Indian Summer
A soft veil dims the tender skies,
And half conceals from pensive eyes
The bronzing tokens of the fall;
A calmness broods upon the hills,
And summer's parting dream distills
A charm of silence over all.
The stacks of corn, in brown array,
Stand waiting through the placid day,
Like tattered wigwams on the plain;
The tribes that find a shelter there
Are phantom peoples, forms of air,
And ghosts of vanished joy and pain.
At evening when the crimson crest
Of sunset passes down the West,
I hear the whispering host returning;
On far-off fields, by elm and oak,
I see the lights, I smell the smoke,--
The Camp-fires of the Past are burning.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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The Ghost Of The New World
'_There are no ghosts in America._'
There are no ghosts, you say,
To haunt her blaze of light;
No shadows in her day,
No phantoms in her night.
Columbus' tattered sail
Has passed beyond our hail.
What? On that magic coast,
Where Raleigh fought with fate,
Or where that Devon ghost
Unbarred the Golden Gate,
No dark, strange, ear-ringed men
Beat in from sea again?
No ghosts in Salem town
With silver buckled shoon?
No lovely witch to drown
Or burn beneath the moon?
Not even a whiff of tea,
On Boston's glimmering quay.
O, ghostly Spanish walls,
Where brown Franciscans glide,
Is there no voice that calls
Across the Great Divide,
To pilgrims on their way
Along the Santa Fe?
Then let your Pullman cars
Go roaring to the West,
Till, watched by lonelier stars,
The cactus lifts its crest.
There, on that painted plain,
One ghost will rise again.
Majestic and forlorn,
Wreck of a dying race,
The Red Man, half in scorn,
Shall raise his haughty face,
Inscrutable as the sky,
To watch our ghosts go by.
What? Is earth dreaming still?
Shall not the night disgorge
The ghosts of Bunker Hill
The ghosts of Valley Forge,
Or, England's mightiest son,
The ghost of Washington?
No ghosts where Lincoln fell?
No ghosts for seeing eyes?
I know an old cracked bell
Shall make ten million rise
When one immortal ghost
Calls to the slumbering host.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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Old Times
Friend of my youth, let us talk of old times;
Of the long lost golden hours.
When "Winter" meant only Christmas chimes,
And "Summer" wreaths of flowers.
Life has grown old, and cold, my friend,
And the winter now, means death.
And summer blossoms speak all too plain
Of the dear, dead forms beneath.
But let us talk of the past to-night;
And live it over again,
We will put the long years out of sight,
And dream we are young as then.
But you must not look at me, my friend,
And I must not look at you,
Or the furrowed brows, and silvered locks,
Will prove our dream untrue.
Let us sing of the summer, too sweet to last,
And yet too sweet to die.
Let us read tales, from the book of the past,
And talk of the days gone by.
We will turn our backs to the West, my friend,
And forget we are growing old.
The skies of the Present are dull, and gray,
But the Past's are blue, and gold.
The sun has passed over the noontide line
And is sinking down the West.
And of friends we knew in days Lang Syne,
Full half have gone to rest.
And the few that are left on earth, my friend
Are scattered far, and wide.
But you and I will talk of the days
Ere any roamed, or died.
Auburn ringlets, and hazel eyes
Blue eyes and tresses of gold.
Winds joy laden, and azure skies,
Belong to those days of old.
We will leave the Present's shores awhile
And float on the Past's smooth sea.
But I must not look at you, my friend,
And you must not look at me.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Crimson Sunset Sea
Across a crimson sunset sea,
I search for my lost love
within a passing dream.
The maiden who made my heart flutter
when we first met
and then vanished in a wisp of mist.
Now I seek her
where dreams fall asleep
there across the crimson sunset sea
on the other side of paradise
where dreamt dreams are stored.
poem by David Harris
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On the Hills
Through the pungent hours of the afternoon,
On the autumn slopes we have lightly wandered
Where the sunshine lay in a golden swoon
And the lingering year all its sweetness squandered.
