Inscribed
To the Elect of Love,--or side-by-side
In raptest ecstasy, or sundered wide
By seas that bear no message to or fro
Between the loved and lost of long ago.
So were I but a minstrel, deft
At weaving, with the trembling strings
Of my glad harp, the warp and weft
Of rondels such as rapture sings,--
I'd loop my lyre across my breast,
Nor stay me till my knee found rest
In midnight banks of bud and flower
Beneath my lady's lattice-bower.
And there, drenched with the teary dews,
I'd woo her with such wondrous art
As well might stanch the songs that ooze
Out of the mockbird's breaking heart;
So light, so tender, and so sweet
Should be the words I would repeat,
Her casement, on my gradual sight,
Would blossom as a lily might.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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In The South
There is a princess in the South
About whose beauty rumors hum
Like honey-bees about the mouth
Of roses dewdrops falter from;
And O her hair is like the fine
Clear amber of a jostled wine
In tropic revels; and her eyes
Are blue as rifts of Paradise.
Such beauty as may none before
Kneel daringly, to kiss the tips
Of fingers such as knights of yore
Had died to lift against their lips:
Such eyes as might the eyes of gold
Of all the stars of night behold
With glittering envy, and so glare
In dazzling splendor of despair.
So, were I but a minstrel, deft
At weaving, with the trembling strings
Of my glad harp, the warp and weft
Of rondels such as rapture sings,--
I'd loop my lyre across my breast,
Nor stay me till my knee found rest
In midnight banks of bud and flower
Beneath my lady's lattice-bower.
And there, drenched with the teary dews,
I'd woo her with such wondrous art
As well might stanch the songs that ooze
Out of the mockbird's breaking heart;
So light, so tender, and so sweet
Should be the words I would repeat,
Her casement, on my gradual sight,
Would blossom as a lily might.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Singers to Come
New delights to our desire
The singers of the past can yield.
I lift mine eyes to hill and field,
And see in them your yet dumb lyre,
poets unborn and unrevealed.
Singers to come, what thoughts will start
To song? What words of yours be sent
Through man's soul, and with earth be blent?
These words of nature and the heart
Await you like an instrument.
Who knows what musical flocks of words
Upon these pine-tree tops will light,
And crown these towers in circling flight,
And cross these seas like summer birds,
And give a voice to the day and night?
Something of you already is ours;
Some mystic part of you belongs
To us whose dream of your future throngs,
Who look on hills, and trees, and flowers,
Which will mean so much in your songs.
I wonder, like the maid who found,
And knelt to lift, the lyre supreme
Of Orpheus from the Thracian stream.
She dreams on its sealed past profound;
On a deep future sealed I dream.
She bears it in her wanderings
Within her arms, and has not pressed
Her unskilled fingers but her breast
Upon those silent sacred strings;
I, too, clasp mystic strings at rest.
For I, i' the world of lands and seas,
The sky of wind and rain and fire,
And in man's world of long desire--
In all that is yet dumb in these--
Have found a mysterious lyre.
poem by Alice Meynell
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After A Lecture On Moore
SHINE soft, ye trembling tears of light
That strew the mourning skies;
Hushed in the silent dews of night
The harp of Erin lies.
What though her thousand years have past
Of poets, saints, and kings,--
Her echoes only hear the last
That swept those golden strings.
Fling o'er his mound, ye star-lit bowers,
The balmiest wreaths ye wear,
Whose breath has lent your earth-born flowers
Heaven's own ambrosial air.
Breathe, bird of night, thy softest tone,
By shadowy grove and rill;
Thy song will soothe us while we own
That his was sweeter still.
Stay, pitying Time, thy foot for him
Who gave thee swifter wings,
Nor let thine envious shadow dim
The light his glory flings.
If in his cheek unholy blood
Burned for one youthful hour,
'T was but the flushing of the bud
That blooms a milk-white flower.
Take him, kind mother, to thy breast,
Who loved thy smiles so well,
And spread thy mantle o'er his rest
Of rose and asphodel.
The bark has sailed the midnight sea,
The sea without a shore,
That waved its parting sign to thee,--
'A health to thee, Tom Moore!'
And thine, long lingering on the strand,
Its bright-hued streamers furled,
Was loosed by age, with trembling hand,
To seek the silent world.
Not silent! no, the radiant stars
Still singing as they shine,
Unheard through earth's imprisoning bars,
Have voices sweet as thine.
Wake, then, in happier realms above,
The songs of bygone years,
Till angels learn those airs of love
That ravished mortal ears!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Whence Cometh Such Tender Rapture?
