Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. Interlude VII.
Touched by the pathos of these rhymes,
The Theologian said: 'All praise
Be to the ballads of old times
And to the bards of simple ways,
Who walked with Nature hand in hand,
Whose country was their Holy Land,
Whose singing robes were homespun brown
From looms of their own native town,
Which they were not ashamed to wear,
And not of silk or sendal gay,
Nor decked with fanciful array
Of cockle-shells from Outre-Mer.'
To whom the Student answered: 'Yes;
All praise and honor! I confess
That bread and ale, home-baked, home-brewed,
Are wholesome and nutritious food,
But not enough for all our needs;
Poets--the best of them--are birds
Of passage; where their instinct leads
They range abroad for thoughts and words,
And from all climes bring home the seeds
That germinate in flowers or weeds.
They are not fowls in barnyards born
To cackle o'er a grain of corn;
And, if you shut the horizon down
To the small limits of their town,
What do you but degrade your bard
Till he at last becomes as one
Who thinks the all-encircling sun
Rises and sets in his back yard?'
The Theologian said again:
'It may be so; yet I maintain
That what is native still is best,
And little care I for the rest.
'T is a long story; time would fail
To tell it, and the hour is late;
We will not waste it in debate,
But listen to our Landlord's tale.'
And thus the sword of Damocles
Descending not by slow degrees,
But suddenly, on the Landlord fell,
Who blushing, and with much demur
And many vain apologies,
Plucking up heart, began to tell
The Rhyme of one Sir Christopher.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Town & Country
Written by dewey bunnell and gerry beckley, 1998
Found on human nature.
Touched by a butterfly on my way home
Flying who knows where
Walking down that dusty road
Without a care
The sun was shining up in the country
And bells were ringing downtown
Clouds were moving slow and lazy
While I was kicking around
And feeling out the town and the country
Feeling out the town and the country
Up on the hill I got a better look
I watched the river run brown (watched the river run brown)
And then I heard those songbirds singing
The country sound
When I got home I sat in my kitchen
And turned the television on (turned the tv on)
The news wasnt good so I didnt listen
I started clicking around
Thinking of the town and the country
I was thinking of the town and the country
Thinking of the town and the country
In the morning everything will be the same
Open up your world (watch the children play)
In the sun or rain
Thinking of the town and the country
A thinking of the town and the country
I was thinking of the town and the country (fade)
song performed by by America
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Town And Country
Touched by a butterfly on my way home
Flying who knows where
Walking down that dusty road
Without a care
The sun was shining up in the country
And bells were ringing downtown
Clouds were moving slow and lazy
While I was kicking around
And feeling out the town and the country
Feeling out the town and the country
Up on the hill I got a better look
I watched the river run brown (watched the river run brown)
And then I heard those songbirds singing
The country sound
When I got home I sat in my kitchen
And turned the television on (turned the TV on)
The news wasn't good so I didn't listen
I started clicking around
Thinking of the town and the country
I was thinking of the town and the country
Thinking of the town and the country
In the morning everything will be the same
Open up your world (watch the children play)
In the sun or rain
Thinking of the town and the country
A thinking of the town and the country
I was thinking of the town and the country (fade)
song performed by by America
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. Interlude VI.
'Now that is after my own heart,'
The Poet cried; 'one understands
Your swarthy hero Scanderbeg,
Gauntlet on hand and boot on leg,
And skilled in every warlike art,
Riding through his Albanian lands,
And following the auspicious star
That shone for him o'er Ak-Hissar.'
The Theologian added here
His word of praise not less sincere,
Although he ended with a jibe;
'The hero of romance and song
Was born,' he said, 'to right the wrong;
And I approve; but all the same
That bit of treason with the Scribe
Adds nothing to your hero's fame.'
The Student praised the good old times,
And liked the canter of the rhymes,
That had a hoofbeat in their sound;
But longed some further word to hear
Of the old chronicler Ben Meir,
And where his volume might he found.
The tall Musician walked the room
With folded arms and gleaming eyes,
As if he saw the Vikings rise,
Gigantic shadows in the gloom;
And much he talked of their emprise
And meteors seen in Northern skies,
And Heimdal's horn, and day of doom.
