The Golden Mile-Stone. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The First)
Leafless are the trees; their purple branches
Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral,
Rising silent
In the Red Sea of the winter sunset.
From the hundred chimneys of the village,
Like the Afreet in the Arabian story,
Smoky columns
Tower aloft into the air of amber.
At the window winks the flickering fire-light;
Here and there the lamps of evening glimmer,
Social watch-fires
Answering one another through the darkness.
On the hearth the lighted logs are glowing,
And like Ariel in the cloven pine-tree
For its freedom
Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in them.
By the fireside there are old men seated,
Seeing ruined cities in the ashes,
Asking sadly
Of the Past what it can ne'er restore them.
By the fireside there are youthful dreamers,
Building castles fair, with stately stairways,
Asking blindly
Of the Future what it cannot give them.
By the fireside tragedies are acted
In whose scenes appear two actors only,
Wife and husband,
And above them God the sole spectator.
By the fireside there are peace and comfort,
Wives and children, with fair, thoughtful faces,
Waiting, watching
For a well-known footstep in the passage.
Each man's chimney is his Golden Mile-Stone;
Is the central point, from which he measures
Every distance
Through the gateways of the world around him.
In his farthest wanderings still he sees it;
Hears the talking flame, the answering night-wind,
As he heard them
When he sat with those who were, but are not.
Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion,
Nor the march of the encroaching city,
Drives an exile
From the hearth of his ancestral homestead.
We may build more splendid habitations,
Fill our rooms with paintings and with sculptures,
But we cannot
Buy with gold the old associations!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Spark To Elder
Standing at the fireside,
The spark of life I eyed,
Flying into the night air.
Wind blowing her hair;
Boarding awaiting mare,
To ride without any care;
Into life’s clouds she slid,
A new life at desires bid.
An Ivory Palace enwalled;
No thoughts now recalled.
Tied by life’s silver cord,
To this worlds great hoard;
Not to live another’s will,
True to all things be real.
To sow whatever she may;
Reaping some future day,
With every action made,
Life’s debt she has paid.
Returning to the fireside;
Newest elder with pride!
poem by Joseph Blitch
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This Christmas
Words and music by donney hathway and nadine mckinnor
Hang all the mistletoe
Im gonna get to know you better
This christmas
And as we trim the tree
How much fun its gonna be together
This christmas
The fireside is blazing bright
Were caroling through the night
And this christmas will be
A very special christmas for me, yeah
Presents and cards are here
My world is filled with cheer and you
This christmas
Lights twinkle all around
But your eyes outshine the town
They do, this christmas
The fireside is blazing bright
Were caroling through the night
And this christmas will be
A very special christmas for me, yeah
This christmas will be
A very special christmas for me, yeah
The fireside is blazing bright
Were caroling through the night
Yeah, this christmas
Hang all the mistletoe
Im going to get to know you better
This christmas
This christmas
Yeah, this christmas will be
A very special christmas for me
This christmas
Hang all the mistletoe
Im going to get to know you better
This christmas
song performed by by Vonda Shepard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Men Who Made Bad Matches
'Tis the song of many husbands, and you all must understand
That you cannot call me coward now that women rule the land;
I have written much for women, where I thought that they were right,
But the men who made bad matches claim a song from me to-night.
Oh, the men who made bad matches are of every tribe and clime,
And, if Adam was the first man, then they date from Adam’s time.
They shall live and they shall suffer, until married life is past,
And the last sad son of Adam stands alone—at peace at last.
Oh, the men who made bad matches, and the Great Misunderstood,
Are through all the world a mighty and a silent brotherhood.
If a wife is discontented, every other woman knows—
But the men who made bad matches keep the cruel secret close.
You may say that you can tell them, by their clothing, if you will,
But a man may seem neglected, and his home be happy still.
You may tell by their assumption of conventional disguise—
But, the men who made bad matches, I can tell them by their eyes!
I have seen them by the camp-fire, where a child’s voice never comes,
I have seen them by the fireside, in their seeming happy homes—
Seen their wives’ false arms go round them, and the kisses that were lies—
Oh, the men who made bad matches! I can tell them by their eyes.
I have seen them bad in prison—seen them sullen, seen them sad;
I have seen them (in the mad-house)—I have seen them raving mad.
Watched them fight the battle bravely, for the children’s sake alone,
Like a father who has wronged them, and who lives but to atone.
But it’s cruel, oh! it’s cruel, for the husband and the wife,
Who have not one thought in common, and are yoked for weary life.
They must see it through and suffer, for the children they must rear—
Oh, the folk who made bad matches have a heavy cross to bear.
