Cleone
Sing her a song of the sun:
Fill it with tones of the stream, —
Echoes of waters that run
Glad with the gladdening gleam.
Let it be sweeter than rain,
Lit by a tropical moon:
Light in the words of the strain,
Love in the ways of the tune.
Softer than seasons of sleep:
Dearer than life at its best!
Give her a ballad to keep,
Wove of the passionate West:
Give it and say of the hours —
“Haunted and hallowed of thee,
Flower-like woman of flowers,
What shall the end of them be?”
You that have loved her so much,
Loved her asleep and awake,
Trembled because of her touch,
What have you said for her sake?
Far in the falls of the day,
Down in the meadows of myrrh,
What has she left you to say
Filled with the beauty of her?
Take her the best of your thoughts,
Let them be gentle and grave,
Say, “I have come to thy courts,
Maiden, with all that I have.”
So she may turn with her sweet
Face to your love and to you,
Learning the way to repeat
Words that are brighter than dew.
poem by Henry Kendall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Penelope
Love, like a wind, shook wide your blosmy eyes,
You trembled, and your breath came sobbing-wise
For that you loved me.
You were so kind, so sweet, none could withhold
To adore, but that you were so strange, so cold;
For that you loved me.
Like to a box of spikenard did you break
Your heart about my feet. What words you spake!
For that you loved me.
Life fell to dust without me; so you tried
All carefullest ways to drive me from your side,
For that you loved me.
You gave yourself as children give, that weep
And snatch back, with--'I meant you not to keep!'
For that you loved me.
I am no woman, girl, nor ever knew
That love could teach all ways that hate could do
To her that loved me.
Have less of love, or less of woman in
Your love, or loss may even from this begin--
That you so love me.
For, wild Penelope, the web you wove
You still unweave, unloving all your love;
Is this to love me,
Or what rights have I that scorn could deny?
Even of your love, alas, poor Love must die,
If so you love me!
poem by Francis Thompson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Campaspe
Turn from the ways of this Woman! Campaspe we call her by name -
She is fairer than flowers of the fire -
she is brighter than brightness of flame.
As a song that strikes swift to the heart
with the beat of the blood of the South,
And a light and a leap and a smart, is the play of her perilous mouth.
Her eyes are as splendours that break in the rain at the set of the sun,
But turn from the steps of Campaspe - a Woman to look at and shun!
Dost thou know of the cunning of Beauty? Take heed to thyself and beware
Of the trap in the droop in the raiment - the snare in the folds of the hair!
She is fulgent in flashes of pearl, the breeze with her breathing is sweet,
But fly from the face of the girl - there is death in the fall of her feet!
Is she maiden or marvel of marble? Oh, rather a tigress at wait
To pounce on thy soul for her pastime - a leopard for love or for hate.
Woman of shadow and furnace! She biteth her lips to restrain
Speech that springs out when she sleepeth,
by the stirs and the starts of her pain.
As music half-shapen of sorrow, with its wants and its infinite wail,
Is the voice of Campaspe, the beauty at bay with her passion dead-pale.
Go out from the courts of her loving, nor tempt the fierce dance of desire
Where thy life would be shrivelled like stubble
in the stress and the fervour of fire!
I know of one, gentle as moonlight - she is sad as the shine of the moon,
But touching the ways of her eyes are: she comes to my soul like a tune -
Like a tune that is filled with faint voices
of the loved and the lost and the lone,
Doth this stranger abide with my silence: like a tune with a tremulous tone.
The leopard, we call her, Campaspe! I pluck at a rose and I stir
To think of this sweet-hearted maiden - what name is too tender for her?
poem by Henry Kendall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Time, Hope And Memory
I heard a gentle maiden, in the spring,
Set her sweet sighs to music, and thus sing:
'Fly through the world, and I will follow thee,
Only for looks that may turn back on me;
'Only for roses that your chance may throw—
Though withered—Twill wear them on my brow,
To be a thoughtful fragrance to my brain,—
Warm'd with such love, that they will bloom again.'
