A bird at my window
The relentless rain and the whirling winds
The first pushed with violent gusts the other pelt
The windows shutters banged in sound grimed;
The roof’s gutters over brimmed
The two culprits smote the garden bed
The new flowery sprouts in horror knelt
And lay lodged motionless in the ground as dead
I watched and I knew how the shaken flowers felt
The howling gales scud through the flower plots
The rusted nails squeaked on its knots
That held the tree to the gable-wall
All night long under the foul dark pall
The broken shades torn by the winds
Are hanging loose from silver white rings
Uplifted was the clinking thatch
Upon the lonely deserted grange
It is a dark chilly dreary morning
Sun delayed over city with gray sky in mourning
The day comes suddenly at last- A dull red ball in chock
Wrapped in snake drifts of lurid smoke
At my window a naked bird sate chirruping for her love
Upon a wintery bare with congealed pores boughs
The frozen wind whirled creeping on above
As the wire cold twigs took shaken bows
There was no leaf upon the avenue trees bare
No flower upon the solidified ground
And very little motion in the calm air
Except the train moan wheels' sound
What made the bird to sing at my window with no rest
A furlong from the castle of her warm nest
Her betrothed knight she all day at the sill pray
For the weal of him who is that's far away
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Related quotes
A dark chilly dreary morning
It is a dark chilly dreary morning
Sun delayed over city with gray sky in mourning
The throng of comers and goers in my face flits and fleets
And will not let me be
I walk passing eave-drops lofty fall
And the yellow vapors choke
The great city subway sounding wide
The day comes suddenly at last- A dull red ball
Wrapped in drifts of lurid smoke
On the misty East river tide
I loath the city of solitude in squares and in streets
And the faces of stutters that one meets
Empty aloof hearts arrogant introvert souls with no love for me
I crave to crawl, to crouch to creep
Into some under street cafe’ deep
And there to weep and weep and weep
My whole soul out for you in silent grief
copy rights 2010
Mariana
WITH BLACKEST moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Upon the middle of the night,
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The cock sung out an hour ere light:
From the dark fen the oxen's low
Came to her: without hope of change,
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "The day is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
About a stone-cast from the wall
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarled bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low,
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors,
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices call'd her from without.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loath'd the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
Then, said she, "I am very dreary,
He will not come," she said;
She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
O God, that I were dead!"
.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Archy's Song from Charles the First (A Widow Bird Sate Mourning For Her Love)
Heigho! the lark and the owl!
One flies the morning, and one lulls the night:
Only the nightingale, poor fond soul,
Sings like the fool through darkness and light.
'A widow bird sate mourning for her love
Upon a wintry bough;
The frozen wind crept on above,
The freezing stream below.
'There was no leaf upon the forest bare,
No flower upon the ground,
And little motion in the air
Except the mill-wheel's sound.'
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Reflections on a winter night
If you go away and you have set the day
In my heart I foster a blessing, in my lips a pray
That you shall guard and protect yourself
And your life be under these heaven and sun safe
And if you wish to say ‘Good bye’ and if for ever
Still for ever… as ‘ever’ is such deafening, I do wish you well
Even though my heart with painful pangs gasps for air, never
Against you shall it bare to rebel
Yet quietly and reclusive it retreats to dark solitary
To vanquish its sorrow and sweet pains and deals daily with adversary
It has to unchain to unwind and to wean
Itself from her, the one that had been
I, I his master have locked it in the chamber of my chest
Where shaken and frightened it will seek but never find rest
For I have thrown the dungeon’s keys
And condemned it to live by fading memories
And If I hear it sobbing long into a cold winter night
I will command it to be a proud daring knight
And so I shall say:
Dear heart! There is not a joy life can give, like that it takes away
Oh it is such a fearful thing to glance and bare
Back on the bloom of love long wielded
It is a flower beaten down with rain and wind
Which once they fostered up with gentle care
Your words sounded like the howling winds on barren branch load
When the joy of laughter ceases
Suffocated love dries out and frizzes
And there are no morning breezes to move away the ominous cloud
And the heart within me crying in the bewitched night