There is not a ray of comfort, in the future’s gloomy sky,
For the children of bad matches will make trouble by-and-bye.
And though second wives be angels, while the first wives were the worst,
No second wife yet wedded makes a man forget the first.
Ah! the men who made bad matches think more often than we know,
Of the girls they should have married, in the glorious long ago,
And there’s many a wife and mother thinks with bitter pain to-day,
Of her giddy, silly girlhood, and the man she sent away.
Life is sad for men and women, but the thoughts are bitter sad
Of the girls we should have married, and the boys we should have had.
But we’ll part now with a handshake, if we cannot with a kiss,
And bad matches may be mended in a better world than this.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This Christmas
Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Hang all the mistletoe
I'm going to get to know you better
This Christmas
And as we trim the tree
How much fun it is going to be together
This Christmas
The fireside is blazing bright
And were caroling through the night
[Chorus]
And This Christmas
Will be a very special Christmas
for me yeah
Yeah no no no no no no no no no
ummmmmmmmmmmm
[Verse 2]
Presents and Cards are here
My world is filled with cheer and you
This Christmas
And as I look around
Your eyes will shine around they do
This Christmas
The fireside is blazing bright
And were caroling through the night
[Chorus]
Shake a hand Shake a hand now
Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Have a merry Christmas
Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
[Bridge]
The fireside is blazing bright
And were caroling through the night
[Chorus]
Yeah
Shake a hand shake a hand now
Come along come along everybody
shake a hand shake a hand now
no no no no no no no no no
ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm [to the end]
song performed by by Joe
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Passing The Time
By ginger baker and mike taylor
It is a cold winter,
Away is the songbird.
And gone is her traveller,
She waits at home.
The sun is on holiday,
No leaves on the trees.
The animals sleep
While cold north wind blows.
The snowflakes are falling,
The roof a white blanket.
Theres ice on the window pane,
She waits alone.
She sits by the fireside,
The room is so warm.
Her children are sleeping,
She waits in their home.
Passing the time.
Passing the time.
Everything fine.
Passing the time, drinking red wine.
Passing the time, drinking red wine.
Passing the time, drinking red wine.
Passing the time, everything fine.
Passing the time, drinking red wine.
Passing the time, everything fine.
Passing the time, wine and time rhyme.
Passing the time.
It is a long winter,
Away is the summer.
She waits for her traveller
So far from home.
She sits by the fireside,
The room is so warm.
Theres ice on the window,
Shes lonely alone.
song performed by by Cream
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Passing The Time
By ginger baker and mike taylor
It is a cold winter,
Away is the songbird.
And gone is her traveller,
She waits at home.
The sun is on holiday,
No leaves on the trees.
The animals sleep
While cold north wind blows.
The snowflakes are falling,
The roof a white blanket.
Theres ice on the window pane,
She waits alone.
She sits by the fireside,
The room is so warm.
Her children are sleeping,
She waits in their home.
Passing the time.
Passing the time.
Everything fine.
Passing the time, drinking red wine.
Passing the time, drinking red wine.
Passing the time, drinking red wine.
Passing the time, everything fine.
Passing the time, drinking red wine.
Passing the time, everything fine.
Passing the time, wine and time rhyme.
Passing the time.
It is a long winter,
Away is the summer.
She waits for her traveller
So far from home.
She sits by the fireside,
The room is so warm.
Theres ice on the window,
Shes lonely alone.
song performed by by Eric Clapton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Cab Lamps
The crescent moon and clock tower are fair above the wall
Across the smothered lanes of ’Loo, the stifled vice and all,
And in the shadow yonder—like cats that wait for scraps—
The crowding cabs seem waiting—for you and me, perhaps.
The cab lamps are watching as they watched for you and me,
The cab lamps are a-watching and they watch unblinkingly.
The sea breeze in Macleay Street and star-angels over all,
But the slinking cabs of darkness keep their watch beside the wall.
Oh! the years we slipped like months—and the months like a day—
When our cabs slid from the stand—touched the kerb and sped away—
Oh! the cloak on girlish shoulders—Oh! the theatres and light!
And the private rooms and supper that were all in a night!
Oh! the rickshaw in Colombo! And the flat that no one knew,
Where the cab lamps watched Haymarket—London cabs for me and you.
Oh! the gay run “Home” by Paris when the world was ours to play
And the wild run back by Frisco that seems all in a day.
Oh! the cab lamps and rose curtains, when the lie called love seemed true,
While an honest wife and husband suffered by the lanes of ’Loo.
