Snow-Flakes. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Second)
Out of the bosom of the Air
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Related quotes
Confession of a friend
Somewhere from within the air,
Somewhere from above the clouds,
From somewhere…
Over the woods, brown and bare,
Over the fields of foggy swares,
Silent, soft and slow,
Descends the white snow.
And,
Land with its snow, glows apar.
By the fascination of white snow fell,
Rise the confession of ground heart fell,
It was my fault I didn’t realise,
But now it is a different tale,
I wish a wish to have a friend like you,
Lucky enough to have,
Hope to have company of yours,
That’s my confession heart fell.
poem by Anurag Kumar
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Airborn Seeds
seeds fall
out of the bosom
of the air,
the seed
of each
unique
snowflake
born,
born from
the bosom
of mother nature,
the milk
of her
winter
nurturing
woven landscape,
the seed
are the snowflakes
born from
the cloud-folds
of her garments shaken,
soon to be shaken,
'Over the woodlands brown and bare'.
Quoted line from ‘Snowflakes’ by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Puffy Cloud
Drift away on a puffy cloud
Go away on a puffy cloud
My brain is dead from too much pot
'cause (gene) (dean) and i smoke too much pot
Cloudy cloudy cloudy cloud
Cloudy cloud cloudy cloud
Cloudy cloudy cloudy cloud
Cloudy cloud cloudy cloud
Float away on a cotton ball
We write songs about the clouds
My brain is dead from too much pot
'cause (gene) (dean) and i smoke too much pot
Cloudy cloudy cloudy cloud
Cloudy cloud cloudy cloud
Cloudy cloudy cloudy cloud
Cloudy cloud cloudy cloud
Drift away on a puffy cloud
Go away on a puffy cloud
My brain is dead from too much pot
'cause (gene) (dean) and i smoke too much pot
Cloudy cloudy cloudy cloud
Cloudy cloud cloudy cloud
Cloudy cloudy cloudy cloud
Cloudy cloud cloudy cloud
song performed by by Ween
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Puffy Cloud
Drift away on a puffy cloud
Go away on a puffy cloud
My brain is dead from too much pot
'cause (gene) (dean) and i smoke too much pot
Cloudy cloudy cloudy cloud
Cloudy cloud cloudy cloud
Cloudy cloudy cloudy cloud
Cloudy cloud cloudy cloud
Float away on a cotton ball
We write songs about the clouds
My brain is dead from too much pot
'cause (gene) (dean) and i smoke too much pot
Cloudy cloudy cloudy cloud
Cloudy cloud cloudy cloud
Cloudy cloudy cloudy cloud
Cloudy cloud cloudy cloud
Drift away on a puffy cloud
Go away on a puffy cloud
My brain is dead from too much pot
'cause (gene) (dean) and i smoke too much pot
Cloudy cloudy cloudy cloud
Cloudy cloud cloudy cloud
Cloudy cloudy cloudy cloud
Cloudy cloud cloudy cloud
song performed by by Ween
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Snowflakes Mist Born
snowflakes veil mist born
cloud-fold garments shaken
over woodlands brown bare
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Snow
White are the far-off plains, and white
The fading forests grow;
The wind dies out along the height,
And denser still the snow,
A gathering weight on roof and tree,
Falls down scarce audibly.
The road before me smooths and fills
Apace, and all about
The fences dwindle, and the hills
Are blotted slowly out;
The naked trees loom spectrally
Into the dim white sky.
The meadows and far-sheeted streams
Lie still without a sound;
Like some soft minister of dreams
The snow-fall hoods me round;
In wood and water, earth and air,
A silence everywhere.
Save when at lonely intervals
Some farmer's sleigh, urged on,
With rustling runners and sharp bells,
Swings by me and is gone;
Or from the empty waste I hear
A sound remote and clear;
The barking of a dog, or call
To cattle, sharply pealed,
Borne echoing from some wayside stall
Or barnyard far a-field;
Then all is silent, and the snow
Falls, settling soft and slow.
