Tall and Fair
Amid the field is a haunted well;
a soul can hear soft voices rising,
comely gentle, singing or advising;
and some mysterious calls to spell.
A maid cared to reflect her face,
twas many years back, so her song,
became a murmur to only prolong,
a desire of hers in depths to trace.
A well, some say, keeps the beauty
when poetic words define truelove,
as it is the maid's render of above,
but never fiddle with spells snooty.
She lifts, some say, your soul in air,
together you fly where pure ethers
wreak or shimmer in Spring anthers,
amid daisies to stand, tall and fair.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Maid Of Sol
Ideal 'n' unalterable, merit believer,
travels on misty links of a lone soul;
a wraith I am in her mind, a glimmer,
she spells orisons, rainy maid of Sol;
and in a blest of time she descends,
from distant cumulus, collected rain,
amid blessings and dusk lights amends,
amid pensive lines to weave and reign.
Pondering 's the wind, waves foliage;
my sky reflects a deeper blue of sea;
continents away; a ruminative adage,
her lips will sing this ode on our quay.
With smiling face, gallivants in gusts;
quotable's her bestowed love, noble,
amid the upheaval of roiled thrusts,
a voice responds, far away to global.
She comes to encounter years in rain,
amid clouds, of sky turbulent extend,
caressed face, softens my soul again,
My love inordinate in dusk to ascend.
The sky loves her, as darkness cares
to cover us within blasts and billows;
and she extends upwards to sky fares;
and in the winds my voice crossflows.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Ode X: To The Muse
I.
Queen of my songs, harmonious maid,
Ah why hast thou withdrawn thy aid?
Ah why forsaken thus my breast
With inauspicious damps oppress'd?
Where is the dread prophetic heat,
With which my bosom wont to beat?
Where all the bright mysterious dreams
Of haunted groves and tuneful streams,
That woo'd my genius to divinest themes?
II.
Say, goddess, can the festal board,
Or young Olympia's form ador'd;
Say, can the pomp of promis'd fame
Relume thy faint, thy dying flame?
Or have melodious airs the power
To give one free, poetic hour?
Or, from amid the Elysian train,
The soul of Milton shall i gain,
To win thee back with some celestial strain?
III.
O powerful strain! o sacred soul!
His numbers every sense controul:
And now again my bosom burns;
The Muse, the Muse herself returns.
Such on the banks of Tyne, confess'd,
I hail'd the fair immortal guest,
When first she seal'd me for her own,
Made all her blissful treasures known,
And bade me swear to follow Her alone.
poem by Mark Akenside
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sonnet XVIII: Genius in Beauty
Beauty like hers is genius. Not the call
Of Homer's or of Dante's heart sublime,—
Not Michael's hand furrowing the zones of time,—
Is more with compassed mysteries musical;
Nay, not in Spring's or Summer's sweet footfall
More gathered gifts exuberant Life bequeaths
Than doth this sovereign face, whose love-spell breathes
Even from its shadowed contour on the wall.
As many men are poets in their youth,
But for one sweet-strung soul the wires prolong
Even through all change the indomitable song;
So in like wise the envenomed years, whose tooth
Rends shallower grace with ruin void of ruth,
Upon this beauty's power shall wreak no wrong.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Genius in Beauty
Beauty like hers is genius. Not the call
Of Homer's or of Dante's heart sublime, --
Not Michael's hand furrowing the zones of time, --
Is more with compassed mysteries musical;
Nay, not in Spring's Summer's sweet footfall
More gathered gifts exuberant Life bequeaths
Than doth this sovereign face, whose love-spell breathes
Even from its shadowed contour on the wall.
As many men are poets in their youth,
But for one sweet-strung soul the wires prolong
Even through all change the indomitable song;
So in likewise the envenomed years, whose tooth
Rends shallower grace with ruin void of truth,
Upon this beauty's power shall wreak no wrong.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Cumulus High
Caressing air currents above fly
and of pure holiness care to bestow
spirits in poetic paths will imply,
when rain falls on our night meadow.
Amid tales and attended words,
a harbinger sings a gentle aubade,
as Sun smiles to melodius birds,
or Uranus' mizzle streams cascade.
Up there our souls maybe meet
to share a moment of absolute joy,
beatific clouds beckon to treat
a beau of your eighteen years coy.
I think his icon in cumulus forms,
will become eighteen, you to escort,
homecoming queen who responds,
with him standing tall, dance athwart.
As ulterior beauty crowns stars,
ghosts will dance in a ball of merry;
no soul will be excluded with scars,
as eligible promises, sorrows vary.