Whence cometh such tender rapture?
Those curls--they are not the first ones
I've smoothened, and I've already
Known lips--that were darker than yours.
The stars have risen and faded,
--Whence cometh such tender rapture?--
And eyes have risen and faded
In face of these eyes of mine
I'd never yet hearkened unto
Such songs in the depths of darkness,
--Whence cometh such tender rapture?--
My head on the bard's own breast
Whence cometh such tender rapture?
And what's to be done with it, artful
Young vagabound, passing minstrel
With lashes--to long to say.
poem by Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva
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The Troubadour
Glowing with love, on fire for fame
A Troubadour that hated sorrow
Beneath his lady's window came,
And thus he sung his last good-morrow:
'My arm it is my country's right,
My heart is in my true-love's bower;
Gaily for love and fame to fight
Befits the gallant Troubadour.'
And while he marched with helm on head
And harp in hand, the descant rung,
As faithful to his favourite maid,
The minstrel-burden still he sung:
'My arm it is my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
Resolved for love and fame to fight
I come, a gallant Troubadour.'
Even when the battle-roar was deep,
With dauntless heart he hewed his way,
'Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep,
And still was heard his warrior-lay:
'My life it is my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
For love to die, for fame to fight,
Becomes the valiant Troubadour.'
Alas! upon the bloody field
He fell beneath the foeman's glaive,
But still reclining on his shield,
Expiring sung the exulting stave:-
'My life it is my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
For love and fame to fall in fight
Becomes the valiant Troubadour.'
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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The Master-Player
AN old worn harp that had been played
Till all its strings were loose and frayed,
Joy, Hate and Fear, each one essayed,
To play. But each in turn had found
No sweet responsiveness of sound
Then Love the Master-Player came
With heaving breast and eyes aflame;
The harp he took all undismayed,
Smote on its strings, still strange to song,
And brought forth music sweet and strong.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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My Heart Sings
My heart sings.
My heart sings the songs of happiness.
My heart sings the songs of joy.
My heart sings the songs of peace.
My heart sings the songs of the Blues.
My heart sings the songs of the Gospel.
My heart sings the songs of good news.
My heart cries a melody for all to hear.
My heart sings the harmonies of love.
My heart sings a song of beauty
that comes from the Thorne Birds
just before they die.
My heart sings songs to keep me alive.
My heart sings songs for as long as it beats.
My heart sings forever.
My heart sings haluwasa.
My heart sings.
poem by Jennifer Burns
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A Bird and flower upon the tree
A bird and flower upon the tree,
Sweet peony and oriole,
Each of them a perfect soul,
Song and sweetness manifest
The bird and flower we love the best
Side by side on the tall tree.
'Flower who art sunlight and fire, flower who art perfume and joy,
Sweetest of sweet,
Ah for the gift withheld!
Ah for the given gift's alloy!
Why must thy spirit exhale only in beauty and breath?
Ah for the voice thou hast not! I by thy side on the tree,
Telling the world of love, pain, and all raptures that be,
Raptures of laughter and life, raptures of tears and death,
Singing my heart to heaven, singing to earth at my feet;
Silence in thee.'
'Bird who art dew-drops and flame, bird who art rapture and song,
Sweetest of sweet,
Lo there's a voice part mine, songs that to me too belong,
Songs that grew of my growth, voice that has breathed my breath.
Bird that while I sit mute singest beside on the tree,
Hast thou ever a song taking no perfume of me?
Give forth my sweetness in song; bird, thou art singing for both,
Singing our hearts to heaven, singing to earth at our feet;
My voice in thee.'
On the tree-top side by side,
Sweet oriole and peony;
Music rings through earth and sky,
Sweet and sweet in sweetness lost
The flower and bird we love the most,
On the tree-top side by side.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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The songster
Music, music with throb and swing,
Of a plaintive note, and long;
'Tis a note no human throat could sing,
No harp with its dulcet golden string,--
Nor lute, nor lyre with liquid ring,
Is sweet as the robin's song.
He sings for love of the season
When the days grow warm and long,
For the beautiful God-sent reason
That his breast was born for song.
Calling, calling so fresh and clear,
Through the song-sweet days of May;
Warbling there, and whistling here,
He swells his voice on the drinking ear,
On the great, wide, pulsing atmosphere
Till his music drowns the day.
He sings for love of the season
When the days grow warm and long,
For the beautiful God-sent reason
That his breast was born for song.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Two Songs
A BEE that was searching for sweets one day
Through the gate of a rose garden happened to stray.
