Harps We Love
The harp we love hath a royal burst!
Its strings are mighty forest trees;
And branches, swaying to and fro,
Are fingers sounding symphonies.
The harp we love hath a solemn sound!
And rocks amongst the shallow seas
Are strings from which the rolling waves
Draw forth their stirring harmonies.
The harp we love hath a low sweet voice!
Its strings are in the bosom deep,
And Love will press those hidden chords
When all the baser passions sleep.
poem by Henry Kendall
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The Master-Player
AN old worn harp that had been played
Till all its strings were loose and frayed,
Joy, Hate and Fear, each one essayed,
To play. But each in turn had found
No sweet responsiveness of sound
Then Love the Master-Player came
With heaving breast and eyes aflame;
The harp he took all undismayed,
Smote on its strings, still strange to song,
And brought forth music sweet and strong.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Rain-Songs
THE rain streams down like harp-strings from the sky;
The wind, that world-old harpist, sitteth by;
And ever as he sings his low refrain,
He plays upon the harp-strings of the rain.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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O, Little David, Play on Your Harp
O, Little David, play on your harp,
That ivory harp with the golden strings
And sing as you did in Jewry Land,
Of the Prince of Peace and the God of Love
And the coming Christ Immanuel.
O, Little David, play on your harp.
A seething world is gone stark mad;
And is drunk with the blood,
Gorged with the flesh,
Blinded with the ashes
Of her millions of dead.
From out it all and over all
There stands, years old and fully grown,
A monster in the guise of man.
He is of war and not of war;
Born in peace,
Nurtured in arrogant pride and greed,
World-creature is he and native to no land.
And war itself is merciful
When measured by his deeds.
Beneath the Crescent
Lie a people maimed;
Their only sin--
That they worship God.
On Russia's steppes
Is a race in tears;
Their one offense--
That they would be themselves.
On Flander's plains
Is a nation raped;
A bleeding gift
Of "Kultur's" conquering creed.
And in every land
Are black folk scourged;
Their only crime--
That they dare be men.
O, Little David, play on your harp,
That ivory harp with the golden strings
And psalm anew your songs of Peace,
Of the soothing calm of a Brotherly Love,
And the saving grace of a Mighty God.
O, Little David, play on your harp.
poem by Joseph Seamon Cotter
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The Rosary
Not on the lute, nor harp of many strings
Shall all men praise the Master of all song.
Our life is brief, one saith, and art is long;
And skilled must be the laureates of kings.
Silent, O lips that utter foolish things!
Rest, awkward fingers striking all notes wrong!
How from your toil shall issue, white and strong,
Music like that God's chosen poet sings?
There is one harp that any hand can play,
And from its strings what harmonies arise!
There is one song that any mouth can say, --
A song that lingers when all singing dies.
When on their beads our Mother's children pray
Immortal music charms the grateful skies.
poem by Joyce Kilmer
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Joseph Dixon
Who carved this shattered harp on my stone?
I died to you, no doubt. But how many harps and pianos
Wired I and tightened and disentangled for you,
Making them sweet again -- with tuning fork or without?
Oh well! A harp leaps out of the ear of a man, you say,
But whence the ear that orders the length of the strings
To a magic of numbers flying before your thought
Through a door that closes against your breathless wonder?
Is there no Ear round the ear of a man, that it senses
Through strings and columns of air the soul of sound?
I thrill as I call it a tuning fork that catches
The waves of mingled music and light from afar,
The antennae of Thought that listens through utmost space.
Surely the concord that ruled my spirit is proof
Of an Ear that tuned me, able to tune me over
And use me again if I am worthy to use.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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The Origin of the Harp
Tis believed that this Harp, which I wake now for thee
Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea;
And who often, at eve, through the bright waters roved,
To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved.
But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep,
And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep,
Till heaven look'd with pity on true-love so warm,
And changed to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form.
Still her bosom rose fair -- still her cheeks smiled the same --
While her sea-beauties gracefully form'd the light
And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell,
Was changed to bright chords uttering melody's spell.
Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been known
To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone;
Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay
To speak love when I'm near thee, and grief when away.
poem by Thomas Moore
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Mothers Day2007
She hath my heart, she is my mum.
She hath my heart, she is my only, she is my one.
She hath my heart, though rough winds may blow.
She hath my heart, still her love will flow, her love will always show.
She hath my heart, I thank my lucky stars.
She hath my heart and i have hers.
She hath my heart, i long for her presence.
She hath my heart, her name is essence.
She hath my heart and forever she will.
Lifetimes will come and go, i will love her still
She hath my heart, this fact i cant conceal
Our bond is like sentiment you just cant kill
She hath my heart in times of sorrow.
She hath my heart, yesterday, today and tomorrow.
She hath my heart, my voice will sing.
She hath my heart, she makes the bell in my heart ring.
She hath my heart, in times of trouble.
She wont stumble no i will not let her crumble.
She hath my heart in each and every way
And my love for her grows with each day
She hath my heart for we were once one.
She hath my heart, the heart of the boy inside the man
I hath her heart, the heart we once shared.
Though separated in body the hearts still paired.
She hath my heart i need her near.
She hath my heart my mama dear
She hath my heart and she already knows
In a world of thorny bushes she stands out like rose
She hath my heart for she is always by my side
When the sun sets she is my light, she is my guide.
poem by Soul Child
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Lay Down Your Weary Tune
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.
Struck by the sounds before the sun,
I knew the night had gone.
The morning breeze like a bugle blew
Against the drums of dawn.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.
The ocean wild like an organ played,
The seaweeds wove its strands.
The crashin waves like cymbals clashed
Against the rocks and sands.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.
I stood unwound beneath the skies
And clouds unbound by laws.
The cryin rain like a trumpet sang
And asked for no applause.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.
The last of leaves fell from the trees
And clung to a new loves breast.
The branches bare like a banjo played
To the winds that listened best.
I gazed down in the rivers mirror
And watched its winding strum.
The water smooth ran like a hymn
And like a harp did hum.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Strange Music
Other loves may sink and settle, other loves may loose and slack,
But I wander like a minstrel with a harp upon my back,
Though the harp be on my bosom, though I finger and I fret,
Still, my hope is all before me; for I cannot play it yet.
In your strings is hid a music that no hand hath e'er let fall,
In your soul is sealed a pleasure that you have not known at all;
Pleasure subtle as your spirit, strange and slender as your frame,
Fiercer than the pain that folds you, softer than your sorrow's name.
Not as mine, my soul's annointed, not as mine the rude and light
Easy mirth of many faces, swaggering pride of song and fight;
Something stranger, something sweeter, something waiting you afar,
Secret as your stricken senses, magic as your sorrows are.
But on this, God's harp supernal, stretched but to be stricken once,
Hoary time is a beginner, Life a bungler, Death a dunce.
But I will not fear to match them - no by God, I will not fear,
I will learn you, I will play you and the stars stand still to hear.
poem by G.K. Chesterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Strange Music
Other loves may sink and settle, other loves may loose and slack,
But I wander like a minstrel with a harp upon my back,
Though the harp be on my bosom, though I finger and I fret,
Still, my hope is all before me; for I cannot play it yet.
In your strings is hid a music that no hand hath e'er let fall,
In your soul is sealed a pleasure that you have not known at all;
Pleasure subtle as your spirit, strange and slender as your frame,
Fiercer than the pain that folds you, softer than your sorrow's name.
Not as mine, my soul's annointed, not as mine the rude and light
Easy mirth of many faces, swaggering pride of song and fight;
Something stranger, something sweeter, something waiting you afar,
Secret as your stricken senses, magic as your sorrows are.
But on this, God's harp supernal, stretched but to be stricken once,
Hoary time is a beginner, Life a bungler, Death a dunce.
But I will not fear to match them - no by God, I will not fear,
I will learn you, I will play you and the stars stand still to hear.
