En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Caged Skylark

As a dare-gale skylark scanted in a dull cage,
Man's mounting spirit in his bone-house, mean house, dwells --
That bird beyond the remembering h{'i}s free fells;
This in drudgery, day-labouring-out life's age.
Though aloft on turf or perch or poor low stage
Both sing somet{'i}mes the sweetest, sweetest spells,
Yet both droop deadly s{'o}metimes in their cells
Or wring their barriers in bursts of fear or rage.

Not that the sweet-fowl, song-fowl, needs no rest --
Why, hear him, hear him babble |&| drop down to his nest,
But his own nest, wild nest, no prison.
Man's spirit will be flesh-bound, when found at best,
But {'u}nc{'u}mber{`e}d: meadow-d{'o}wn is n{'o}t distr{'e}ssed
For a r{'a}inbow f{'o}oting it nor h{'e} for his b{'o}nes r{'i}sen.

poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins
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Build Your Nest

Build yo' nest
Build yo' nest
Build yo' nest
Build yo' nest on tenderness

The nest is yo' home and launcin' pad
Vibes ain't good gotcha' feelin' sad

Build yo' nest on love that tells it all
Gives you the strength to walk mighty tall

With a song in yo' heart most every day

song performed by by Earth Wind & Fire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Wren’s Nest

I TOOK the wren's nest;--
Heaven forgive me!
Its merry architects so small
Had scarcely finished their wee hall,
That, empty still, and neat and fair,
Hung idly in the summer air.
The mossy walls, the dainty door,
Where Love should enter and explore,
And Love sit carolling outside,
And Love within chirp multiplied;--
I took the wren's nest;--
Heaven forgive me!

How many hours of happy pains
Through early frosts and April rains,
How many songs at eve and morn
O'er springing grass and greening corn,
Before the pretty house was made!
One little minute, only one,
And she'll fly back, and find it--gone!
I took the wren's nest:
Bird, forgive me!

Thou and thy mate, sans let, sans fear,
Ye have before you all the year,
And every wood holds nooks for you,
In which to sing and build and woo;
One piteous cry of birdish pain--
And ye'll begin your life again,
And quite forget the lost, lost home
In many a busy home to come.--
But I?--Your wee house keep I must
Until it crumble into dust.
I took the wren's nest:
God forgive me!

poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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The Pheasant's Nest

On a warm evening on the second day of July
As I walked through the high grass upwards a bird did fly
A bantam sized mottled brown bird with low and short quick flight
Beyond the hedge she disappeared from sight.

There at my feet amongst the high grass as I looked down
In her simple nest her ten eggs of greeny brown
I dared not touch them on them only gazed
At such a thing of Natural beauty quite amazed.

By chance alone the hen pheasant's nest I'd found
Since I had walked the fields for miles around
And only once see a pheasant with her young they flew away
And amongst the high grass hidden they did stay.

A school friend of mine once raised pheasants in an outdoor cage
And he sold them to a gun club at their adult stage
The gun club in late September set them free
At the time of wild pheasants a scarcity.

I still recall that evening in July
The mottled pheasant from her nest did fly
And I was eight and of Nature little did know
And that was more than fifty years ago.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Nest

Far and wide I may travel,
Explore places, experience people,
But when I need a place to rest,
I head back to my nest.

Now I am at the edge with wings spread,
ready to fly to a new high
But in my heart I know
No matter how many caps I wear
My nest will always be here.

Here are people I hold dear
who I wish to be near
Here I learnt and fought to make a career.
Here I grew strong with nothing to fear.
Here I learnt to fight and when necessary bear.
Here emotions are felt beyond words one can hear.
Here a smile's always ready to greet each silent tear.
This is where my soul resides.
I refuse to become a guest,
When I come back to my nest.

A new life and beginning, a loved one all await
luring me to the west,
Yet my feet stumble as I try leaving my nest.

The future calls, full of promises
of offering me the best
But I feel, I already have it all
right here in my nest.

Why to risk leaving
what if I fail the test?
A bird in hand is worth two in the bush
I cling to the comfort of the nest.