But the Sicilian laughed again;
'This is the time to laugh,' he said,
For the whole story he well knew
Was an invention of the Jew,
Spun from the cobwebs in his brain,
And of the same bright scarlet thread
As was the Tale of Kambalu.
Only the Landlord spake no word;
'T was doubtful whether he had heard
The tale at all, so full of care
Was he of his impending fate,
That, like the sword of Damocles,
Above his head hung blank and bare,
Suspended by a single hair,
So that he could not sit at ease,
But sighed and looked disconsolate,
And shifted restless in his chair,
Revolving how he might evade
The blow of the descending blade.
The Student came to his relief
By saying in his easy way
To the Musician: 'Calm your grief,
My fair Apollo of the North,
Balder the Beautiful and so forth;
Although your magic lyre or lute
With broken strings is lying mute,
Still you can tell some doleful tale
Of shipwreck in a midnight gale,
Or something of the kind to suit
The mood that we are in to-night
For what is marvellous and strange;
So give your nimble fancy range,
And we will follow in its flight.'
But the Musician shook his head;
'No tale I tell to-night,' he said,
'While my poor instrument lies there,
Even as a child with vacant stare
Lies in its little coffin dead.'
Yet, being urged, he said at last:
'There comes to me out of the Past
A voice, whose tones are sweet and wild,
Singing a song almost divine,
And with a tear in every line;
An ancient ballad, that my nurse
Sang to me when I was a child,
In accents tender as the verse;
And sometimes wept, and sometimes smiled
While singing it, to see arise
The look of wonder in my eyes,
And feel my heart with terror beat.
This simple ballad I retain
Clearly imprinted on my brain,
And as a tale will now repeat.'
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. Interlude III.
Thus ran the Student's pleasant rhyme
Of Eginhard and love and youth;
Some doubted its historic truth,
But while they doubted, ne'ertheless
Saw in it gleams of truthfulness,
And thanked the Monk of Lauresheim.
This they discussed in various mood;
Then in the silence that ensued
Was heard a sharp and sudden sound
As of a bowstring snapped in air;
And the Musician with a bound
Sprang up in terror from his chair,
And for a moment listening stood,
Then strode across the room, and found
His dear, his darling violin
Still lying safe asleep within
Its little cradle, like a child
That gives a sudden cry of pain,
And wakes to fall asleep again;
And as he looked at it and smiled,
By the uncertain light beguiled,
Despair! two strings were broken in twain.
While all lamented and made moan,
With many a sympathetic word
As if the loss had been their own,
Deeming the tones they might have heard
Sweeter than they had heard before,
They saw the Landlord at the door,
The missing man, the portly Squire!
He had not entered, but he stood
With both arms full of seasoned wood,
To feed the much-devouring fire,
That like a lion in a cage
Lashed its long tail and roared with rage.
The missing man! Ah, yes, they said,
Missing, but whither had he fled?
Where had he hidden himself away?
No farther than the barn or shed;
He had not hidden himself, nor fled;
How should he pass the rainy day
But in his barn with hens and hay,
Or mending harness, cart, or sled?
Now, having come, he needs must stay
And tell his tale as well as they.
The Landlord answered only: 'These
Are logs from the dead apple-trees
Of the old orchard planted here
By the first Howe of Sudbury.
Nor oak nor maple has so clear
A flame, or burns so quietly,
Or leaves an ash so clean and white;'
Thinking by this to put aside
The impending tale that terrified;
When suddenly, to his delight,
The Theologian interposed,
Saying that when the door was closed,
And they had stopped that draft of cold,
Unpleasant night air, he proposed
To tell a tale world-wide apart
From that the Student had just told;
World-wide apart, and yet akin,
As showing that the human heart
Beats on forever as of old,
As well beneath the snow-white fold
Of Quaker kerchief, as within
Sendal or silk or cloth of gold,
And without preface would begin.
And then the clamorous clock struck eight,
Deliberate, with sonorous chime
Slow measuring out the march of time,
Like some grave Consul of old Rome
In Jupiter's temple driving home
The nails that marked the year and date.
Thus interrupted in his rhyme,
The Theologian needs must wait;
But quoted Horace, where he sings
The dire Necessity of things,
That drives into the roofs sublime
Of new-built houses of the great
The adamantine nails of Fate.
