Longfellow
The winds have talked with him confidingly;
The trees have whispered to him; and the night
Hath held him gently as a mother might,
And taught him all sad tones of melody:
The mountains have bowed to him; and the sea,
In clamorous waves, and murmurs exquisite,
Hath told him all her sorrow and delight--
Her legends fair-- her darkest mystery.
His verse blooms like a flower, night and day;
Bees cluster round his rhymes; and twitterings
Of lark and swallow, in an endless May,
Are mingling with the tender songs he sings--.
Nor shall he cease to sing-- in every lay
Of Nature's voice he sings-- and will alway.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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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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Joy's City
Joy's City hath high battlements of gold;
Joy's City hath her streets of gem-wrought flow'rs;
She hath her palaces high reared and bold,
And tender shades of perfumed lily bowers;
But ever day by day, and ever night by night,
An Angel measures still our City of Delight.
He hath a rule of gold, and never stays,
But ceaseless round the burnish'd ramparts glides;
He measures minutes of her joyous days,
Her walls, her trees, the music of her tides;
The roundness of her buds--Joy's own fair city lies,
Known to its heart-core by his stern and thoughtful eyes.
Above the sounds of timbrel and of song,
Of greeting friends, of lovers 'mid the flowers,
The Angel's voice arises clear and strong:
'O City, by so many leagues thy bow'rs
Stretch o'er the plains, and in the fair high-lifted blue
So many cubits rise thy tow'rs beyond the view.'
Why dost thou, Angel, measure Joy's fair walls?
Unceasing gliding by their burnish'd stones;
Go, rather measure Sorrow's gloomy halls;
Her cypress bow'rs, her charnel-house of bones;
Her groans, her tears, the rue in her jet chalices;
But leave unmeasured more, Joy's fairy palaces.
The Angel spake: 'Joy hath her limits set,
But Sorrow hath no bounds--Joy is a guest
Perchance may enter; but no heart puls'd yet,
Where Sorrow did not lay her down to rest;
She hath no city by so many leagues confin'd,
I cannot measure bounds where there are none to find.'
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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Mothers Day2007
She hath my heart, she is my mum.
She hath my heart, she is my only, she is my one.
She hath my heart, though rough winds may blow.
She hath my heart, still her love will flow, her love will always show.
She hath my heart, I thank my lucky stars.
She hath my heart and i have hers.
She hath my heart, i long for her presence.
She hath my heart, her name is essence.
She hath my heart and forever she will.
Lifetimes will come and go, i will love her still
She hath my heart, this fact i cant conceal
Our bond is like sentiment you just cant kill
She hath my heart in times of sorrow.
She hath my heart, yesterday, today and tomorrow.
She hath my heart, my voice will sing.
She hath my heart, she makes the bell in my heart ring.
She hath my heart, in times of trouble.
She wont stumble no i will not let her crumble.
She hath my heart in each and every way
And my love for her grows with each day
She hath my heart for we were once one.
She hath my heart, the heart of the boy inside the man
I hath her heart, the heart we once shared.
Though separated in body the hearts still paired.
She hath my heart i need her near.
She hath my heart my mama dear
She hath my heart and she already knows
In a world of thorny bushes she stands out like rose
She hath my heart for she is always by my side
When the sun sets she is my light, she is my guide.
poem by Soul Child
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Sweetly Sings the Thrush
Sweetly sings the thrush
among the meadows fair.
All whose senses hear her
wish to wander there.
To be in tune with her fair voice
brings joy into your heart.
She sings of love for what she sees
of which you are a part.
Sweetly sings the thrush
before the night has come.
All the creatures of the day
are saddened when she's done.
To hear the silence of the night
you must wait for another ‘morrow.
For her song that permeates the air
to take away your sorrow.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Oh, My Darling Odessa!
OH, ODESSA!
Years fly and my love
Always stays in my heart,
Floats with me.
You invite as before,
You cosset even more
Odessa my home.
Anywhere I go I can hear your voice
Your waves ring like the bell
Your trees tales tell
Not in vain you call again
In my heart you will remain
In my heart you will remain.
Oh, Odessa my love, darling city, yes!
Without you I won't live really, I confess
And my soul won't be young
And I wouldn't sing the songs,
And I wouldn't sing the songs.
The Black Sea sings at night
Sweet dreams watch odessites
Seagulls and Sun.
Always young sings the songs,
Always bright brings along
Courage and fun.
Yes, Odessa my love, city jokes and joy
Without you I won't live and will be annoyed
And my soul won't be young
And I wouldn't sing the songs,
And I wouldn't sing the songs.
