The Power of Art
Not human art, but living gods alone
Can fashion beauties that by changing live,--
Her buds to spring, his fruits to autumn give,
To earth her fountains in her heart of stone;
But these in their begetting are o'erthrown,
Nor may the sentenced minutes find reprieve;
And summer in the blush of joy must grieve
To shed his flaunting crown of petals blown.
We to our works may not impart our breath,
Nor them with shifting light of life array;
We show but what one happy moment saith;
Yet may our hands immortalize the day
When life was sweet, and save from utter death
The sacred past that should not pass away.
poem by George Santayana
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Related quotes
Life Is Lovely All the Year
When the buds are blossoming,
Smiling welcome to the spring,
Lovers choose a wedding day -
Life is love in merry May!
Spring is green - Fal lal la!
Summer's rose - Fal lal la!
It is sad when Summer goes,
Fal la!
Autumn's gold - Fal lal la!
Winter's grey - Fal lal la!
Winter still is far away -
Fal la!
Leaves in Autumn fade and fall;
Winter is the end of all.
Spring and summer teem with glee:
Spring and summer, then, for me!
Fal la!
In the Spring-time seed is sown:
In the Summer grass is mown:
In the Autumn you may reap:
Winter is the time for sleep.
Spring is hope - Fal lal la!
Summer's joy - Fal lal la!
Spring and Summer never cloy,
Fal la!
Autumn, toil - Fal lal la!
Winter, rest - Fal lal la!
Winter, after all, is best -
Fal la!
Spring and summer pleasure you,
Autumn, ay, and winter, too -
Every season has its cheer;
Life is lovely all the year!
Fal la!
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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April
April, pride of woodland ways,
Of glad days,
April, bringing hope of prime,
To the young flowers that beneath
Their bud sheath
Are guarded in their tender time;
April, pride of fields that be
Green and free,
That in fashion glad and gay,
Stud with flowers red and blue,
Every hue,
Their jewelled spring array;
April, pride of murmuring
Winds of spring,
That beneath the winnowed air,
Trap with subtle nets and sweet
Flora’s feet,
Flora’s feet, the fleet and fair;
April, by thy hand caressed,
From her breast
Nature scatters everywhere
Handfuls of all sweet perfumes,
Buds and blooms,
Making faint the earth and air.
April, joy of the green hours,
Clothes with flowers
Over all her locks of gold
My sweet Lady; and her breast
With the blest
Birds of summer manifold.
April, with thy gracious wiles,
Like the smiles,
Smiles of Venus; and thy breath
Like her breath, the Gods’ delight,
(From their height
They take the happy air beneath)
It is thou that, of thy grace,
From their place
In the far-oft isles dost bring
Swallows over earth and sea,
Glad to be
Messengers of thee, and Spring.
Daffodil and eglantine,
And woodbine,
Lily, violet, and rose
Plentiful in April fair,
To the air,
Their pretty petals do unclose.
Nightingales ye now may hear,
Piercing clear,
Singing in the deepest shade;
Many and many a babbled note
Chime and float,
Woodland music through the glade.
April, all to welcome thee,
Spring sets free
Ancient flames, and with low breath
Wakes the ashes grey and old
That the cold
Chilled within our hearts to death.
Thou beholdest in the warm
Hours, the swarm
Of the thievish bees, that flies
Evermore from bloom to bloom
For perfume,
Hid away in tiny thighs.
Her cool shadows May can boast,
Fruits almost
Ripe, and gifts of fertile dew,
Manna-sweet and honey-sweet,
That complete
Her flower garland fresh and new.
Nay, but I will give my praise,
To these days,
Named with the glad name of Her
That from out the foam o’ the sea
Came to be
Sudden light on earth and air.