It is crying for its deprived light
With no language with a wordless cry
And yet so potent is its sigh
Howling, howling, howling the wind over dark land and sea
No refuge no comfort can come to me
Wailing, wailing, wailing the sounds of the night
The ominous moon stares at the snow and the downs are as a day bright
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If you go away
If you go away and you have set the day
In my heart I foster a blessing, in my lips a pray
That you shall guard and protect yourself
And your life be under these heaven and sun safe
And if you wish to say ‘Good bye’ and if for ever
Still for ever… as ‘ever’ is such deafening, I do wish you well
Even though my heart with painful pangs gasps for air, never
Against you shall it bare to rebel
Yet quietly and reclusive it retreats to dark solitary
To vanquish its sorrow and sweet pains and deals daily with adversary
It has to unchain to unwind and to wean
Itself from her, the one that had been
I, I his master have locked it in the chamber of my chest
Where shaken and frightened it will seek but never find rest
For I have thrown the dungeon’s keys
And condemned it to live by fading memories
And If I hear it sobbing long into a cold winter night
I will command it to be a proud daring knight
And so I shall say:
Dear heart! There is not a joy life can give, like that it takes away
Oh it is such a fearful thing to glance and bare
Back on the bloom of love long wielded
It is a flower beaten down with rain and wind
Which once they fostered up with gentle care
Your words sounded like the howling winds on barren branch load
When the joy of laughter ceases
Suffocated love dries out and frizzes
And there are no morning breezes to move away the ominous cloud
And the heart within me crying in the bewitched night
It is crying for its deprived light
With no language with a wordless cry
And yet so potent is its sigh
Howling, howling, howling the wind over dark land and sea
No refuge no comfort can come to me
Wailing, wailing, wailing the sounds of the night
The ominous moon stares at the snow and the downs are as a day bright
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I dread the calm
I dread the calm in the morning of a mourn without a sound
It is a calm that comes to foster a greater grief
It is a calm light of dusk before ever dew was falling from leaves
It is a calm sinking in calm pattering to the ground
I fear the calm and scudding winds in the high wold
And on the dews the drench the gorse
And all the silvery gossamer
Shaken into gilded gold
Is it calm and still in the dusky light over great plains
That sweeps late and swiftly in autumn bowers
Of secluded farms and solitary towers
To merge with the bounding and the saint
Is it calm on the vast sea under the spangled silver sleep
The waves that sway in colossus to lull themselves to rest
And the dead calm in the deepening breast
Which heaves with the heaving deep
Yet calm is the mute peace in the meadow’s air
The forest gloom with loom of leaves that redden to fall
And in my chest if calm can ever dwell at all
If any calm is there, it is the calm of despair
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There will come
There will come upon the earth, calm spring time
When soft rains fall and raise the adores of wet ground
And flowers leap and bloom into their prime
As the swallows circle and bounce in vast meadows, shimmering sound
And no one will know of my time under the sun
And no one will reflect or contemplate of my days, not one
Not even one would mind, neither happy bird on a bough tree
That I have perished; erased diminished with no memory utterly
Come red black Robins and wear your feathery fire,
Whistling your whims on a low summer wind stirring fence-wire
And fat oily frogs in a garden pool, sing your rhythm all night
And tree heavy with late season foliage play the wind that turn you white
The world will go on as we do when an acquaintance dies
We hurry to burry and move as if it never concerns our fates; blinding our eyes
Oh that first Spring after death, herself when she wakes at dawn
Minding her course would scarcely notice that we were gone.
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An Autumn Night
An autumn night, so bitter chill it is
An owl, for all its plum and thick feathers is cold
The hare long ago rushed limping trembling through the frozen maze
Into a lair, and silent stark are the song birds on a woody enfold
Naked trees with barren boughs, no leaf does tremble, no ripple there
On the streets, all abandoned still under the night sleepy eye
The world so deserted from any human sign or care
Darkness reign on dreary routes with echoing cry
And the moon whether prudish or shy in this cold night
Has fled to her bower, well reluctant to lend her dimming light
No light in this oppressing darkness, no fume no torch in the gloom
Is this world ever waken, do these trees ever bloom
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My Home
This is the place that I love the best,
A little brown house, like a ground-bird's nest,
Hid among grasses, and vines, and trees,
Summer retreat of the birds and bees.