Oh, it was blithesome to roam at will
Over the crest of each westering hill,
Over those dreamy, enchanted lands
Where the trees held to us their friendly hands!
Winds in the pine boughs softly crooned,
Or in the grasses complained most sweetly,
With all the music of earth attuned
In this dear ripe time that must pass so fleetly:
Golden rod as we idled by
Held its torches of flame on high,
And the asters beckoned along our way
Like fair fine ladies in silk array.
We passed by woods where the day aside
Knelt like a pensive nun and tender,
We looked on valleys of purple pride
Where she reigned a queen in her misty splendor;
But out on the hills she was wild and free,
A comrade to wander right gipsily,
Luring us on over waste and wold
With the charm of a message half sung, half told,
And now, when far in the shining west
She has dropped her flowers on the sunset meadow,
We turn away from our witching quest
To the kindly starshine and gathering shadow;
Filled to the lips of our souls are we
With the beauty given so lavishly,
And hand in hand with the night we come
Back to the light and the hearth of home.
poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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Wish
I'd like to show your eyes the plains
And a forest green and ruddy,
Far off and soft
Under clear skies on the horizon,
Or some hills
With lovely slopes
So changing and supple and misty,
Seeming to melt in the sweetness of the air,
Either hills
Or forest.
I'd like
For you to hear
Strong, vast, deep, and tender,
The great dull voice of the sea
That moans
Like Love;
And once in a while
Right next to you,
In the interval,
I'd like you to hear
Right next to you
A dove
In the silence
Both soft and weak
Like Love a trifle in the shadows,
I'd like you to hear
The gushing of a spring
For your hands I'd like some flowers,
And for your steps
I'd like a little path, grassy and sandy
Going up a bit and coming down,
Turning and seeming
To approach the limits of silence.
A very little sandy path
Where your steps would leave faint marks,
Our steps
Together.
poem by Henri de Regnier
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Forms
Chest of golds, covered in thorns,
enclose the universe and its infinite thoughts
Mourning at the silence, creating forms.
The female forms, is the nature meanest beauty.
Draw by unwilling calmness, and chaste crops
Nest- less birds, bitter souls
Hold like clouds in the sky above.
Love is a cradle, rocked by waves,
on the ocean of calm laments, wrapped in soft wools and sobbing veil.
Where tears have forms of ablaze eyes, and diamond nights
blooming and shine at the infinite sky.
The different forms of dreams
Carry the remains of the unborn days
Escape at your eyes while you were awake,
maturing by your sleep of doubt and metamorphoses
poem by Luca Menin
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On the Killing Fields
I did not learn from books
About the horrors of war
I was soaked in them
On the killing fields
Amid exploding shells
Frightened and savage.
I did not watch movies
To see dead bodies
Lying on green meadows
I saw them with my own eyes
The raging fires
The engulfing flames
In the blazing tanks.
The sun was shining
It was a balmy
And beautiful day
As the summer wind carried
The nauseating smell
Of the burning flesh
Across gentle hills.
poem by Paul Hartal
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Off Riviere Du Loup
O ship incoming from the sea
With all your cloudy tower of sail,
Dashing the water to the lee,
And leaning grandly to the gale,
The sunset pageant in the west
Has filled your canvas curves with rose,
And jeweled every toppling crest
That crashes into silver snows!
You know the joy of coming home,
After long leagues to France or Spain
You feel the clear Canadian foam
And the gulf water heave again.
Between these somber purple hills
That cool the sunset's molten bars,
You will go on as the wind wills,
Beneath the river's roof of stars.
You will toss onward toward the lights
That spangle over the lonely pier,
By hamlets glimmering on the heights,
By level islands black and clear.
You will go on beyond the tide,
Through brimming plains of olive sedge,
Through paler shadows light and wide,
The rapids piled along the ledge.
