En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Ultima Thule: From My Arm-Chair

Am I a king, that I should call my own
This splendid ebon throne?
Or by what reason, or what right divine,
Can I proclaim it mine?

Only, perhaps, by right divine of song
It may to me belong;
Only because the spreading chestnut tree
Of old was sung by me.

Well I remember it in all its prime,
When in the summer-time
The affluent foliage of its branches made
A cavern of cool shade.

There, by the blacksmith's forge, beside the street,
Its blossoms white and sweet
Enticed the bees, until it seemed alive,
And murmured like a hive.

And when the winds of autumn, with a shout,
Tossed its great arms about,
The shining chestnuts, bursting from the sheath,
Dropped to the ground beneath.

And now some fragments of its branches bare,
Shaped as a stately chair,
Have by my hearthstone found a home at last,
And whisper of the past.

The Danish king could not in all his pride
Repel the ocean tide,
But, seated in this chair, I can in rhyme
Roll back the tide of Time.

I see again, as one in vision sees,
The blossoms and the bees,
And hear the children's voices shout and call,
And the brown chestnuts fall.

I see the smithy with its fires aglow,
I hear the bellows blow,
And the shrill hammers on the anvil beat
The iron white with heat!

And thus, dear children, have ye made for me
This day a jubilee,
And to my more than three-score years and ten
Brought back my youth again.

The heart hath its own memory, like the mind,
And in it are enshrined
The precious keepsakes, into which is wrought
The giver's loving thought.

Only your love and your remembrance could
Give life to this dead wood,
And make these branches, leafless now so long,
Blossom again in song.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Village Blacksmith

Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a might man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawney arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns what'er he can,
And looks the whole word in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear the bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his might sledge,
With measure beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar.
And catch the flaming sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like his mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hands he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiing, -- rejoicing, -- sorrowing,
Onward in life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned his night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou has taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Pruning Flowering Gums

One summer day, along the street,
Men pruned the gums
To make them neat.
The tender branches, white with flowers,
Lay in the sun
For hours and hours,
And every hour they grew more sweet,
More honey-like
Until the street
Smelt like a hive, withouten bees.
But still the gardeners
Lopped the trees.
Then came the children out of school,
Noisy and separate
As their rule Of being is. The spangled trees
Gave them one heart:
Such power to please
Had all the flowering branches strown
Around for them
To make their own.
Then such a murmuring arose
As made the ears
Confirm the nose
And give the lie to eyes. For hours
Child bees hummed
In the honey flowers.
They gathered sprigs and armfuls. Some
Ran with their fragrant
Burdens home,
And still returned; and after them
Would drag great boughs.
Some stripped a stem
Of rosy flowers and played with these.
Never such love
Had earthly trees
As these young creatures gave. By night,
The treasured sprays
Of their delight
Were garnered every one. The street
Looked, as the council liked it, neat.

poem by Lesbia Harford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Cherry Tree

The Cherry Tree

There was a Cherry Tree,
In our house at Number Three;
‘T was a variety from Singapore,
Presented by a friend, now no more.

On the western side of our house,
To be away from the straying cows;
It was planted—a sapling, rare,
And nurtured with ample care.

Soon with shoots it grew tall,
And was high above the compound wall;
Pride in us did surely swell,
To behold the tree growing so well,

Its branches now did spread and sprawl,
And to the next house too it did crawl;
Its shade permeated through to the hall,
And ushered in cool breeze to us all.

The white blossoms of the cherry,
Drew swarms of bees—so merry,
Raw green cherries then popped,
Which turned bright red and dropped.

The green tree with cherries so red,
Was like an ornament with rubies studded;
It was sure a splendid sight,
Even in the glow of the moon-lit night.

The cherry fruits tasted very sweet,
Though for some it wasn't a treat;
To crush a fruit ‘twixt your teeth'
A current of joy ran underneath.!

Many were the children of the street,
Who vied for the cherries so sweet;
They'd climb the tree, up to pick,
And fill their pockets till there were sick.

The crows would claim the tree their own,
And feed the nestlings with cherries grown,
Dawn would hail the cuckoo's spree,
With its sonorous call from atop the tree.