In the heart of a rose he hid away,
And forgot in his bliss the light of day,
As sipping his honey he buzzed in song;
Though day was waning, he lingered long,
For the rose was sweet, so sweet.
A robin sits pluming his ruddy breast,
And a madrigal sings to his love in her nest:
'Oh, the skies they are blue, the fields are green,
And the birds in your nest will soon be seen!'
She hangs on his words with a thrill of love,
And chirps to him as he sits above,
For the song is sweet, so sweet.
A maiden was out on a summer's day
With the winds and the waves and the flowers at play;
And she met with a youth of gentle air,
With the light of the sunshine on his hair.
Together they wandered the flowers among;
They loved, and loving they lingered long,
For to love is sweet, so sweet.
BIRD of my lady's bower,
Sing her a song;
Tell her that every hour,
All the day long,
Thoughts of her come to me,
Filling my brain
With the warm ecstasy
Of love's refrain.
Little bird! happy bird!
Being so near,
Where e'en her slightest word
Thou mayest hear,
Seeing her glancing eyes,
Sheen of her hair,
Thou art in paradise, —
Would I were there.
I am so far away,
Thou art so near;
Plead with her, birdling gay,
Plead with my dear.
Rich be thy recompense,
Fine be thy fee,
If through thine eloquence
She hearken me.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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The Road to Avignon
A Minstrel stands on a marble stair,
Blown by the bright wind, debonair;
Below lies the sea, a sapphire floor,
Above on the terrace a turret door
Frames a lady, listless and wan,
But fair for the eye to rest upon.
The minstrel plucks at his silver strings,
And looking up to the lady, sings: --
Down the road to Avignon,
The long, long road to Avignon,
Across the bridge to Avignon,
One morning in the spring.
The octagon tower casts a shade
Cool and gray like a cutlass blade;
In sun-baked vines the cicalas spin,
The little green lizards run out and in.
A sail dips over the ocean's rim,
And bubbles rise to the fountain's brim.
The minstrel touches his silver strings,
And gazing up to the lady, sings: --
Down the road to Avignon,
The long, long road to Avignon,
Across the bridge to Avignon,
One morning in the spring.
Slowly she walks to the balustrade,
Idly notes how the blossoms fade
In the sun's caress; then crosses where
The shadow shelters a carven chair.
Within its curve, supine she lies,
And wearily closes her tired eyes.
The minstrel beseeches his silver strings,
And holding the lady spellbound, sings: --
Down the road to Avignon,
The long, long road to Avignon,
Across the bridge to Avignon,
One morning in the spring.
Clouds sail over the distant trees,
Petals are shaken down by the breeze,
They fall on the terrace tiles like snow;
The sighing of waves sounds, far below.
A humming-bird kisses the lips of a rose
Then laden with honey and love he goes.
The minstrel woos with his silver strings,
And climbing up to the lady, sings: --
Down the road to Avignon,
The long, long road to Avignon,
Across the bridge to Avignon,
One morning in the spring.
Step by step, and he comes to her,
Fearful lest she suddenly stir.
Sunshine and silence, and each to each,
The lute and his singing their only speech;
He leans above her, her eyes unclose,
The humming-bird enters another rose.
The minstrel hushes his silver strings.
Hark! The beating of humming-birds' wings!
Down the road to Avignon,
The long, long road to Avignon,
Across the bridge to Avignon,
One morning in the spring.
poem by Amy Lowell
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The Last Look
W. W. SWAIN
BEHOLD--not him we knew!
This was the prison which his soul looked through,
Tender, and brave, and true.
His voice no more is heard;
And his dead name--that dear familiar word--
Lies on our lips unstirred.
He spake with poet's tongue;
Living, for him the minstrel's lyre was strung:
He shall not die unsung.
Grief tried his love, and pain;
And the long bondage of his martyr-chain
Vexed his sweet soul,--in vain!
It felt life's surges break,
As, girt with stormy seas, his island lake,
Smiling while tempests wake.
How can we sorrow more?
Grieve not for him whose heart had gone before
To that untrodden shore!
Lo, through its leafy screen,
A gleam of sunlight on a ring of green,
Untrodden, half unseen!
Here let his body rest,
Where the calm shadows that his soul loved best
May slide above his breast.
Smooth his uncurtained bed;
And if some natural tears are softly shed,
It is not for the dead.
Fold the green turf aright
For the long hours before the morning's light,
And say the last Good Night!
And plant a clear white stone
Close by those mounds which hold his loved, his own,--
Lonely, but not alone.
