Morning
Look, my love, on the wall, and here, at this Eastern picture.
How still its scene, and neither of sleep nor waking:
No shadow falls from the tree or the golden mountain,
The boats on the glassy lake have no reflection,
No echo would come if you blew a horn in those valleys.
And look away, and move. Or speak, or sing:
And voices of the past murmur among your words,
Under your glance my dead selves quicken and stir,
And a thousand shadows attend where you go.
That is your movement. There is a golden stillnes,
Soundless and fathomless, and far beyond it;
When brow on brow, or mouth to mouth assembled,
We lie in the calm of morning. And there, outside us,
The sun moves on, the boat jogs on the lake,
The huntsman calls.
And we lie here, our orient peace awakening,
No echo, and no shadow, and no reflection.
poem by Henry Reed
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Related quotes
Hope The Hornblower
'Hark ye, hark to the winding horn;
Sluggards, awake, and front the morn!
Hark ye, hark to the winding horn;
The sun's on meadow and mill.
Follow me, hearts that love the chase;
Follow me, feet that keep the pace:
Stirrup to stirrup we ride, we ride,
We ride by moor and hill.'
Huntsman, huntsman, whither away?
What is the quarry afoot to-day?
Huntsman, huntsman, whither away,
And what the game ye kill?
Is it the deer, that men may dine?
Is it the wolf that tears the kine?
What is the race ye ride, ye ride,
Ye ride by moor and hill?
'Ask not yet till the day be dead
What is the game that's forward fled,
Ask not yet till the day be dead
The game we follow still.
An echo it may be, floating past;
A shadow it may be, fading fast:
Shadow or echo, we ride, we ride,
We ride by moor and hill'
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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Do Not Expect
Do not expect that if your book falls open
to a certain page, that any phrase
you read will make a difference today,
or that the voices you might overhear
when the wind moves through the yellow-green
and golden tent of autumn, speak to you.
Things ripen or go dry. Light plays on the
dark surface of the lake. Each afternoon
your shadow walks beside you on the wall,
and the days stay long and heavy underneath
the distant rumor of the harvest. One
more summer gone,
and one way or another you survive,
dull or regretful, never learning that
nothing is hidden in the obvious
changes of the world, that even the dim
reflection of the sun on tall, dry grass
is more than you will ever understand.
And only briefly then
you touch, you see, you press against
the surface of impenetrable things.
poem by Dana Gioia
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Echo
Echo, echo...
We come, we go-woah
No I don't want to be just another
Echo, echo...
Everywhere I go
There's something I really need
Everyone I know
Is someone I want to be
Even though
I don't really know me
I better pick it up
Before I let it slip away
I better stick it out
Before I take another day
Into mouth
Everything I say fades out
Echo, echo...
We come, we go-woah
No I don't want to be just another
Echo, echo...
Can I open up your eyes?
Only when the clouds break?
Can I feel the light?
Even though the world shakes
Every night,
You're my quiet satellite
Can I hold you close?
Do her out of focus
And everything I know
I don't even know this
It all falls through
I'm here and I hear you
Echo, echo...
We come, we go-woah
No I don't want to be just another
Echo, echo...
Do you hear me?
Do you hear me?
Cause I need to, just to reach you
Do you hear me?
Coming clearly?
Am I hollow?
Just an echo
Echo, echo...
We come, we go-woah
No I don't want to be just another
Echo, echo...
Echo, echo...
We come, we go-woah
No I don't want to be just another
Echo, echo...
song performed by by Vertical Horizon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Night Poem
There is nothing to be afraid of,
it is only the wind
changing to the east, it is only
your father the thunder
your mother the rain
In this country of water
with its beige moon damp as a mushroom,
its drowned stumps and long birds
that swim, where the moss grows
on all sides of the trees
and your shadow is not your shadow
but your reflection,
your true parents disappear
when the curtain covers your door.
We are the others,
the ones from under the lake
who stand silently beside your bed
with our heads of darkness.
We have come to cover you
with red wool,
with our tears and distant whipers.
You rock in the rain's arms
the chilly ark of your sleep,
while we wait, your night
father and mother
with our cold hands and dead flashlight,
knowing we are only
the wavering shadows thrown
by one candle, in this echo
you will hear twenty years later.
poem by Margaret Atwood
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Sweet Echo Dell
"Three there were that left my cot;
Two are here, and one is not;
Why does Willie linger? Say, can you tell?"
"He was weary by the way;
When we came he could but stay
In the shady grove at Sweet Echo Dell."
Echo Dell! (Echo Dell!) Echo Dell! (Echo Dell!)
It was there we softly said "Farewell!" ("Farewell!")
And the towering granite crest
Nobly guards his place rest,
Near the lovely lake of Sweet Echo Dell.