'Thy love before thee, I must tread behind,
Kissing thy foot-prints, though to me unkind;
But trust not all her fondness, though it seem,
Lest thy true love should rest on a false dream.'
'Her face is smiling, and her voice is sweet;
But smiles betray, and music sings deceit;
And words speak false;—yet, if they welcome prove,
I'll be their echo, and repeat their love.'
'Only if waken'd to sad truth, at last,
The bitterness to come, and sweetness past;
When thou art vext, then turn again, and see
Thou hast loved Hope, but Memory loved thee.'
poem by Thomas Hood
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Love Gone Bad
Sing me a song of love...
Sing me a song so sad...
Sing me a song of remembrance...
Sing me a song of love gone bad;
Write the words and the music--
In your own flamboyant sytle-
Accent it with elaborate details--
Fill it with your obvious guile;
Give it a melody thats catchy...
You know-a phrase like refrain...
About loves greatest ecstacy...
About its agony and pain;
And then sing a song of love...
And sing a song so very sad...
Sing me a song to show that you remember...
And sing a song 'bout love gone bad;
Give it all of your verve and elan...
Spice it up with a bit of rhytym and blue...
Make it a song that everyone identifies with...
Make its words right and true;
Make it an anthem...
Or make it a ballad flowing free...
Make sure the words tell it all...
With a most haunting melody;
And then sing a song of love...
Sing me a song of so very sad...
Sing me a song of remembrance...
Sing me a song of love gone bad;
Song Lyrics
June 10,2010
poem by Theodora Onken
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mockingbirdsing
Mockingbirds sing
Sing me what the Lord was singing
On the day He made the water
The color of the blues
Sing me that song
Sing me to till the heavens rising
On the day He made the water
The color of my baby's eyes
Love her in the ways you want to be loved
Love her in the ways she wants to be loved
Love her in the ways you want to be loved
But the way I'm loving her
It must not be enough
Cause in the way she cries
It only tears me up
I feel dead inside and dying
And if you give up
Don't give up on love
Don't give up on love
The rivers they run
They run until they get too tired
Until they run behind the houses
And they become a creek
When I was a child
I ran until the creek became a river
When it turned into the ocean
I wondered why He'd made it so deep
Love her in the ways you want to be loved
Love her in the ways you want to be loved
Love her in the ways you want to be loved
But the way I'm loving her
Must not be enough
Cause the way she cries
It only tears me up
I feel dead inside and dying
Don't give up
Cause in a way she's crying
It only tears me up
I feel dead inside and dying
Give up
Don't give up on love
Don't give up on love
Love her in the ways you want to be loved
Love her in the ways you want to be loved
Love her in the ways you want to be loved
Sometimes it ain't enough
Sometimes it ain't enough
But don't give up on love
song performed by by Ryan Adams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Girl’s Day Dream And Its Fulfilment
“Child of my love, why wearest thou
That pensive look and thoughtful brow?
Can’st gaze abroad on this world so fair
And yet thy glance be fraught with care?
Roses still bloom in glowing dyes,
Sunshine still fills our summer skies,
Earth is still lovely, nature glad—
Why dost thou look so lone and sad?”
“Ah! mother it once sufficed thy child
To cherish a bird or flow’ret wild;
To see the moonbeams the waters kiss,
Was enough to fill her heart with bliss;
Or o’er the bright woodland stream to bow,
But these things may not suffice her now.”
“Perhaps ’tis music thou seekest, child?
Then list the notes of the song birds wild,
The gentle voice of the mountain breeze,
Whispering among the dark pine trees,
The surge sublime of the sounding main,
Or thy own loved lute’s soft silvery strain.”
“Mother, there’s music sweeter I know
Than bird’s soft note or than ocean’s flow,
Vague to me yet as sounds of a dream,
Yet dearer, brighter than sunshine’s gleam;
Such is the music I fain would hear,
All other sounds but tire mine ear!”