The evening deepens, and the gray
Folds closer earth and sky;
The world seems shrouded far away;
Its noises sleep, and I,
As secret as yon buried stream,
Plod dumbly on, and dream.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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I Am Troubled!
i am troubled...
lord, i am troubled.
i hear the cries
of starving children.
i feel the bombs,
burning up the night.
i smell poverty,
and i taste injustice.
i shudder at prejudice,
i write the prayers
of the forgotten...
and sign their names
on unmarked stones.
what have i done...
lord, what have i done?
with this life,
this path, this cross.
i feel guilty,
and i know their suffering.
i cant help but wonder,
what i could have done
to stop the flood.
i am troubled...
lord, i am troubled.
have i been silent for too long.
and have my words
fallen like ashes,
driven by the mongrel wind.
i am troubled...
lord, i am troubled!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Thoughts In A Wheat-Field
IN his wide fields walks the Master,
In his fair fields, ripe for harvest,
Where the evening sun shines slant-wise
On the rich ears heavy bending;
Saith the Master: 'It is time.'
Though no leaf shows brown decadence,
And September's nightly frost-bite
Only reddens the horizon,
'It is full time,' saith the Master,
The wise Master, 'It is time.'
Lo, he looks. That look compelling
Brings his laborers to the harvest;
Quick they gather, as in autumn
Passage-birds in cloudy eddies
Drop upon the seaside fields;
White wings have they, and white raiment,
White feet shod with swift obedience,
Each lays down his golden palm branch,
And uprears his sickle shining,
'Speak, O Master,--is it time?'
O'er the field the servants hasten,
Where the full-stored ears droop downwards,
Humble with their weight of harvest:
Where the empty ears wave upward,
And the gay tares flaunt in rows:
But the sickles, the sharp sickles,
Flash new dawn at their appearing,
Songs are heard in earth and heaven,
For the reapers are the angels,
And it is the harvest time.
O Great Master, are thy footsteps
Even now upon the mountains?
Are thou walking in thy wheat-field?
Are the snowy-wingèd reapers
Gathering in the silent air?
Are thy signs abroad, the glowing
Of the distant sky, blood-reddened,--
And the near fields trodden, blighted,
Choked by gaudy tares triumphant,--
Sure, it must be harvest time?
Who shall know the Master's coming?
Whether it be at dawn or sunset,
When night dews weigh down the wheat-ears,
Or while noon rides high in heaven,
Sleeping lies the yellow field?
Only, may thy voice, Good Master,
Peal above the reapers' chorus,
And dull sound of sheaves slow falling,--
'Gather all into My garner,
For it is My harvest time.'
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Sonnet To Love
AH , Love! ere yet I knew thy fatal power,
Bright glow'd the colour of my youthful days,
As on the sultry zone the torrid rays,
That paint the broad-leav'd plantain's glossy bower:
Calm was my bosom as this silent hour,
When o'er the deep, scarce heard, the zephyr strays,
'Midst the cool tamarinds indolently plays,
Nor from the orange shakes its od'rous flower:--
But ah! since Love has all my heart possest,
That desolated heart what sorrows tear!
Disturb'd, and wild as ocean's troubled breast,
When the hoarse tempest of the night is there!
Yet my complaining spirit asks no rest,
This bleeding bosom cherishes despair.
poem by Helen Maria Williams
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Snow And Rain
I have watched
and felt
both snow and rain
shaken
from bough
of tree limbs,
desired to linger
longer to watch
'Silent and soft and slow'
the first snow fall
as a new mantle
'Descends the snow'.
I wonder
if Longfellow
faced the same
dilemma,
the onset
of encroaching dark
or a possible
turn in the weather,
may necessitate
but the glimpse
with long hours
of hard hiking left
before
the days
journey
is over.
Copyright © Terence George Craddock
Quoted lines from ‘Snowflakes’ by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Cloudy
The sky is gray and white and cloudy
Sometimes I think it's hanging down on me
And it's a hitchhike a hundred miles
I'm a raga-muffin child
Pointed finger-painted smile
I left my shadow waiting down the road for me a while
Cloudy
My thoughts are scattered and they're cloudy
They have no boreders, no boundaries
They echo and they swell
From Tolstoi to Tinkerbell
Down from Berkeley to Carmel
Got some pictures in my pocket and a lot of time to kill
Hey sunshine
I haven't seen you in a long time
Why don't you show your face and bend my mind?