When ceased the little carillon
To herald from its wooden tower
The important transit of the hour,
The Theologian hastened on,
Content to be allowed at last
To sing his Idyl of the Past.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sown Home Town
The world outside don't like us much,
'Cos they ain't got our classy touch,
But they ain't good enough to breathe,
This towns good air we make 'em leave
CHORUS
But it's no, no, no,
you really can't do that,
No, no, no,
down home town
No monkey business in this town,
Well who do you think you're pushing 'round,
This towns respectable and clean,
Just look around you'll see what I mean
CHORUS Repeat
Down home town
Down home town
Down home town
Down home town
Down home town
Down home town
CHORUS Repeat
We got the best town band around,
Just listen to their crazy sound
When they get hot they gonna blow,
You see them running every show
(I wish I was in the land of Dixie
Look Away...)
Down home town,
Gotta get down
Down home town
Gotta get down
Down home town
Down home town
Down home town
CHORUS
(I wish I was in the land of Dixie
Look Away...)
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Im Going Back Home
Rudy stevenson
Im going back home where I was born
First I planned to stay but I cant live this way
Im going back home where I was born
Try to understand I think this citys grand
But with all its charme give me the little country farm
Im going back home where I was born
Oh yeah oh yeah oh yeah now oh yeah
I tell you all about it I think you ought to know
Tell you all about it why I wanna go
I miss the country preacher and the house of prayer
I miss the bootlegger smelling in the air
Miss friendly faces and the country smiles
The crickets singing you can hear it for miles
Miss the rooster crowing at the break of dawn
Yes it all happens where I was born
Miss the fried chicken colored greens
Miss the hot biscuits and the lima beans
Miss the prayer meeting where the people pray
With the drum beating till the break of day
You can have it you can have it
You can have it you can have it
You can have thy town I wont be around
This here lifes too fast but ll never never last
Im going back home where I was born
I got to go home got to go home
Where the people are real people can feel
Got to go down got to go down
Leave here today on my way so long so long
Going back home going back home
Got to go home got to go home
Got to go home got to go home
Where I where I was born
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Brown's Tram
A city clerk was Henry Brown,
Whose suburb knew nor tram nor train;
And ev'ry morn he walked to town.
From nine till five, with busy brain,
He labored in an office dim.
Each eve he walked out home again.
And all this tramping seemed to him
A waste of time, for, 'mid the strife,
He could not keep his lawn in trim.
It clouded his domestic life -
This going early, coming late -
And much distressed his little wife.
Then some wise man declared the State
Should put in trams, and for this scheme
Brown was a red-hot advocate.
At last he realised his dream;
And daily in and out of town
He trammed it with content supreme.
For, though it cost him half-a-crown
A week in fares, the time he saved
Meant much to him and Mrs. Brown.
And so they lived and pinched and slaved
And their suburban happiness
Seemed all that they had ever craved.
The little wife began to bless
The trams; nor grieved their meagre dole
Was weekly two and sixpence less.
Then Brown's employer, kindly soul,
Learned of this tram-car luxury,
And promptly rose to take his toll.
He sent for Brown and said that he
Should now contrive to come at eight
Since trams blessed his vicinity.
He also deemed it wise to state
That idleness begat much ill,
And it was wrong to sleep in late.
Yet Brown contrived to tram it still,
And trim his lawn with tender care,
And pay his rent and baker's bill.
His little wife vowed it unfair;
But bowed to stern, relentless fate,
And smiled and sewed and worked her share.
Just here, the landlord wrote to state,
Since trams improved his property,
He'd raise the rent as from that date.
'Three shillings weekly will not be
Too much - an equitable rise,
Considering the trams,' wrote he.
What profit oaths or women's sighs?
His 'sacred rights,' of wealth the fount,
A landlord has to recognise.
To what do poor clerks' lives amount?
An extra hour of slavery
Swells an employer's bank account.
The wealthy boss thanks God that he
Has saved some money out of Brown.
The landlord smiles contentedly.
The trams run gaily up and down,
A sight Brown sadly notes as he
Plods daily in and out of town.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 2. Interlude IV.