Here let him sleeping lie,
Till Heaven's bright watchers slumber in the sky
And Death himself shall die!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Lady Mabel
Side by side with Lady Mabel
Sate I, with the sunshade down;
In the distance hummed the Babel
Of the many-footed town;
There we sate with looks unstable-
Now of tenderness, of frown.
``Must we part? or may I linger?
Wax the shadows, wanes the day.''
Then, with voice of sweetest singer
That hath all but died away,
``Go,'' she said; but tightened finger
Said articulately, ``Stay!''
Face to face with Lady Mabel,
With the gauzy curtains drawn,
Till a sense I am unable
To portray began to dawn;
Till the slant sun flung the gable
Far athwart the sleepy lawn.
``Now I go. Adieu, adieu, love!
This is weakness; sweet, be strong.
Comes the footfall of the dew, love!
Philomel's reminding song.''
``Go,'' she said; ``but I go too, love!
Go with you, my life along!''
Breast to breast with Lady Mabel,
Shrouded by the courteous night,
Baffling all the forms of fable
To describe our dreams aright;
And as pure as gifts of Abel,
In the Omnipresent sight.
poem by Alfred Austin
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Farewell
Farewell, my sweet lady, I bid you adieu.
Like yesterday's sunset you've passed from my view.
You said I'd forget you, how could I, my dear?
My love has been buried, my heart was its bier.
My memory will hold you as flower and book;
Pressed petals in pages from love's garden nook.
And when I grow older, as all of us must,
I'll reach through the past, through mind's rubble and dust,
To draw to the foreground your vision, my light,
To hold in my mind's eye your womanly sight.
Tumultulus din, oh, hellhoundings of thought!
What void in my reason has loneliness wrought? !
I grieve by your headstone completely undone,
My living is over before it's begun.
Think not of the dark side, see only her face;
Think only her bright side, her passion, her grace.
And, when I grow older and nothing remains,
When I have no purpose, when nothing pertains,
I'll sit by the fireside, my thoughts in the flame,
Reliving your beauty, reciting your name.
Your spirit of love will rekindle my soul
And, I like a feather well neigh to my goal,
Unfettered by grief and this mouldering frame,
Will rise on the breath of my Lord to reclaim,
Our spiritual youth and the years that were lost.
I wait for the day that the threshold is crossed.
When there on the banks of the river of life,
I'll find you again, my sweet lover, my wife.
Farewell, my dear lady, 'till our rendezvous.
A long, and the last, and a saddened adeiu.
poem by Lynn W. Petty
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Sonnet IX: Passion And Worship
One flame-winged brought a white-winged harp-player
Even where my lady and I lay all alone;
Saying: “Behold, this minstrel is unknown;
Bid him depart, for I am minstrel here:
Only my strains are to Love's dear ones dear.”
Then said I: “Through thine hautboy's rapturous tone
Unto my lady still this harp makes moan,
And still she deems the cadence deep and clear.”
Then said my lady: “Thou art Passion of Love,
And this Love's Worship: both he plights to me.
Thy mastering music walks the sunlit sea:
But where wan water trembles in the grove
And the wan moon is all the light thereof,
This harp still makes my name its voluntary.”
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Midnight Blue
I see the lonely road that leads so far away,
I see the distant lights that left behind the day
But what I see is so much more than I can say
And I see you midnight blue.
I see you cryin now youve found a lot of pain,
And what youre searchin for can never be the same,
But whats the difference cos they say whats in a name.
And I see you midnight blue.
Chorus
I will love you tonight,and I will stay
By your side,lovin you,Im feelin midnight blue.
I see you standing there far out along the way,
I want to touch you but the night becomes the day,
I count the words that I am never gonna say
And I see you midnight blue.
Repeat chorus
Cant you feel the love that Im offering you,
Cant you see how its meant to be,
Cant you hear the words that Im saying to you,
Cant you believe like I believe,
Its only one and one its true
Still I see you midnight blue.
I see beautiful days and I feel beautiful ways
Of loving you,everythings midnight blue.
