In The Harbour: At La Chaudeau. (From The French Of Charles Coran)
At La Chaudeau,--'tis long since then:
I was young,--my years twice ten;
All things smiled on the happy boy,
Dreams of love and songs of joy,
Azure of heaven and wave below,
At La Chaudeau.
At La Chaudeau I come back old:
My head is gray, my blood is cold;
Seeking along the meadow ooze,
Seeking beside the river Seymouse,
The days of my spring-time of long ago
At La Chaudeau.
At La Chaudeau nor heart nor brain
Ever grows old with grief and pain;
A sweet remembrance keeps off age;
A tender friendship doth still assuage
The burden of sorrow that one may know
At La Chaudeau.
At La Chaudeau, had fate decreed
To limit the wandering life I lead,
Peradventure I still, forsooth,
Should have preserved my fresh green youth,
Under the shadows the hill-tops throw
At La Chaudeau.
At La Chaudeau, live on, my friends,
Happy to be where God intends;
And sometimes, by the evening fire,
Think of him whose sole desire
Is again to sit in the old chateau
At La Chaudeau.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Related quotes
Joy
My heart is like a little bird
That sits and sings for very gladness.
Sorrow is some forgotten word,
And so, except in rhyme, is sadness.
The world is very fair to me –
Such azure skies, such golden weather,
I’m like a long caged bird set free,
My heart is lighter than a feather.
I rise rejoicing in my life;
I live with love of God and neighbour;
My days flow on unmarred by strife,
And sweetened by my pleasant labour.
O youth! O spring! O happy days,
Ye are so passing sweet, and tender,
And while the fleeting season stays,
I revel care-free, in its splendour.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Oh Happy Days
Oh happy days,
Everyone likes you.
Oh happy days,
Please stay today.
Oh happy days,
Sweet like honey.
Oh happy days,
loving family ties.
Oh happy days,
Giving us strength.
Oh happy days,
Children out playing.
Oh happy days,
On the green grass.
Oh happy days,
With boundless optimism.
Oh happy days,
I give thanks.
Oh happy days,
Dreaming for more.
Oh happy days,
Warm and bright.
Oh happy days,
Like love eternal.
Oh happy days,
And glad memories.
Oh happy days,
New hope prayers.
Oh happy days,
With smiling faces.
Oh happy days,
Holidays and health.
Oh happy days,
With close friends.
Oh happy days,
Generous and giving.
Oh happy days,
Shiny rainbow dreams.
Oh happy days,
Till the very end.
Oh happy days,
Always and forever.
Amen.
poem by Rowina Mallick
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I Told You
I told you the winter would go, love,
I told you the winter would go,
That he'd flee in shame when the south wind came,
And you smiled when I told you so.
You said the blustering fellow
Would never yield to a breeze,
That his cold, icy breath had frozen to death
The flowers, the birds, and trees.
And I told you the snow would melt, love,
In the passionate glance o' the sun;
And the leaves o' the trees, and the flowers and bees,
Would come back again, one by one.
That the great, gray clouds would vanish,
And the sky turn tender and blue;
And the sweet birds would sing, and talk of the spring
And, love, it has all come true.
I told you that sorrow would fade, love,
And you would forget half your pain;
That the sweet bird of song would waken ere long,
And sing in your bosom again;
That hope would creep out of the shadows,
And back to its nest in your heart,
And gladness would come, and find its old home,
And that sorrow at length would depart.
I told you that grief seldom killed, love,
Though the heart might seem dead for awhile.
But the world is so bright, and full of warm light
That 'twould waken at length, in its smile.
Ah, love! was I not a true prophet?
There's a sweet happy smile on your face;
Your sadness has flown - the snow-drift is gone,
And the buttercups bloom in its place.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Too Late
Too late the prize is drawn, the goal attained.
Too late, too late, our heart's desire is gained.
Wealth's use is past; Fame's crown of laurel mocks
The downward drooping head and grizzled locks.
The end is reached — the end of toil and strife —
The end of life.
Love flowers and fades like grass, and flowers again,
And strong young hearts spend all their strength in vain.
The fiery passions burn out, one by one,
And then, too late, when our best days are done,
Spirit and body find their perfect mate —
Too late, too late!