When the long murmur of applause
That greeted the Musician's lay
Had slowly buzzed itself away,
And the long talk of Spectre Ships
That followed died upon their lips
And came unto a natural pause,
'These tales you tell are one and all
Of the Old World,' the Poet said,
'Flowers gathered from a crumbling wall,
Dead leaves that rustle as they fall;
Let me present you in their stead
Something of our New England earth,
A tale which, though of no great worth,
Has still this merit, that it yields
A certain freshness of the fields,
A sweetness as of home-made bread.'
The Student answered: 'Be discreet;
For if the flour be fresh and sound,
And if the bread be light and sweet,
Who careth in what mill 't was ground,
Or of what oven felt the heat,
Unless, as old Cervantes said,
You are looking after better bread
Than any that is made of wheat?
You know that people nowadays
To what is old give little praise;
All must be new in prose and verse:
They want hot bread, or something worse,
Fresh every morning, and half baked;
The wholesome bread of yesterday,
Too stale for them, is thrown away,
Nor is their thirst with water slaked.
As oft we see the sky in May
Threaten to rain, and yet not rain,
The Poet's face, before so gay,
Was clouded with a look of pain,
But suddenly brightened up again;
And without further let or stay
He told his tale of yesterday.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. Interlude I.
The Landlord ended thus his tale,
Then rising took down from its nail
The sword that hung there, dim with dust
And cleaving to its sheath with rust,
And said, 'This sword was in the fight.'
The Poet seized it, and exclaimed,
'It is the sword of a good knight,
Though homespun was his coat-of-mail;
What matter if it be not named
Joyeuse, Colada, Durindale,
Excalibar, or Aroundight,
Or other name the books record?
Your ancestor, who bore this sword
As Colonel of the Volunteers,
Mounted upon his old gray mare,
Seen here and there and everywhere,
To me a grander shape appears
Than old Sir William, or what not,
Clinking about in foreign lands
With iron gauntlets on his hands,
And on his head an iron pot!'
All laughed; the Landlord's face grew red
As his escutcheon on the wall;
He could not comprehend at all
The drift of what the Poet said;
For those who had been longest dead
Were always greatest in his eyes;
And be was speechless with surprise
To see Sir William's pluméd head
Brought to a level with the rest,
And made the subject of a jest.
And this perceiving, to appease
The Landlord's wrath, the others' fears,
The Student said, with careless ease,
'The ladies and the cavaliers,
The arms, the loves, the courtesies,
The deeds of high emprise, I sing!
Thus Ariosto says, in words
That have the stately stride and ring
Of arméd knights and clashing swords.
Now listen to the tale I bring;
Listen! though not to me belong
The flowing draperies of his song,
The words that rouse, the voice that charms.
The Landlord's tale was one of arms,
Only a tale of love is mine,
Blending the human and divine,
A tale of the Decameron, told
In Palmieri's garden old,
By Fiametta, laurel-crowned,
While her companions lay around,
And heard the intermingled sound
Of airs that on their errands sped,
And wild birds gossiping overhead,
And lisp of leaves, and fountain's fall,
And her own voice more sweet than all,
Telling the tale, which, wanting these,
Perchance may lose its power to please.'
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Proud Lady
When Stiivoren town was in its prime
And queened the Zuyder Zee,
Its ships went out to every clime
With costly merchantry.
A lady dwelt in that rich town,
The fairest in all the land;
She walked abroad in a velvet gown,
With many rings on her hand.
Her hair was bright as the beaten gold,
Her lips as coral red,
Her roving eyes were blue and bold,
And her heart with pride was fed.
For she was proud of her father's ships,
As she watched them gayly pass;
And pride looked out of her eyes and lips
When she saw herself in the glass.
"Now come," she said to the captains ten,
Who were ready to put to sea,
"Ye are all my men and my father's men,
And what will ye do for me?"
"Go north and south, go east and west,
And get me gifts," she said.
"And he who bringeth me home the best,
With that man will I wed."
So they all fared forth, and sought with care
In many a famous mart,
For satins and silks and jewels rare,
To win that lady's heart.
She looked at them all with never a thought,
And careless put them by;
"I am not fain of the things ye brought,
Enough of these have I."
The last that came was the head of the fleet,
His name was Jan Borel;
He bent his knee at the lady's feet,--
In truth he loved her well.