"Is he laden well with gold?
Does he bring me wealth untold?
Why then does he linger? Say can you tell?"
"All his treasures are above;
All he sent you was his love,
With a whispered prayer from Sweet Echo Dell."
Coming homeward, does he sing
Like a lark upon the wing?
Why then does he linger? Say, can you tell?"
Naught is heard but rippling waves,
Warbling birds, and shouting braves;
Silent is his voice in Sweet Echo Dell."
"Is he coming by-and-by?
May I bless him ere I die?
Why then does he linger? Say, can you tell?"
"Mirrored in that mountain lake,
Heaven is near, and he will wake
Never elsewhere than in Sweet Echo Dell."
"Would you crush my only joy?
Surely I shall meet my boy;
When then does he linger? Say, can you tell?"
"Never will his weary feet
Travel more, yet may soon meet
When your soul floats over Sweet Echo Dell."
poem by Henry Clay Work
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The Child Of Earth
I.
FAINTER her slow step falls from day to day,
Death's hand is heavy on her darkening brow;
Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say,
'I am content to die, but, oh! not now!
Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring
Make the warm air such luxury to breathe;
Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing;
Not while bright flowers around my footsteps wreathe.
Spare me, great God, lift up my drooping brow!
I am content to die--but, oh! not now!'
II.
The spring hath ripen'd into summer-time,
The season's viewless boundary is past;
The glorious sun hath reach'd his burning prime;
Oh! must this glimpse of beauty be the last?
'Let me not perish while o'er land and lea
With silent steps the lord of light moves on;
Nor while the murmur of the mountain bee
Greets my dull ear with music in its tone!
Pale sickness dims my eye, and clouds my brow;
I am content to die--but, oh! not now!'
III.
Summer is gone, and autumn's soberer hues
Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn;
The huntsman swift the flying game pursues,
Shouts the halloo, and winds his eager horn.
'Spare me awhile to wander forth and gaze
On the broad meadows and the quiet stream,
To watch in silence while the evening rays
Slant thro' the fading trees with ruddy gleam!
Cooler the breezes play around my brow;
I am content to die--but, oh! not now!'
IV.
The bleak wind whistles, snow-showers, far and near,
Drift without echo to the whitening ground;
Autumn hath pass'd away, and, cold and drear,
Winter stalks on, with frozen mantle bound.
Yet still that prayer ascends:--'Oh! laughingly
My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd,
Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high,
And the roof rings with voices glad and loud;
Spare me awhile! raise up my drooping brow!
I am content to die--but, oh! not now!'
V.
The spring is come again--the joyful spring!
Again the banks with clustering flowers are spread;
The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing:--
The child of earth is number'd with the dead!
'Thee never more the sunshine shall awake,
Beaming all redly thro' the lattice-pane;
The steps of friends thy slumbers may not break,
Nor fond familiar voice arouse again!
Death's silent shadow veils thy darken'd brow;
Why didst thou linger?--thou art happier now!'
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Today
Once many walked behind me on
The same path while
Nobody has ever walked before me-
Every time I look behind
Someone is approaching me-
I could see my reflection in a pond nearby or perhaps, in a mirror-
Yesterday is gone and
Nobody knows what tomorrow shall bring-
I tell myself that
Whatever lurks behind is none but a
Memory of yesterday and
I must not look behind because
All that happened yesterday is none but a threat to me.
I shall keep looking at my reflection
Whether it be in a pond, a mirror or
Perhaps I may see none but a shadow-
But these are all the same.as
I have learned to believe in myself,
And to live only for today-
Yesterday shall soon be forgotten-
Shadows always disappear but
I shall always be true to my reflection-
Only because my reflection always reveals the present moment-
I have lost many a shadow along the paths I have walked and
I can only fantasize of how I would like tomorrow to be;
Some memories of yesterday
Are entertaining but beyond my ability to grasp-
Today I call a branch upon a tree-
Which I can always hold onto and perceive, while
My shadow has once again slipped through my fingertips-
That path before me is never ending-
I can only dream of what tomorrow may bring, but
Today is a blossoming flower or a rainbow on the horizon-
Today I have nothing to fear as
My reflection belongs to me alone and nobody can ever take away
What I can clearly see before me-
poem by Claudia Krizay
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I Could Be The Moon
i could be the moon
where you can be a body and a
shadow
i could be a lake where
the moon may shine
and you can still be the body
and the shadow
and the voice
i could be a candle in the dark
where you may put
your hope and you can still be the
body and the shadow
and the scent
i could all be your moon
your lake and your candle
and you can still be the body and the shadow
and you shall walk
under me (if i were the moon)
and around me (if i were the lake)
and you may have the power
to put me off (if i were just a candle
in the dark
where you are the body
and the shadow and the voice
and by the mere sigh
of your whimper
i may die
so i still prefer to be your moon
or your lake so i can be your full light
so i can be your mirror
larger than your body
not helpless to your shadow
in silence, i still like to be myself
not a slave, not someone whom you can just
give away as easily as a flicker of a candle
as fickle as you are
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Not exact
Shadows are not exact but real
You can’t force it or conceal
It may be even longer than size
You must think it wise
It may accompany where you go and turn
You stand, sleep or even run
It has same strength and reflection
Think over it and base your action
A tree’s shadow proves it is standing.