“Ah! thou seekest then a loving heart,
That in all thy griefs will bear a part,
That shelter will give in doubt and fear,
Come to me, loved one, thou’lt find it here!”
“Sweet mother, I almost fear to speak,
And remorseful blushes dye my cheek,
For though thou’st watched me from childhood’s hour,
As thou would’st have done a precious flower,
Though I love thee still as I did of yore,
Yet this weak heart seeketh something more:
A bliss as yet to my life unknown,
A heart whose throbs will be all mine own,
The tender tones of a cherished voice,
Of him who shall be my heart’s first choice;
And who at my feet alone shall bow,
This, this is the dream that haunts me now.”
“Alas, poor child, has it come to this?
Then bid farewell to thy childhood’s bliss,
To thy girlhood’s bright unfettered hours,
Thy sunny revels ’mid birds and flowers;
Of the golden zone yield up each strand
To cling to a hope, unstable as sand,
And forget the joys thy youth hath wove
In the stormy doubts of human love,
The feverish hopes and wearing pain
That form the links of Love’s bright chain!”
Alas! the mother spoke in vain!
The girl’s dream was soon fulfilled,
Her hopes by no dark cloud were chilled;
A lover ardent, noble too,
With flashing eyes of jetty hue,
With voice like music, sweet and soft,
Such as her dreams had pictured oft,
Now at her feet, a suppliant bowed,
And love eternal, changeless vowed.
Listening, then, with glowing cheek,
And rapture which no words might speak,
She thought, with bright and joyous smile,
They erred who thus could love revile,
Or say it had many a dark alloy,—
Had it not proved a dream of joy?
But, alas for her! she learned too soon
That love is fleeting as rose of June,
That her eyes might shine with olden light,
And yet be found no longer bright;
That she might devoted, faithful prove,
Yet her lover grow weary of her love.
Many an hour of silent tears,
Of heart-sick doubts, of humbling fears,
Of angry regrets, were hers, before
Her heart would say, “He loves no more.”
Weary of life and its thorny ways,
She sought the friend of her early days:
“Mother, I bring thee a breaking heart,
In sorrows deep it hath borne a part;
Speak to me tenderly as of yore,
Let thy kiss rest on my brow once more;
To the joys of my girlhood back I flee,
To live alone for them and for thee!”
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Awake, My Heart
Awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake!
The darkness silvers away, the morn doth break,
It leaps in the sky: unrisen lustres slake
The o'ertaken moon. Awake, O heart, awake!
She too that loveth awaketh and hopes for thee:
Her eyes already have sped the shades that flee,
Already they watch the path thy feet shall take:
Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake!
And if thou tarry from her, - if this could be, -
She cometh herself, O heart, to be loved, to thee;
For thee would unashamed herself forsake:
Awake, to be loved, my heart, awake, awake!
Awake! The land is scattered with light, and see,
Uncanopied sleep is flying from field and tree;
And blossoming boughs of April in laughter shake:
Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake!
Lo, all things wake and tarry and look for thee:
She looketh and saith, "O sun, now bring him to me.
Come, more adored, O adored, for his coming's sake,
And awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake!"
poem by Robert Seymour Bridges
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The Two Loves
Smoothing soft the nestling head
Of a maiden fancy-led,
Thus a grave-eyed woman said:
'Richest gifts are those we make,
Dearer than the love we take
That we give for love's own sake.
'Well I know the heart's unrest;
Mine has been the common quest,
To be loved and therefore blest.
'Favors undeserved were mine;
At my feet as on a shrine
Love has laid its gifts divine.
'Sweet the offerings seemed, and yet
With their sweetness came regret,
And a sense of unpaid debt.
'Heart of mine unsatisfied,
Was it vanity or pride
That a deeper joy denied?