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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The Girl At The Harp
LIKE Clotho, at her harp she sits and weaves
With mystic fingers from the swaying strings
A melody that ever louder sings
And my charmed heart in vibrant rapture leaves
All hers! And all her quiet life receives
The peaceful melody which round her clings;
She walks amid suave strains and murmurings
That never doubt or strident discord cleaves.
And from her singing harp she bends to grant
My dear desire; and the poor monotone,
That is my life, in her glad heart she takes,
And, twining its dull phrases with her own
Full-flowing theme of life, of both she makes
The pæan of one love reverberant.
poem by Arthur Henry Adams
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My Gentle Harp
My gentle Harp, once more I waken
The sweetness of thy slumbering strain;
In tears our last farewell was taken,
And now in tears we meet again.
No light of joy hath o'er thee broken,
But, like those harps whose heavenly skill
Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken,
Thou hang'st upon the willows still.
And yet, since last thy chord resounded,
An hour of peace and triumph came,
And many an ardent bosom bounded
With hopes -- that now are turn'd to shame.
Yet even then, while Peace was singing
Her halcyon song o'er land and sea,
Though joy and hope to others bringing,
She only brought new tears to thee.
Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure,
My drooping Harp, from chords like thine?
Alas, the lark's gay morning measure
As ill would suit the swan's decline!
Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee,
Invoke thy breath for Freedom's strains,
When even the wreaths in which I dress thee
Are sadly mix'd -- half flowers, half chains?
But come -- if yet thy frame can borrow
One breath of joy, oh, breathe for me,
And show the world, in chains and sorrow,
How sweet thy music still can be;
How gaily, even 'mid gloom surrounding,
Thou yet canst wake at pleasure's thrill --
Like Memnon's broken image sounding,
'Mid desolation tunefull still!
poem by Thomas Moore
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Touch the Sleeping Strings Again
Say not, O say not, we are strangers,
By freak chance together brought;
Remind me not of lurking dangers
In wreaths of friendship quickly wrought.
Some sweet attraction draws me to you;
From Memory's harp strange murmurs flow;
And something makes me think I knew you
Beyond the sea of Long Ago.
Touch the sleeping strings and
tell me, tell me whether,
Thence comes music sweet and low:
Did not we walk some shore together
Beyond the sea of Long Ago?
Your eyes, in bashful glances falling,
Light up a landscape far away;
Your voice-- to hear it is recalling
A sweet but long forgotten lay.
When all the year was pleasant weather,
And none had heard of pain or woe,
Did not we sing this tune together
Beyond the sea of Long Ago?
Think not, although I speak so boldly,
That idle words are on my tongue;
Receive my greeting not so coldly,
Nor hush the harp that would have sung;
For lightly touched, as by a feather,
The sleeping strings will thrill, I know:
Were not our spririts linked together
Beyond the sea of Long Ago?
poem by Henry Clay Work
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Unstrung
My skies were blue, and my sun was bright,
And, with fingers tender and strong and light,
He woke up the music that slept before—
Echoing, echoing evermore!
By-and-by, my skies grew grey;—
No master-touch on the harp-strings lay,—
Dead silence cradled the notes divine:
His soul had wander'd away from mine.
Idly, o'er strange harps swept his hand,
Seeking for music more wild and grand.
He wearied at last of his fruitless quest,
And he came again to my harp for rest.
But the dust lay thick on the golden wires,
And they would not thrill to the old desires.
The chords, so broken and jarred with pain,
Could never be tender and sweet again.
poem by Ada Cambridge
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Love's Phases
Love hath the wings of the butterfly,
Oh, clasp him but gently,
Pausing and dipping and fluttering by
Inconsequently.
Stir not his poise with the breath of a sigh;
Love hath the wings of the butterfly.
Love hath the wings of the eagle bold,
Cling to him strongly--
What if the look of the world be cold,
And life go wrongly?
Rest on his pinions, for broad is their fold;
Love hath the wings of the eagle bold.
Love hath the voice of the nightingale,
Hearken his trilling--
List to his song when the moonlight is pale,--
Passionate, thrilling.
Cherish the lay, ere the lilt of it fail;
Love hath the voice of the nightingale.