Long sought, long seeking, through the lonely years,
We meet at last to weep our useless tears
For time and chance irrevocably flown,
For dreams outlived and fervent hopes outgrown,
For babes unborn, for myriad joys unseen,
That might have been.
Too late, too late! And yet the priceless boon
Might ne'er have come to bless us, late or soon;
And only comes, like Holy Grail, to those
Made wise and pure by bitter needs and woes.
We learn the worth of life when life is o'er,
And not before.
Not for the spring and morning time of youth
The perfect flower of slow- unfolding truth —
The perfect love, deep, passionate, and strong,
That comes of wanting much and waiting long.
This glorious fire is of the setting sun
When day is done.
This harvest wealth, this crowning gift of fate,
This fruit of suffering years, must aye come late;
And only seeking spirit and ripe mind —
Only a few — the matchless treasure find,
And find, despite all time and chances lost,
'Twas worth the cost.
Ah me! To stand upon this height at last,
Ere eyes are dim or daylight overpast;
To see one aim achieved, one dream fulfilled,
Ere striving brain and hoping heart are stilled;
To know that we have borne a lifelong pain
Not all in vain!
O, not too late, if once we reach the goal —
If once we satisfy this hungry soul —
If only for a year, a day, an hour,
We drink our fill of life's true bliss and power.
If we but touch that point, we conquer fate
Not quite too late!
poem by Ada Cambridge
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A Laugh -- And A Moan
The brook that down the valley
So musically drips,
Flowed never half so brightly
As the light laugh from her lips.
Her face was like the lily,
Her heart was like the rose,
Her eyes were like a heaven
Where the sunlight always glows.
She trod the earth so lightly
Her feet touched not a thorn;
Her words wore all the brightness
Of a young life's happy morn.
Along her laughter rippled
The melody of joy;
She drank from every chalice,
And tasted no alloy.
Her life was all a laughter,
Her days were all a smile,
Her heart was pure and happy,
She knew not gloom nor guile.
She rested on the bosom
Of her mother, like a flower
That blooms far in a valley
Where no storm-clouds ever lower.
And -- 'Merry, merry, merry!'
Rang the bells of every hour,
And -- 'Happy, happy, happy!'
In her valley laughed the flower.
There was not a sign of shadow,
There was not a tear nor thorn,
And the sweet voice of her laughter
Filled with melody the morn.
* * * * *
Years passed -- 'twas long, long after,
And I saw a face at prayer;
There was not a sign of laughter,
There was every sign of care.
For the sunshine all had faded
From the valley and the flower,
And the once fair face was shaded
In life's lonely evening hour.
And the lips that smiled with laughter
In the valley of the morn,
In the valley of the evening
They were pale and sorrow-worn.
And I read the old, old lesson
In her face and in her tears,
While she sighed amid the shadows
Of the sunset of her years.
All the rippling streams of laughter
From our hearts and lips that flow,
Shall be frozen, cold years after,
Into icicles of woe.
poem by Abram Joseph Ryan
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At Long Last
Late, late the prize is drawn, the goal attained,
The Heart's Desire fulfilled, Love's guerdon gained.
Wealth's use is past, Fame's crown of laurel mocks
The downward-drooping head and grizzled locks.
The end is reached - the end of toil and strife -
The end of life.
Love flowers and fades like grass, and flowers again;
The spendthrift lovers waste themselves in vain;
Their fiery passions burn out one by one,
And then, alas! when their best days are done,
Spirit and body find their perfect mate -
So late! So late!
Long-sought, long seeking, through the lonely years,
The wanderers meet to weep their useless tears
For time and chance irrevocably flown,
Dear hopes outlived and happy faiths outgrown,
Children unborn, the myriad joys unseen
That might have been.
Not for the spring and morning-time of youth
The perfect flower of slow-unfolding truth,
The perfect love, that dreams of youth foretell,
But youth knows not and youth could never tell;
That light celestial, as of sunset fires
When day expires.
Late comes the gift that crowns the hungry quest,
Like ripe wheat-harvest in a land at rest,
And comes alone, a consecrated cup,
To those proved worthy to sit down and sup.
To them - aye, aye, despite their treasure lost,
'T'is worth the cost.