'Hands that ope but to receive
Empty close; they only live
Richly who can richly give.
'Still,' she sighed, with moistening eyes,
'Love is sweet in any guise;
But its best is sacrifice!
'He who, giving, does not crave
Likest is to Him who gave
Life itself the loved to save.
'Love, that self-forgetful gives,
Sows surprise of ripened sheaves,
Late or soon its own receives.'
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Hymn of Praise
Encompassed by the psalm of hill and stream,
By hymns august with their majestic theme,
Here in the evening of exalted days
To Thee, our Friend, we bow with breath of praise.
The great, sublime hosannas of the sea
Ascend on wings of mighty winds to Thee,
And mingled with their stately words are tones
Of human love, O Lord of all the zones!
Ah! at the close of many splendid hours,
While falls Thy gracious light in radiant showers,
We seek Thy face, we praise Thee, bless Thee, sing
This song of reverence, Master, Maker, King!
To Thee, from whom all shining blessings flow,
All gifts of lustre, all the joys we know,
To Thee, O Father, in this lordly space,
The great world turns with worship in its face.
For that glad season which will pass to-day
With light and music like a psalm away,
The gathered nations with a grand accord,
In sight of Thy high heaven, thank Thee, Lord!
All praise is Thine - all love that we can give
Is also Thine, in whose large grace we live,
In whom we find the ~One~ long-suffering Friend,
Whose immemorial mercy has no end.
poem by Henry Kendall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mission Bell
Written by william michael and jesse hodges.
Say you love me
Say those three words and
I will give my love to you
My love is higher than a mission bell (how deep? )
Deeper than a wishing well (how strong? )
Stronger than a magic spell
My love, for you
Its wider than the widest sea (how long? )
Longer than a memory (how sweet? )
Sweeter than a honey tree
My love, uhmmm, for you
Give me your heart of gold
Your heavenly magic touch
To cherish have and hold
I need your love so much
Say you love me
Say those three words and
I will give my love to you
My love is warmer than a day in spring (how bright? )
Brighter than a diamond ring (how great? )
Greater than a mighty king
My love, for you
Is taller than the tallest tree (how soft? )
Softer than a summer breeze
Oh I ask you please
Give your love, your love
Sweet love to me
How high (ummm)
How deep (ummm)
How strong (ummm)
How wide (ummm)
How long (ummm)
song performed by by Fleetwood Mac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I don't know what to say....
When my old love for you dies a new love blooms. If I loved myself as I love you, a God I would become. When I am lost in the desert of despair, my memory of you is my mirage. A river of sweetness is your tears, their passion is my elixir. If there be no pleasure in our love anymore, than the pain of the pleasure once felt is my consolation. To others peace is the love of solitude, you are the love of my solitude. My heart is lost in thy abyss, and its dark depths I cry. O sweet love O sweet love! My love is in thy sigh. Thy voice brings sweeter messages than the angel Gabriel. If thou chose to hate me, I hate myself the more and thy hate I love, like hate has never been loved before. Underneath the veil of thy shadow my soul does softly glow. On thy skin, my color, does so eloquently express, the universal of love that beats in every poet's chest. I don't know why my heart beats the chords of love to me this day, but I hope they beat forever and to this charm I pray….. When thy speak of being misunderstood, my love echoes in thy heart. If I were to die, all my dreams and aspirations would be attained by thy one sweet breathe no death could take away. God should not give thee to one, one should give thee to God. I have nothing else to say, but sometimes all the expression of the beauty of the love I feel for you gets stolen by three words… I love you.
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Langue D'Oc
Alba
When the nightingale to his mate
Sings day-long and night late
My love and I keep state
In bower,
In flower,
''Till the watchman on the tower
Cry:
'Up! Thou rascal, Rise,
I see the white
Light
And the night
Flies:
I
Compleynt of a gentleman who has been waiting outside for some time
O plasmatour and true celestial light,
Lord powerful, engirdled all with might,
Give my good-fellow aid in fools' despite
Who stirs not forth this night,
And day comes on.