poem by Remy Belleau
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Tomorrow may never come
Life's changing every moment
Life is now a shade
Life is now sunshine
Every moment on earth
Live life to the fullest
Whatever time you have is yours
For tomorrow might never come
Life's changing every moment
Life is now a shade
Life is now sunshine
Every moment on earth
Live life to the fullest
Whatever time you have is yours
For tomorrow might never come
Someone to love you with all his heart
Is difficult to come by
Should there be someone like that
He's the one for you, be sure
His hand you must take
For all you know
Tomorrow might never be
Every moment on earth
Live life to the fullest
Whatever time you have is yours
For tomorrow might never come
In the realm of your eyes
Should someone get close to you
Try a million times to control your crazy heart
But it shall continue to beat wildly
But think it over
This is the moment
This legend
Might not exist tomorrow
Life's changing every moment
Life is now a shade
Life is now sunshine
Every moment on earth
Live life to the fullest
Whatever time you have is yours
For tomorrow might never come
poem by Maryam Kazmi
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Autumn Falling Leaves
When all have been and gone away,
Like leaves from green to amber orange,
Falling down and to decay,
Is the time for all in nature to fall,
And the leaves on the trees show it all,
Autumn and its falls of fall,
Where all the branches have dropped their leaves,
All have gone except the evergreens,
Showing signs to us that live among,
Four seasons weather,
Where Autumn is,
Just like in life,
When full circle of life is known,
A start in spring where buds appear,
Then in summer full bloom trees will be,
Hence, fall shows all,
When nature falls,
Begining another season,
Winter and chill tempetures,
Where nature decays,
And leaves do fall,
To generate again,
Renewing its life,
Come spring again,
Untill then,
Autumn sheads its leaves of blossom and blooms,
And soon again autumn begins,
From new to old,
And then old to new,
Buds in spring and leaves of green,
Showing birth from what did decayed,
And brought forth from,
What was bear on the trees,
From where beneath was where once,
Those Autumn falling leaves.
poem by Ellen Ni Bheachain
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A Rose With A Tinted Past
A wind from the north country.
Blows through the tapestry of my mind.
Like flowers in the wind.
I sway like a silver birch.
Winging high I soar though the sky.
A bird of tell tale feather below.
Ah, a rose with a tinted past.
A tear of dew on each new petal.
Shadow of sky I see.
A big yellow eye that warns me.
Spring has fallen by the way side.
Summer warms each small bed.
Sleep eluded the dreamers head.
Days hark of summer sandwich paste.
Eaten down in gulps of haste.
Gone are the winter winds.
Replaced by summers warm rays.
Ah, our rose with a tinted past.
Born out of a refuse tip.
Born with buds pointing skyward high.
To catch the sun through a cloudy sky.
Born with a majestic air.
The dark clouds of heaven see you there.
Rain dances on your petals blight.
Sky thunder roars.
Storm of shadows pass overhead.
Wind of tears, tears and shreds,
the petals from our roses head.
Sky of blue, no clouds of night.
Looks down at the sorry sight.
Head limp, beauty gone.
Sadness of glory light.
No longer see the sunlight.
Petals sweet, insect head.
Food for natures bed.
Earth dust shower still.
Life is short to fulfil
Day - night passes a solemn breath.
For our tinted roses death.
13 June 1978
poem by David Harris
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The Wood-Nymph
-After a picture by Burne Jones-
The green leaves, ah, the green leaves cover me:
Would I might lose this unloved human life
And share the happy being of the leaves!
For lo, they live and grow and drink the sun
And sip the nectar of the heavenly showers
And have no sorrow with it; but they grow
Happily, and Pan at even blesses them.
While I, alas me hapless, I am joined
Part to their life, and all in longing to them;
Part to the gods, the bright gods whom I see
Flash through the woods at even or morn, and make
The beautiful familiar trees seem strange;
And part to mortals and their little life.
Green leaves that cover me, to you I mourn,
My sisters, my more happy sisters, ye
Rustle, rustle in the summer air,
With happy cries of birds among your boughs:
Be happy, though I am not happy. Nay,
I am not all unhappy, evermore.
One while a bird sings on the topmost bough
And my heart sings, forgetting life and death
And sorrow: so forgetting I were blest,
And bliss the gods deny me. When they walk
The forest before sundawn--Artemis,
Girt for the chase and followed by her hounds,
Queen Herê or another, ere the dawn,
Or Aphrodite with the rosy dawn--
I may not speak my longings, but they pass,
Pass unregardful to their happy heaven.
They see me not--not me, akin to Gods!
These tears are vain.--When mortals pass at eve,
Treading a delicate path between the trees,
Pale mortal men and women, with their loves--
It pains me that I see them, for I know
I am not as they are, and cannot share
The little love that fills their little life--
Vain, vain; and they too pass and see me not.
Ah me, dear leaves, forsaken of gods and men,
And sad because I cannot live their life,
Will you not love me whom none others love?
Will you not teach me how to live your life,
My sisters, my more happy sisters?--live
In peace and quietness and still content,
And freshen and fade and freshen and have no care
And have no longing, full of peace to live,
Forgetting thus for ever life and death
And Gods and men and sorrow and delight.
poem by Arthur Symons
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Psalm 92 part 1
A Psalm for the Lord's day.
