Melancholy
The blue soul has mutely closed,
In the open window the brown forest sinks,
The stillness of dark animals; in the valley
The mill grinds, by the footbridge clouds rest outpoured,
The golden strangers. A procession of steeds
Gallops red in the village. The garden brown and cold.
The aster freezes, so delicately painted on the fence
The sunflower's gold almost flown away.
The stumpets' voices; dew is poured out
On the hard grass and stars white and cold.
See death painted in the dear shadow,
Every countenance full of tears and closed.
poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Homecoming
When the evening breathes golden rest
Forest and dark meadow before which
Man is a looker,
A shepherd, dwelling in the flocks' dusking stillness,
The patience of the red beeches;
So clearly since it has become autumn. By the hill
The lonely one listens to the flight of birds,
To dark meaning and the shadows of the dead
Have gathered more seriously around him;
Cool mignonette scent fulfills him with shudders,
The huts of the villagers the elder,
Where in former times the child dwelled.
Memory, buried hope
Is preserved by these brown rafters,
Over which dahlias hang
So that the hands strive after them,
In the brown garden the shimmering step
Forbidden loving, dark year,
That from blue eyelids the tears
Of the stranger fell irresistibly.
From brown treetops dew drips,
When that one, a blue deer, awakes on the hill,
Listening to the loud calls of the fishermen
By the evening pond
To the amorphous cry of the bats;
But in golden stillness
The drunken heart dwells
Full of its noble death.
poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
December Sonnet
At evening jugglers travel through the forest
On quaint wagons, small steeds.
A golden stash seems locked in clouds.
In the dark plain villages are painted.
The red wind billows linen black and cold.
A dog rots, a shrub smokes blood-doused.
The reed is flown through by yellow horror
And placidly a funeral procession pilgrimages to the cemetery.
The old man's hut dwindles nearby in the gray,
In the pond a brilliance of old treasures glistens;
The farmers sit down in the tavern for wine.
A boy glides shyly to a woman.
A monk fades in the darkness soft and dark.
A bleak tree is a sleeper's sexton.
poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
December
At evening jugglers travel through the forest
On quaint wagons, small steeds.
A golden stash seems locked in clouds.
In the white plain villages are painted.
The wind swings shield and billet black and cold.
A raven follows the morose comrades.
From the sky a ray falls on bloody gutters
And placidly a funeral procession pilgrimages to the cemetery.
The shepherd's hut dwindles nearby in the gray,
In the pond a brilliance of old treasures glistens;
The farmers sit down in the tavern for wine.
A boy glides shyly to a woman.
One still sees the sexton in the vestry
And reddish utensils, beautiful and dim.
poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Blue, Brown and Gold
Blue, brown and gold, bold, I'll unfold
a portrait drawn upon a train
one summer morn which shall remain
for heart to hold if truth be told.
Brown, gold and blue she sat, smiled too,
to me it seemed true beauty gleamed, -
my spirit teemed with hopes that, teamed,
we'd share love through fair seasons new.
Blue, gold and brown without a frown
she journeyed on, too soon was gone, -
yet still upon my soul she shone.
Brown bag, blue gown, - Life's golden crown!
Blue, brown and gold, cannot grow [c]old
Year in year out their tale is told...
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Your Light Farewell
You bid unwilling farewell so light,
Your smiles rushes this golden day;
Memory gallops in, in every sight.
You painted the clouds in whitish bright
as you faded through a silvery ray;
You bid unwilling farewell so light.
Soon winds will whisper in ivory night,
gentle rains will echo your laughter in a way
memory gallops in, in every sight.
Red must the roses be, but they turned white
on that day you choose in our hearts to stay;
You bid unwilling farewell so light.
You dwell here where the dawn takes its flight,
in the morning where sunrise burns to play
and - memory gallops in, in every sight.
The world fancied but then turns right;
The day you painted rainbows and smiled away
you bid unwilling farewell so light;
Then... (memory gallops in, in every sight)
poem by Roland Jr Jamito
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Psalm
Stillness; as if blind people sank down by autumnal wall,
Listening with rotten temples to the flight of the ravens;
Golden stillness of autumn, the countenance of the father in the flickering sun
At evening the old village decays in the peace of brown oaks,
The red hammering of the smithy, a pounding heart.
Stillness; in slow hands the maid hides the hyacinthine forehead
Under fluttering sunflowers. Fear and silence
Of extinguishing eyes fulfills the dusking room, the halting steps
Of old women, the escape of the purple mouth which slowly expires in the darkness.
Taciturn evening in vine. From the low rafters
A nocturnal moth fell, nymph buried into bluish sleep.
In the courtyard the farm boy slaughters a lamb, the sweet smell of the blood
Clouds our foreheads, the dark coolness of the fountain.