'T'is worth the cost to reach the heights at last,
Ere eyes are dim and daylight overpast.
To see one aim achieved, one dream fulfilled,
Ere striving brain and trusting heart are stilled.
To live one glorious hour - its price of pain
Is never paid in vain.
poem by Ada Cambridge
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When I Was A Young Girl
(A Song of Old Ballads)
WHEN I was a young girl, all in a green arbor,
When I was a young girl in Springtimes gone by
All the long days I went singing and smiling,
Down by the roses the sweet days beguiling,
Love in the arbor and love in the sky . . .
When I was a young girl, a young girl, a young girl,
When I was a young girl, how happy was I!
Oh, the long days I must sit at my sampler,
Oh, the slow way that the still time would go!
I longed to be running across the bright heather,
'Off with the silk gown and on with the leather,
Following the raggle-taggle gypsies, oh!'
When I was a young girl, a young girl, a young girl,
When I was a young girl, a long time ago!
When I was a young girl in days that were golden,
When I was a young girl, and life had no smart,
All the world seemed a place for my playing,
Full of great lovers to come to me, saying,
'Madam, I give you the keys of my heart . . .'
When I was a young girl, a young girl, a young girl,
When I was a young girl, and dreaming apart!
When I was a young girl, I dreamed of my lover,
A tall cavalier who should whisper me low,
'Love, on your lips are red roses a-blowing,
I am your true love, and fast is time going
Am I your true love? Oh, say yes or no!'
When I was a young girl, a young girl, a young girl–
When I was a young girl, a long time ago!
When I was a young girl there came my true lover,
Swiftly I knew him in glad days gone by;
Never a sword or a lovelock or feather,
But oh, at his touch 'twas our hearts came together,
Love in the arbor and love in the sky . . .
When I was a young girl, a young girl, a young girl,
When I was a young girl, how happy was I!
poem by Margaret Widdemer
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Oh that it were possible
Oh that it were possible
After long grief and pain
You walk in the path of amiable
Innocence and repentance plain
And your bare sole
Will touch the field scudding chaffs
The meadow wheat elongated spikes will dagger your soul
And the wind will blow your skirt in halves
A throng of persistent rain drops caress
Your neck, your shoulders and your fresh head
And as you walk wet and soaked and careless
You shall see the vermillion canopy of dawn’s shade
And you stand breast high amid gilded wheat field
Clasped by the golden light of a bright morning yield
Like a sweet creature a beloved of the sun
You draw many glowing kisses like one
And you rush brushing ankle-high in a sea of flowers
And you hear the wind behind playing in thousands waves of golden wheat
And you breath nostrils wide the field sweet
As the cows thick with milk and the buzzing bees honey your hour
Tranquility and calm will extend within thee newly bred
As a ray of dusk breaks through the edge of a dark cloud
And you will be free from scalp to sole of any doubt
Like a bird in the sky your soul will fly without a dread
And you shall smell the fresh cut field’s furrows
As your breath grows calm as a nun
And you will watch the waning sun
In the mirror of a puddle wrapped in golden rows
And things turn so simple and apparent in life
Calm without a struggle or the din of a strife
And you can touch, and you can live under secure heaven above
And you can love! And you can love! And you can love!