"I've brought thee home the best i' the world,
A shipful of Danzig corn!"
She stared at him long; her red lips curled,
Her blue eyes filled with scorn.
"Now out on thee, thou feckless kerl,
A loon thou art," she said.
"Am I a starving beggar girl?
Shall I ever lack for bread?"
"Go empty all thy sacks of grain
Into the nearest sea,
And never show thy face again
To make a mock of me."
Then Jan Borel, he hoisted sail,
And out to sea he bore;
He passed the Helder in a gale
And came again no more.
But the grains of corn went drifting down
Like devil-scattered seed,
To sow the harbor of the town
With a wicked growth of weed.
The roots were thick and the silt and sand
Were gathered day by day,
Till not a furlong out from land
A shoal had barred the way.
Then Stavoren town saw evil years,
No ships could out or in,
The boats lay rotting at the piers,
And the mouldy grain in the bin.
The grass-grown streets were all forlorn,
The town in ruin stood,
The lady's velvet gown was torn,
Her rings were sold for food.
Her father had perished long ago,
But the lady held her pride,
She walked with a scornful step and slow,
Till at last in her rags she died.
Yet still on the crumbling piers of the town,
When the midnight moon shines free,
woman walks in a velvet gown
And scatters corn in the sea.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
My Home Town
My home town
The place where I was born,
where I learned of love
And was taught of truth
And where my thoughts were formed
In my home town.
My home town
How highly you do you rate
Where united we stand
And divided we fall
When our nation calls,
In my home state
My great state.
My homeland
Majestically do you stand
With your mountains so near
And your people so dear
Ready to listen and hear
In our homeland
Our grand land.
My homeland
Kentucky at its grace
The land I have known
Where my thoughts have grown,
In my bluegrass home
My own sweet home
Our own Kentucky home.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 2. Interlude VI.
All praised the Legend more or less;
Some liked the moral, some the verse;
Some thought it better, and some worse
Than other legends of the past;
Until, with ill-concealed distress
At all their cavilling, at last
The Theologian gravely said:
'The Spanish proverb, then, is right;
Consult your friends on what you do,
And one will say that it is white,
And others say that it is red.'
And 'Amen!' quoth the Spanish Jew.
'Six stories told! We must have seven,
A cluster like the Pleiades,
And lo! it happens, as with these,
That one is missing from our heaven.
Where is the Landlord? Bring him here;
Let the Lost Pleiad reappear.'
Thus the Sicilian cried, and went
Forthwith to seek his missing star,
But did not find him in the bar,
A place that landlords most frequent,
Nor yet beside the kitchen fire,
Nor up the stairs, nor in the hall;
It was in vain to ask or call,
There were no tidings of the Squire.
So he came back with downcast head,
Exclaiming: 'Well, our bashful host
Hath surely given up the ghost.
Another proverb says the dead
Can tell no tales; and that is true.
It follows, then, that one of you
Must tell a story in his stead.
You must,' he to the Student said,
'Who know so many of the best,
And tell them better than the rest.'
Straight by these flattering words beguiled,
The Student, happy as a child
When he is called a little man,
Assumed the double task imposed,
And without more ado unclosed
His smiling lips, and thus began.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
President Kennedy
(sleepy john estes)
Late one friday evening everybody was sad
We lost the best president we ever had
But hes gone home, gone back home
Hes staying away too long
Rode from town to town holdin up for our rights
Some low down rascal took the presidents life
But hes gone home, gone back home
Hes staying away too long
Mrs. kennedy got a mansion on the island, stayed 9 months, all shed be
She have another mansion, soon as she reach washington, d.c.
But hes gone home, gone back home
Hes staying away too long
Everybody votes, they dont know whats goin on
If goldwater get it, we wont have no home
But hes gone home, gone back home
Hes staying away too long
While horses and cars all in a row
I think mr. kennedy have a right to this long white robe
But hes gone home, gone back home
Hes staying away too long
song performed by by Ry Cooder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
A Word from the Bards
IT IS New Year’s Day and I rise to state that here on the Sydney side
The Bards have commenced to fill out of late and they’re showing their binjies with pride
They’re patting their binjies with pride, old man, and I want you to understand,
That a binjied bard is a bard indeed when he sings in the Southern Land,
Old chaps,
When he sings in the Southern Land.