The gloom of dying asters regrets, golden voices in the wind.
When it becomes night you look at me from moldered eyes,
In blue stillness your cheeks decayed to dust.
So quietly a weed's fire expires, the black hamlet in the ground falls silent
As if the cross climbed down the blue hill of Calvary,
The silent earth ejected its dead.
poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Dead To The Living
Work while it is day: the night cometh, when no man can work.
IN the childhood of April, while purple woods
With the young year's blood in them smiled,
I passed through the lanes and the wakened fields,
And stood by the grave of the child.
And the pain awoke that is never dead
Though it sometimes sleeps, and again
It set its teeth in this heart of mine,
And fastened its claws in my brain:
For it seemed so hard that the little hands
And the little well-loved head
Should be out of reach of my living lips,
And be side by side with the dead--
Not side by side with us who had loved,
But with these who had never seen
The grace of the smile, the gold of the hair,
And the eyes of my baby-queen.
Yet with trees about where the brown birds build,
And with long green grass above,
She lies in the cold sweet breast of earth
Beyond the reach of our love;
Whatever befalls in the coarse loud world,
We know she will never wake.
When I thought of the sorrow she might have known,
I was almost glad for her sake. . . .
Tears might have tired those kiss-closed eyes,
Grief hardened the mouth I kissed;
I was almost glad that my dear was dead
Because of the pain she had missed.
Oh, if I could but have died a child
With a white child-soul like hers,
As pure as the wind-flowers down in the copse,
Where the soul of the spring's self stirs;
Or if I had only done with it all,
And might lie by her side unmoved!
I envied the very clods of earth
Their place near the child I loved!
And my soul rose up in revolt at life,
As I stood dry-eyed by her grave,
When sudden the grass of the churchyard sod
Rolled back like a green smooth wave;
The brown earth looked like the brown sea rocks,
The tombstones were white like spray,
And white like surf were the curling folds
Of the shrouds where the dead men lay;
For each in his place with his quiet face
I saw the dead lie low,
Who had worked and suffered and found life sad,
So many sad years ago.
Unchanged by time I saw them lie
As when first they were laid to rest,
The tired eyes closed, the sad lips still,
And the work-worn hands on the breast.
There were some who had found the green world so grey,
They had left it before their time,
And some were little ones like my dear,
And some had died in their prime;
And some were old, they had had their fill
Of bitter unfruitful hours,
And knew that none of them, none, had known
A flower of a hope like ours!
Through their shut eyelids the dead looked up,
And without a voice they said:
'We lived without hope, without hope we died,
And hopeless we lie here dead;
And death is better than life that draws
Pain in, as it draws in breath,
If life never dreams of a coming day
When life shall not envy death.
Through the dark of our hours and our times we lived,
Uncheered by a single ray
Of such hope as lightens the lives of you
Who are finding life hard to-day;
With our little lanterns of human love
We lighted our dark warm night--
But you in the chill of the dawn are set
With your face to the eastern light.
Freedom is waiting with hands held out
Till you tear the veil from her face--
And when once men have seen the light of her eyes,
And felt her divine embrace,
The light of the world will be risen indeed,
And will shine in the eyes of men,
And those who come after will find life fair,
And their lives worth living then!
Will you strive to the light in your loud rough world,
That these things may come to pass,
Or lie in the shadow beside the child,
And strive to the sun through the grass?'
'My world while I may,' I cried; 'but you
Whose lives were as dark as your grave?'
'We too are a part of the coming light,'
They called through the smooth green wave.
Their white shrouds gleamed as the flood of green
Rolled over and hid them from me--
Hid all but the little hands and the hair,
And the face that I always see.
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Son Never Shines (On Closed Doors)
I saw her there from afar
Her hair grey charcoal
Takes a drag from her tar
I kissed her a smile
But her blood red shot eye
Said the son never shines on closed doors
It's been eight long years since I saw
The woman who's labored
Since the day I was born
These wrinkles now face
To that cold dark damp place
Where the son never shines on closed doors
She said the son never shines on closed doors
I open to find only hurricanes blow
Take me away back to the green fields of May
Because the son never shines on closed doors
Death comes like a theif in the night
To steal while you sleep
The soul's flickering licght
Well maybe it's then
She said
song performed by by Flogging Molly from Drunken Lullabies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The King's Daughter
WE WERE ten maidens in the green corn,
Small red leaves in the mill-water:
Fairer maidens never were born,
Apples of gold for the king’s daughter.
We were ten maidens by a well-head,
Small white birds in the mill-water:
Sweeter maidens never were wed,
Rings of red for the king’s daughter.
The first to spin, the second to sing,
Seeds of wheat in the mill-water;
The third may was a goodly thing,
White bread and brown for the king’s daughter.