'Sst! my good fellow, art awake or sleeping?
Sleep thou no more. I see the star upleaping
That hath the dawn in keeping,
And day comes on!
'Hi! Harry, hear me, for I sing aright
Sleep not thou now, I hear the bird in flight
That plaineth of the going of the night,
And day comes on!
‘Come now! Old swenkin! Rise up from thy bed,
I see the signs upon the welkin spread,
If thou come not, the cost be on thy head.
And day comes on!
‘And here I am since going down of sun,
And pray to God that is St. Mary's son,
To bring thee safe back, my companion.
And day comes on.
'And thou out here beneath the porch of stone
Badest me to see that a good watch was done,
And now thou'lt none of me, and wilt have none
Of song of mine.
(Bass voice from inside)
'Wait, my good fellow. For such joy I take
With her venust and noblest to my make
To hold embraced, and will not her forsake
For yammer of the cuckold,
Though day break.'
(Girart Bornello)
II
Avril
When the springtime is sweet
And the birds repeat
Their new song in the leaves.
‘Tis meet
A man go where he will.
But from where my heart is set
No message I get;
My heart all wakes and grieves;
Defeat
Or luck, I must have my fill.
Our love comes out
Like the branch that turns about
On the top of the hawthorne,
With frost and hail at night
Suffers despite
'Till the sun come, and the green leaf on the bough.
I remember the young day
When we set strife away,
And she gave me such gesning,
Her love and her ring:
God grant I die not by any man's stroke
'Till I have my hand 'neath her cloak.
I care not for their clamour
Who have come between me and my charmer,
For I know how words run loose,
Big talk and little use.
Spoilers of pleasure,
We take their measure.
(Guilhem de Peitieu)
III
Descant on a Theme by Cerclamon
When the sweet air goes bitter,
And the cold birds twitter
Where the leaf falls from the twig,
I sough and sing
that Love goes out
Leaving me no power to hold him.
Of love I have naught
Save trouble and sad thought,
And nothing is grievous
as I desirous,
Wanting only what
No man can get or has got.
With the noblest that stands in men's sight,
If all the world be in despite
I care not a glove.
Where my love is, there is a glitter of sun;
God give me life, and let my course run
'Till I have her I love
To lie with and prove.
I do not live, nor cure me,
Nor feel my ache great as it is,
For love will give
me no respite,
Nor do I know when I turn left or right
nor when I go out.
For in her is all my delight
And all that can save me.
I shake and burn and quiver
From love, awake and in swevyn,
Such fear I have she deliver
me not from pain,
Who know not how to ask her;
Who can not.
Two years, three years I seek
And though I fear to speak out,
Still she must know it.
If she won't have me now, Death is my portion,
Would I had died that day
I came into her sway.
God! How softly this kills!
When her love look steals on me.
Killed me she has, I know not how it was,
For I would not look on a woman.
Joy I have none, if she make me not mad
Or set me quiet, or bid me chatter.
Good is it to me if she flout
Or turn me inside out, and about.
My ill doth she turn sweet.
How swift it is.
For I am traist and loose,
I am true, or a liar,
All vile, or all gentle,
Or shaking between,
as she desire,
I, Cerclamon, sorry and glad,
The man whom love had
and has ever;
Alas! who'er it please or pain,
She can me retain.
I am gone from one joy,
From one I loved never so much,
She by one touch
Reft me away;
So doth bewilder me
I can not say my say
nor my desire,
And when she looks on me
It seems to me
I lose all wit and sense.
The noblest girls men love
'Gainst her I prize not as a glove
Worn and old.
Though the whole world run rack
And go dark with cloud,
Light is
Where she stands,
And a clamour loud
in my ears.
IV
Vergier
In orchard under the hawthorne
She has her lover till morn,
Till the traist man cry out to warn
Them God how swift the night,
And day comes on.