The tenderest light that ever was seen
Sifts through the vine-made window screen--
Sifts and quivers, and flits and falls
On home-made carpets and gray-hung walls.
All through June the west wind free
The breath of clover brings to me.
All through the languid July day
I catch the scent of new-mown hay.
The morning-glories and scarlet vine
Over the doorway twist and twine;
And every day, when the house is still,
The humming-bird comes to the window-sill.
In the cunningest chamber under the sun
I sink to sleep when the day is done;
And am waked at morn, in my snow-white bed,
By a singing bird on the roof o'erhead.
Better than treasures brought from Rome,
Are the living pictures I see at home--
My aged father, with frosted hair,
And mother's face, like a painting rare.
Far from the city's dust and heat,
I get but sounds and odors sweet.
Who can wonder I love to stay,
Week after week, here hidden away,
In this sly nook that I love the best--
This little brown house like a ground-bird's nest?
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Love lost
She was so cruel and capricious making me bury our love
Not in a grave yard under a sluttish tomb stone
But beneath a tall oak tree of a forest dark, wide and alone
Where none can come across or see from above
There will be no memorial days or sad hours
And I shall never visit the tree or put flowers
Yet the mouth I loved so much to kiss and to treat
Was none like so daring and bittersweet
I shall never go to the under tree love grave
For the woods are hostile, dark and cold
My time I shall for new love save
New love, new joy, constrain the rebel heart, forget the old
All day long I shall stay in the sun
Where the wide winds blow and flowers bloom
But oh, I shall cry at night for my sorrow is still undone
When none will know my time of agony and gloom
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From Omar Khayyam
I
A BOOK of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
O, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
Look to the blowing Rose about us--'Lo,
Laughing,' she says, 'into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.'
And those who husbanded the Golden grain
And those who flung it to the winds like Rain
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
II
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahrám, that great Hunter--the wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
TO-DAY of past Regrets and Future Fears:
To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom,
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust unto Dust, and under Dust to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End!
III
Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,
And wash my Body whence the Life has died,
And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf,
By some not unfrequented Garden-side....
Yon rising Moon that looks for us again--
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;
How oft hereafter rising look or us
Through this same Garden--and for one in vain!
And when like her O Sákí, you shall pass
Among the Guests star-scatter'd on the Grass,
And in your joyous errand reach the spot
Where I made One--turn down an empty Glass!
WITH blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, 'My life is dreary,
He cometh not,' she said;
She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!'
Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, 'The night is dreary,
He cometh not,' she said;
She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!'
Upon the middle of the night,
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The cock sung out an hour ere light:
From the dark fen the oxen's low
Came to her: without hope of change,
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
She only said, 'The day is dreary,
He cometh not,' she said;
She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!'
About a stone-cast from the wall
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarled bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
She only said, 'My life is dreary,
He cometh not,' she said;
She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!'
And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low,
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
She only said, 'The night is dreary,
He cometh not,' she said;
She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!'
All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors,
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices call'd her from without.
She only said, 'My life is dreary,
He cometh not,' she said;
She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,'
I would that I were dead!'
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
Then, said she, 'I am very dreary,
He will not come,' she said;
She wept, 'I am aweary, aweary,
O God, that I were dead!'