A bird follows its shadow and knows it is flying.
My shadow proved that I have existence
I am living in present tense
What has it do with my being on earth?
I cease to exist upon natural death
I follow on every step and prove
That I am real and follow or move
The story doesn’t end with non existence
Its impact may follow even without insistence
People may follow on what has been left behind
They will try to know the shadow of wisdom and find
So it stays even if you are dead
Your message is accepted and widely read
Single word is enough to give impetus or lead
You have formed some link by providing the thread
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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A Reflection Of A Lonely Life
A reflection of a lonely life
is one that is sealed in silence
within desperate calls
that go unheard by anyone.
Sorrow etches across the brow
a mark of their desolation
as they walk the empty mile
alone and forgotten.
No smile breaks the solemn expression
and their voice is muted
within the sadness of their thoughts
unheard in wayward passing time.
All they hear is whispers
from the shadows that descend
when night falls to mirror them in
a reflection of a lonely life.
poem by David Harris
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Like the lake a Chinese poet sits beside in a painting
Who cares about
the weight of a lake?
Who would care to weigh it?
Who cares about
the colour of a lake
without the light of the sky
to reflect in it?
Who notices its modesty,
reflecting all, but silent of itself?
Who observes that the lake
remains unaffected,
not pained by loss,
not pleased by gain?
Who notices its wisdom,
obeying every law?
Who names its generosity,
among the fish, the birds,
the animals who drink?
Who knows whether the tree
leaning over it, sees its own reflection?
Who notices its love?
It bonds with earth,
It flows when needed,
as love does.
Who asks where the lake came from,
seeing it there?
Who wonders how old that lake is?
It is without age today.
Who wonders whether the lake
knows itself water,
or if water knows itself lake?
Who does not go to seek it,
for its stillness, for its silence,
as if it understands the mind’s needs,
the heart’s nourishment?
He is like that.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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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
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1. The earth talks through you
the land talks through
you, every line on you
resonates with its vibrations
you are the poetry of the
land, mouth through which
the land conveys its senses
the sun talks through
your eyes, they channel
its spirit through to me
a radiant warmth the
ounce of love that rises
in a primordial pool to
surge through my heart
the moon touches me
the way your lingering
mood and nonchalance
speak volume of the other
side of your cheerful self
a luminousness that
skirts and corners night
to let shadow rest in shadow
and words echo in words
a tide bound in only by the
starry promises of night
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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85
i wish i have a mouth that knows how to speak my love
i wish i have this kind of mouth that knows to speak
about my love
one that opens so easily and dashes with words like
you know i love you, tell me, do you love me too?
a candid mouth, like a shrew who gambles with words and
will not mind losing
a mouth who kisses your mouth without
shame and if shamed because you slap it
does not bother at all,
one who says, why hide love, why not pour love like a
strong wine to a chalice and let it warm
the glass and let the glass
be nothing but a glass
one that does not mind at all, one that loves and if not loved in
return takes the other possibilities
without regrets
or pain,
the mouth that i have is closed and will not open
afraid
i have kept the words
i love you only for you
like a worm inside my tongue,
wriggling
turning into a little butterfly
that never had the chance to see what is outside
and feel the freedom of air,
yesterday
it died and i keep it for the whole night
now, i spit it out
and my mouth closed again
eating only silence
while you just watch there
asking me
and i said there is nothing to worry
nothing at all
i just don't feel anything and there is nothing
worth saying, i look at you as you go, i hold only to your shadow
and you will never never never know,
this
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Voice of Poet
Poet voice is echo of mankind, speak of angels
Can inspire the soldiers to take on to the battle,
That sprinkle flowers of words, leading to love,
Hearts are bound to melt, even tough enough.
Poets voice can pain and heel wounds of heart,
So create romantic scene causing heart spurt.
Poets read out hearts, can see deep in dark,
Any place in cosmos, are capable to embark.
Their fabulous words can add colours to rainbow
Draw picture of the soul as an amazing shadow,
Voice of poets engender love and compassion
That is mirror of society giving lucid reflection.