O Plasmatour, that thou end not the night,
Nor take my beloved from my sight,
Nor I, nor tower-man, look on daylight,
'Fore God, How swift the night,
And day comes on.
'Lovely thou art, to hold me close and kisst,
Now cry the birds out, in the meadow mist,
Despite the cuckold, do thou as thou list,
So swiftly goes the night
And day comes on.
‘My pretty boy, make we our play again
Here in the orchard where the birds complain,
'Till the traist watcher his song unrein,
Ah God! How swift the night
And day comes on.'
‘Out of the wind that blows from her,
That dancing and gentle is and thereby pleasanter,
Have I drunk a draught, sweeter than scent of myrrh.
Ah God! How swift the night.
And day comes on.'
Venust the lady, and none lovelier,
For her great beauty, many men look on her,
Out ofmy love will her heart not stir.
By God, how swift the night.
And day comes on.
poem by Ezra Pound
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Awaiting Thee
When thou art gone;
I sing my lonely song.
When thou art gone;
My waking hours are filled only with thoughts of thee.
When I sleep,
My dreams are filled with thee-
As I long for thee.
My love;
I await thee-
Lonely day,
After lonely day.
Lonely night,
After lonely night.
When The sun shines bright,
And the songbirds sing their joyous chorus-
It reminds me of this love of ours-
As I long for thee.
I await thee,
My love-
Throughout the lonely day-
Till the setting sun dwindles in dusk’s twilight-
Beyond golden pastures-
Fading in the night.
My love;
I long for thee.
My love;
I await thee-
Throughout the lonely night,
As the crickets chirp their symphony,
And in the darkness,
Like floating candles,
The fireflies glow.
And I remember our love,
As I gaze at the silver moon,
And diamond stars.
Forever embracing this love of ours.
As I sleep at night,
I dream only of being with thee,
My love.
As I awake,
And the sun rises at dawn over the emerald mountain tops,
I await thee,
My love.
Longing for you-
Day through day,
Night through night-
I await thee,
My love.
My love;
When thou art gone;
I sing my lonely song…
poem by Philip Alarie
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Await Thee
When thou art gone;
I sing my lonely song.
When thou art gone;
My waking hours are filled only with thoughts of thee.
When I sleep,
My dreams are filled with thee-
As I long for thee.
My love;
I await thee-
Lonely day,
After lonely day.
Lonely night,
After lonely night.
When The sun shines bright,
And the songbirds sing their joyous chorus-
I remember our love-
As I long for thee.
I await thee,
My love-
Throughout the lonely day-
Till the setting sun dwindles in dusk’s twilight-
Beyond golden pastures-
Fading in the night.
My love;
I long for thee.
My love;
I await thee-
Throughout the lonely night,
As the crickets chirp their symphony,
And in the darkness,
Like floating candles,
The fireflies glow.
And I remember our love,
As I gaze at the silver moon,
And diamond stars.
And I Forever embrace this love of ours.
As I sleep at night,
I dream only of being with thee,
My love.
As I awake,
And the sun rises at dawn over the emerald mountain tops,
I await thee,
My love.
Longing for thee-
Day through day,
Night through night-
I await thee,
My love.
My love;
When thou art gone;
I sing my lonely song…
poem by Philip Alarie
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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At Dusk
AT DUSK, like flowers that shun the day,
Shy thoughts from dim recesses break,
And plead for words I dare not say
For your sweet sake.
My early love! my first, my last!
Mistakes have been that both must rue;
But all the passion of the past
Survives for you.
The tender message Hope might send
Sinks fainting at the lips of speech,
For, are you lover—are you friend,
That I would reach?
How much to-night I’d give to win
A banished peace—an old repose;
But here I sit, and sigh, and sin
When no one knows.
The stern, the steadfast reticence,
Which made the dearest phrases halt,
And checked a first and finest sense,
Was not my fault.