Sweet is the work, my God, my King,
To praise thy name, give thanks and sing,
To show thy love by morning light,
And talk of all thy truth at night.
Sweet is the day of sacred rest,
No mortal cares shall seize my breast;
O may my heart in tune be found,
Like David's harp of solemn sound!
My heart shall triumph in my Lord,
And bless his works, and bless his word;
Thy works of grace, how bright they shine!
How deep thy counsels! how divine!
Fools never raise their thoughts so high;
Like brutes they live, like brutes they die;
Like grass they flourish, till thy breath
Blast them in everlasting death.
But I shall share a glorious part
When grace hath well refined my heart;
And fresh supplies of joy are shed,
Like holy oil, to cheer my head.
Sin (my worst enemy before)
Shall vex my eyes and ears no more;
My inward foes shall all be slain,
Nor Satan break my peace again.
Then shall I see, and hear, and know
All I desired or wished below;
And every power find sweet employ
In that eternal world of joy.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Life
Our life is but a mist-
A fast runner in a breath of time-
'Tis a wisp of smoke only temporary...
As transient as yesterdays rhyme;
Our life is just a mere shadow-
For we are here for but a moment more...
We are all strangers-just pilgrims- on a brief journey-
An Earth traveler whos entered through Gods Door;
Its in this brief existance that we find our purpose-
At last-before our moment 'tis but done...
Living and doing Gods purpose for Him-
Successfully completed when final breath-is at last with The Son;
poem by Theodora Onken
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Up From Your Life
So much for your moment of prayer
Gods not at home
There is no there there
Lost in the stars
Thats what you are
Left here on your own
You can only hope to live on this earth
This here is it, for all its worth
Nothing else awaits you
No second birth
No starry crown
For an un-believer like you
Theres not much they can do
It would turn you away
Though I hate to see you surrender
You need to surrender
We must find you a way to
Chorus:
Look up from your life
Up from your life
Look on up from your life
Look up from your life
Theres a river running under your feet
Under this house
Under this street
Straight from the heart
Ancient and sweet
On its way back home
Even in the middle of your sadness
The everyday madness
The ongoing game
Even when you cant find a reason
Still there is a reason
You dont need to name it
Look on up
Look up from your life
Only for a minute
To find yourself in it
To wait by the stream
To drop out of your dream
Look on up
Look up from your life
song performed by by James Taylor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Itylus
Swallow, my sister, O sister swallow,
How can thine heart be full of the spring?
A thousand summers are over and dead.
What hast thou found in the spring to follow?
What hast thou found in thine heart to sing?
What wilt thou do when the summer is shed?
O swallow, sister, O fair swift swallow,
Why wilt thou fly after spring to the south,
The soft south whither thine heart is set?
Shall not the grief of the old time follow?
Shall not the song thereof cleave to thy mouth?
Hast thou forgotten ere I forget?
Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow,
Thy way is long to the sun and the south;
But I, fulfilled of my heart's desire,
Shedding my song upon height, upon hollow,
From tawny body and sweet small mouth
Feed the heart of the night with fire.
I the nightingale all spring through,
O swallow, sister, O changing swallow,
All spring through till the spring be done,
Clothed with the light of the night on the dew,
Sing, while the hours and the wild birds follow,
Take flight and follow and find the sun.
Sister, my sister, O soft light swallow,
Though all things feast in the spring's guest-chamber,
How hast thou heart to be glad thereof yet?
For where thou fliest I shall not follow,
Till life forget and death remember,
Till thou remember and I forget.
Swallow, my sister, O singing swallow,
I know not how thou hast heart to sing.
Hast thou the heart? is it all past over?
Thy lord the summer is good to follow,
And fair the feet of thy lover the spring:
But what wilt thou say to the spring thy lover?
O swallow, sister, O fleeting swallow,
My heart in me is a molten ember
And over my head the waves have met.
But thou wouldst tarry or I would follow
Could I forget or thou remember,
Couldst thou remember and I forget.
O sweet stray sister, O shifting swallow,
The heart's division divideth us.
Thy heart is light as a leaf of a tree;
But mine goes forth among sea-gulfs hollow
To the place of the slaying of Itylus,
The feast of Daulis, the Thracian sea.
O swallow, sister, O rapid swallow,
I pray thee sing not a little space.
Are not the roofs and the lintels wet?
The woven web that was plain to follow,
The small slain body, the flower-like face,
Can I remember if thou forget?
O sister, sister, thy first-begotten!
The hands that cling and the feet that follow,
The voice of the child's blood crying yet
Who hath remembered me? who hath forgotten?
Thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow,
But the world shall end when I forget.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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When The Last Human Being
When the last human being from Planet Earth has gone
The Goddess of Nature will surely live on
Yes without us to bother her Nature will live
We take and take from her and in return little give
For our disrespect to her we will be made to pay
What goes around comes around as some do say
Nature for her extinct life forms never lament
The donosaurs came and the dinosaurs went
She gives life and the remains of her dead does receive
And in the face of death she does not laugh or grieve
But long after the last human being from the World has gone
Nature the immortal will be living on.
poem by Francis Duggan
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L. e. l.
'Whose heart was breaking for a little love.'
Downstairs I laugh, I sport and jest with all;
But in my solitary room above
I turn my face in silence to the wall;
My heart is breaking for a little love.
Though winter frosts are done,
And birds pair every one,
And leaves peep out, for springtide is begun.
I feel no spring, while spring is wellnigh blown,
I find no nest, while nests are in the grove:
Woe's me for mine own heart that dwells alone,
My heart that breaketh for a little love.
While golden in the sun
Rivulets rise and run,
While lilies bud, for springtide is begun.
All love, are loved, save only I; their hearts
Beat warm with love and joy, beat full thereof:
They cannot guess, who play the pleasant parts,
My heart is breaking for a little love.
While beehives wake and whirr,
And rabbit thins his fur,
In living spring that sets the world astir.
I deck myself with skills and jewelry,
I plume myself like any mated dove:
They praise my rustling show, and never see
My heart is breaking for a little love.
While sprouts green lavender
With rosemary and myrrh,
For in quick spring the sap is all astir.
Perhaps some saints in glory guess the truth,
Perhaps some angels read it as they move,
And cry one to another full of ruth,
'Her heart is breaking for a little love.'
Though other things have birth,
And leap and sing for mirth,
When springtime wakes and clothes and feeds the earth.
Yet saith a saint: 'Take patience for thy scathe;'
Yet saith an angel: 'Wait, for thou shalt prove
True best is last, true life is born of death,
O thou, heart-broken for a little love.
Then love shall fill they girth,
And love make fat thy dearth,
When new spring builds new heaven and clean new earth.'
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Hurry up! Hurry up! Hurry up!
Hurry up to fall in love!
Be surprised how beautiful it is!
Hurry up to speak of love!
Realize that these words can anyone please.
To give yourself to others –
What happiness it is!
All people are sisters and brothers
Take care of friendship, please!
Don’t hide the feelings of admiration!
It’s a foundation of love creation.
Use your brain but more imagination
If you want to find the right station.
Hurry up to be needed by someone!
Don’t suffer of senseless doubts!
Everyone on the Earth needs love,
No one wants the bailouts.
Hurry up to mourn and even to cry!
Those are forlorn whose eyes are always dry.
With every breath the time runs out,
Every moment of life is a gift beyond any doubt.
Don’t break the harmony of life
For the only sake of a strife.
Have a look at the situation twice or even thrice
You will find for sure a compromise.
Hurry up to love the rain and the snow!
Hurry up to love everything that grow!
Hurry up to love the hot and the cold
Hurry up to love the young and the old.
Hurry up to live in winter and summer!
Find the beauty in autumn and spring!
Appreciate a farmer who works hard
And…present you a pumpkin on Halloween.
Hurry up to listen and hear!
Feel the souls of those who are dear!
Hurry up and be happy today!
Nothing for tomorrow delay!
Summing up I repeat again:
Hurry up! Hurry up! Hurry up!
©Larisa Rzhepishevska (Odessa, Ukraine)
The 22nd of December,2011
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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When!
WHEN I am young again I'll hoard my bliss,
Nor deem that inexhaustible it is,
Remembering old age comes after this,
Joy grows to pain;
Nor waste one moment of youth's rose-sweet hours,
Nor trample one of all its countless flowers,
But drink the summer sun and soft spring showers,
When I am young again.
I will be wise with wisdom dearly won
By those who through life's wood have nearly run;
Learn what to do, and what to leave undone,
Risk or refrain.
I will not seek into my mouth to take
The bitter apple of the acrid lake,
But at clear fountains all my thirsts will slake,
When I am young again.
I will not brush the bloom to reach the core,
Remembering how it chanced with me before,
And bloom once lost returns not any more,
Hard cores remain:
I will fence round with prudence and secure
A lasting bloom whose freshness shall endure;
Oh, I will guard my peach of youth, be sure,
When I am young again.