In this dance our spirits will meet
to fiddle in déjà vu where hopes fly;
noble cavalieri bestow etiquette,
to their loved dames in Cumulus High.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Seasons of My Love
I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunrise in her hair
There lived no other in the world could in my heart compare
Her eyes were stars of midnight bliss, her laugh a meadow breeze
I would have done all that she asked, so quick was I to please
I loved a maid as red as autumn, with sunset in her hair
Embraced in velvet lullabies, such sweetness did we share
We were all we ever had but we were wild and free
And in the lands you would not find a soul as lark as me
I loved a maid as white as winter, with snowflakes in her hair
The seasons of our love had both a beauty and despair
Two hearts that beat as one were we, our song was meant to be
And in the skies you would not find a dove as spry as she
I loved a maid as bright as spring, with blossoms in her hair
I loved her fierce, I loved her true, we were doomed; we did not care
The hands of time would take from me, even she was not to spare
In the whispers of my dreams, I still see my maiden fair
poem by Leonard Snow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
For The Birthday of Edgar Allan Poe
(January 19, 1909)
Poet of doom, dementia, and death,
Of beauty singing in a charnel house,
Like the lost soul of a poor moon-mad maid,
With too much loving of some lord of hell;
Doomed and disastrous spirit, to what shore
Of what dark gulf infernal art thou strayed,
Or to what spectral star of topless heaven
Art lifted and enthroned?
The winter dark,
And the drear winter cold that welcomed thee
To a world all winter, gird with ice and storm
Thy January day-yea! the same world
Of winter and the wintry hearts of men;
And still, for all thy shining, the same swarm
That mocked thy song gather about thy fame,
With the small murmur of the undying worm,
And whisper, blind and foul, amid thy dust.
poem by Richard Le Gallienne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Mysterious doings
As once I rambled in the woods
I chanced to spy amid the brake
A huntsman ride his way beside
A fair and passing tranquil lake;
Though velvet bucks sped here and there,
He let them scamper through the green--
Not one smote he, but lustily
He blew his horn--what could it mean?
As on I strolled beside that lake,
A pretty maid I chanced to see
Fishing away for finny prey,
Yet not a single one caught she;
All round her boat the fishes leapt
And gambolled to their hearts' content,
Yet never a thing did the maid but sing--
I wonder what on earth it meant.
As later yet I roamed my way,
A lovely steed neighed loud and long,
And an empty boat sped all afloat
Where sang a fishermaid her song;
All underneath the prudent shade,
Which yonder kindly willows threw,
Together strayed a youth and maid--
I can't explain it all, can you?
poem by Eugene Field
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Lost
You left me with the autumn time;
When the winter stripped the forest bare,
Then dressed it in his spotless rime;
When frosts were lurking in the air
You left me here and went away.
The winds were cold; you could not stay.
You sought a warmer clime, until
The south wind, artful maid, should break
The winter's trumpets, and should fill
The air with songs of birds; and wake
The sleeping blossoms on the plain
And make the brooks to flow again.
I thought that the winter desolate,
And all times felt a sense of loss.
I taught my longing heart to wait,
And said, 'When Spring shall come across
The hills, with blossoms in her track,
The she, our loved one, will come back.'
And now the hills with grass and moss
The spring with cunning hands has spread,
And yet I feel my grievous loss.
My heart will not be comforted,
But crieth daily, 'Where is she
You promised should come back to me? '
Oh, love! where are you? day by day
I seek to find you, but in vain.
Men point me to a grave, and say:
'There is her bed upon the plain.'
But though I see no trace of you,
I cannot thiink their words are true.
You were too sweet to wholly pass
Away from earth, and leave no trace;
You were to fair to let the grass
Grow rank and tall above your face.
Your voice, that mocked the robin's trill,
I cannot think is hushed and still.
I thought I saw your golden hair
One day, and reached to touch a strand;
I found but yellow sunbeams there -
The bright rays fell aslant my hand,
And seemed to mock, with lights and shades,
The silken meshes of your braids.
Again, I thought I saw your hand
Wave, as if beckoning to me;
I found 'twas but a lily, fanned
By the cool zephyrs from the sea.
Oh, love! I find no trace of you -
I wonder if their words were true?
One day I heard a singing voice;
A burst of music, trill on trill.
It made my very soul rejoice;
My heart gave and exultant thrill.
I cried, 'Oh heart, we've found her - hush! '
But no - 'twas the silver-throated thrush.
And once I thought I saw your face,
And wild with joy I ran to you;
But found, when I had reached the place,
'Twas a blush rose, bathed in dew.
Ah, love! I think you must be dead;
And I believe the words they said.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Came a pretty maid
Came a pretty maid
By the moon's pure light . . .