Under the shade of the cherry tree,
On the landing of stairs, with glee,
I've oft with it mute communion held,
And there, have many a poem, spelled.

This Cherry Tree, so much prized,
After eight years was much disguised;
Alas! It lost its branches and was browned,
With out-stretched limbs, to be razed to ground! .

The Cherry Tree is now no more,
As I pen this, I miss it as ne'er before;
But to eye its photograph, my heart does leap,
And a warmth in me does truly seep!

poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Village Blacksmith, The

Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The Smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can
And looks the whole world in the face
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming furge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church
and sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach.
He hears his daughter's voice
singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling, rejoicing,-sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

11 Oclock Tick Tock

Its cold outside
It gets so hot in here
And the boys and girls collide
To the music in my ear
Hear the children crying
And I know its time to go
I hear the children crying
Take me home
A painted face
And I know we havent long
We thought that we had the answers
It was the questions we had wrong
Hear the children crying
And I know its time to go
I hear the children crying
Take me home
Sad song, sad song
Sad song, sad song
La lah la lah...la lah la lah...la lah lah...
[repeat 4x]
Sad song, sad song
Sad song, sad song
Call out your name
Call out in shame
Call out your name
Call out
You better call out
Call, call, call out

song performed by by U2
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

My Playmate

The pines were dark on Ramoth hill,
Their song was soft and low;
The blossoms in the sweet May wind
Were falling like the snow.

The blossoms drifted at our feet,
The orchard birds sang clear;
The sweetest and the saddest day
It seemed of all the year.

For, more to me than birds or flowers,
My playmate left her home,
And took with her the laughing spring,
The music and the bloom.

She kissed the lips of kith and kin,
She laid her hand in mine
What more could ask the bashful boy
Who fed her father's kine?

She left us in the bloom of May
The constant years told o'er
Their seasons with as sweet May morns,
But she came back no more.

I walk, with noiseless feet, the round
Of uneventful years;
Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring
And reap the autumn ears.

She lives where all the golden year
Her summer roses blow;
The dusky children of the sun
Before her come and go.

There haply with her jewelled hands
She smooths her silken gown,-
No more the homespun lap wherein
I shook the walnuts down.

The wild grapes wait us by the brook,
The brown nuts on the hill,
And still the May-day flowers make sweet
The woods of Follymill.

The lilies blossom in the pond,
The bird builds in the tree,
The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill
The slow song of the sea.

I wonder if she thinks of them,
And how the old time seems,-
If ever the pines of Ramoth wood
Are sounding in her dreams.

I see her face, I hear her voice;
Does she remember mine?
And what to her is now the boy
Who fed her father's kine?

What cares she that the orioles build
For other eyes than ours,-
That other hands with nuts are filled,
And other laps with flowers?

O playmate in the golden time!
Our mossy seat is green,
Its fringing violets blossom yet,
The old trees o'er it lean.

The winds so sweet with birch and fern
A sweeter memory blow;
And there in spring the veeries sing
The song of long ago.

And still the pines of Ramoth wood
Are moaning like the sea,-

The moaning of the sea of change
Between myself and thee!

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Fallen In The Night!

IT dressed itself in green leaves all the summer long,
Was full of chattering starlings, loud with throstles' song.
Children played beneath it, lovers sat and talked,
Solitary strollers looked up as they walked.
O, so fresh its branches! and the its old trunk gray
Was so stately rooted, who forbode decay?
Even when winds had blown it yellow and almost bare,
Softly dropped its chestnuts through the misty air;
Still its few leaves rustled with a faint delight,
And their tender colors charmed the sense of sight,
Filled the soul with beauty, and the heart with peace,
Like sweet sounds departing--sweetest when they cease.

Pelting, undermining, loosening, came the rain;
Through its topmost branches roared the hurricane;
Oft it strained and shivered till the night wore past;
But in dusky daylight there the tree stood fast,
Though its birds had left it, and its leaves were dead,
And its blossoms faded, and its fruit all shed.