poem by Edward Fitzgerald
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An ecstasy of solitude in an estranged city
An ecstasy of solitude in an estranged city
With the company of a winding spider swaying on its pall
At dark, dusty, sticky, silky corner wall
A craving anticipation for the monotonous music of a solitary cricket
At midnight sound and fury of streets wicket
Pondering at the queue of laborious ants
Undisturbed by on going neighbors rant
Indifferently they are pursuing their heavy task
As I wonder how long and how far it may last
Cold damp frigid winter night at the edge of city
In the middle of the garden wood
A folded leaf is wooed from out its root
With wind rising and gusting upon the barren branch
It floats and falls down to the dark dreary air
And now bouncing between barren boughs in a macabre dance
To the sound of the music of the whispering wind there
This black spotted yellow leaf joins his clan
that dances as often as dance it can
A back choir of hissing leaves at the curb
Of deserted street in a slumbering suburb
At dark sleeps isolated desert city
A stale out of its prime apple hangs at a naked peak
Once fully juiced and waxed and sweetened with summer light
Drops in silence into this winter night
It rolls into the chilling water of a winding creek
It falls it fades and rolls and has no toil
On the leaves bedded damp soil
So as I strut and fret my peak hour on stage
Like this apple my time will come to be a solemn purge
My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves
At the moist rich smell of rotten leaves
The thin window glass into my room gives
The persistent rain keeps hammering hard on the plain
And on the remote jog of a mountains' crag
My inward is gnawed and shuttered with unbalanced pain
With the piercing acidic ache of isolation rack
A foul air hangs over a ghost city
A heavy spirit haunts the weekend last hours
At my window the sight of yellowing bowers
The cold damp earth is a grave of scream chilly
Moldings beaten down flowers hang over a tattered lily
Slumbering indifferently sunk in weakness and in woe city
The blackest moss is engraving its path on a tiled wall
There thickly crushed through the cracks one as a whole
Not thick enough to bar from a neighbor bath
The burst of a seductive maiden laugh
Entrenching my memories of my maiden passion
for the first encounter with love session
Encircled by these deep dire solitude walls and awful room cell
Where heavy pensive suffocating contemplations creep into brain to dwell
And ever musing melancholy holds me hostage under its reigns
My blood frizzes, it stops flowing in my veins
Relentless walls whose rectangular darkness contains
My repentant sighs and isolation imprisoned pains
Time drags slothfully at deserted empty city
Tonight the rough winds begin to flow and rise
A roar from the far West dropping day
Blows dust and hay and whirls them away
The flock of alarmed crows blown to the skies
In the stormy East the wind rushes roaring straining
The frightening bare wood twigs are waning
And the broad Sacramento River with brimful banks complaining
Of heavily loaded low clouds raining
And the bolted levee sighing and water gaining
A sudden tumult shakes the city in violent dread
When a sullen thunder in the streets has crushed and rolled
And in haste I wake to the sounds of the night with my dream fled
And in the shuddering daunting dawn I behold
With blunt awareness with indifference of an annoyed and self pity
As the drama of the night enfolds in the streets of isolated city
By the curtains of my bed
That abiding phantom of cold shade
The lonely wind whirled twist and howl strong
And the night before me is still long
The shadow of the dark is still heavy the same
My heavy eyelids my anguish hangs like shame
When by this dreadful night of solitude I sit
And hateful thoughts grasp and enwrap my soul in shadow gloom
When no fair hopeful dreams are in my mind to repeat
And the bare burden of life' toil offers no bloom
Where are thou starry fires of summer's night vault
in the blue unclouded calm weather
When choirs of stars and some bearded metros trails light together
You foul night soon to draw the dismal solitude cult
And with your capacious pall
illuminating the sky with lighting and sullen thunder roll
placing a death-like colors in all things
As the rusted nail fell from the knots in piercing ring
the stressed shutter bang without a rhyme on the wall
the broken sheds looked outworn, sad and strange
Through the lifted clinking latch the naked branches vacillate out of range
Then out of helplessness and boredom I fall into long sleep
So heavy was my rest as death deep
And in my dream I am dead
Buried at the cemetery remote row edge
By a fence where a heavy load train may at dusk pass
My face and my body full of worms and dust
And in my dream I lay dead
All dust and sand over my head
My tomb under the night calm starry arc
But it is quiet chilly not dark
The thin gray cloud is spread sparingly on high
It covers but not hides the sky
The moon is behind, and at full shape
And yet she seems remotely small and out of grape
A high heels lady walks over taking no heed
My grave is only few yards from a busy street
And she walks with heels beat beat
And I long to see the face of these passing feet
But she passes away leaving me beneath sand and stone tomb
How awful different distorted deformed to the scene coming from the womb
And she prompts away on beds of amaranth and molly
As the nightly sweet breeze lull her legs blowing lowly
I try to push grave and stone wholly
To watch her face so divine and holy