I held my words because there grew
About my life persistent pride;
And you were loved, who never knew
What love could hide!
This purpose filled my soul like flame:
To win you wealth and take the place
Where care is not, nor any shame
To vex your face.
I said “Till then my heart must keep
Its secrets safe and unconfest;”
And days and nights unknown to sleep
The vow attest.
Yet, oh! my sweet, it seems so long
Since you were near; and fates retard
The sequel of a struggle strong,
And life is hard—
Too hard, when one is left alone
To wrestle passion, never free
To turn and say to you, “My own,
Come home to me!”
poem by Henry Kendall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To Wordsworth
Thine is a strain to read among the hills,
The old and full of voices;–by the source
Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills
The solitude with sound; for in its course
Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part
Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart.
Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken
To the still breast, in sunny garden-bowers,
Where vernal winds each tree's low tones awaken,
And bud and bell with changes mark the hours.
There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day
Sinks with a golden and serene decay.
Or by some hearth where happy faces meet,
When night hath hush'd the woods, with all their birds,
There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet
As antique music, link'd with household words.
While, in pleased murmurs, woman's lip might move,
And the rais'd eye of childhood shine in love.
Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews
Brood silently o'er some lone burial-ground,
Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse
A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around;
From its own glow of hope and courage high,
And steadfast faith's victorious constancy.
True bard and holy!–thou art ev'n as one
Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye,
In every spot beneath the smiling sun,
Sees where the springs of living waters lie:
Unseen awhile they sleep–till, touch'd by thee,
Bright healthful waves flow forth to each glad wanderer free.
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Schuylkill
WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM
Sun-lit and shadow'd waters, leaping by
'Midst flowers and greenness, singing as they pass,
Or sleeping in some deep and shaded pool,
Lake-like, and dimpled by the playful touch
Of stooping branches, rocks vine-garlanded,
And the green pleasant woods, and over all
The wide blue glorious sky—oh it is sweet
To breathe amid such scenes!
Look on the page
Of Schuylkill's pictured beauty! that is such—
And thou may'st gaze, till it shall waken thoughts
Treasured in memory—for thou hast watch'd
The flashing of its waters, and hast stood,
Perchance, beside them, when the moonlight made
The scene a paradise, and friends were nigh,
Smiling with their glad eyes upon thy joy;
And music floated off upon the air,
As if the zephyrs breathed in melody.
Now other scenes are round thee—it is fair—
This wide extended landscape—but unlike
To that the Schuylkill mirrors. The old trees
That lift their tall green heads against the sky,
Are relies of past ages, and there seems,
Beneath their dim gray shade, to linger yet
A faint and mournful echo of the tones
Of the old forest tribes.
But when the hush,
And the dim beauty of the twilight steals
O'er the calm earth, and on thy spirit lies
A shadow and a pensiveness as sweet,
Then memory will lift the mystic screen
That veils departed years, and give them back
The consecrated past; and thou shalt stand
'Midst scenes where thou hast stood in other days;
And the gay laugh, and the remember'd tone,
Will seem, with startling vividness, to thrill
Across thy ear—but mine will not be there;
Thy memory hath no garner'd thought of me—
Yet think of me, for there may gleam a light
Amidst thy twilight dreams, from scenes to which
I turn for my most sweet remembrances;
Oh, how one charmed word will start to life
A thousand breathing memories of the past!
Schuylkill! sweet Schuylkill! and still dearer loved,
And hallow'd with yet deeper, sweeter thoughts,
My own dear native vale, and the bright flood*
That makes it beautiful! name them again,
For thou hast trodden there, and let me dwell
With thee upon the past! Yet they will come
To thee, with but a stranger's parting glance
Of brief and pleasant memory—to me—
With tales of childhood's years, of hours of glee,
Friendships, and tears, and rainbow-pinion'd hopes,
And all the sacred thoughts that halo home!