Martyrs of war who gone time back to graves,
Poetry has power to keep alive those braves.
Poems expose creatures, portray orb’s images,
Poetry live the human life through out stages.
poem by S.D. Tiwari
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Cut & Paste
you surf tonight
you see a bungalow beside a lake
abandoned
you do not like what is happening there
the birds are mute
and the ants cannot climb the
star apple tree
so to change at least some things
you cut
the bungalow and place it beside
a rail way where a train moves
to another new destination
you want motion and
a song
you cut some notes from a music website
and put them
inside the throat of the mute bird
and so it begins
to sing
for all the lonely ants in there
and they too, begin to dance and build
their little kingdom
the bungalow appears like a some pieces
of assembled wood
dead
you paste some smoke from a busy chimney
you put some live fishes on the lake
and you look at what you have done
you smile
you are putting life to everything
and finally
you copy a picture of yourself, you cut
and then
paste it there
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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After our Likeness.
Before me now a little picture lies—
A little shadow of a childish face,
Childishly sweet, yet with the dawning grace
Of thought and wisdom on her lips and eyes.
Fair, oval, broad-brow'd face—small, delicate head—
Transparent skin, with blue veins shining through—
All the soft outlines, beautiful and true,
Bring me the echo of the words “God said.”
Made “in our image”—sure 'tis that we see,
God's likeness, in the fair face of a child,
By the world's sin and passion undefiled—
Ay, as I look, it seems quite plain to me.
The light wherein the little features shine,
Strange, mystic light, so undefined and faint,
So far too pure for any words to paint—
'Tis a reflection of the Face divine.
Some day the earthly shadows will be cast
Across that sunshine—it may be to dim
A while the visible countenance of Him;
But 'twill be there—the likeness—to the last.
Some day the lucid waters, in which lie
Pictured those glorious lineaments, will be
Stirred up and troubled like a stormy sea;—
But they will yet re-settle—by-and-by.
They will re-settle when the soul is still'd,
Its passions, its wild longings, and its pain;
The pure reflection will shine out again
When earth's hopes are relinquish'd, unfulfill'd.
They will re-settle in those after-years
When life's hard lessons have been conned and learn'd;
Then this child's beauty will have all return'd,
More lovely for the trouble and the tears.
They will re-settle in the calm of death,
When the sweet eyes are laid asleep, and when
The heart is hush'd. Truly God's likeness then—
The mirror clear, unsullied by a breath.
Ah! while I look, and trace each tender line,
I think most of the day when I shall see
The dear face in that perfect purity,
Its mortal features clothed with the divine.
This self-same face, but with the image bright,
Nevermore undefined, and faint, and dim;
This self-same face, yet like the face of Him,
In glory and in beauty infinite.
poem by Ada Cambridge
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Now you know for MLady Ann Beard
Without a light no shadow can
display itself before your eyes.
Although the light be pale and wan
it can a shadow realise.
The shadows dance upon the wall.
When tapers flicker in the breeze.
They mean and do no harm at all.
But dowse the flame and shadows cease.
Fear not the dark without a light.
You only need to kindle flame,
then shadows dance for your delight.
The shadows to the light source came.
Beware the man with no shadow
and no reflection in the glass.
These are the signs by which you know
your worst nightmare has come to pass.
You have become a vampire’s prey.
You don’t believe such tales are true,
that vampires walk the earth today.
A single bite will convince you.
26-May-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Bells Of St. Marys
Writers: leo sayer & david courtney
He used to play mouth organ
In a folk club they called the lady jane
All the sounds as his friends and he would holler
Songs of love and songs of pain
There wasn't much that he could use his time for
So he used to practice everyday
And play the mouth organ the blues and hard luck
Someday soon i'm gonna break away
He used to listen to the bells of st marys
As they would echo through those early days
And sometimes even now he thinks that he still hears them
Although they're but a thousand miles away
And so he came into this crazy business
And do you know the stars all fell his way
And he became another rock and roll troubador
And threw the mouth organ far away
And so he listens to the bells of st marys
And so their echo haunts him every day
So clear that he could reach out and touch them
Although they're but a thousand miles away
Although they're but a thousand miles away
song performed by by Leo Sayer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You and My Shadow
You never noticed how your single glance
pressed my shadow on the wall.
And by simply smiling even once,
my pressed shadow falls
and melts into the ground.
As though some unseen force from you
had taken control around.
How come you never noticed
my shadow on the wall...
pressed by some unseen force
when by my name you called.
And how it hid beneath my feet
when your shadow's close to mine!
Just when I walked ahead of you,
it's almost left behind.
And now you kiss me with your lips,
your eyes have said it all.
But dear, have you noticed
my pressed shadow on the wall?
poem by Jessel Jane Tevar
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