Oh that it were possible
After long grief and pain
You walk in the path of freedom lane
Untouched by scourging fire along or by storms of evil
And you fall into innocence and repentance plain
And the divine spirit will canopy your life a whole
And you will be shy and innocent again
Like a lawn; like a lea; like a new born soul
Oh that it were possible
After long grief and pain
You walk wandering towards your beauteous hours
When summer haze hangs over short simmering showers
To be welcomed by lush grass and sprouting flowers
And you wonder in peace while you pace along
As the fields and woods are full with whisper and song
And shall be without a slough, a crust of sin or any other touch of wrong
And you shall stay away from the basest of mankind
Debark and astray from them with a clear mind
And let them be who harm you all these years
For them you shade no vows; from them withhold your tears
Let them keep battering the gates of heaven with fruitless pray
“Have mercy Lord, Take my flaws away”
Oh that it were possible
After long grief and pain
From this fearful thing you abstain
Of glancing back at the gloom of miss-spent years
When your heart sweats and weeps with a thousand tears
And you shall forgive these wild wandering cries
Confusions of wasted years; a beam of hope breaks through
Portrayed in shapes and shades of feeling of yearning true
To illuminate your night of darkness and to cheer your aching eyes
Oh that it were possible
After long grief and pain
You walk these pastures after rain
A pleasant gale urging breaks behind
And bruit your song to the very creatures in the grass down
Rain drops aflutter with gentle wind
Will fall on your goddess like shape gown
And on the wilding brooch of your dress
From which gilded drops fall on your breast
And you break forth from all past enslaving love
And you adore the freedom bestowed from heaven above
Oh that it were possible
After long grief and pain
You bridge back the river of your youth's years
To the first fountain of innocent love smiles and tears
And you would not trace again the stream of human lukewarm hours
Between outworn banks of life withered flowers
Nor shall you bid your time flow until it ripples and glides
Into number of meaningless nameless love wavelets tides
copy rights 2010
Fifty Years Apart
They sit in the winter gloaming,
And the fire burns bright between;
One has passed seventy summers,
And the other just seventeen.
They rest in a happy silence
As the shadows deepen fast;
One lives in a coming future,
And one in a long, long past.
Each dreams of a rush of music,
And a question whispered low;
One will hear it this evening,
One heard it long ago.
Each dreams of a loving husband
Whose brave heart is hers alone;
For one the joy is coming,
For one the joy has flown.
Each dreams of a life of gladness
Spent under the sunny skies;
And both the hope and the memory
Shine in the happy eyes.
Who knows which dream is the brightest?
And who knows which is the best?
The sorrow and joy are mingled,
But only the end is rest.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Happy Childhood Memories
Happy childhood memories the best memories of all
And my younger years in Millstreet I will always recall
On evenings in Summer up to the mid Fall
In the Townpark at the West End we played gaelic football
My friends of my youth where might they be today
Like me have the years left them balder and gray
Though some of them in the home Parish did stay
In life one might say we just went our own way
Since those days so many years have come and gone
And time does not wait it just ticks on and on
Many of the friends of my youth I may not see again
Though good memories of them with me does remain
And in fancy I chase the football up and down
With my happy young friends in the Park of the Town.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Ballad of Burdens
A Ballad of Burdens
The burden of fair women. Vain delight,
And love self-slain in some sweet shameful way,
And sorrowful old age that comes by night
As a thief comes that has no heart by day,
And change that finds fair cheeks and leaves them grey,
And weariness that keeps awake for hire,
And grief that says what pleasure used to say;
This is the end of every man's desire.
The burden of bought kisses. This is sore,
A burden without fruit in childbearing;
Between the nightfall and the dawn threescore,
Threescore between the dawn and evening.
The shuddering in thy lips, the shuddering
In thy sad eyelids tremulous like fire,
Makes love seem shameful and a wretched thing.
This is the end of every man's desire.
The burden of sweet speeches. Nay, kneel down,
Cover thy head, and weep; for verily
These market-men that buy thy white and brown
In the last days shall take no thought for thee.
In the last days like earth thy face shall be,
Yea, like sea-marsh made thick with brine and mire,
Sad with sick leavings of the sterile sea.
This is the end of every man's desire.
The burden of long living. Thou shalt fear
Waking, and sleeping mourn upon thy bed;
And say at night "Would God the day were here,"
And say at dawn "Would God the day were dead."
With weary days thou shalt be clothed and fed,
And wear remorse of heart for thine attire,
Pain for thy girdle and sorrow upon thine head;
This is the end of every man's desire.
The burden of bright colours. Thou shalt see
Gold tarnished, and the grey above the green;
And as the thing thou seest thy face shall be,
And no more as the thing beforetime seen.
And thou shalt say of mercy "It hath been,"
And living, watch the old lips and loves expire,
And talking, tears shall take thy breath between;
This is the end of every man's desire.
The burden of sad sayings. In that day
Thou shalt tell all thy days and hours, and tell
Thy times and ways and words of love, and say
How one was dear and one desirable,
And sweet was life to hear and sweet to smell,
But now with lights reverse the old hours retire
And the last hour is shod with fire from hell;
This is the end of every man's desire.