When I am young again, I'll spend no breath
On bitter words the heart remembereth
When bitterness is swallowed up by Death
Holding sole reign;
I'll love so well that if they pass to sleep
Before me, I shall have no watch to keep
Over their tears-only my tears to weep
When I am young again.
I will not lightly joy nor idly grieve,
Nor for a heaven itself one soul deceive,
Nor will I be deceived, vainly believe,
Nor love in vain.
Come back, lost youth! Ah, Fate, that one gift give!
Then I will show that I have learned to live;
Youth shall be wise--and two and two make five--
When I am young again!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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There Are No Minutes Kept Backed Up
There are no minutes kept backed up,
To put aside to decide to live them.
There are no minutes that can be stored as such,
For one to decide life is worth living.
There are no minutes kept backed up.
None one can say they have wrapped up.
There is no one on Earth with that much luck...
To decide when their life is worth the living.
People think they should be shown some proof,
That a life they live is worth the living.
While they isolate themselves locked up in coops,
To decide that a life they live is worth the living.
While awaiting for someone to approve what they do,
That a life given to them is worth the living.
With a choosing of every move...
Excusing some choices while others are removed.
To clarify that a life they live is worth the living.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Too soon so fair, fair lilies
TOO soon so fair, fair lilies;
To bloom is then to wane;
The folded bud has still
To-morrow at its will;
Blown flowers can never blow again.
Too soon so bright, bright noontide;
The sun that now is high
Will henceforth only sink
Towards the western brink;
Day that's at prime begins to die.
Too soon so rich, ripe summer,
For autumn tracks thee fast;
Lo, death-marks on the leaf!
Sweet summer, and my grief;
For summer come is summer past.
Too soon, too soon, lost summer;
Some hours and thou art o'er.
Ah! death is part of birth:
Summer leaves not the earth,
But last year's summer lives no more.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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A Birthday Present
```Say what, to please you, you would have me be.''
Then listen, dear!
I fain would have you very fair to see,
And sweet to hear.
`You should have Aphrodite's form and face,
With Dian's tread;
And something of Minerva's lofty grace
Should crown your head.
`Summer should wander in your voice, and Spring
Gleam in your gaze,
And pure thoughts ripen in your heart that bring
Calm Autumn days.
`Yours should be winning ways that make Love live,
And ne'er grow old,
With ever something yet more sweet to give,
Which you withhold.
`You should have generous hopes that can beguile
Life's doubts and fears,
And, ever waiting on your April smile,
The gift of tears.
`You should be close to us as earth and sea,
And yet as far
As Heaven itself. In sooth, I'd have you be
Just what you are.'
poem by Alfred Austin
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In The Churchyard At Tarrytown
Here lies the gentle humorist, who died
In the bright Indian Summer of his fame!
A simple stone, with but a date and name,
Marks his secluded resting-place beside
The river that he loved and glorified.
Here in the autumn of his days he came,
But the dry leaves of life were all aflame
With tints that brightened and were multiplied.
How sweet a life was his; how sweet a death!
Living, to wing with mirth the weary hours,
Or with romantic tales the heart to cheer;
Dying, to leave a memory like the breath
Of summers full of sunshine and of showers,
A grief and gladness in the atmosphere.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Life Is Just Life
life is neither a heaven nor a hell.
not a puzzle to get displace.
life is life n only life
which we have to live n survive..
life is not a trauma of tumult..
nor of sporadic spryness or sundry sadness
life is living n to live is life
life is not a season of summer or springs..
or of being at shed or scortching heat
life is what it is l-iving i-t f-ullest e-clatically
is the message it gives..
life is not a sea of sorrow or plethora of pleasure
nothing so special nothin to err
life is living n only living..
& the one who defines it, does it for living
life is not a boon nor a bane
& nthng being so estrange
life is to live n to live is life..
& living life makes us suffice.........
poem by Srishti Shrivastava
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My Life In Autumn
Autumn is approaching with its assertive chill
Ready to wash my summer sins to past
The days grow dark and isolated
I have no choice but to face myself
And question my acts of last
Autumn so beautiful and so crisp
Freshens my skin with light summer ending mist
And icy awareness
The world at its most beautiful
Changing from artificial and shallow
To warm browns and deep orange
Gentle winds give life altering chance
To attempt a new start, long and hard
In the beginning the world had to start with autumn
In its beauty and evolution
The world, my world in Sepia
Positive change
The beginning of something great
And an end to the harsh sun that bakes
I am pleased to find my life is in autumn.
poem by Megan du Toit
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