(*The Brandywine)
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Vox Et Pr
I've been haunted all night, I've been haunted all day,
By the ghost of a song, by the shade of a lay,
That with meaningless words and profusion of rhyme,
To a dreamy and musical rhythm keeps time.
A simple, but still a most magical strain,
Its dim monotones have bewildered my brain
With a specious and cunning appearance of thought,
I seem to be catching but never have caught.
I know it embodies some very sweet things,
And can almost divine the low burden it sings;
But again, and again, and still ever again,
It has died on my ear at the touch of my pen.
And so it keeps courting and shunning my quest,
As a bird that has just been aroused from her nest,
Too fond to depart, and too frightened to stay,
Now circles about you, now flutters away.
Oh! give me fit words for that exquisite song,
And thou couldst not, proud beauty! be obdurate long;
It would come like the voice of a saint from above,
And win thee to kindness, and melt thee to love.
Not gilded with fancy, nor frigid with art,
But simple as feeling, and warm as the heart,
It would murmur my name with so charming a tone,
As would almost persuade thee to wish it thine own.
poem by Henry Timrod
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To the River Charles
River! that in silence windest
Through the meadows, bright and free,
Till at length thy rest thou findest
In the bosom of the sea!
Four long years of mingled feeling,
Half in rest, and half in strife,
I have seen thy waters stealing
Onward, like the stream of life.
Thou hast taught me, Silent River!
Many a lesson, deep and long;
Thou hast been a generous giver;
I can give thee but a song.
Oft in sadness and in illness,
I have watched thy current glide,
Till the beauty of its stillness
Overflowed me, like a tide.
And in better hours and brighter,
When I saw thy waters gleam,
I have felt my heart beat lighter,
And leap onward with thy stream.
Not for this alone I love thee,
Nor because thy waves of blue
From celestial seas above thee
Take their own celestial hue.
Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee,
And thy waters disappear,
Friends I love have dwelt beside thee,
And have made thy margin dear.
More than this;--thy name reminds me
Of three friends, all true and tried;
And that name, like magic, binds me
Closer, closer to thy side.
Friends my soul with joy remembers!
How like quivering flames they start,
When I fan the living embers
On the hearth-stone of my heart!
'T is for this, thou Silent River!
That my spirit leans to thee;
Thou hast been a generous giver,
Take this idle song from me.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Mother Falling Asleep (Rev. May Her Dreams Be)
May Her Dreams Be
Mother falling asleep in her chair while
writing Bible verses in a journal for hours,
face buried in her book, claiming to sleep
well at night but unable stay awake during
the day, falling asleep during meals
May her dreams be sweet, accompanied by
music she made everywhere she went, may
her last hours of repose be filled with
wonderful memories and the fire in her
spirit burn ever brighter with time
May the broken hip heal or remedies be
intimated - may certainty of life everlasting
fill her with joy as the physical body finds
it difficult to support a spark of life, may
she share the wonder of existence
With her loved ones on earth until the last
moment of her consciousness in this
dimension, may she be deliriously happy
when she discovers the myriad universes
that make up the eternal inifinity
Of non-physical life everlasting …
[ORIGINAL: ]
MOTHER FALLING ASLEEP]
Mother falling asleep in her chair, spending
hours writing Bible verses in a journal, face
buried in her book, claiming to sleep well at
night but cannot stay awake during the day,
even falling asleep during meals
May her dreams be sweet, may she hear the
music that accompanied her everywhere she
went, may her last hours of repose be filled
with wonderful memories, may the fire in her
spirit burn ever brighter with time
May the broken hip heal or another remedy
be found - may certainty of life everlasting
fill her with joy as the physical body finds it
difficult to support the spark of life, may she
share the wonder of existence
With her loved ones on earth until the very
last moment of her consciousness in this
dimension, may she be deliriously happy
when she discovers the myriad universes
that make up the eternal inifinity
Of life everlasting in non-physical…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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