Loved me well, she said,
Eyes with tears all bright,
A pretty maid.
But too late she strayed,
Moonlight pure was there . . .
She was nought but shade,
Hiding the more fair,
The heav'nly maid.
poem by George Eliot
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Spring Dirge
A child came singing through the dusty town
A song so sweet that all men stayed to hear,
Forgetting for a space their ancient fear
Of evil days and death and fortune’s frown.
She sang of Winter dead and Spring new-born
In the green fields beyond the far hills’ bound;
And how this fair Spring, coming blossom-crowned,
Would cross the city’s threshold on the morn.
And each caged bird in every house anigh,
Even as she sang, caught up the glad refrain
Of Love and Hope and fair days come again,
Till all who heard forgot they had to die.
And all the ghosts of buried woes were laid
That heard the song of this sweet sorceress;
The Past grew to a dream of old distress,
And merry were the hearts of man and maid.
So, at the first faint blush of tender dawn,
Spring stole with noiseless steps through the gray gloom,
And men knew only by a strange perfume
That she had softly entered and withdrawn.
But ah! the lustre of her violet eyes
Was dimmed with tears for her sweet singing maid,
Whose voice would sound no more in shine or shade
To charm men’s souls at set of sun or rise.
For there, with dews of dawn upon her hair,
Like a fair flower plucked and flung away,
Dead in the street the little maiden lay
Who gave new life to hearts nigh dead of care.
Alas! must this be still the bitter doom
Awaiting those, the finer-souled of earth,
Who make for men a morning song of mirth
While yet the birds are dumb amid the gloom?
They walk on thorny ways with feet unshod,
Sing one last song, and die as that song dies.
There is no human hand to close their eyes,
And very heavy is the hand of God.
poem by Victor James Daley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
And Thus Love
And thus love, your supreme beauty enlighten bright
Over my worn, tattered soul forever gleaming
Like some far star flickering its fire into the night
Along the strikes of desert echoing dunes deep streaming
And I never loved you for your comely grace
Nor for your keen pleasing eyes or your lovely face
Yet any outer features of your rare part
Convey the inner depths of soul and consent heart
I have never loved you for your outer
Since it be foul with years and turn and alter
Your mute symbols of love like a joyful morn
A prelude to your mischievous tricks yet unborn
The joy you have brought to every wandering breeze
In meadows on wall rocks and on the trees
And what enriching beautiful thing is to glance
Back on bloom of love and sweet years
What blur forms of happy hours advance
And fill my soul with thousands cheers
For if beauty may alone be found
In all proportions of its parts around
It may not be perceived by ear
But is beauty that eyes can hear
And yet I stand now at the autumn of my life
I rise like an oak-tree, old torn dry and gray
Whose trunk bare leave less brittle with age jaws failing
And whose dark bough reflect against the mirror bay
The winter wheeling with winds moaning and wailing
(2010)
Lines To A Withered Leaf Seen On A Poet's Table
Poet's hand has placed thee there,
Autumn's brown and withered scroll!
Though to outward eye not fair,
Thou hast beauty for the soul,
Though no human pen has traced
On that leaf its learned lore,
Love divine the page has graced,—
What can words discover more?
Not alone dim Autumn's blast
Echoes from yon tablet sear,—
Distant music of the Past
Steals upon the poet's ear.
Voices sweet of summer hours,
Spring's soft whispers murmur by;
Feathered songs from leafy bowers
Draw his listening soul on high.
poem by Jones Very
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Anne
Her eyes be like the violets,
Ablow in Sudbury lane;
When she doth smile, her face is sweet
As blossoms after rain;
With grief I think of my gray hairs,
And wish me young again.
In comes she through the dark old door
Upon this Sabbath day;
And she doth bring the tender wind
That sings in bush and tree;
And hints of all the apple boughs
That kissed her by the way.
Our parson stands up straight and tall,
For our dear souls to pray,
And of the place where sinners go
Some grewsome things doth say:
Now, she is highest Heaven to me;
So Hell is far away.
Most stiff and still the good folk sit
To hear the sermon through;
But if our God be such a God,
And if these things be true,
Why did He make her then so fair,
And both her eyes so blue?
A flickering light, the sun creeps in,
And finds her sitting there;
And touches soft her lilac gown,
And soft her yellow hair;
I look across to that old pew,
And have both praise and prayer.
Oh, violets in Sudbury lane,
Amid the grasses green,
This maid who stirs ye with her feet
Is far more fair, I ween!