Love hath the voice of the storm at night,
Wildly defiant.
Hear him and yield up your soul to his might,
Tenderly pliant.
None shall regret him who heed him aright;
Love hath the voice of the storm at night.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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The Harper
Like a drift of faded blossoms
Caught in a slanting rain,
His fingers glimpsed down the strings of his harp
In a tremulous refrain:
Patter and tinkle, and drip and drip!
Ah! but the chords were rainy sweet!
And I closed my eyes and I bit my lip,
As he played there in the street.
Patter, and drip, and tinkle!
And there was the little bed
In the corner of the garret,
And the rafters overhead!
And there was the little window --
Tinkle, and drip, and drip!--
The rain above, and a mother's love,
And God's companionship!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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From My Room
From my room I hear
The wind blow
Strings from icy harp
Filling the dark
Now outside
The morning comes with night
And leaves with night
My heart is in dark
Like flickering light
Pounding on and on
Through to dreams gone
In the dark clouded sky
With beams of low sun flight
Time slowly passes by
With shadows left to right
From my room I hear
Where I now dwell
The dark voices near
Of iciness and its cartel
Strings from icy harp
Filling the dark
Now outside
*Federico García Lorca once wrote:
“From my room I hear
The water jet
A finger of grapevine…”
poem by Peter S. Quinn
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The Ballad Of The Harp-Weaver
"Son," said my mother,
When I was knee-high,
"you've need of clothes to cover you,
and not a rag have I.
"There's nothing in the house
To make a boy breeches,
Nor shears to cut a cloth with,
Nor thread to take stitches.
"There's nothing in the house
But a loaf-end of rye,
And a harp with a woman's head
Nobody will buy,"
And she began to cry.
That was in the early fall.
When came the late fall,
"Son," she said, "the sight of you
Makes your mother's blood crawl,—
"Little skinny shoulder-blades
Sticking through your clothes!
And where you'll get a jacket from
God above knows.
"It's lucky for me, lad,
Your daddy's in the ground,
And can't see the way I let
His son go around!"
And she made a queer sound.
That was in the late fall.
When the winter came,
I'd not a pair of breeches
Nor a shirt to my name.
I couldn't go to school,
Or out of doors to play.
And all the other little boys
Passed our way.
"Son," said my mother,
"Come, climb into my lap,
And I'll chafe your little bones
While you take a nap."
And, oh, but we were silly
For half and hour or more,
Me with my long legs,
Dragging on the floor,
A-rock-rock-rocking
To a mother-goose rhyme!
Oh, but we were happy
For half an hour's time!
But there was I, a great boy,
And what would folks say
To hear my mother singing me
To sleep all day,
In such a daft way?
Men say the winter
Was bad that year;
Fuel was scarce,
And food was dear.
A wind with a wolf's head
Howled about our door,
And we burned up the chairs
And sat upon the floor.
All that was left us
Was a chair we couldn't break,
And the harp with a woman's head
Nobody would take,
For song or pity's sake.
The night before Christmas
I cried with cold,
I cried myself to sleep
Like a two-year old.
And in the deep night
I felt my mother rise,
And stare down upon me
With love in her eyes.
I saw my mother sitting
On the one good chair,
A light falling on her
From I couldn't tell where.
Looking nineteen,
And not a day older,
And the harp with a woman's head
Leaned against her shoulder.
Her thin fingers, moving
In the thin, tall strings,
Were weav-weav-weaving
Wonderful things.
Many bright threads,
From where I couldn't see,
Were running through the harp-strings
Rapidly,
And gold threads whistling
Through my mother's hand.
I saw the web grow,
And the pattern expand.
She wove a child's jacket,
And when it was done
She laid it on the floor
And wove another one.
She wove a red cloak
So regal to see,
"She's made it for a king's son,"
I said, "and not for me."
But I knew it was for me.
She wove a pair of breeches
Quicker than that!
She wove a pair of boots
And a little cocked hat.
She wove a pair of mittens,
Shw wove a little blouse,
She wove all night
In the still, cold house.
