To dream her
Is it a dream or is it a scene
Is it a phantom only in my imagination seen?
Do I see her shadow in the forest’s gloom?
When the moon is in its nightly orbit loom
The sun has long sunk in the dusky skies
To veil its fair glories while I spy
The unclouded luster of her eyes
Her bashful beguiling beauties once descried
The vanquished roses lose their pride
And in their thorny leaves their blushes hide
Myrtles have lost their balmy girdle
And dropping lilies seen sadly to tell
A melancholic story how much her sweets their own excel
Watching her withdraws into the forest dark my soul pauses in pray
For the light breaks out and goes away
And I am on the look for the vanishing ray
But once she gone the lilies their heads rear
And with fresh balmy scents perfume the air
When the glory of their rival is not there
Again grown bold and proud the spreading rose
Its blooming buds does disclose
And into the vaulting skies its incense throws
..
..
I languish at her beguiling charms when she drew nigh
But if she disappears again I will die
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Related quotes
Two beneath a shady tree
They were two beneath a shady tree cover
An old oak tree with blistered trunk and bark failing over
Like the hand of an old man with frail eyes
Yet leaves and fresh sprouts from its boughs shot to the skies
An old sturdy oak tree under summer sun
In mid of golden wheat clustered by the wind run
The waves of the wheat heads combed by gale and breeze
As the two set and made themselves at calm ease
They set and watched the golden field swaying in dance
The broken roar and the dim din of a remote city at horizon glance
She was beautiful and shy like a violet by a mossy wall stone
She set by him hidden and through his eyes she was only his own
They set beneath the tree, their life yet untrodden path
They spoke the first verses of love with joy and laugh
What was to come they knew not; merely the glory of that hour to bear
since they were innocent and pure; the masters of the days that were
They gathered roses from the field while they may
Unaware of old time that was still to carry them flying
A world so harsh where love grows and fleets away
They fell to play losing no time in grieving and sighing
And so they sat beneath an old oak before the sun in dusky skies
veiled his fair locks of child hair while he did spy
The unclouded luster that dwelled in her slaying eyes
Her bashful beauties once descried
The vanquished flowers around lost their pride
And in their vermilion buds their blushing they did hide
Losing their balmy fresh summer smell
They would never admit or tell
How much her sweets by far their own did excel.
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Morning Spring
The foul mist has been replaced in the greening plain,
And the dew-drops shine on the ear lop of a balmy rose, not rain,
The coquette rose awakes facing East again
Its lovely self adorning in such fresh scent morning with no strain.
Oh, the vast plain is grassy, untamed wild and bare
Wild, wanton and wide open to the morning air
Which has built up everywhere
Making the little rabbit to the meadow tread and dare
upon the far horizon blue peaks in the distance rise
And ivory white against the cold sapphire sky
Shine out of the crowing crests of snow
Beneath their line the bushes stretching in a dominant grow
The morning wind is hiding, sighing, dodging among the trees,
A sighing, soothing, laughing tease, of glee, not tears
The sun is rising in bright dusk skies
Veils his fair head of glory while contently he spies
This morning it is my love unclouded luster of her eyes
Her beauty shines as nature does; and once it descried
The jealous vanquish roses lose their bursting pride
And back into their home buds their blushes hide
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An Evening Of Roses
An evening of roses scent comes to the world
As the wind beats the far mountains; it blows
More softly around the open grassy wold
Where the shy timid tulip hides as it grows
The evening is descending calm like a nun
When at the far sky the first star glows against lowering sun
This is when through waving silky hair in your exquisite ear
I shall whisper a song of love and cheer
And me this knowledge of evening so rare, bolder made
Or else I had not dared to fantasize and to flow
In these lines towards you, and invade
With this verse your peace or your holy woe
Listen to the holy music of the creatures night
The sounds of evening choirs so distilled and clear
As the moon climbs so slowly to its high orbit bright
You she constantly follows and persistent at you to peer
Come love to the garden of the balmy roses
The silver cheerful moon is at your command
Grape her, touch her by your extended hand
Before she reaches the mountains peak where she poses
In ever climbing up the up growing trees
All flowers wreaths come to rest at the top canopies
In silence withholding their secrets they are all in ease
Yet their plots and dreams in the forest have not cease
How sweet it is hearing the faint breeze among the trees
The soft inland murmur of downwards flowing stream
As the vivid water rise and fall among the outcropping rocks they tease
No where else you can contemplate such a beguiling dream
We shall sit beneath an old oak tree hear each other in love speech
As the moon shines and spreads her silver rays
We watch the crisping ripples on the pebbled beach
And the tender curving lines of forest sprout under light spray
Do not be so shy and coy to play your love part
In our time-beguiling art
This primrose bush on which we lean
Never can guess or deem what we mean
None of its buds can see or blab
The gaudy grasshopper is too busy after its pulp
And the heavy smug frog
Into the bottom lake after its prey plops
We can hide well behind the vermilion-veined tulip
On its flowery bed we can rest or sleep
The crowds of cowslip ahead never prattle
Nor their distinguished neighbor the shy myrtle
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Maidenhood
THROUGH her fair world of blossoms fresh and bright,
Veiled with her maiden innocence, she goes;
Not all the splendour of the waxing light
She sees, nor all the colour of the rose;
And yet who knows what finer hues she sees,
Hid by our wisdom from our longing eyes?