The burden of four seasons. Rain in spring,
White rain and wind among the tender trees;
A summer of green sorrows gathering,
Rank autumn in a mist of miseries,
With sad face set towards the year, that sees
The charred ash drop out of the dropping pyre,
And winter wan with many maladies;
This is the end of every man's desire.
The burden of dead faces. Out of sight
And out of love, beyond the reach of hands,
Changed in the changing of the dark and light,
They walk and weep about the barren lands
Where no seed is nor any garner stands,
Where in short breaths the doubtful days respire,
And time's turned glass lets through the sighing sands;
This is the end of every man's desire.
The burden of much gladness. Life and lust
Forsake thee, and the face of thy delight;
And underfoot the heavy hour strews dust,
And overhead strange weathers burn and bite;
And where the red was, lo the bloodless white,
And where the truth was, the likeness of a liar,
And where the day was, the likeness of the night;
This is the end of every man's desire.
L'ENVOY
Princes, and ye whom pleasure quickeneth,
Heed well this rhyme before your pleasure tire;
For life is sweet, but after life is death.
This is the end of every man's desire.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Old Friends Of Mine
The songs they were singing from the golden days of our spring. When laughter rang out from those old friend of mine.
Where have they gone in the passing of time, and where are they now those old friends of mine.
The years have clouded the memories of them. The grey hairs are showing, how long has it been?
Oh where did they go? The friends of my youth. The flames of a young life and the passions we knew.
The days are shorter. Life still goes on. Our children are playing like we used to do.
Will they remember the friends of their youth when they get our age in their September song?
Oh where have they now those old friends of mine?
31 Dec 1995
poem by David Harris
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My Only Song
Man of Sorrow
Man of Pain
You took it all
Without any gain.
You loved us all
With gentle eyes
Man of Sorrow
Man of Pain
39 plus one
Lashes great fall on your back
A crown of thorns
Pressed down around your head
The blood runs down
and yet you cry
'So many lost;
So many die.'
Man of Sorrow
Man of Pain
Leave it now-
And cry again
Man of sorrow
Man of pain
Your troubled heart
Feels my pain.
Lifted up to die
Bitter gall served fresh
As wine
Yet you'd do it again
For one lost sheep
That beats in the air.
Man of sorrow
Man of pain
When is it enough?
So much grief
You swallow up
Yet you bore it
And demand me live-
Man of sorrow
I humbled myself down.
All glory to you
Man of sorrow
All thrones belong to you
Man of pain
You gave me life and
Even more
I have nothing
But myself to give -
Yet I keep taking it back
Man of Sorrow
Man of Pain.
poem by Charlotte Ballard
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A Father's Innocence: the Princess Child
my soul who chooses
to live in solitude
has always cried in the winter cold -
seeking for your silky skin
to warm the snowy wave of air
that forms the morning dew.
in the green fields
beneath the mountain tops, my gaze
plays with the horizon between the lonely sky
and the grassy land i patiently till,
as tears fill up my emptiness
because it seeks for your heart.
my soul who chooses
to live in solitude
has always cried in the winter cold
like the soft white feathers from the heavens
that fall in the leafy woods,
lost, wandering -
deprived of the songs by the lake.
between the pristine sky
and the mountains of forests,
or the castle of our love
my heart shall seek for you
in vain, in infinity,
within the sweetness of innocence.
hear my heart from afar,
oh sweet songs of boundaries;
hear my heart from afar,
oh white doves of destiny;
for in the comforts of her embrace,
to her i shall rest, and for her i shall rest.
poem by Jaypee Belarmino
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Lead Me On
Shoulder to the wheel
For someone elses selfish gain
Here there is no choosing
Working the clay
Wearing their anger like a ball and chain.
Fire in the field
Underneath a blazing sun
But soon the sun was faded
And freedom was a song
I heard them singing when the day was done
Singing to the holy one.
Lead me on
Lead me on
To a place where the river runs
Into your keeping, oh.
Lead me on
Lead me on
The awaited deliverance
Comforts the seeking...lead on.
Waiting for the train
Labelled with a golden star
Heavy hearted boarding
Whispers in the dark
Where are we going--is it very far?
Bitter cold terrain
Echoes of a slamming door
In chambers made for sleeping, forever
Voices like thunder in a mighty roar
Cry to the lord.