The fourth to sew and the fifth to play,
Fair green weed in the mill-water;
The sixth may was a goodly may,
White wine and red for the king’s daughter.
The seventh to woo, the eighth to wed,
Fair thin reeds in the mill-water;
The ninth had gold work on her head,
Honey in the comb for the king’s daughter.
The ninth had gold work round her hair,
Fallen flowers in the mill-water;
The tenth may was goodly and fair,
Golden gloves for the king’s daughter.
We were ten maidens in a field green,
Fallen fruit in the mill-water;
Fairer maidens never have been,
Golden sleeves for the king’s daughter.
By there comes the king’s young son,
A little wind in the mill-water;
“Out of ten maidens ye’ll grant me one,”
A crown of red for the king’s daughter.
“Out of ten mays ye’ll give me the best,”
A little rain in the mill-water;
A bed of yellow straw for all the rest,
A bed of gold for the king’s daughter.
He’s ta’en out the goodliest,
Rain that rains in the mill-water;
A comb of yellow shell for all the rest,
A comb of gold for the king’s daughter.
He’s made her bed to the goodliest,
Wind and hail in the mill-water;
A grass girdle for all the rest,
A girdle of arms for the king’s daughter.
He’s set his heart to the goodliest,
Snow that snows in the mill-water;
Nine little kisses for all the rest,
An hundredfold for the king’s daughter.
He’s ta’en his leave at the goodliest,
Broken boats in the mill-water;
Golden gifts for all the rest,
Sorrow of heart for the king’s daughter.
“Ye’ll make a grave for my fair body,”
Running rain in the mill-water;
“And ye’ll streek my brother at the side of me,”
The pains of hell for the king’s daughter.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Old Man....
there is this garden that you tend
you put the seeds and they all sprout in time
time waters it
the changes take place
soon the flowers bloom and
you watch all these
with patience
there is this light feeling that comes
like butterfly wings
white against the dusk
there is nothing new in that garden
you are sick and takes the rest
you sit by the window
the same window all these 50 years
time is you boring attendant
independent from your grasp
it can exist without you
you sit and watch the world passing by
like a flower slowly unfolding
and you never notice it
you go out
you have recovered from a disease
you
take a walk
visit some friends
come back in the afternoon
you watch the view from the window
again
this you do perhaps for another 50 years
of your life
setting aside fears of not having to
step upon 60
life is short for those who have no one to love
it is the same field same mountain
bald and brown
same clouds
pale blue and drifting
same fog
fading like a magical show
same window
that you close again
because it is dark
and cold inside
your old wooden bed
that you have
inherited from your
forefathers
as usual
you take your sleep
time passes you by
the room is so silent
as though
it is the home for
the dead
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
My closed door
My closed door, do you care?
when you are in the open air
i wonder why?
the liethal smell of diesal
pollutes and purifies my sky
make it bright, make it dark
i pour out my heart, im a fool
while you pour out the fuel
on the gate, with my hate
you do it, the tulips
its not right, the statice-
rememberence, and my aster
for flaming the fence
you take the patience
carnations down the drive
spark the match now light
hello hell! your naked floor
will you burn my closed door?
poem by Daniel McCann
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Paint It
I see a red door and I want it painted black
No colors anymore, I want them to turn black
I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes
I see a line of cars and they are painted black
With flowers and my love both never to come back
I see people turn their heads and quickly look away
Like a new born baby it just happens every day
I look inside myself and see my heart is black
I see my red door and its heading into black
Maybe then Ill fade away and not have to face the facts
Its not easy facing up when your whole world is black
I wanna see it painted painted, painted black, oh baby
I wanna see it painted painted, painted black, oh baby
No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue
I could not foresee this thing happening to you
If I look hard enough into the setting sun
My love will laugh with me before the morning comes
I wanna see it painted, painted black, oh
Black as night, black as coal
I wanna see the sun blotted from the sky
Painted, painted, painted black oh baby
Painted painted, painted black
song performed by by Vanessa Carlton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Immortality
Heaven is above the light of the lording sky,
Among stars, I see a different place stands adrift,
Where my weary shadow will find immortality,
Silently in solemn praise awaits the night,
And gusty voices sang where the soul cry high,
May call a man out of a small mouse hole,
To lay his soul naked beneath the cold moist sky,
In silent murmur sleep the calm the weary soul.
With Gods peace inspiring each tentative step,
The birth of new horizon contrast the present,
The wisdom of god is our greatest help,
He will never ask you to do anything indecent.
Behind closed doors the immorality starts,
Sleeping with the code that let them live together,
Strangers become friends but are still far apart,
Can easily become friends but finds it hard to be lover.
poem by Gerry Legister
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Muse From The Forest
The white gold,
The black gold,
The red gold,
The yellow gold,
'Obroni-Nephew' is about to teach you all;
Like the very call of a muse from the forest.