She sang as she worked,
And the harp-strings spoke;
Her voice never faltered,
And the thread never broke,
And when I awoke,—
There sat my mother
With the harp against her shoulder,
Looking nineteeen,
And not a day older,
A smile about her lips,
And a light about her head,
And her hands in the harp-strings
Frozen dead.
And piled beside her
And toppling to the skies,
Were the clothes of a king's son,
Just my size.
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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The Silent Melody
"BRING me my broken harp," he said;
"We both are wrecks,-- but as ye will,--
Though all its ringing tones have fled,
Their echoes linger round it still;
It had some golden strings, I know,
But that was long-- how long!-- ago.
"I cannot see its tarnished gold,
I cannot hear its vanished tone,
Scarce can my trembling fingers hold
The pillared frame so long their own;
We both are wrecks,-- awhile ago
It had some silver strings, I know,
"But on them Time too long has played
The solemn strain that knows no change,
And where of old my fingers strayed
The chords they find are new and strange,--
Yes! iron strings,-- I know,-- I know,--
We both are wrecks of long ago.
"We both are wrecks,-- a shattered pair,
Strange to ourselves in time's disguise
What say ye to the lovesick air
That brought the tears from Marian's eyes?
Ay! trust me,-- under breasts of snow
Hearts could be melted long ago!
"Or will ye hear the storm-song's crash
That from his dreams the soldier woke,
And bade him face the lightning flash
When battle's cloud in thunder broke?
Wrecks,-- nought but wrecks!-- the time was when
We two were worth a thousand men!"
And so the broken harp they bring
With pitying smiles that none could blame;
Alas there's not a single string
Of all that filled the tarnished frame!
But see! like children overjoyed,
His fingers rambling through the void!
"I clasp thee! Ay . . . mine ancient lyre. . .
Nay, guide my wandering fingers. . . There!
They love to dally with the wire
As Isaac played with Esan's hair. . . .
Hush! ye shall hear the famous tune
That Marina called the Breath of June!"
And so they softly gather round:
Rapt in his tuneful trance he seems:
His fingers move: but not a sound!
A silence like the song of dreams. . . .
"There! ye have heard the air," he cries,
"That brought the tears from Marina's eyes!"
Ah, smile not at his fond conceit,
Nor deem his fancy wrought in vain;
To him the unreal sounds are sweet,--
No discord mars the silent strain
Scored on life's latest, starlit page--
The voiceless melody of age.
Sweet are the lips of all that sing,
When Nature's music breathes unsought,
But never yet could voice or string
So truly shape our tenderest thought
As when by life's decaying fire
Our fingers sweep the stringless lyre!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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To a friend, on being asked for some verses
I thought the Soul of Song had made
This heart of mine her sepulchre;
For all her golden dreams had fled,
And I could win no note from her.
But when for thee thou bid'st her sing,
That spell dissolves her icy chain;
She slowly plumes her drooping wing,
And strikes her shattered chords again.
For more than lifeless would she be,
If thou shouldst bid her wake in vain;
And lost her chords, if still for thee
She could not wake one living strain.
For thee -- that hours of deep distress,
And days of gloom with kindness lit,
Till half I blessed the bitterness
That gave me thee to sweeten it.
For thee -- that when, despairing long,
I said, "No friend has earth for me,"
Didst bid the tones die on my tongue,
And I could utter, "only thee."
For thee -- that when my mother earth
Shall call me to her sheltering breast,
Of all I know wilt weep alone
Above my nameless place of rest.
But see! her wings refuse to fly;
Her chords are harsh from silence long;
Alas! thy gentle sorcery
Hath summoned but the ghost of Song.
She hovers o'er her living tomb,
She seeks once more her grave and chain,
As spectres haunt the midnight gloom:
Sweet friend, awake her not again.
If o'er the wind harp's gentle strings
The threatening tempest rudely flies,
It does not wake more thrilling strains --
The chords are rent, the music dies.
Thus is my harp, thus is my song --
I woo in vain its sweetness fled,
The storms have swept the chords too long,
The music of my soul is dead.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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