But she draws away far slowly
As the lunar face is hidden from earth
I lay here in the grave dust with ruined blood
That once used to burst in veins and throb
Now it is all turning into mud
As worthless liquid thrown down the tab
In a remote tavern I hear men sing
Their song collapses at the grave yard brink
Fill the cup and fill the can
All winding paths of man
Are but dust of nothing that rises up
And likely lightly laid down again
As the gloomy sanguine sunrise with fiery eyes
And his burning wings plumes out spread through the skies
I wake and I rise the eave-drops fall blurring my eyes
And the yellow vapors chock the frail morning air
That floats from the mist over the river tide flail
Last night showers brought relief to the thirsting flowers
At a city with no towers encircled with vast bowers
The moss in the wet night rapidly breeds
The water in the river has covered half way in heights the marsh reeds
In the morning the wind shakes and trembles the woods to and fro
Bending them aggravatingly into shimmering forms that flash before my view
They mingled and melt in green as the dawn stars melt in dawn blue
The scudding winds waves whitening the green wheat fields in caress
Like tender maiden hands the embracing gales express
A subtlety of mighty tenderness, free of stress
Engulf sky and earth, the beauty that leaves us out of breath
Over the rills and crags and hills in depth
As a slanting and whirling swarm of golden bees
Twirl swirl and flee in front of me
As the day comes back from the death
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Ah a happy lover once was I
Ah a happy lover once was I who had come
To look on her the one I loved so well
She who lightened and rang my gateway bell
Then to learn her gone so far from my heart home
Her departure saddened and dimmed all magic light
Happy time dies off at once from bower and hall
And all places are dark, dark in whole and all
The heart chambers are empty of any delight
I reminisced pleasant memories of a familiar spot
In which we two were wont to meet
Under a tree in an open field, in a chamber down lyric street
Foe all in dark now where you are not
Yet as I walk other streets wandering there
During those heart break deserted walks, I find
A flower beaten down with rain and wind
Which once they fostered up with gentle care
So she left me torn and tattered in deep regret
My forsaken heart my devastated soul
And this shaken flower like our love used to stand tall
Which she used to care for fades not yet
Oh poor love, Oh wilted flower hardly to rejoice the heart nor to please the eye
The force that nourished you is now your own demise and final tomb
Where is the hope that it can ever once again bloom
If dying, let it vanquish in the place where I myself die
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Flutter
word by word
she spoke to me
hidden neath a mess of bygone linnen
she listens as to dry a thousand tongues
my love is thin and thinning
some cherised flower
flutters through
gentleborn beloved you
kindness always
kindness always
i hear the sound
the sound she's left me
i stood her ground
no
they've swayed me
i hear the sound
the sound she's left me
i stood her ground
i hear the sound
the sound she's left me
wrapped tight
inside your shawl
we wander round this dingy hall
softly spoken
shaken tree
the ash grove we come to be
the blood run
the blood run away
from arm and leg to a warm heart
all our colors agree
in the dark
but no man lives upon that land
far enough for us to see
i hear your voice yeah
in the hum of this machine
i hear the sound
the sound you've left me
i stood her ground
i hear the sound
the sound she's left me
song performed by by 16 Horsepower
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Rose Tree Of Winter
In the cold winds of Winter she stands thorny and bare
In Summer large beautiful red flowers she did wear
The Rose tree of Winter not a pretty sight
At a time of year with litle warmth in the sunlight,
When the birds in the sunlit gardens will nest and sing
She will wear her new leaves and rosebuds of the Spring
As a tree the rose tree does not grow very tall
Compared to most trees she does seem very small
But in her full bloom none as lovely as she
In her cloak of flowers she's a beautiful tree
But in Winter she stands there by the garden wall
Of the garden trees the most forlorn one of all
And though it may still be a few months from the Spring
The white backed magpie on the blackwood tree sing
But without her leaves and flowers prickly looking and bare
The rose tree looks drab in the cool morning air.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When The Rain Stopped Falling
there is this heavy rain
falling on top of your roof and it is so disturbing
that you wake up
and lock your windows
to shut yourself away from the sounds
of falling
but you cannot help worrying even when you cannot
literally hear the sound of the falling rain
you still imagine how they fall inside your mind
as though you can hear every syllable that every neddle of rain
is pricking in your brain
your ears
and your eyes still have the image of these
series of fallings
that even if the rain finally stopped
and you open your window to check
in the middle of this time
when morning cracks fromt the shutters of your windows
you still think like crazy
you hear the sound of the wind and it is like the sound of the falling
rain
and even if the wind has left like a leaf flown to the eastern side
of your house
even if there is no shadow of the leaf anymore
you hear your heart falling from your chest
now you must accept
leaving.