For the Southern Land is the Poet’s Home, and over the world’s wide roam,
There was never till now a binjied bard that lived in a poet’s home, old man;
For the poet’s home was a hell on earth, and I want you to understand,
That it isn’t exactly a paradise down here in the Southern Land,
Old chap,
Down here in the Southern Land.
The Beer and the Bailiff were gone last night and the “temple” doorstep clean,
And our heads are clear and our hearts are light with wine from the Riverine—
With wine from the Riverine, old man, and I want you to understand
That Bard, Beer and Bailiff too long were kin down here in the Southern Land,
Old man,
Down here in the Southern Land.
It is not because of a larger fee, nor yet that the bards are free,
For the bards I know and the bards I see are married enough for three;
Are married enough for three, old man, and I want you to understand,
They’ve a right to be married enough for four, down here in the Southern Land,
My girl,
Down here in the Southern Land.
But I think it’s because a bird went round and twittered in ears of men
That bards have care and the world seems bare as seen from the rhyming den,
And twittered in ears of men, old chaps, and got folks to understand
That a poet is something more than a joke down here in the Southern Land,
Old man,
Down here in the Southern Land.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. Interlude II.
Soon as the story reached its end,
One, over eager to commend,
Crowned it with injudicious praise;
And then the voice of blame found vent,
And fanned the embers of dissent
Into a somewhat lively blaze.
The Theologian shook his head;
'These old Italian tales,' he said,
'From the much-praised Decameron down
Through all the rabble of the rest,
Are either trifling, dull, or lewd;
The gossip of a neighborhood
In some remote provincial town,
A scandalous chronicle at best!
They seem to me a stagnant fen,
Grown rank with rushes and with reeds,
Where a white lily, now and then,
Blooms in the midst of noxious weeds
And deadly nightshade on its banks.'
To this the Student straight replied,
'For the white lily, many thanks!
One should not say, with too much pride,
Fountain, I will not drink of thee!
Nor were it grateful to forget,
That from these reservoirs and tanks
Even imperial Shakespeare drew
His Moor of Venice, and the Jew,
And Romeo and Juliet,
And many a famous comedy.'
Then a long pause; till some one said,
'An Angel is flying overhead!'
At these words spake the Spanish Jew,
And murmured with an inward breath:
'God grant, if what you say be true,
It may not be the Angel of Death!'
And then another pause; and then,
Stroking his beard, he said again:
'This brings back to my memory
A story in the Talmud told,
That book of gems, that book of gold,
Of wonders many and manifold,
A tale that often comes to me,
And fills my heart, and haunts my brain,
And never wearies nor grows old.'
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Traveller
'Tis sweet to think of home.
When from my native clime,
Mid lonely vallies pensive far I roam,
Mid rocks and hills where waters roll sublime,
'Tis sweet to think of home.
My retrospective gaze
Bounds on a dark horizon far behind,
But yet the stars of homely pleasures blaze
And glimmer on my mind.
When pealing thunders roll,
And ruffian winds howl, threat'ning life with gloom,
To Heaven's kind hand I then commit the whole,
And smile to think of home.
But cease, my pensive soul,
To languish at departure's gloomy shrine;
Still look in front and hail the joyful goal,
The pleasure teeming line.
When on the deep wide sea
I wander, sailing mid the swelling foam,
Tost from the land by many a long degree,
O, then I think of thee.
I never shall forget
The by-gone pleasures of my native shore,
Until the sun of life forbears to set,
And pain is known no more.
When nature seems to weep,
And life hangs trembling o'er the watery tomb,
Hope lifts her peaceful sail to brave the deep,
And bids me think of home.
My favorite pigeon rest,
Nor on the plane of sorrow drop thy train,
But on the bough of hope erect thy nest,
Till friends shall meet again.