Who knows what light she sees in skies and seas
Which is withholden from our seas and skies?
Shod with her youth the thorny paths she treads
And feels not yet the treachery of the thorn,
Her crown of lilies still its perfume sheds
Where Love, the thorny crown, not yet is borne.
Yet in the mystery of her peaceful way
Who knows what fears beset her innocence,
Who, trembling, learns that thorns will wound some day,
And wonders what thorns are, and why, and whence?
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Stanzas to the Rose
SWEET PICTURE of Life's chequer'd hour!
Ah, wherefore droop thy blushing head?
Tell me, oh tell me, hap'less flow'r,
Is it because thy charms are fled?
Come, gentle ROSE, and learn from me
A lesson of Philosophy.
Thy scented buds, LIFE'S joys disclose;
They strew our paths with magic sweets;
Where many a thorn like thine, fair ROSE,
Full oft the weary wand'rer meets;
And when he sees thy charms depart,
He feels thy thorn within his heart.
When Morn's bright torch illum'd the sky,
Vainly thy flaunting buds display'd
Enamell'd leaves of crimson die,
Ill-fated blossoms doom'd to fade;
So 'tis with BEAUTY, hapless flow'r,
Its lustre blooms but for an hour.
Come blushing ROSE, and on my breast
Recline thy gentle head, and die;
Thy scatter'd leaves shall there be press'd,
Bath'd with a tear from PITY'S eye;
There shall thy balmy sweets impart
An essence grateful to my heart.
Thus SYMPATHY, with lenient pow'r,
Shall bid thy fading charms bestow
Soft odours for life's happy hour,
Kind, healing balsam for its woe!
If such thy virtues, ROSE DIVINE!
OH ! MAY THY ENVIED FATE BE MINE.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My lover and I
When the ever resilient nightingale to his date
Chirrups his songs day long and night late
My love and I keep our sweet state
In the lush and balmy bower
Of varieties bursting blooming flowers
Sweetening with love chat the fresh young air
All day from rose cheeked morning till dusk we are there
Till the watchman guarding in the tower
Announces the approaching close hour
The gored vermilion sun sank in the West
And the night rests on canopies and on crests
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River Lilies
Saw a boy three lilies white,
Lilies in the river,
Half heart-open to the light,
Full of golden arrows bright,
Each a silver quiver.
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
Said the boy, “I’ll pluck you there,
Lilies in the river!”
Said the lilies, “If you dare
You shall drown, or homeward fare
Dripping and a-shiver!”
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
Wilful still the boy would clasp
Lilies in the river;
Tumbled in ere he could grasp,
Scrambled out with puff and gasp,
Plucked no lilies ever.
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When I look at other women
When I look at other women
I always think of you, but you a holy token, a blessed omen
Of sky and earth that captures my eyes; my soul and breath
With lovely war of lilies and roses a blush, a dance of mirth
When I hear other women voice
You are my one and only choice
You come to my vision with music played
From that blessed violin whose motion sounds
Off sweet fingers; a phantom of delight gently swayed
As my ear is only to your voice confounds
Your words are like no other words or play
The things you say to me are like no other women say
Your words are ever keener and wittier; in context extreme
As they come out from your mouth oh what a dream!
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A woman at a café’
She is a burning beauty so beguiling bright
As she sits in a café’ of a city under the night
Her skin over her face and limbs is spread like a dream
All the lights around her turn their heads in shame dim
Her legs peep beneath a dark collied skirt
Setting all passers by into anguish alert
What mortal hand or eye
Could frame or design your thigh
In what clay, in what mould
Were her eyes of fury and beauty rolled?
In what distant depths or vaulting high skies
Burnt the fire of her eyes?
He who framed her what dare he aspire?