Lead me on
Lead me on
To a place where the river runs
Into your keeping, oh.
Lead me on
Lead me on
The awaited deliverance
Comforts the seeking...lead on.
Man hurts man
Time and time, time again
And we drown in the wake of our power
Somebody tell me why.
Lead me on
Lead me on
To a place where the river runs
Into your keeping, oh.
Lead me on
Lead me on
The awaited deliverance
Comforts the seeking...lead on.
Lead me on
Lead me on
To a place where the river runs
Into your keeping, oh.
Lead me on
Lead me on
The awaited deliverance
Comforts the seeking...lead on.
song performed by by Amy Grant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'm Only Happy When
I'm only happy when it rains
without a cloud in the sky
I'm only happy in these chains
all that I can do is cry
I'm only happy when I bleed
it let's me know I'm alive
I'm only happy when I need
just myself to survive
I'm only happy when I dream
of my long lost love
I'm only happy when I scream
at the Heavens above
I'm only happy when I'm alone
at war with my brain
I'm only happy when I've known
that life is just pain
I'm only happy when I'm lost
and I can't find my way
I'm only happy when I've crossed
the path of disarray
I'm only happy when I see
death is my way out
I know I'll be free
I have no doubt
I'm only happy when I'm told
that I've gone insane
I'm only happy when I hold
all these thoughts in my brain
I'm only happy when I sleep
and go out of my mind
I'm only happy when I'm in too deep
I'm only happy when it's me you cannot find
poem by Haley Nicole
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Life
Let me but live my life from year to year,
With forward face and unreluctant soul;
Not hurrying to, nor turning from the goal;
Not mourning for the things that disappear
In the dim past, nor holding back in fear
From what the future veils; but with a whole
And happy heart, that pays its toll
To Youth and Age, and travels on with cheer.
So let the way wind up the hill or down,
O'er rough or smooth, the journey will be joy:
Still seeking what I sought when but a boy,
New friendship, high adventure, and a crown,
My heart will keep the courage of the quest,
And hope the road's last turn will be the best.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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The Next One
The next one
Will not be like me
I know I have flaws
As you plainly do see
I know I'm not perfect
But I know I did try
But you only see me
Through days of past eyes
I bet he'll be perfect
Say all the right things
Bring you all of the joy
A new relationship brings
Will he open your door?
As 9 years have gone by
When you share your hurts
Will he truthfully cry?
Will his heart stick with you?
Through thick and through thin?
Will he love you through everything?
The good stuff and sin?
Will he laugh at your jokes?
With genuine heart?
Will it last through the years?
Or just at the start?
Will he walk with you
Through all of your dreams?
And make them come true?
As sure as it seems.
If you lay in bed dying
Will he hold your last breath?
Will he love you forever?
Or just until death?
Will he change who he is?
To bring you much joy?
Will he cherish you like I do?
Or are you just a new toy?
Will he do what it takes?
To win back your heart.
Will he try to become
Who he was in the start?
Will he lead you to God?
Will he lead you to Hell?
I guess we'll find out
As only time will tell.
Will he love you like I do?
Through good times and bad?
When your loving or angry?
When your happy or mad?
Will he love you so deeply?
For you will he pray?
When things get real tough
Will he just walk away?
Would he walk through a fire?
Put his life on the line?
Give it all up for you?
Is his love stronger than mine?
Will he dream of a future?
Where you both will grow old?
Will he love you so dearly?
Will his love just turn cold?
If you did what I did
Would you just walk away?
Or stand up and fight on
Each and everyday
I just want you to be happy
So I'll let you go
You truly are worth it
I thought you should know
I will love you forever
After I leave this world
And even in heaven
You'll still be my girl
So now I to move on
Things will be what they'll be
For I know he won't love you
Won't love you like me.
poem by Ryan Lee Morris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Little Girl's Song
Do not mind my crying, Papa, I am not crying for pain.
Do not mind my shaking, Papa, I am not shaking with fear;
Tho' the wild wild wind is bideous to hear,
And I see the snow and the rain.
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?
Somebody else that you love, Papa,
Somebody else that you dearly love
Is weary, like me, because you're away.