Oh! the health and strength and beauty and the money with its power—
And those two good lives we ruined that was all in an hour.
But the night policeman’s coming with a sharp suspicious eye,
And he’d shift us “quick and lively” to the sweet by and by.
So we’ll seek our frowsy bedroom, if the old hag lets us through—
Where our folks died broken-hearted in the cruel lanes of ’Loo.
The cab lamps are watching as they watched across the sea,
The cab lamps are watching, and they watch for you and me.
For you and me they waited, when the thing called love seemed true,
But the bull’s-eye of our midnight must not flash on me—and you.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The House Of Dust: Part 01: 02: One, from his high bright window in a tower
One, from his high bright window in a tower,
Leans out, as evening falls,
And sees the advancing curtain of the shower
Splashing its silver on roofs and walls:
Sees how, swift as a shadow, it crosses the city,
And murmurs beyond far walls to the sea,
Leaving a glimmer of water in the dark canyons,
And silver falling from eave and tree.
One, from his high bright window, looking down,
Peers like a dreamer over the rain-bright town,
And thinks its towers are like a dream.
The western windows flame in the sun's last flare,
Pale roofs begin to gleam.
Looking down from a window high in a wall
He sees us all;
Lifting our pallid faces towards the rain,
Searching the sky, and going our ways again,
Standing in doorways, waiting under the trees . . .
There, in the high bright window he dreams, and sees
What we are blind to,—we who mass and crowd
From wall to wall in the darkening of a cloud.
The gulls drift slowly above the city of towers,
Over the roofs to the darkening sea they fly;
Night falls swiftly on an evening of rain.
The yellow lamps wink one by one again.
The towers reach higher and blacker against the sky.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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The Tower
One, from his high bright window in a tower,
Leans out, as evening falls,
And sees the advancing curtain of the shower
Splashing its silver on roofs and walls:
Sees how, swift as a shadow, it crosses the city,
And murmurs beyond far walls to the sea,
Leaving a glimmer of water in the dark canyons,
And silver falling from eave and tree.
One, from his high bright window, looking down,
Peers like a dreamer over the rain-bright town,
And thinks its towers are like a dream.
The western windows flame in the sun's last flare,
Pale roofs begin to gleam.
Looking down from a window high in a wall
He sees us all;
Lifting our pallid faces towards the rain,
Searching the sky, and going our ways again,
Standing in doorways, waiting under the trees . . .
There, in the high bright window he dreams, and sees
What we are blind to,-we who mass and crowd
From wall to wall in the darkening of a cloud.
The gulls drift slowly above the city of towers,
Over the roofs to the darkening sea they fly;
Night falls swiftly on an evening of rain.
The yellow lamps wink one by one again.
The towers reach higher and blacker against the sky.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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She Only Exist In Dreams
She only exist in a dream
She only existed in a dream an old man dreamt, in his lonely cottage,
when sitting by the fireside patting his dog’s head. Knock on his door,
there she stood looking a dream and since he knew her he invited her
in. His dog happy too it had a bald pat top of its head, and the wood
in the hearth roared its approval. The elderly man was content too
only the real thing spoke a lot, burped, ate and used too much water
when having a shower and the real sex wasn’t that great either.
When the aged man awoke his chimney corner was cold and full of
ashes, but he was glad it had been a bad dream – perhaps too much
red win had cut down on the booze a bit- He sighed let out the dog,
went into the kitchen and made a cup of coffee, feeling quite relived
that his wishes had not come true.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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True Colours (Love Poem)
Blonde colours shine in my true love’s hair
Blue night solitude when we are apart
Red sunset romance of together evenings
Purple moments relaxing by the fireside
Grey eyes bright smile melt my heart
Pink glowing bodies curled on silver bed
White hot passion in my arms last night
Black coffee sips of breakfast intimacy.
poem by Ian Beckett
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Nearing Port
A blue line to the westward that surely is not cloud;
A green tinge in the waters; a clamorous bird-crowd;
Then far-off foamy edges, and hill-tops timber fringed;
And, perched aloft, a light-house, o'er grey cliffs golden-tinged.
O watchers leaning landward, know ye of nothing more?
And hear ye but the sea-birds? and see ye but the shore?
Nay, look awhile, and listen who bids you welcome there;
The great seas kiss her sandals, the high stars gem her hair!
Behold her in the gateway! high-held in either hand
A blazing beacon, lighted to lead you to the land.
“Now welcome, kindly welcome, who come to me for cheer!
My forts may frown on others, but ye have nought to fear.
The cannon's flash and thunder are all for joy to-day,
No murmurs meet your coming, none wish to bar your way.”