What hand could dare size this intense fire?
Her shoulders, what an art
What craft could twist the sinews of her heart?
And when her heart begin to beat
What dread hands what dread feet?
Where is the hammer where is the chain
In what furnace she was give birth where it all began
The stars above the city threw down their spears
And watered heaven with their tears
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the man make thee?
She, she, the burning fire of the night
Lent her ore to the canopy of the city so bright
The flames of the candles at her table
Competed to reflect their image in her eyes like shadows fragile
Her glass of wine did not delay; it had stelled
Her beauty's form within its convex heart
So proudly its bounty to the world it held
Claiming it never captured a better art
Burnt! Burnt! Beguiling beauty in bright
As the city approached the edge of the midnight
The trees at the avenue their blooming boughs dropped
To feel her blood in her veins throbbed
What immortal hand what heavenly eye
Dare contrive your fearful symmetry beneath this sky
And there was none in the city’s daughters
With the magic like her when she sat down to eat
And like the night music on the East river water
Was her voice loud in tease and in din beat
When as if her humor and soul were causing
The charmed river pausing
The waves at its banks to lie still gleaming
And the lulled winds seemed dreaming
And the midnight moon was weaving
Her bright image over the water deep
While her twin breasts were gently heaving
As if an infant was asleep
As she got up to leave
She walked in beauty into the night
That a city of cloudless climates can give
And all that was best in dark and bright
Were reflected in the lofty vaults of starry skies
And met in her structure and in her eyes
And thus mellowed to that tender glow of night
Which heaven bestowed on her yet to the gaudy day denied
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An Embroidery
Rose Red's hair is brown as fur
and shines in firelight as she prepares
supper of honey and apples, curds and whey,
for the bear, and leaves it ready
on the hearth-stone.
Rose White's grey eyes
look into the dark forest.
Rose Red's cheeks are burning,
sign of her ardent, joyful
compassionate heart.
Rose White is pale,
turning away when she hears
the bear's paw on the latch.
When he enters, there is
frost on his fur,
he draws near to the fire
giving off sparks.
Rose Red catches the scent of the forest,
of mushrooms, of rosin.
Together Rose Red and Rose White
sing to the bear;
it is a cradle song, a loom song,
a song about marriage, about
a pilgrimage to the mountains
long ago.
Raised on an elbow,
the bear stretched on the hearth
nods and hums; soon he sighs
and puts down his head.
He sleeps; the Roses
bank the fire.
Sunk in the clouds of their feather bed
they prepare to dream.
Rose Red in a cave that smells of honey
dreams she is combing the fur of her cubs
with a golden comb.
Rose White is lying awake.
Rose White shall marry the bear's brother.
Shall he too
when the time is ripe,
step from the bear's hide?
Is that other, her bridegroom,
here in the room?
poem by Denise Levertov
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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Song XIX. - When bright Ophelia treads the green
When bright Ophelia treads the green,
In all the pride of dress and mien;
Averse to freedom, mirth and play,
The lofty rival of the day;
Methinks, to my enchanted eye,
The lilies droop, the roses die.
But when, disdaining art, the fair
Assumes a soft engaging air;
Mild as the opening morn of May,
And as the feather'd warblers gay;
The scene improves where'er she goes,
More sweetly smile the pink and rose.
O lovely maid! propitious hear,
Nor think thy Damon insincere.
Pity my wild delusive flame;
For though the flowers are still the same,
To me they languish, or improve,
And plainly tell me that I love.
poem by William Shenstone
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Her Face And Brow
Ah, help me! but her face and brow
Are lovelier than lilies are
Beneath the light of moon and star
That smile as they are smiling now--
White lilies in a pallid swoon
Of sweetest white beneath the moon--
White lilies, in a flood of bright
Pure lucidness of liquid light
Cascading down some plenilune,
When all the azure overhead
Blooms like a dazzling daisy-bed.--
So luminous her face and brow,
The luster of their glory, shed
In memory, even, blinds me now.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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What Makes The Summer?
It is not the lark's clear tone
Cleaving the morning air with a soaring cry,
Nor the nightingale's dulcet melody all the balmy night--
Not these alone
Make the sweet sounds of summer;
But the drone of beetle and bee, the murmurous hum of the fly
And the chirp of the cricket hidden out of sight--
These help to make the summer.
Not roses redly blown,
Nor golden lilies, lighting the dusky meads,
Nor proud imperial pansies, nor queen-cups quaint and rare--
Not these alone
Make the sweet sights of summer
But the countless forest leaves, the myriad wayside weeds
And slender grasses, springing up everywhere--
These help to make the summer.