At evening off some reedy bay
You will swing slowly on your chain,
And catch the scent of dewy hay,
Soft blowing from the pleasant plain.
poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
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Half The World
Only one shadow on the wall
Just one candle burning bright
I hold your picture to my heart
Im alone inside the night
The sun comes up in china ... the lights go on in rome
Half the world is waiting for someone they can hold
Half the world is praying theyll never be alone
Everytime you leave me a part of me goes too
And half your world is waiting here for you
I reach across an empty bed
I hear your whisper in my ear
But like the sun without the moon
Its half a dream without you here
The train that takes you from me
Brings somebody home
Half the world is waiting for someone they can hold
Half the world is praying theyll never be alone
Everytime you leave me a part of me goes too
And half your world is waiting here for you
Baby the earth stands still
When Im lying next to you
No matter where you go
Our whole worlds inside this room
The sun comes up in china
The lights go on in rome ... oh
Half the world is waiting for someone they can hold
Half the world is praying theyll never be alone
And everytime you leave me my heart breaks in two
And half the world is waiting here for you
Im waiting here for you ...
song performed by by Belinda Carlisle
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Waiting For the Snow
Waiting for the Snow
When the leaves turn golden
And the geese fly south
Where will I be?
When the wind turns cold
And the bear is in hiding
Where will I be?
When the streams are frozen
And the rabbits’ color turning
Where will I be?
When the leaves begin to fall
And the northern cardinals stay
Where will I be?
When the nuts fall down
And squirrels store walnuts
Where will I be?
When the corn is harvested
And the deer seek shelter
Where will I be?
When the grass is brown
And the pheasants are flying
Where will I be?
I will be riding before the wind
And winging t’ward the sun
Flying from the snow
I will be waiting for spring
And sleeping till then
Hiding from the snow
I will be hiding till I’m white
And searching the ground for food
Waiting for the snow
I will be looking for berries
And singing merrily
Waiting for the snow
I will be saving acorns
And jumping form tree to tree
Waiting for the snow
I will be searching fields for corn
And hiding in thickets
Waiting for the snow
I will be hiding under grass
And calling out loud
Waiting for the snow
The Longest Day
On yonder hills soft twilight dwells
And Hesper burns where sunset dies,
Moist and chill the woodland smells
From the fern-covered hollows uprise;
Darkness drops not from the skies,
But shadows of darkness are flung o'er the vale
From the boughs of the chestnut, the oak, and the elm,
While night in yon lines of eastern pines
Preserves alone her inviolate realm
Against the twilight pale.
Say, then say, what is this day,
That it lingers thus with half-closed eyes,
When the sunset is quenched and the orient ray
Of the roseate moon doth rise,
Like a midnight sun o'er the skies!
'Tis the longest, the longest of all the glad year,
The longest in life and the fairest in hue,
When day and night, in bridal light,
Mingle their beings beneath the sweet blue,
And bless the balmy air!
Upward to this starry height
The culminating seasons rolled;
On one slope green with spring delight,
The other with harvest gold,
And treasures of Autumn untold:
And on this highest throne of the midsummer now
The waning but deathless day doth dream,
With a rapturous grace, as tho' from the face
Of the unveiled infinity, lo, a far beam
Had fall'n on her dim-flushed brow!
Prolong, prolong that tide of song,
O leafy nightingale and thrush!
Still, earnest-throated blackcap, throng
The woods with that emulous gush
Of notes in tumultuous rush.
Ye summer souls, raise up one voice!
A charm is afloat all over the land;
The ripe year doth fall to the Spirit of all,
Who blesses it with outstretched hand;
Ye summer souls, rejoice!
poem by George Meredith
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Song II
A MONTH of green and tender May,
All woods and walks awake with flowers,
Wide sunlit meadows for the day,
And moon-bathed paths for evening hours;
A bright brief dream that had no past,
And of the future knew no fear;
A kiss at first, a sigh at last--
Only last year.
Another spring, dim soulless woods;
No farewell kiss, no parting tear;
No stone to mark where silence broods
O'er the dead love we found so dear.
But, oh, to me the green seems grey,
The budding branches all are sere,
For sweet love's sake, that died one day,
Only last year.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Sonnet LXVIII.
Written at Exmouth, Midsummer, 1795.