Ay, and when last sunset came a wanderer by,
Watched it as aforetime with a musing eye,
Still it wore its scant robes so pathetic gay,
Caught the sun's last glimmer, the new moon's first ray;
And majestic, patient, stood amidst its peers
Waiting for the spring-times of uncounted years.

But the worm was busy, and the days were run;
Of its hundred sunsets this was the last one:
So in the quiet midnight, with no eye to see,
None to harm in falling, fell the noble tree!

Says the early laborer, starting at the sight
With a sleepy wonder, 'Fallen in the night!'
Says a schoolboy, leaping in a wild delight
Over trunk and branches, 'Fallen in the night!'

O thou Tree, thou glory of His hand who made
Nothing ever vainly, thou hast Him obeyed!
Lived thy life, and perished when and how He willed;--
Be all lamentation and all murmurs stilled.
To our last hour live we--fruitful, brave, upright,
'T will be a good ending, 'Fallen in the night!'

poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Giving Tree

Once there was a tree....
and she loved a little boy.
And everyday the boy would come
and he would gather her leaves
and make them into crowns
and play king of the forest.
He would climb up her trunk
and swing from her branches
and eat apples.
And they would play hide-and-go-seek.
And when he was tired,
he would sleep in her shade.
And the boy loved the tree....
very much.
And the tree was happy.
But time went by.
And the boy grew older.
And the tree was often alone.
Then one day the boy came to the tree
and the tree said, 'Come, Boy, come and
climb up my trunk and swing from my
branches and eat apples and play in my
shade and be happy.'
'I am too big to climb and play' said
the boy.
'I want to buy things and have fun.
I want some money?'
'I'm sorry,' said the tree, 'but I
have no money.
I have only leaves and apples.
Take my apples, Boy, and sell them in
the city. Then you will have money and
you will be happy.'
And so the boy climbed up the
tree and gathered her apples
and carried them away.
And the tree was happy.
But the boy stayed away for a long time....
and the tree was sad.
And then one day the boy came back
and the tree shook with joy
and she said, 'Come, Boy, climb up my trunk
and swing from my branches and be happy.'
'I am too busy to climb trees,' said the boy.
'I want a house to keep me warm,' he said.
'I want a wife and I want children,
and so I need a house.
Can you give me a house ?'
' I have no house,' said the tree.
'The forest is my house,
but you may cut off
my branches and build a
house. Then you will be happy.'

And so the boy cut off her branches
and carried them away
to build his house.
And the tree was happy.
But the boy stayed away for a long time.
And when he came back,
the tree was so happy
she could hardly speak.
'Come, Boy,' she whispered,
'come and play.'
'I am too old and sad to play,'
said the boy.
'I want a boat that will
take me far away from here.
Can you give me a boat?'
'Cut down my trunk
and make a boat,' said the tree.
'Then you can sail away...
and be happy.'
And so the boy cut down her trunk
and made a boat and sailed away.
And the tree was happy
... but not really.

And after a long time
the boy came back again.
'I am sorry, Boy,'
said the tree,' but I have nothing
left to give you -
My apples are gone.'
'My teeth are too weak
for apples,' said the boy.
'My branches are gone,'
said the tree. ' You
cannot swing on them - '
'I am too old to swing
on branches,' said the boy.
'My trunk is gone, ' said the tree.
'You cannot climb - '
'I am too tired to climb' said the boy.
'I am sorry,' sighed the tree.
'I wish that I could give you something....
but I have nothing left.
I am just an old stump.
I am sorry....'
'I don't need very much now,' said the boy.
'just a quiet place to sit and rest.
I am very tired.'
'Well,' said the tree, straightening
herself up as much as she could,
'well, an old stump is good for sitting and resting
Come, Boy, sit down. Sit down and rest.'
And the boy did.
And the tree was happy.

poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Uncle Johns Band

Well the first days are the hardest days
Dont you worry anymore
Cause when life looks like easy street
There is danger at your door
Now think this through with me
Let me know your mind
Oh what I want to know
Is are you kind
Now its a buck dancers choice my friends
Better take my advice
You know all the rules by now
And the fire from the ice
Now will you come with me
Wont you come with me
Oh what I want to know
Will you come with me
Sister well I declare
Have you seen the like
Their walls are built of cannon balls
Their motto is dont tread on me
Come hear uncle johns band
Playing to the tide
Come with me or go alone
Hes come to take his children home
Its the same story the crow told me
Its the only one he knows
Like the morning sun you come
And like the wind you go
Aint no time to hate
Barely time to wait
Oh what I want to know
Where does the time go
I live in a silver mine
And I call it beggers tomb
Ive got me a violin
And I beg you call the tune
Anybodys choice
I can hear your voice
Oh what I want to know
How does the song go
Come hear uncle johns band
By the riverside
Got some things to talk about
Here beside the rising tide
Come hear uncle johns band
Playing to the tide
Come on come on or go alone
Hes come to take his children home
Whoa what I want to know
How does the song go
Come hear uncle johns band
By the riverside
Got some things to talk about
Here beside the rising tide
Come hear uncle johns band
Playing to the tide
Come on along or go alone
Hes come to take his children home
Come hear uncle johns band
(brother)
By the riverside
(aint no time to hate)
Got some things to talk about
(sister)
Here beside the rising tide
(aint no time to wait)
Come hear uncle johns band
Playing to the tide
Come on along or go alone
Hes come to take his children home

song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Uncle Johns Band

Well the first days are the hardest days, dont you worry any more,
cause when life looks like easy street, there is danger at your door.
Think this through with me, let me know your mind,
Wo, oh, what I want to know, is are you kind?
Its a buck dancers choice my friend; better take my advice.
You know all the rules by now and the fire from the ice.
Will you come with me? wont you come with me?
Wo, oh, what I want to know, will you come with me?
Goddamn, well I declare, have you seen the like?
Their wall are built of cannonballs, their motto is dont tread on me.
Come hear uncle johns band playing to the tide,
Come with me, or go alone, hes come to take his children home.
Its the same story the crow told me; its the only one he knows.
Like the morning sun you come and like the wind you go.
Aint no time to hate, barely time to wait,
Wo, oh, what I want to know, where does the time go?
I live in a silver mine and I call it beggars tomb;
I got me a violin and I beg you call the tune,
Anybodys choice, I can hear your voice.
Wo, oh, what I want to know, how does the song go?
Come hear uncle johns band by the riverside,
Got some things to talk about, here beside the rising tide.
Come hear uncle johns band playing to the tide,
Come on along, or go alone, hes come to take his children home.
Wo, oh, what I want to know, how does the song go.

song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

The Old Peach Tree

Under the old peach tree
Hearing the buzz of bees
Looking up at pink blossoms so sweet
Watching pink petals fall at my feet
Under the old peach tree almost fallen down
I can hear every sound as the sun goes down
I hear somewhere the song of a mocking bird
The sweetest song I ever heard
As I lean against the old peach tree
I think of things that used to be
This old tree brings me back to my childhood
And the many peaches I ate that were so good
Old peach tree I wish you could talk
Whisper to me some of your thoughts
But instead you fill my heart with your beauty
As I smell the perfume of your blossoms so fruity
I wonder how much longer you'll be here.
How much longer my heart you'll cheer
I hope to lean against you many a spring
And feel the peace that you bring.

poem by Grace Riffle
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Robin Kuan: Was It Love that Grew You Rose?

Was it love that grew you, Rose?
Not harboured on the Cliffside by the sea
Red petals beaten by the salt and wind
And litter tossed beneath you carelessly

How delicate the fragrance of your flowers
So ravaged near the careless salty tide
No love has made you, Rose
And Yet your presence whispers, I abide

Was it hope that grew you, Rose?
Did a gardener come and visit you each day?
Was it one or five or three leaves ‘neath the bloom?
To make such flowers to take my breath away

No care has come to you by any hand
I see no shears or powders by your side
No hope has made you, Rose
And yet your presence whispers, I abide

Was it faith that grew you Rose
As winter burned your leaves to memory
And left your little branches cold and bare
Sweet flower on the Cliffside by the sea