There's a new feeling though
of a need to build
something of my own
So that to someone someday
I too may say
If you need a place for love and care
a shelter from the world's stare
where dreams you may share
and lay your heart bare
To you I can offer
with pride in my chest
Come in, take shelter,
For this is your nest.

poem by Dipti Date Gokhale
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When a lost bird flies to your roost in the fog

'You are very familiar but I think that you have missed your particular nest.'
The kind bird said.
'Yes, I know my dear but my nest is no more as it's scattered by the Easterly winds.
And I think a lone bird never let me go away isn't it? ' The beautiful singing bird questioned.
'You are most welcome sweet but my nest is not strong enough for the two of us and I have little doubts about the coming hurricane.' The kind lone bird replied
'Let the wind blows and take us away but not alone, now we could start singing together from the place where you have stopped.' And she smiled.

* To Alison & Jerry..................!

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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As There Aren`t Safe Nests...

A migrating bird chirps into my ears,
'Can you make a nest for me that will be safe for ever? '
I don`t know what he means by a safe nest
For my nest has been on the verge of a collapse.
He flies away dreaming about a safe nest.
That leaves me with a question, ' Where to fix a safe nest? '
Safe nests should never be on the branches of trees
For trees themselves are tormented by storms and quakes.
Safe nests shouldn`t be on the roofs of man`s homes either
For his mischevious kids may throw away the eggs.
Safe nests should not be under the water or in the skies
For the fury and the terror of these elements are disastrous.
Safe nests shouldn`t be anywhere that eyes see or ears hear
For there are humans living on this earth.
You migrate my dear bird to anywhere you feel it safe
And never return to these unsafe homes.

poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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The Landrail

How sweet and pleasant grows the way
Through summer time again
While Landrails call from day to day
Amid the grass and grain

We hear it in the weeding time
When knee deep waves the corn
We hear it in the summers prime
Through meadows night and morn

And now I hear it in the grass
That grows as sweet again
And let a minutes notice pass
And now tis in the grain

Tis like a fancy everywhere
A sort of living doubt
We know tis something but it neer
Will blab the secret out

If heard in close or meadow plots
It flies if we pursue
But follows if we notice not
The close and meadow through

Boys know the note of many a bird
In their birdnesting bounds
But when the landrails noise is heard
They wonder at the sounds

They look in every tuft of grass
Thats in their rambles met
They peep in every bush they pass
And none the wiser get

And still they hear the craiking sound
And still they wonder why
It surely cant be under ground
Nor is it in the sky

And yet tis heard in every vale
An undiscovered song
And makes a pleasant wonder tale
For all the summer long

The shepherd whistles through his hands
And starts with many a whoop
His busy dog across the lands
In hopes to fright it up

Tis still a minutes length or more
Till dogs are off and gone
Then sings and louder than before
But keeps the secret on

Yet accident will often meet
The nest within its way
And weeders when they weed the wheat
Discover where they lay

And mowers on the meadow lea
Chance on their noisy guest
And wonder what the bird can be
That lays without a nest

In simple holes that birds will rake
When dusting on the ground
They drop their eggs of curious make
Deep blotched and nearly round

A mystery still to men and boys
Who know not where they lay
And guess it but a summer noise
Among the meadow hay

poem by John Clare
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The Skylark

The rolls and harrows lie at rest beside
The battered road; and spreading far and wide
Above the russet clods, the corn is seen
Sprouting its spiry points of tender green,
Where squats the hare, to terrors wide awake,
Like some brown clod the harrows failed to break.
Opening their golden caskets to the sun,
The buttercups make schoolboys eager run,
To see who shall be first to pluck the prize -
Up from their hurry, see, the skylark flies,
And o'er her half-formed nest, with happy wings
Winnows the air, till in the cloud she sings,
Then hangs a dust-spot in the sunny skies,
And drops, and drops, till in her nest she lies,
Which they unheeded passed - not dreaming then
That birds which flew so high would drop agen
To nests upon the ground, which anything
May come at to destroy. Had they the wing
Like such a bird, themselves would be too proud,
And build on nothing but a passing cloud!
As free from danger as the heavens are free
From pain and toil, there would they build and be,
And sail about the world to scenes unheard
Of and unseen - Oh, were they but a bird!
So think they, while they listen to its song,
And smile and fancy and so pass along;
While its low nest, moist with the dews of morn,
Lies safely, with the leveret, in the corn.

poem by John Clare
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The Boy And The Skylark

A FABLE.
'A wicked action fear to do,
When you are by yourself; for though
You think you can conceal it,
A little bird that's in the air
The hidden trespass shall declare,
And openly reveal it.'

Richard this saying oft had heard,
Until the sight of any bird
Would set his heart a-quaking;
He saw a host of wingëd spies
For ever o'er him in the skies,
Note of his actions taking.