The Chinese eat all animals, fish and insects;
The very call from the forest with a view but,
Do you like to be fed with crocodile meat?
The lizard meat,
The lion meat,
The tiger meat,
The snake meat,
The elephant meat,
Life is like that for many who eat everything;
The Chinese eat all animals, fish and insects.
Life is like a visit to the biggest cemetery on earth,
Do you like to be fed with cockroaches?
Whatever we eat today,
We will be burried one day.
Of the brown gold,
Of the orange gold,
Of the green gold,
Of the blue gold,
The Chinese eat all meat, fish and insects.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Late autumn
The yellow veldt, the skeleton chestnut trees
specs of orange-red aloes in the kopje
are near to the old white house
and in the late afternoon shades draw long lines
while I walk up to the house on the red-brown dirt road
and most of the flowers in the garden are stripped bare
but a few irises are flowering yellow,
purple and cream brown
and the sky is dull blue and the early evening cold
is already on the wind that is rustling everything
and after years I open the garden gate
are coming back to my childhood home
stripped from illusions,
and I am bare from the childhood innocence
but full of hope
and looking through a mature man’s eyes.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
White Sunshine
The sun's my fire.
Golden, from a magnificence of blue,
Should be its hue.
But woolly clouds,
Like boarding-house old ladies, come and sit
In front of it.
White sunshine, then,
That has the frosty glimmer of white hair,
Freezes the air.
They must forget,
So self-absorbed are they, so very old,
That I'll be cold.
poem by Lesbia Harford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Sunflower
The sunflower,
Lord of the annual bed,
Rising alone and aloof;
Tapping the earth
By the old garden shed
And peering out over the roof.
My sunflower,
Grown from a small and striped seed
I saved through the cold winter days,
The seasonal race
You did easily lead
My prize then your bright coloured gaze.
But sunflower,
King of the colourful crew
Straining right up to the sky,
Please whisper to me,
And answer me true:
Why have you to grow Oh so high?
Oh gardener,
Working upon the good land,
The answer, if you will believe,
Is the higher I climb
O'er the rest of the band
So the more of the sun I receive.
(Written July 1996)
poem by John Carter Brown
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Driving past Van Reenens pass
It’s as if the dark grey sky
slowly folds up around the car.
The windscreen wipers
fights a loosing battle,
while the car’s tyres
slides across the road.
I stop for a moment
and take photos,
of the winter snow landscape.
Outside it’s freezing cold
and soaking wet
and I feel snowflakes,
falling softly against my cheek.
Everywhere a white cloak is spread
and over brown fields of grass,
the fuel station and houses
and as far as I can see
there’s a white magic land.
It looks as if the road
runs to the horizon
into the whiteness
and the ice cold wind stings,
while I stand shivering.
The snow grinds under the tyres
and the car slips a little
when I drive away
and I feel like
staying in a lodge for a while.
.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Oh! Lisa With These Lovely Eyes
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
So please tell my soul to sympathize,
We shall cry forever in overcast skies
Lisa with the dark brown eyes,
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Heartbroken heart spoken, not taken back
To change a mind so is lifes dream
Lisa with the dark brown eyed
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
That blends your butter scotch face insight
Smiles which brings sparkles to my mind
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Many pre thoughts of your strays hypnotize
French, African, English culture dies
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
She dabbles her life in fiction trash
her soul with curious follies
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Loneliness, has come far a sad. sad day
Emptiness in your mind and heart pay
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Lisa with the dark, dark, brown eyes
You walk the world in beauty forgotten
They speak about you something forbidden
Lisa with the dark, dark, brown eyes
Lisa with the dark, dark, brown eyes
Your body your mind so whole same so
Your gave birth and I wish I could understand, understand
Lisa with the dark dark raven eyes
Lisa with the dark dark brown eyes
Curiosity is so special time flies, my sighs
Persuaded a fool to be wise, so wise how wise
Lisa with the dark dark brown eyes.
poem by Klayne Mario Burton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Very Early Spring
The fields are snowbound no longer;
There are little blue lakes and flags of tenderest green.
The snow has been caught up into the sky--
So many white clouds--and the blue of the sky is cold.
Now the sun walks in the forest,
He touches the bows and stems with his golden fingers;
They shiver, and wake from slumber.
Over the barren branches he shakes his yellow curls.
Yet is the forest full of the sound of tears....
A wind dances over the fields.
Shrill and clear the sound of her waking laughter,
Yet the little blue lakes tremble
And the flags of tenderest green bend and quiver.
poem by Katherine Mansfield
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!