now you must accept the pain.
do not deny it.
it is you that is falling out
from the grace of her love.
it is you.
cry it out!
shout it!
it is you.!
it is you!
it is not the rain, it is not the wind, it is not the leaf that was blown away
towards the eastern part of the house.it is not the design of the house.
it is not the purple curtains. it is not the lonely courtyard
it is not the red bowl. it is not the tower.
it is not the blank sheets of paper.
it is not the bell.
it is not the winding stairs.
it is not the dirty garage.
it is not the scaffold.
it is not the white paint.
it is not the doorbell.
it is not the turbulence of the plane.
it is not the slap of the hand.
it is not the blue fan.
it is not the cellophance floating in the air and whirling in that corner
a dead-end.
it is you! and that is the truth!
be calm now. wipe the tears.
try sleep and dream.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wind And Window Flower
Lovers, forget your love,
And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
And he a winter breeze.
When the frosty window veil
Was melted down at noon,
And the cagèd yellow bird
Hung over her in tune,
He marked her through the pane,
He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by,
To come again at dark.
He was a winter wind,
Concerned with ice and snow,
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
And little of love could know.
But he sighed upon the sill,
He gave the sash a shake,
As witness all within
Who lay that night awake.
Perchance he half prevailed
To win her for the flight
From the firelit looking-glass
And warm stove-window light.
But the flower leaned aside
And thought of naught to say,
And morning found the breeze
A hundred miles away.
poem by Robert Frost
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A child winter night
Wailing whirling wheeling winds
When shall you blow again
And let the momentous drops of little rain
Come down mossy rocks and on fields of vast terrain
Hush under the cloak of night the nightingale hides and no more sings
Come back howling winds of winter night
Shake the stature of every tree tall
Its leaves long had reddened to a point of fall
Bring back the moments of a child
Scared and fetuses shape cuddled from winds wild
Under his blanket adoring a world of joy and bright
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Love at first sight
There comes time when I watch an ancient sea at its slow ebb
Long hours with howling winds echoing over vast sand
Since I was entangled in your beauty's eyes web
And trembled at the touch of un gloved extended hand
Since I met you I never looked at the midnight ora of summer sky
But well remember each moment your slaying eyes memorized light
Nor I can look or compare a wild rose vermilion dye
But your cheek where my lips will crave to dwell in bright
Can I look in adoration at any budding flower
When my fond ear adores every sound uttered from your lips
And heartbreaking for love sound, passionate wording- it does devour
Any sweetness you may speak under the sun eclipse
Every delight you may bestow is a sweet remembering
Followed by subtle grief this may into my heart bring
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The willow
How beautiful is the willow in April gown
Delicate and gleaming under the sun
Never minding the seasons and years gone
It stands, long flowery drippings and soft wind sigh
Spring does not call me as it use to
With sprouts in vast meadows and balmy flowers of variety hues
No more shall I renew myself with the world every spring
With heavy leafy boughs crowded with birds in sing
Willow, Willow sway, twinkle, lull in the sun
Your leaves, same leaves of my past days gone
Welcome me as the spring use to in wild laugh and fun
Oh let me answer the spring again for my days are still undone
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