This pious precept, while it stood
In his remembrance, kept him good
When nobody was by him;
For though no human eye was near,
Yet Richard still did wisely fear
The little bird should spy him.

But best resolves will sometimes sleep;
Poor frailty will not always keep
From that which is forbidden;
And Richard, one day, left alone,
Laid hands on something not his own,
And hoped the theft was hidden.

His conscience slept a day or two,
As it is very apt to do
When we with pains suppress it:
And though at times a slight remorse
Would raise a pang, it had not force
To make him yet confess it.

When on a day, as he abroad
Walked by his mother, in their road
He heard a skylark singing;
Smit with the sound, a flood of tears
Proclaimed the superstitious fears
His inmost bosom wringing.

His mother, wondering, saw him cry,
And fondly asked the reason why;
Then Richard made confession,
And said, he feared the little bird
He singing in the air had heard
Was telling his transgression.

The words which Richard spoke below,
As sounds by nature upwards go,
Were to the skylark carried;
The airy traveller with surprise
To hear his sayings, in the skies
On his mid journey tarried.

His anger then the bird exprest:
'Sure, since the day I left the nest,
I ne'er heard folly uttered
So fit to move a skylark's mirth,
As what this little son of earth
Hath in his grossness muttered.

'Dull fool! to think we sons of air
On man's low actions waste a care,
His virtues or his vices;
Or soaring on the summer gales,
That we should stoop to carry tales
Of him or his devices!

'Our songs are all of the delights
We find in our wild airy flights,
And heavenly exaltation;
The earth you mortals have at heart
Is all too gross to have a part
In skylark's conversation.

'Unless it be in what green field
Or meadow we our nest may build,
Midst flowering broom, or heather;
From whence our new-fledged offspring may
With least obstruction wing their way
Up to the walks of ether.

'Mistaken fool! man needs not us
His secret merits to discuss,
Or spy out his transgression;
When once he feels his conscience stirred,
That voice within him is the bird
That moves him to confession.'

poem by Charles Lamb
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The Skylark

The earth was green, the sky was blue:
I saw and heard one sunny morn,
A skylark hang between the two,
A singing speck above the corn;

A stage below, in gay accord,
White butterflies danced on the wing,
And still the singing skylark soared,
And silent sank and soared to sing.

The cornfield stretched a tender green
To right and left beside my walks;
I knew he had a nest unseen
Somewhere among the million stalks:

And as I paused to hear his song,
While swift the sunny moments slid,
Perhaps his mate sat listening long,
And listened longer than I did.

poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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The Sweetest Days

You and i, in this moment
Holding the night so close
Hanging on, still unbroken
While outside the thunder rolls
Listen now, you can hear our heartbeat
Warm against lifes bitter cold
These are the days
The sweetest days well know
There are times that scare me
Were rattle the house like a wind
Both of ours so unbending
We battle the fear within
All the while, life is rushing by us
Hold it now and dont let go
These are the days
The sweetest days well know
So well whisper a dream here in the darkness
Watching the stars till theyre gone
And then even the memories have all faded away
These days go on and on
Listen now, you can hear our heartbeat
Hold me now and dont let go
These are the days
Every day is the sweetest day well know
These are the days
The sweetest days well know

song performed by by Vanessa Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Green Cornfield

The earth was green, the sky was blue:
I saw and heard one sunny morn
A skylark hang betweent he two,
A singing speck above the corn;

A stage below, in gay accord,
White butterflies danced on the wing,
And still the singing skylark soared,
And silent sank and soared to sing.

The cornfield stretched a tender green
To right and left beside my walks;
I knew he had a nest unseen
Somewhere among the million stalks.

And as I paused to hear his song
While swift the sunny moments slid,
Perhaps his mate sat listening long,
And listened longer than I did.

poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Lullaby of the iroquois

Little brown baby-bird, lapped in your nest,
Wrapped in your nest,
Strapped in your nest,
Your straight little cradle-board rocks you to rest;
Its hands are your nest;
Its bands are your nest;
It swings from the down-bending branch of the oak;
You watch the camp flame, and the curling grey smoke;
But, oh, for your pretty black eyes sleep is best,--
Little brown baby of mine, go to rest.