Though in the hermit's cell,
Where eager friends to cheer me fail to come,
Where Zeph'rus seems a joyless tale to tell,
No thought is sweet but home.
poem by George Moses Horton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Going Home
Writers: leo sayer & alan tarney
No crying no sighing Im going home
Im leaving no grieving Im going home
And theres no one here
And theres nothing here gonna turn me around
Been a lifetime here full of doubt and fear
Been the talk of the town
Im going home
Im going home
Im going home
Im smiling Im flying Im going home
No sad face no suitcase Im going home
And Im thinking back
To the girl I left is she waiting for me
When I left my heart wasnt in my hands
Is she waiting home for me
When I get home
When I get home
When I get home
I know my friends will be there
And they will welcome me
Ill wash away these memories
From these dirty streets
When I get home
When I get home
When I get home
When I get home
Im dreaming Im scheming Im going home
Im racing times wasting Im going home
And I see my home and I see my dream
I see everyone there
Going right back down to when I was free
And I hadnt a care
Im going home
Im going home
Im going home
And in my babys eyes
I see joy and pride
Uncover all those lies
That I left behind
When I get home
And I see my home and I see my dream
I see everyone there
Going right back down to when I was free
And I hadnt a care
When I get home
song performed by by Leo Sayer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Devotion (song/poem)
Picked up a four leaf clover
and held it in my hand
I thought about times gone by
Getting to from where I began
I head down long tattered road
Lost and worn for wear
I wonder what shall great when
I ever make it there
When I go home
Will I remember you?
When I go home
Will a memory linger too?
When I go home
Will I know your name?
At one journey's end another beginning
So similar, yet not quite the same
I wonder if true love ever
will truly strike me twice?
Like lightning in a bottle
Zooms past quickly and forever out.of.sight.
Who will be there to hold my hand
On the long journey home?
Though apart we are together
and never quite alone.
When I go home
Will I remember you?
When I go home
Will a memory linger too?
When I go home
Will I know your name?
At one journey's end another beginning
So similar, yet not quite the same
poem by Kristen Brown
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 2. Interlude V.
Well pleased the audience heard the tale.
The Theologian said: 'Indeed,
To praise you there is little need;
One almost hears the farmers flail
Thresh out your wheat, nor does there fail
A certain freshness, as you said,
And sweetness as of home-made bread.
But not less sweet and not less fresh
Are many legends that I know,
Writ by the monks of long-ago,
Who loved to mortify the flesh,
So that the soul might purer grow,
And rise to a diviner state;
And one of these--perhaps of all
Most beautiful--I now recall,
And with permission will narrate;
Hoping thereby to make amends
For that grim tragedy of mine,
As strong and black as Spanish wine,
I told last night, and wish almost
It had remained untold, my friends;
For Torquemada's awful ghost
Came to me in the dreams I dreamed,
And in the darkness glared and gleamed
Like a great lighthouse on the coast.'
The Student laughing said: 'Far more
Like to some dismal fire of bale
Flaring portentous on a hill;
Or torches lighted on a shore
By wreckers in a midnight gale.
No matter; be it as you will,
Only go forward with your tale.'
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Goody for Our Side and Your Side Too
Foreigners are people somewhere else,
Natives are people at home;
If the place you’re at
Is your habitat,
You’re a foreigner, say in Rome.
But the scales of Justice balance true,
And tit leads into tat,
So the man who’s at home
When he stays in Rome
Is abroad when he’s where you’re at.
When we leave the limits of the land in which
Our birth certificates sat us,
It does not mean
Just a change of scene,
But also a change of status.
The Frenchman with his fetching beard,
The Scot with his kilt and sporran,
One moment he
May a native be,
And the next may find him foreign.
There’s many a difference quickly found
Between the different races,
But the only essential
Differential
Is living different places.
Yet such is the pride of prideful man,
From Austrians to Australians,
That wherever he is,
He regards as his,
And the natives there, as aliens.
Oh, I’ll be friends if you’ll be friends,
The foreigner tells the native,
And we’ll work together for our common ends
Like a preposition and a dative.
If our common ends seem mostly mine,
Why not, you ignorant foreigner?
And the native replies
Contrariwise;
And hence, my dears, the coroner.
So mind your manners when a native, please,
And doubly when you visit
And between us all
A rapport may fall
Ecstatically exquisite.
One simple thought, if you have it pat,
Will eliminate the coroner:
You may be a native in your habitat,
But to foreigners you’re just a foreigner.
poem by Ogden Nash
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!