One heaven bends above;
The lowliest head ofttimes has sweetest rest;
O'er song-bird in the pine, and bee in the ivy low,
Is the same love, it is all God's summer;
Well pleased is He if we patiently do our best,
So hum little bee, and low green grasses grow,
You help to make the summer.
poem by Marietta Holley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Let Me Wake Up Young
Let me wake up young at early dawn again
And welcome the showers of spring first rain
Let me love and peer up at the morning sun
With half shut eyes and comfortable fresh cheek
Let me live a sweet life tale full often to seek
Through meadows and pathless woods where rivers fall and run
Let me love again my brightest beautiful one
Of heaven and divine let me slowly speak
These love tunes to the night and the starlight meek
Or the moon, if that her hunting be begun
Let me know, let me relive these delights and be prone
To moralize upon a smile and a tear
And find at once a region in a world of my own
A meadow, a bower for my spirit where it will steer
To alleys of forest gloom where pine tree dropp their cone
Where foxes hide, robins chirp and leaves are fallen sere
Let me wake up in strength and vigor hope
Worship the morning, the mystic night, the light the shade and lush lea on slope
Let me glance again fresh on wide plains, fair foliage trees, and at sprouting flowers
Call on birds over clear streams, smooth calm lakes, and long stretched bowers
Let me lost in the happiness of pathless woods with tall towers
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The Skies!
On a fine day
Blue and white,
The skies are at rest.
Sleepy in their mindsets,
Going to and fro.
But when the skies,
In their anger roar
And thunder.
Mere mortals cower before them,
None bold enough to face them.
Proud and kingly they are,
In the high heavens,
Watching.
Watching us all.
Few can hide from them.
The skies look down on us,
Them being above.
No limits set before them,
No boundaries,
Free, to go where they want.
None have the privilege,
As those,
Who watch us from above.
And look down on us.
The skies!
poem by Anushna Satapathy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Listen to the mid night falling rain
Listen to the mid night falling rain
It has such a magic divinity sound
when it hits the tardy ground.
I am going now to spend some time contemplating and warming
The rain has stopped suddenly without any warning
As if it will not disturb me in thoughts of you
Or may be it is curious about the lines I owe
to you and to your pangs and pains.
It is good that it stopped with no regain
The drops of rain that fall in the dark of the night
On their way down without a guide of light.
The moon is shy and behind a cliff cloud it hides
They fall they tumble and bounce
Reaching every corner in the garden without announce
One from the lap of a balmy rose under the moon gloom
The other from the earring of unknown bloom
And the third just slide along the blade of a longitude grass there
To face a frightened rabbit in its lair.
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When Cold Winter Winds Gripped The Air Between Us
When cold winter winds gripped the air between us
And howling storms vexed the calm of my elongated nights
Driven to the extreme of painful delirium and lust
I strolled around your place with heavy heart
Who would assemble shame stricken to an offending banquet attire
Under such heavy incense beg this occasion spare an acquire
Once feelings unblemished luster bloomed no lose their pride
But once shaken their cankered buds blushes burrowing to hide
What breaks cannot be fixed the way it was any more
What have been lost will none be re-established into a gain
All efforts tears and toils are wretched in vain
And nothing can bring back the happy hour glamour
Making The Choices...
from my rotting belly
words like words are coming out
no one likes them
worms are beguiling
i am misled myself
because from my rotten belly
the worms without my minding
have become
tiny butterflies
then they fly towards my hair
which have become some kind of little flowers
and i can smell the sweet scents of chili
i have forgotten my body
i have become a forest with all these safari stuff
and orchids and wild birds
to my big surprise of course
because i am never asleep i am awake
oh, this workings of the mind
from a rotten body, this junk of our history
shall rise
the wonders of our future, a forest, birds, safari, rivers,
clouds, skies,
everything, everything, you simply have to make the choices...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ah love, but a day
Ah love, but a day
And the world on me has changed
The sun is away
And the birds to me estranged
One painful word from her voluptuous lips
And my whole world eclipsed
A bitter punctuating word, in a piercing phrase
My life is phased
The wind in mid air has dropped
And the skies grey, dull, deranged
Summer has stopped cold
Autumn perplexed over warmed
Stars in the murky skies madly shot
The pale moon in its orbit lost
Come, grow old with me
And the best yet to be
So you said
So I dread
Look me love in my eyes
Will you change too?
Shall I fear what I did not see?
Shall I find aught new?
In the old and the dear
In the good and true
With the changing year
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