Sometimes I see her lips tremble and move,
And I seem to know what they're going to say;
And every day, and all the long day,
I long to cry, 'Oh Mamma, Mamma,
When will Papa come back again?'
But before I can say it I see the pain
Creeping up on her white white cheek,
As the sweet sad sunshine creeps up the white wall,
And then I am sorry, and fear to speak;
And slowly the pain goes out of her cheek,
As the sad sweet sunshine goes from the wall.
Oh, I wish I were grown up wise and tall,
That I might throw my arms round her neck
And say, 'Dear Mamma, oh, what is it all
That I see and see and do not see
In your white white face all the livelong day?'
But she hides her grief from a child like me.
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?
Where were you going, Papa, Papa?
All this long while have you been on the sea?
When she looks as if she saw far away,
Is she thinking of you, and what does she see?
Are the white sails blowing,
And the blue men rowing,
And are you standing on the high deck
Where we saw you stand till the ship grew gray,
And we watched and watched till the ship was a speck,
And the dark came first to you, far away?
I wish I could see what she can see,
But she hides her grief from a child like me.
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?
Don't you remember, Papa, Papa,
How we used to sit by the fire, all three,
And she told me tales while I sat on her knee,
And heard the winter winds roar down the street,
And knock like men at the window pane,
And the louder they roared, oh, it seemed more sweet
To be warm and warm as we used to be,
Sitting at night by the fire, all three?
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?
Papa, I like to sit by the fire;
Why does she sit far away in the cold?
If I had but somebody wise and old,
That every day I might cry and say,
'Is she changed, do you think, or do I forget?
Was she always as white as she is to-day?
Did she never carry her head up higher?'
Papa, Papa, if I could but know!
Do you think her voice was always so low?
Did I always see what I seem to see
When I wake up at night and her pillow is wet?
You used to say her hair it was gold-
It looks like silver to me.
But still she tells the same tale that she told,
She sings the same songs when I sit on her knee,
And the house goes on as it went long ago,
When we lived together, all three.
Sometimes my heart seems to sink, Papa,
And I feel as if I could be happy no more.
Is she changed, do you think, Papa,
Or did I dream she was brighter before?
She makes me remember my snowdrop, Papa,
That I forgot in thinking of you,
The sweetest snowdrop that ever I knew!
But I put it out of the sun and the rain:
It was green and white when I put it away,
It had one sweet bell and green leaves four;
It was green and white when I found it that day,
It had one pale bell and green leaves four,
But I was not glad of it any more.
Was it changed, do you think, Papa,
Or did I dream it was brighter before?
Do not mind my crying, Papa,
I am not crying for pain.
Do not mind my shaking, Papa,
I am not shaking for fear;
Tho' the wild wild wind is hideous to hear,
And I see the snow and the rain.
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Young Zed Next Door
Patrick and Fleur have a baby daughter Arabella a little sister for young Zed next door
And he's so happy with his new born sibling and he himself still so young only four
And when you ask him how's his baby sister with a happy smile he answers she is good
These are the happiest days he will remember the foundation to a good life a happy childhood.
A fair haired boy with a cheerful disposition in years from now doubtless he will recall
His happy days in Watt street in Wonthaggi for good childhood memories are the best of all
His life journey may take him from Wonthaggi and he yet may live in a Land far away
But the miracle of the birth of Arabella through his life span with him destined to stay.
Young Zed next door is learning about Nature how birds and bees take nectar from the flowers
The honeyeaters sing in the back garden and magpie blows his flute in Spring's green hours
In Nature's garden natural growth is vibrant and blossoms bloom after the brief Spring showers
And childhood like Spring is such a time of beauty children's lives so spiritual when compared to ours.
I envy Zed his joy and innocence of childhood his young and happy soul full of sunshine
Long years ago and in a different country such joy and happiness was also mine
In Spring the World around me full of beauty and the lark was carolling in the clear blue sky
And wild brown bees out busy gathering nectar buzzing above the fields of Lisnaboy.
Young Zed next door is full of life and vigour he's such a cheerful and a happy boy
And the miracle of the birth of his young sister Arabella is
a thing he will look back on and enjoy
And in years from now these times he will remember though from Wonthaggi he may live far away
For happy childhood memories are the best of memories and through our life span with us tend to stay.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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