Little brown baby-bird swinging to sleep,
Winging to sleep,
Singing to sleep,
Your wonder-black eyes that so wide open keep,
Shielding their sleep,
Unyielding to sleep,
The heron is homing, the plover is still,
The night-owl calls from his haunt on the hill,
Afar the fox barks, afar the stars peep,--
Little brown baby of mine, go to sleep.

poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Build Your Nest

Maurice white & verdine white
Build yo nest
Build yo nest
Build yo nest
Build yo nest on tenderness
The nest is yo home and launcin pad
Vibes aint good gotcha feelin sad
Build yo nest on love that tells it all
Gives you the strength to walk mighty tall
With a song in yo heart most every day,
Is what you need along the way
Things get rough, pain comes around
Put up yo dukes, knock it to the ground
If it get back up, do it over again
Smack it hard on its chinny-chin-chin
Now things around you cant do you no wrong
Think about love in yo happy home

song performed by by Earth Wind And Fire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Caged Thrush

Alas for the bird who was born to sing!
They have made him a cage; they have clipped his wing;
They have shut him up in a dingy street,
And they praise his singing and call it sweet.
But his heart and his song are saddened and filled
With the woods, and the nest he never will build,
And the wild young dawn coming into the tree,
And the mate that never his mate will be.
And day by day, when his notes are heard
They freshen the street--but alas for the bird

poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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The Sweetest Song

The sweetest song
is a love song angels sing
when we are in each other’s arms.
Those soft sweet words
that only you and I can hear
in the stillness of the night.

The night is filled with magic
as our love blossoms in the air
and the angels rejoice in singing
the sweetest song
we will ever hear.
A love song for you and me.

2 May 2009

poem by David Harris
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Quail's Nest

I wandered out one rainy day
And heard a bird with merry joys
Cry 'wet my foot' for half the way;
I stood and wondered at the noise,

When from my foot a bird did flee--
The rain flew bouncing from her breast
I wondered what the bird could be,
And almost trampled on her nest.

The nest was full of eggs and round--
I met a shepherd in the vales,
And stood to tell him what I found.
He knew and said it was a quail's,

For he himself the nest had found,
Among the wheat and on the green,
When going on his daily round,
With eggs as many as fifteen.

Among the stranger birds they feed,
Their summer flight is short and low;
There's very few know where they breed,
And scarcely any where they go.

poem by John Clare
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The Happy Bird’s Nest

When on my cottage falls the placid shower,
When ev'ning calls the labourer home to rest,
When glad the bee deserts the humid flower,
O then the bird assumes her peaceful nest.

When sable shadows grow unshapely tall,
And Sol's resplendent wheel descends the west,
The knell of respiration tolls for all,
And Hesper smiles upon the linnet's nest.

When o'er the mountain bounds the fair gazell,
The night bird tells her day-departing jest,
She gladly leaves her melancholy dell,
And spreads her pinions o'er the linnet's nest.

Then harmless Dian spreads her lucid sail,
And glides through ether with her silver crest,
Bidding the watchful bird still pour her tale,
And cheer the happy linnet on her nest.

Thus may some guardian angel bear her light,
And o'er thy tomb, departed genius, rest,
Whilst thou shalt take thy long eternal flight,
And leave some faithful bird to guard thy nest.

poem by George Moses Horton
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The Nicest Season For One To Die

The nicest Season for one to die must surely be the Spring
When the Parklands wear their Wildflowers and song birds pipe and sing
And young birds are chirping in their nests and the sparrows all the day
Are busy under the house eaves weaving their nests of hay.

If I'm not burned to ashes then why not bury me
In that old graveyard on the hill preferably by a tree
Where in Spring birds will build their nest and sing their songs above where I lay
Though what happens to your remains when you are dead doesn't matter some do say.

We all belong to Mother Nature and to her we must return sometime
The reaper takes the young and old and those in their life's
prime
And since I too must die I hope 'twill be when flowers are in full bloom
In the prime of Spring when the air scent sweetly of Nature's own perfume.

Bury me in the Graveyard on the hill where peace is to be found
Beside a tree where birds nest and sing content in their home ground
A quiet place free of man made noise when Spring is in the air
In Nature's bosom I will rest beyond any living care.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Little Bird Of Love And Desire

little bird of love and desire
do not perch upon a twig so far from me

fly a little bit closer
my heart is full of love and desire too

come closer and hover on the soft spot of my chest
there is a nest there

where you can rest
where you can soundly sleep

come little bird live with me
sing me the songs of love for i am weary

sing, sing, sing little bird and live with me
for i am weak and weary

when my eyes close little bird
come and heed this lover's last bid

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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