How barren are your branches in the snow
Your vibrant flowers are frosted and denied
No faith has made you Rose
And Yet your presence whispers, I abide

Was it peace that grew you Rose
You heard “he loves me not, In singsong way”
Your petals scattered on the ground below
Confetti on the earth for children’s play

Your blooms will never be a bouquet held
For hybrid roses please the city bride
No peace has grown you Rose
And yet, your presence whispers, I abide

ii The epiphany

It was life that grew you Rose
Not faith or hope or love or peace, it’s true
As you braved the barren snows
It was life, that nestled deep inside of you

A force defying logics of the mind
More passion than all human love confides
It was life that made you Rose
I hear your presence whisper, I abide

In the place beyond us all
I visited with you by the morphic sea
You survived the winter snows
As sweet roses past revived your memory

And in simple heart I know
As I memorize these lines before repose
No wise man can realize
How profound you are my precious cliffside rose

(By My Dear Robin Kuan who is my friend)

poem by Laijon Liu
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

And Eat Our Own Flesh....

we who are not alive,
and yet not dead.
poured into cups,
that dont exist.
held by a hand,
no more than shadow.
we cling to memory,
yet do not remember.
lighting fires with darkness,
drinking kerosene in circles.
we pray to old tires,
never seeing the wheel.
having made peace with war,
entrapped by our concepts.
we drain oceans of thought,
while dying of thirst.
afraid of the image,
the acorn worships the tree...
while the tree reaches feeble branches
to embrace eternity.
ships lost at sea,
drifting aimlessly towards home...
yet we came from that same ocean
that we call our path.
'who are we? ' we shout!
no answer to be heard...
we turn both violent and righteous,
and eat our own flesh....

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Scream & Shout

I cannot see you but I know you're there
To awaken my heart tonight
There's a dream I will follow
A passion I search
Many montains to climb
I've finally found you
My kisses surround you
There's no turnin' back this time
Can you hear me call
Can you hear me call
I'll tell it to the one I love
Shout it to the World Above
Baby don't you understand
That everything belongs to us
Chorus
I wanna scream and shout
Can you hear me
I wanna make you shine
I wanna scream out loud
Please believe me
I wanna make you mine
x2
I know what you're thinkin'
So don't say a word
We'll do everything on the fly
I'm out on a mission
Got a very strong vision
Of what's on your mind
I've finally found you
My kisses surround you
There's no turnin' back this time
Can you hear me call
Can you hear me call
I'll tell it to the one I love
Shout it to the World Above
Baby don't you understand
That everything belongs to us
Chorus

song performed by by Kate Ryan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

My Bees: An Allegory

"O bees, sweet bees!" I said, "that nearest field
Is shining white with fragrant immortelles.
Fly swiftly there and drain those honey wells."
Then, spicy pines the sunny hive to shield,
I set, and patient for the autumn's yield
Of sweet I waited.
When the village bells
Rang frosty clear, and from their satin cells
The chestnuts leaped, rejoicing, I unsealed
My hive.
Alas! no snowy honey there
Was stored. My wicked bees had borne away
Their queen and left no trace.
That very day,
An idle drone who sauntered through the air
I tracked and followed, and he led me where
My truant bees and stolen honey lay.
Twice faithless bees! They had sought out to eat
Rank, bitter herbs. The honey was not sweet.

poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Under the Violets

HER hands are cold; her face is white;
No more her pulses come and go;
Her eyes are shut to life and light;--
Fold the white vesture, snow on snow,
And lay her where the violets blow.

But not beneath a graven stone,
To plead for tears with alien eyes;
A slender cross of wood alone
Shall say, that here a maiden lies
In peace beneath the peaceful skies.

And gray old trees of hugest limb
Shall wheel their circling shadows round
To make the scorching sunlight dim
That drinks the greenness from the ground,
And drop their dead leaves on her mound.

When o'er their boughs the squirrels run,
And through their leaves the robins call,
And, ripening in the autumn sun,
The acorns and the chestnuts fall,
Doubt not that she will heed them all.

For her the morning choir shall sing
Its matins from the branches high,
And every minstrel-voice of Spring,
That trills beneath the April sky,
Shall greet her with its earliest cry.

