upon the shaken earth, and almost wept
With awe and fear and admiration, wild
And passionate;—like clouds on high were swept
In spray the shatter'd waves; while bending mild,
Over the turbulent gulf, a gorgeous rainbow smiled.
The sun went down on that vast solitude,—
And underneath the solemn stars, alone
With God, and his stupendous works, I stood;
Where, since their first creation, haply none
Save the rude Indian, e'er had trod or gazed
On that magnificence! to earth I bent
My humbled brow, yet with a soul upraised,
And conscious of a nobler being, bent
By the felt presence of the great Omnipotent.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Uproar and after math for M'lady Catrina
The thunder growls and threatens war.
Storm clouds parade in massed array
and fierce blue bolts of lightning soar
To try and drive the clouds away.
Just for a moment all is still
The clouds appear prepared to fight.
The lightning bolts strike where they will
and pierce the clouds with spears of light.
The clouds disgorge much needed rain
upon the thirsty earth below
The fields will soon be green again
and once again the streams will flow.
The storm has passed it has moved on.
The air is feeling cool and clean.
But for damage which it has done.
You would not know the storm had been.
Though summer storms strike suddenly
it’s very seldom that they last
They pass over just as quickly
and are forgotten very fast.
Flash floods and overflowing drains
will be remedied speedily.
The storm provided much needed rains
the earth accepted greedily.
We should be grateful not complain
But being human we will do
We lose much less than what we gain.
The fruitful earth will bloom anew.
02/07/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Fairy Tale
All things grew upwards, foul and fair:
The great trees fought and beat the air
With monstrous wings that would have flown;
But the old earth clung to her own,
Holding them back from heavenly wars,
Though every flower sprang at the stars.
But he broke free: while all things ceased,
Some hour increasing, he increased.
The town beneath him seemed a map,
Above the church he cocked his cap,
Above the cross his feather flew
Above the birds and still he grew.
The trees turned grass; the clouds were riven;
His feet were mountains lost in heaven;
Through strange new skies he rose alone,
The earth fell from him like a stone,
And his own limbs beneath him far
Seemed tapering down to touch a star.
He reared his head, shaggy and grim,
Staring among the cherubim;
The seven celestial floors he rent,
One crystal dome still o'er him bent:
Above his head, more clear than hope,
All heaven was a microscope.
poem by G.K. Chesterton from The Wild Knight and Other Poems (1900)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Two Spirits: An Allegory
FIRST SPIRIT
O thou, who plum'd with strong desire
Wouldst float above the earth, beware!
A Shadow tracks thy flight of fire--
Night is coming!
Bright are the regions of the air,
And among the winds and beams
It were delight to wander there--
Night is coming!SECOND SPIRIT
The deathless stars are bright above;
If I would cross the shade of night,
Within my heart is the lamp of love,
And that is day!
And the moon will smile with gentle light
On my golden plumes where'er they move;
The meteors will linger round my flight,
And make night day.FIRST SPIRIT
But if the whirlwinds of darkness waken
Hail, and lightning, and stormy rain;
See, the bounds of the air are shaken--
Night is coming!
The red swift clouds of the hurricane
Yon declining sun have overtaken,
The clash of the hail sweeps over the plain--
Night is coming!SECOND SPIRIT
I see the light, and I hear the sound;
I'll sail on the flood of the tempest dark,
With the calm within and the light around
Which makes night day:
And thou, when the gloom is deep and stark,
Look from thy dull earth, slumber-bound,
My moon-like flight thou then mayst mark
On high, far away.----
Some say there is a precipice
Where one vast pine is frozen to ruin
O'er piles of snow and chasms of ice
Mid Alpine mountains;
And that the languid storm pursuing
That winged shape, for ever flies
Round those hoar branches, aye renewing
Its aëry fountains.
Some say when nights are dry and dear,
And the death-dews sleep on the morass,
Sweet whispers are heard by the traveller,
Which make night day:
And a silver shape like his early love doth pass
Upborne by her wild and glittering hair,
And when he awakes on the fragrant grass,
He finds night day.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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