These clouds stick to the sky
Like a floating question why
And they linger there to die
They don't know where they are going, and, my friend, neither do I
Cloudy
Cloudy
song performed by by Simon & Garfunkel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Daybreak In a Garden
I heard the farm cocks crowing, loud, and faint, and thin,
When hooded night was going and one clear planet winked:
I heard shrill notes begin down the spired wood distinct,
When cloudy shoals were chinked and gilt with fires of day.
White-misted was the weald; the lawns were silver-grey;
The lark his lonely field for heaven had forsaken;
And the wind upon its way whispered the boughs of may,
And touched the nodding peony-flowers to bid them waken.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal
Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font;
The firefly wakens, waken thou with me.
Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost,
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.
Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me.
Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts, in me.
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake.
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Summer Night
NOW sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:
The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.
Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost,
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.
Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me.
Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake:
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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The Princess: A Medley: Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal
Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:
The fire-fly wakens: waken thou with me.
Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost,
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.
Now lies the earth all Danaë to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me.
Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake:
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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from 'The Princess
'Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:
The fire-fly wakens: wake thou with me.
Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost,
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.
Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me.
Now lies the silent meteor on, and leaves
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake:
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.'
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Early Works - Till Another Day Is Done
The woods are multi-coloured now
just before the coming of winter’s snow
the leaves have turned to red and beige
upon the coming of autumn’s rage,
but after the long dark night
the woodlands will be a blanket of white
with snow, soft as feathers
that fall from birds in fields of heather.
With the snow comes a soft wind
to shift and blend
then sparkle as diamonds in the sun
until another day is done.
Date unknown
poem by David Harris
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Psalm XXXII: Happy the Man
Happy the man to whom his God
No more imputes his sin,
But, washed in the Redeemer's blood,
Hath made his garments clean.
Happy beyond expression he
Who debts are thus discharged;
And from the guilty bondage free,
He feels his soul enlarged.
His spirit hates deceit and lies,
His words are all sincere;
He guards his heart, he guards his eyes,
To keep his conscience clear.
While I my inward guilt suppressed,
No quiet could I find;
Thy wrath lay burning in my breast,
And racked my tortured mind.
Then I confessed my troubled thoughts,
My secret sins revealed;
Thy pard'ning grace forgave my faults,
Thy grace my pardon sealed.
This shall invite thy saints to pray;
When like a raging flood
Temptations rise, our strength and stay
Is a forgiving God.
poem by Isaac Watts
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[03] Grief
When the kites fly in the sky
Like lovely tall ladies
A dark cloud extends
To the north-west horizon
Unseen aroma of pollen
Still spreads desire like magician
Exists like happiness
Without length width or height
But grief cuts heart
With a silent scissor
As soft like marmalade
As sour as tamarind
Is the grief final
As the death
For one and all
For living and non-livings
Poem 07
Book 'Affluent Love- The Silent Killer' February 2012
Copyright Writer
Adarsha Publishers, Dhaka, Bangladesh
ISBN 978-984-8875-33-9
poem by Ashraful Musaddeq
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Silent Tears
What bitter sorrow courses down
Yon mourner’s faded cheek?
Those scalding drops betray a grief
Within, too full to speak.
Outspoken words cannot express
The pangs, the pains of years;
They’re ne’er so deep or eloquent
As are those silent tears.
Here is a wound that in the breast
Must canker, hid’n from sight;
Though all without seems sunny day,
Within ’Tis ever night.
Yet sometimes from this secret source
The gloomy truth appears;
The wind’s dark dungeon must have vent
If but in silent tears.
The world may deem from outward looks
That heart is hard and cold;
But oh! could they the mantle lift
What sorrows would be told!
Then, only then, the truth would show
Which most the bosom sears:
The pain portrayed by burning words
Or that by—silent tears.
poem by Henry Kendall
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