FALL, dews of Heaven, upon my burning breast,
Bathe with cool drops these ever-streaming eyes,
Ye gentle Winds, that fan the balmy West,
With the soft rippling tide of morning rise,
And calm my bursting heart, as here I keep
The vigil of the wretched!--Now away
Fade the pale stars, as wavering o'er the deep
Soft rosy tints announce another day,
The day of Middle Summer!--Ah! in vain
To those who mourn like me, does radiant June
Lead on her fragrant hours; for hopeless pain
Darkens with sullen clouds the Sun of Noon,
And veil'd in shadows Nature's face appears
To hearts o'erwhelm'd with grief, to eyes suffused with tears.
poem by Charlotte Smith
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Transition
A little while to walk with thee, dear child;
To lean on thee my weak and weary head;
Then evening comes: the winter sky is wild,
The leafless trees are black, the leaves long dead.
A little while to hold thee and to stand,
By harvest-fields of bending golden corn;
Then the predestined silence, and thine hand,
Lost in the night, long and weary and forlorn.
A little while to love thee, scarcely time
To love thee well enough; then time to part,
To fare through wintry fields alone and climb
The frozen hills, not knowing where thou art.
Short summer-time and then, my heart's desire,
The winter and the darkness: one by one
The roses fall, the pale roses expire
Beneath the slow decadence of the sun.
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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The Fires
Men make them fires on the hearth
Each under his roof-tree,
And the Four Winds that rule the earth
They blow the smoke to me.
Across the high hills and the sea
And all the changeful skies,
The Four Winds blow the smoke to me
Till the tears are in my eyes.
Until the tears are in my eyes.
And my heart is wellnigh broke
For thinking on old memories
That gather in the smoke.
With every shift of every wind
The homesick memories come,
From every quarter of mankind
Where I have made me a home.
Four times a fire against the cold
And a roof against the rain --
Sorrow fourfold and joy fourfold
The Four Winds bring again!
How can I answer which is best
Of all the fires that burn?
I have been too often host or guest
At every fire in turn.
How can I turn from any fire,
On any man's hearthstone?
I know the wonder and desire
That went to build my own!
How can I doubt man's joy or woe
Where'er his house-fires shine.
Since all that man must undergo
Will visit me at mine?
Oh, you Four Winds that blow so strong
And know that his is true,
Stoop for a little and carry my song
To all the men I knew!
Where there are fires against the cold,
Or roofs against the rain --
With love fourfold and joy fourfold,
Take them my songs again!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Piscataqua River
Thou singest by the gleaming isles,
By woods, and fields of corn,
Thou singest, and the sunlight smiles
Upon my birthday morn.
But I within a city, I,
So full of vague unrest,
Would almost give my life to lie
An hour upon upon thy breast.
To let the wherry listless go,
And, wrapt in dreamy joy,
Dip, and surge idly to and fro,
Like the red harbor-buoy;
To sit in happy indolence,
To rest upon the oars,
And catch the heavy earthy scents
That blow from summer shores;
To see the rounded sun go down,
And with its parting fires
Light up the windows of the town
And burn the tapering spires;
And then to hear the muffled tolls
From steeples slim and white,
And watch, among the Isles of Shoals,
The Beacon's orange light.
O River! flowing to the main
Through woods, and fields of corn,
Hear thou my longing and my pain
This sunny birthday morn;
And take this song which fancy shapes
To music like thine own,
And sing it to the cliffs and capes
And crags where I am known!
poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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An Autumn Picture
Now round red roofs stand russet stacks arow:
Homeward from gleaning in the stubbly wheat,
High overhead the harsh rook saileth slow,
And cupless acorns crackle 'neath your feet.
No breeze, no breath, veereth the oasthouse hoods,
Whence the faint smoke floats fragrantly away;
And, in the distance, the half-hazy woods
Glow with the barren glory of decay.