When, turning round their dial-track,
Eastward the lengthening shadows pass,
Her little mourners, clad in black,
The crickets, sliding through the grass,
Shall pipe for her an evening mass.

At last the rootlets of the trees
Shall find the prison where she lies,
And bear the buried dust they seize
In leaves and blossoms to the skies.
So may the soul that warmed it rise!

If any, born of kindlier blood,
Should ask, What maiden lies below?
Say only this: A tender bud,
That tried to blossom in the snow,
Lies withered where the violets blow.

poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Almond Tree

This snowy cold December morning
the pen
is full of almond branches, leaves
and black gnarled twigs covered
with white blossoms
the scent of that tree is intoxicating
for here on the real earth,
such trees do not ripen,
nor bear the fruit of that tree.

As children our first movement is to sing joyous songs,
innocent voices, filling mountains and dales with arias.
As adults our first movement is toward joy,
yet we give it away, venting full expression
to a gloomy tho not unfamiliar view of life.
once delighted with the world as children
now the world is in a tangle,
for opened eyes have seen only the glow of fires,
massacres, injustices, humiliations,
and the unrelenting shame
of braggarts and despots.

I look at the pen, it's branches, twigs, leaves
now covered, with cherry blossoms
and breathe in the intoxicating scent of that tree
knowing full well such a tree does not grow in dirt
nor can humanity cut down that tree.

That tree does not desire to save
nations or people
heal the sick,
raise the dead,
connive with politicians,
nor change drunkards and fools
with songs of hope...

The only goal is this, only this
that I see and smell the almond tree,
learn to look with love,
heal this heart,
without knowing from various ills-
for that almond tree says to me: Friend
stand in the glow of ripeness with me
not knowing what purpose served.

Through worm filled tufts
in that sweet garden
that almond tree raises it's eyes
and every blossom
enjoys the air it breathes

poem by Liberatore Suffoletta
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

A Winter Walk

WE never had believed, I wis,
At primrose time when west winds stole
Like thoughts of youth across the soul,
In such an altered time as this,

When if one little flower did peep
Up through the brown and sullen grass,
We should just look on it, and pass
As if we saw it in our sleep.

Feeling as sure as that this ray
Which cottage children call the sun,
Colors the pale clouds one by one,--
Our touch would make it drop to clay.

We never could have looked, in prime
Of April, or when July trees
Shook full-leaved in the evening bree
Upon the face of this pale time,

Still, soft, familiar; shining bleak
On naked branches, sodden ground,
Yet shining--as if one had found
A smile upon a dead friend's cheek,

Or old friend, lost for years, had strange
In altered mien come sudden back,
Confronting us with our great lack--
Till loss seemed far less sad than change.

Yet though, alas! Hope did not see
This winter skeleton through full leaves,
Out of all bareness Faith perceives
Possible life in field and tree.

In bough and trunk the sap will move,
And the mould break o'er springing flowers;
Nature revives with all her powers,
But only nature;--never love.

So, listlessly with linkèd hands
Both Faith and Hope glide soft away;
While in long shadows, cool and gray,
The sun sets o'er the barren lands.

poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

I had to forsake the world of my childhood

The cat tells me
that its time for its food
and outside bees
still fly past in a swarm

and I realise that it’s late afternoon,
that the shadows are drawing long lines,
the wind rustles through the tree branches
and it’s already almost cold
as the winter is coming.

Still there’s something in the late autumn
that catches me
where here and there leaves
hang like dots on tree branches,

that the sun sometimes still gives hot rays
as if it does not really want
the cold to come
and the grass is still green
like in the summer.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The winter is coming

The cat tells me
that its time for its food
and outside bees
still fly past in a swarm

and I realise that it’s late afternoon,
that the shadows are drawing long lines,
the wind rustles through the tree branches
and it’s already almost cold
as the winter is coming.

Still there’s something in the late autumn
that catches me
where here and there leaves
hang like dots on tree branches,

that the sun sometimes still gives hot rays
as if it does not really want
the cold to come
and the grass is still green
like in the summer.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!