I wonder how my forty years
Look by her sweet sixteen!
poem by Lizette Woodworth Reese
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Like A Song
LIKE A SONG
Melvin Banggollay
My life is like a song
With notes so fine
And rhythm so long
But often out of line
Whenever I prolong
And refuse to decline
To stop singing songs
With pitch so designed
To be sung like a gong.
Like a song with a tone
With diction so inclined
Has a melody of its own
But not often I wanted to fine
In terms of quality and tones
That can keep one be fined
Whenever I render a song
In my desire to define
The life I sung and owned.
poem by Melvin Banggollay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
My Old Man
This song was first released on the rhymes and reasons album. it is the only album it has been released on.
(these words are incorrect at this time)
My old man had a round of soul
Hed hear an old freight train
Then hed have to go
Said hed been blessed with a gypsy bone
Thats the reason they guessed
Hed been cursed to roam
Came into town back before the war
Didnt even know what it
Was he was looking for
He carried a tattered bag for his violin
It was full of lots of songs
Of places he had been
He talked real easy
Had a smiling way to pass abn^. to you
When his fiddle played
Making people drop their cares and woes
To hum out loud those tunes
That his fiddle howed
Till the people there began to join that sound
And everyone in town was
Laughing, singing, dancing round
Like the fiddlers tune was
All the years that passed
That love would keep them warm
All their lives theyd share
A dream come true
All because she danced while his fiddle tuned
My old man had a round of soul
Hed hear an old freight train
Then hed have to go
All that I recall said when I was young
No one else could really
Sing those songs he sung
Words and music by walker
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
He and She
[HE.] I know a youth who loves a little maid -
(Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!)
Silent is he, for he's modest and afraid -
(Hey, but he's timid as a youth can be!)
[SHE.] I know a maid who loves a gallant youth -
(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)
SHE cannot tell him all the sad, sad truth -
(Hey, but I think that little maid will die!)
[BOTH.] Now tell me pray, and tell me true,
What in the world should the poor soul do?
[HE.] He cannot eat and he cannot sleep -
(Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!)
Daily he goes for to wail - for to weep -
(Hey, but he's wretched as a youth can be!)
[SHE.] She's very thin and she's very pale -
(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)
Daily she goes for to weep - for to wail -
(Hey, but I think that little maid will die!)
[BOTH.] Now tell me pray, and tell me true,
What in the world should the poor soul do?
[SHE.] If I were the youth I should offer her my name -
(Hey, but her face is a sight for to see!)
[HE.] If I were the maid I should fan his honest flame -
(Hey, but he's bashful as a youth can be!)
[SHE.] If I were the youth I should speak to her to-day -
(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)
[HE.] If I were the maid I should meet the lad half way -
(For I really do believe that timid youth will die!)
[BOTH.] I thank you much for your counsel true;
I've learnt what that poor soul ought to do!
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Genevieve
Maid of my love! sweet Genevieve!
In beauty's light you glide along;
Your eye is like the star of eve,
And sweet your voice, as seraph's song.
Yet not your heavenly beauty gives
This heart with passion soft to glow:
Within your soul a voice there lives!
It bids you hear the tale of woe.
When sinking low the suff'rer wan
Beholds no hand outstretched to save,
Fair, as the bosom of the swan
That rises graceful o'er the wave,
I've seen your breast with pity heave
And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve!
poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Beauty of Spring
The Beauty of Spring
I am looking out of a glass window.
I see a group of cherry blossom trees in the distance.
Nearby, there is a quaint little house.
This magnificence takes my breathe away.
The Beauty of Spring.
Daffodils are blooming.
Butterflies are fluttering through the air.
Robins are singing there beautiful song.
The world is coming back to life after a long winter.
The Beauty of Spring.
A gentle breeze skims across my face.
I inhale the sweet scent of flowers.
I see a world of gorgeous and vivid colors.
I absolutely love spring.
The Beauty of Spring.
I am Taking in The Beauty of Spring
poem by Bleeding Heart
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Maid's Lament
I loved him not; and yet, now he is gone,
I feel I am alone.
I check'd him while he spoke; yet, could he speak,
Alas! I would not check.
For reasons not to love him once I sought,
And wearied all my thought
To vex myself and him: I now would give
My love could he but live
Who lately lived for me, and, when he found
'Twas vain, in holy ground
He hid his face amid the shades of death!
I waste for him my breath
Who wasted his for me! but mine returns,
And this torn bosom burns
With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,
And waking me to weep
Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years
Wept he as bitter tears!
Merciful God! such was his latest prayer,
These may she never share.
Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold,
Than daisies in the mould,
Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate,
His name and life's brief date.
Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be,
And oh! pray too for me!
poem by Walter Savage Landor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!