Vainly the bramble strives to drape the hedge,
Whose leafless gaps show many an empty nest:
The chill pool stagnates round the seeded sedge;
And, as the sunset saddens in the west,
Funereal mist comes creeping down the dale,
And widowed Autumn weeps behind her veil.
poem by Alfred Austin
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Kenoza Lake
As Adam did in Paradise,
To-day the primal right we claim
Fair mirror of the woods and skies,
We give to thee a name.
Lake of the pickerel!--let no more
The echoes answer back, 'Great Pond,'
But sweet Kenoza, from thy shore
And watching hills beyond,
Let Indian ghosts, if such there be
Who ply unseen their shadowy lines,
Call back the ancient name to thee,
As with the voice of pines.
The shores we trod as barefoot boys,
The nutted woods we wandered through,
To friendship, love, and social joys
We consecrate anew.
Here shall the tender song be sung,
And memory's dirges soft and low,
And wit shall sparkle on the tongue,
And mirth shall overflow,
Harmless as summer lightning plays
From a low, hidden cloud by night,
A light to set the hills ablaze,
But not a bolt to smite.
In sunny South and prairied West
Are exiled hearts remembering still,
As bees their hive, as birds their nest,
The homes of Haverhill.
They join us in our rites to-day;
And, listening, we may hear, erelong,
From inland lake and ocean bay,
The echoes of our song.
Kenoza! o'er no sweeter lake
Shall morning break or noon-cloud sail,--
No fairer face than thine shall take
The sunset's golden veil.
Long be it ere the tide of trade
Shall break with harsh-resounding din
The quiet of thy banks of shade,
And hills that fold thee in.
Still let thy woodlands hide the hare,
The shy loon sound his trumpet-note,
Wing-weary from his fields of air,
The wild-goose on thee float.
Thy peace rebuke our feverish stir,
Thy beauty our deforming strife;
Thy woods and waters minister
The healing of their life.
And sinless Mirth, from care released,
Behold, unawed, thy mirrored sky,
Smiling as smiled on Cana's feast
The Master's loving eye.
And when the summer day grows dim,
And light mists walk thy mimic sea,
Revive in us the thought of Him
Who walked on Galilee!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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I Hear Guitars a' Calling
I hear guitars a' calling in the gloaming's final fling
When sinking suns relay their flames to fairies on the wing
Igniting one by one the jewels of midnight's diamond blaze
As day becomes a yawning ash beneath a starry gaze.
I hear guitars a' calling from the clouds within the skies,
With tunes which flow as purple drops from sad and weepy eyes
Of silent speaking troubled souls who stand alone in grief,
But hold the vastness of the stars within a trembling leaf.
I hear guitars a' calling from the beat beneath her breast,
The murmur throbs of passion and a sensuous unrest
That rumbles deep in silent woods before the raging storm
And splits the air in morning meadows bursting green with corn.
I hear guitars a' calling in the gentle splashing rain,
Which summons with a soothing purr upon my window pane
And conjures up a childhood dream within a vagrant breeze
Entwining me in cryptic webs of misty vortices.
I hear guitars a' calling from the waves on distant shores;
They're crashing out their monody upon the mystic oars
Of phantom ships within the dawn and midnight caravels,
A' sail on seas of raven wings to moonlit citadels.
I hear guitars a' calling in the morning's reveilles;
They're pouring fires in the skies and burning up the seas,
While waking flowers in the fields and setting trees ablaze,
And closing one by one the eyes of midnight's starry gaze.
I hear guitars a' calling from the deserts of my mind;
They're howling of a hollow land adrift on empty time
Where pathless sands are blazing hot, the sun is standing high,
A thirsting dog is barking faint' with tongue that's long and dry.
poem by Terry O'Leary
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Burning flames
Burning flames my heart dream.
Of ancient silence, absolve & winging.
Like in a dream, where storms listen.
Butterfly cocoons stand.
And at the night light, between the sea of the skies
Like rustic water, where antique mountain fall.
I discover my woes.
And when my body rest
Silence coupled angel respect.
Exiles, describe like in a horizon of eyes.
Flames burn like ices.
poem by Luca Menin
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