O, later called to labour, shall we who toiled at morn
Remember, as against you, the heat and burthen borne?
No, verily, we shall not! We pray the labourer's Lord
May give you after-comers a full day's full reward.
Now fear not, fair-haired maiden, for gladness waits thee here,
As by thy father's fireside in bygone days and dear.
Thy troubled brow, O matron, beneath its silvering hair,
Shall gain no fresher furrows, shall lose its look of care;
No longer for thy household the winter need'st thou dread,
Nor, fearing for to-morrow, shalt stint the children's bread.
And thou, a “mother's darling,” on those young locks of thine
What midnight rains shall batter, what tropic suns shall shine!
Thy tender hands, toil-hardened, unwonted tools shall wield,
Shall fell the columned forest, shall till the furrowed field.
Yet, when at England's fireside her olden tales are told,
Perchance, 'mid tearful silence, one from the land of gold.
Shall tell a brave new story, of want, and work, and care,
Of trial and of triumph, to touch the coldest there!
Now enter ye a haven your fathers have not known;
Now dwell ye in a country that once was not your own.
Part of the New World's army, the pioneers, are ye;
For whom there waits, ungathered, the wealth of earth and sea!
No need of “fiery baptism,” no blood, no tears to flow,
Ah, legions of the Caesars, had you but conquered so!
Ah, Vikings in Valhalla our fathers dead and gone
Could you have made such landing such golden shores upon!
poem by Mary Hannay Foott
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song - Crammag Light
The winter winds are blowin in from Ireland ‘cross the sea
I’m waiting on the pierhead here just watching seagulls wheel
The light is going down now and I’m thinking of the night
When you sailed out from this harbour wall down past Crammag light
The years have passed so slowly since I watched you sail away
I wonder if you’re on the waves still fishing night and day
The tourists have all gone now and I’m by the fireside
In the flames I see you sailing off down past Crammag light
(chorus)
Oh Johnny are you never coming back to Logan Bay
The harbour bell is silent now but seabirds on the wing
Are calling out to everywhere, above the breaking waves
But the only song that I can hear is the song the winter sings
Oh Johnny are you never coming back to Logan Bay
Remember when we stood upon the cliff at logan head
The sea was like a mill pond and the sun was setting red
The herring boats were drifting southwards on the flooding tide
In the distance we could see the moon over Crammag light
The waves are running high towards the fishpond cottage wall
And all the sea is empty now as darkness starts to fall
The Sanderlings are crying for another day that’s gone
To the south of Laggantulloch, Crammag’s light has just come on
(chorus)
Oh Johnny are you never coming back to Logan Bay
The harbour bell is silent now but seabirds on the wing
Are calling out to everywhere, above the breaking waves
But the only song that I can hear is the song the winter sings
Oh Johnny are you never coming back to Logan Bay
I’ve heard the talk about the ghost that haunts the waters here
They say that when the sun goes down his fishing boat appears
In winter’s gales and breaking waves, or so the legends say,
In the sweeping light from Crammag, heading north for Logan Bay
What the child hears at the fireside is soon known at the parish church.
Presentiment
"Sister, you've sat there all the day,
Come to the hearth awhile;
The wind so wildly sweeps away,
The clouds so darkly pile.
That open book has lain, unread,
For hours upon your knee;
You've never smiled nor turned your head;
What can you, sister, see?"
"Come hither, Jane, look down the field;
How dense a mist creeps on!
The path, the hedge, are both concealed,
Ev'n the white gate is gone
No landscape through the fog I trace,
No hill with pastures green;
All featureless is Nature's face.
All masked in clouds her mien.
"Scarce is the rustle of a leaf
Heard in our garden now;
The year grows old, its days wax brief,
The tresses leave its brow.
The rain drives fast before the wind,
The sky is blank and grey;
O Jane, what sadness fills the mind
On such a dreary day!"
"You think too much, my sister dear;
You sit too long alone;
What though November days be drear?
Full soon will they be gone.
I've swept the hearth, and placed your chair,.
Come, Emma, sit by me;
Our own fireside is never drear,
Though late and wintry wane the year,
Though rough the night may be."
"The peaceful glow of our fireside
Imparts no peace to me:
My thoughts would rather wander wide
Than rest, dear Jane, with thee.
I'm on a distant journey bound,
And if, about my heart,
Too closely kindred ties were bound,
'Twould break when forced to part.
"'Soon will November days be o'er:'
Well have you spoken, Jane:
My own forebodings tell me more--
For me, I know by presage sure,
They'll ne'er return again.