Repeat chorus
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Great Divide
She was reading a book that she'd already read
Just to pass the time
He just sat there and stared at the TV set
Like he was barely alive
And when the local news was over
They would climb the stairs
And crawl in bed underneath the covers
Like neither one was there
It's a long, long way
Across the great divide
The songs that they once sang
Now echo far and wide
They could still get back
All the love that they have lost
(But) only if they both will reach across
('Cause) it's a long, long way to the other side
Of the great divide
He was up in the attic on the fourth of July
'Cause they flew a flag in the yard
When he found some old roses she had long ago dried
Before they drifted apart
And how the years had slipped right by them
He didn't understand
He carried a petal into the kitchen
And he placed it in her hand
It's a long, long way
Across the great divide
The songs that they once sang
Now echo far and wide
They could still get back
All the love that they have lost
(But) only if they both will reach across
('Cause) it's a long, long way to the other side
Of the great divide
song performed by by Tim McGraw
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lily Adair
On the beryl-rimmed rebecs of Ruby,
Brought fresh from the hyaline streams,
She played, on the banks of the Yuba,
Such songs as she heard in her dreams.
Like the heavens, when the stars from their cyries
Look down through the ebon night air,
Were the groves by the Ouphantic Fairies
Lit up for my Lily Adair—
For my child-like Lily Adair—
For my heaven-born Lily Adair—
For my beautiful, dutiful Lily Adair.
Like two rose-leaves in sunshine when blowing,
Just curled softly, gently apart,
Were her lips by her passion, while growing
In perfume on the stalk of her heart.
As mild as the sweet influences
Of the Pleiades 'pregning the air—
More mild than the throned Excellencies
Up in heaven, was my Lily Adair—
Was my Christ-like Lily Adair—
Was my lamb-like Lily Adair—
Was my beautiful, dutiful Lily Adair.
At the birth of this fair virgin Vestal,
She was taken for Venus' child;
And her voice, though like diamond in crystal,
Was not more melodious than mild.
Like the moon in her soft silver splendor,
She was shrined in her own, past compare,
For no Angel in heaven was more tender
Than my beautiful Lily Adair—
Than my dove-like Lily Adair—
Than my saint-like Lily Adair—
Than my beautiful, dutiful Lily Adair.
Thus she stood on the arabesque borders
Of the beautiful blossoms that blew
On the banks of the crystalline waters,
Every morn, in the diaphane dew.
The flowers, they were radiant with glory,
And shed such perfume on the air,
That my soul, now to want them, feels sorry,
And bleeds for my Lily Adair—
For my much-loved Lily Adair—
For my long-lost Lily Adair—
For my beautiful, dutiful Lily Adair.
poem by Thomas Holley Chivers (1853)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Heart To Heart
(Emmylouy HarrisPaul Kennerley)
Heart to heart we'll hold together
Hand in hand we'll find a way
Oh, the storms of life may blind us
But with the loving vows that bind us
Heart to heart hand in hand we'll stay
Side by side forever and always
Day by day till our lives are done
This sweet love is ours to treasure
Far beyond all time and measure
Side by side day by day as one
The years connot take what's between you and me
We'll stand her together for the whole world to see
Heart to heart there'll be no other
Hand in hand for our love is true
Oh, the words that we have spoken
Will be a promise never broken
Heart to heart hand in hand with you
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lady That Hast my Heart
LADY that hast my heart within thy hand,
Thou heed'st me not; and if thou turn thine ear
Unto the wise, thou shalt not understand--
Behold the fault is thine, our words were clear.
For all the tumult in my drunken brain
Praise God! who trieth not His slave in vain;
Nor this world nor the next shall make me fear!
My weary heart eternal silence keeps--
I know not who has slipped into my heart;
Though I am silent, one within me weeps.
My soul shall rend the painted veil apart.
Where art thou, Minstrel! touch thy saddest strings
Till clothed in music such as sorrow sings,
My mournful story from thy zither sweeps.
Lo, not at any time I lent mine ear
To hearken to the glories of the earth;
Only thy beauty to mine eyes was dear.
Sleep has forsaken me, and from the birth
Of night till day I weave bright dreams of thee;
Drunk with a hundred nights of revelry,
Where is the tavern that sets forth such cheer!
My heart, sad hermit, stains the cloister floor
With drops of blood, the sweat of anguish dire;
Ah, wash me clean, and o'er my body pour
Love's generous wine! the worshippers of fire
Have bowed them down and magnified my name,
For in my heart there burns a living flame,
Transpiercing Death's impenetrable door.
What instrument through last night's silence rang?
My life into his lay the minstrel wove,
And filled my brain with the sweet song he sang.
It was the proclamation of thy love
That shook the strings of Life's most secret lyre,
And still my breast heaves with last night's desire,
For countless echoes from that music sprang.
And ever, since the time that Hafiz heard
His Lady's voice, as from a rocky hill
Reverberates the softly spoken word,
So echoes of desire his bosom fill.
poem by Shams al-Din Hafiz
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