Ere long, nor sun nor storm to me
Will bring or joy or gloom;
They reach not that Eternity
Which soon will be my home."
Eight months are gone, the summer sun
Sets in a glorious sky;
A quiet field, all green and lone,
Receives its rosy dye.
Jane sits upon a shaded stile,
Alone she sits there now;
Her head rests on her hand the while,
And thought o'ercasts her brow.
She's thinking of one winter's day,
A few short months ago,
Then Emma's bier was borne away
O'er wastes of frozen snow.
She's thinking how that drifted snow
Dissolved in spring's first gleam,
And how her sister's memory now
Fades, even as fades a dream.
The snow will whiten earth again,
But Emma comes no more;
She left, 'mid winter's sleet and rain,
This world for Heaven's far shore.
On Beulah's hills she wanders now,
On Eden's tranquil plain;
To her shall Jane hereafter go,
She ne'er shall come to Jane!
poem by Charlotte Brontë from Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (1846)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Belmore Place
The corner of my street
Too many miles, too tired to sleep
On a plane of dreams and sunbeams
Coming home to belmore place
Fireside flickered lights
A brighter sign of winter pines
I live it up somewhere youll find
Im living up on belmore place
The corner of my dreams
So many thoughts, they sit too deep
On a train I travel on my memories
Coming home to belmore place
Fireside flickered lights
A brighter sign of winter pines
I live it up somewhere youll find
Im living up on belmore place
In the slumber of my sleep
So many thoughts they cover me
A sweet lullaby of melodies
Carried home to belmore place
Fireside flickered lights
A brighter sign of winter pines
I live it up somewhere youll find
Im living up on belmore place
song performed by by Candlebox
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The fireside is the tulip bed of a winter day.
Murtagh The Cobbler
The harvest moon was shinin’
As Murtagh came from the fair,
And Oh! The scent of the new-mown hay
And the gorsebloom in the air.
The night wind lifted his shock of hair
With whisperings weird and low,
And sang in his lonely, aching heart
Till he could not choose but go.
Aside from the dusky highway
Down a haunted old boreen
To where a strange light flickered
In under the hollies green--
All night he spent in that fairy dell,
Till the red dawn stained the sky;
And he sold his soul to the fairy folk
For the gift of the seeing eye.
Now he dwells in the mountain cabin,
Silent and unafraid,
The cabin his Father left him,
With the tools of his cobbler’s trade.
He has no hope of Heaven,
He has no fear of Hell,
But he shrinks with a passing shiver
At the sound of the chapel bell.
Th stern young priest came storming,
Ah! ‘tis bitter and cross was he,
But Murtagh gazed with clouded eyes
At the far-off shining sea.
And the wise old priest came pleading
With his understanding eyes;
Ah! Non can know the heart of a man
Like a priest grown old and wise.
But the bitter word and the kind word
Went by on the whispering wind,
For Murtagh’s eyes were seeing
Things hid from all human kind.
Below at the village fireside
By the flickering turf-fires flame,
Prays a little blue-eyes girsha
Sickly and frail and lame.
Till the smoky air around her
Is vibrant with angels’ wings,
For the heart of the child is near to God
And akin to holy things.
She prays and prays for Murtagh,
Who has been her friend for so long,
Who fashioned her crutch of mountain ash
And cheered her with smile and song.
And I know that the Lord of Mercy
Will hark to her cry of pain;
And turn his steps from the erring path
And give Murtagh his soul again.
poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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The first Snow for M 'lady Tara
Now almost imperceptibly the snow is falling steadily.
Unruffled by the slightest breeze to coat the branches of the trees
with layers of the purest white which sparkle in the pale moonlight.
A sight that’s pleasing to my eyes. Beneath the trees a blanket lies
as yet a flimsy covering but it is slowly thickening.
As falling snow relentlessly, continues drifting quietly.
The world reverts to black and white. It is a bitter winter’s night
I sit and watch from my window backlit by the firelights glow.
I’m thankful that I need not go outdoors amidst the falling snow.
I am content to stay inside I much prefer my fireside.
Although it’s beautiful to see the snow descending steadily.
I am too old to brave the cold I leave that to the young and bold.
Tomorrow with the morning sun the children will be having fun.
With cries of glee they’ll greet the snow and I will watch from my window.
The antics of small girls and boys as they engage in childish ploys.
Just as I did so long ago when I could enjoy the snow.
One benefit of being old I stay inside when it is cold.
My aching bones will not permit me to do much more than sit
and watch the children as they play and remember my young days.
18/08/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com.poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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