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Who Has Seen The Wind
Who has seen the wind scalloping the sea
Or gliding like a swallow over villages and trees?
I have, said the willow,
And I begged him please to stay, but he went away,
He went on his own one day. and I sing
One love have i, and he sings, now its goodbye,
And I sing part of me dies until I see you again.
Who has seen the sun through a parasol of leaves,
Through scattered ruby cloud fires, through the silver wings of bees?
I have, said the waters, and I held his face to mine,
But he left in time, he went in his own good time.
And I sing one love have i, and he sings,
Now its goodbye, and I sing
Part of me dies until I see you again.
Who has seen the stranger in a coat of simple brown,
With his face of many faces, with his eyes turned out of town?
I have and I kissed him and I begged him please to stay,
But he went away, with the sun and the wind away.
And I sing one love have i, and he sings,
Now its goodbye, and I sing
Part of me dies until I see you again
song performed by by Joni Mitchell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Odisha Vavroovahana Patra
Odisha is proud for her freedom fighters;
Smiles with the beauty of Nature.
Mahanadi sings glory day and night;
Brahmani, Vaitarani flow in her lap with delight.
Mountains of Koraput look beautiful;
Melody of brooks are delightful.
Rivulets provide pleasure;
Beauteous is her Nature.
Bhargavi sings Gopabandhu’s Glory gaily;
Brahmani sings Bajia’s sacrifice melancholically.
In golden letters dazzles laxmana’s name at mathili;
Vir surendra Sai inspires people at Sambalpur valiantly.
Netaji Subhash is the pride of Kataka, Odia Bazar;
“Give me blood, I would give you Freedom”, the slogan to the nation inspires.
Papdahandi’s Pillar of martyrs dazzles for ever;
Beauteous, pure is Turi’s water.
Niranjana Ghosh’s name dazzles in history;
Odisha’s lap is flowery.
Indravati sings the glory of Nabarangpur;
Beautiful are the mountains in the lap of Nature.
poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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The Voice that Sings
The voice that sings across the night
Of long forgotten days and things,
Is there an ear to hear aright
The voice that sings?
It is as when a curfew rings
Melodious in the dying light,
A sound that flies on pulsing wings.
And faded eyes that once were bright
Brim over, as to life it brings
The echo of a dead delight,
The voice that sings.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Love's Phases
Love hath the wings of the butterfly,
Oh, clasp him but gently,
Pausing and dipping and fluttering by
Inconsequently.
Stir not his poise with the breath of a sigh;
Love hath the wings of the butterfly.
Love hath the wings of the eagle bold,
Cling to him strongly--
What if the look of the world be cold,
And life go wrongly?
Rest on his pinions, for broad is their fold;
Love hath the wings of the eagle bold.
Love hath the voice of the nightingale,
Hearken his trilling--
List to his song when the moonlight is pale,--
Passionate, thrilling.
Cherish the lay, ere the lilt of it fail;
Love hath the voice of the nightingale.
Love hath the voice of the storm at night,
Wildly defiant.
Hear him and yield up your soul to his might,
Tenderly pliant.
None shall regret him who heed him aright;
Love hath the voice of the storm at night.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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The Soote Season
The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings,
With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale;
The nightingale with feathers new she sings,
The turtle to her make hath told her tale.
Summer is come, for every spray now springs,
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale,
The buck in brake his winter coat he flings,
The fishes float with new repaired scale,
The adder all her slough away she slings,
The swift swallow pursueth the flyës smale,
The busy bee her honey now she mings--
Winter is worn that was the flowers' bale.
And thus I see, among these pleasant things
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs.
poem by Henry Howard
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No Other Voice
There is no other voice I miss as much
When I'm far from my home, your laughter, your touch
There's no music on earth I'd rather hear
No other voice but yours
Your birdsong in the morning
You're the wind in the trees
The lapping of night waves on tropical seas
You're the sound of my heart beat, my breathing, my life
The lullabye rocking our babies to sleep at night
And through the dead of the voices I scream in my head
There is only one voice that sings love songs instead
There is no other sound that speaks straight to my heart
There is no other voice
not even a choice
There is no other voice but yours
song performed by by Kenny Loggins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Geotheos
As sweet as the look of a lover
Saluting the eyes of a maid
That blossom to blue as the maid
Is ablush to the glances above her,
The sunshine is gilding the glade
And lifting the lark out of shade.
Sing therefore high praises, and therefore
Sing songs that are ancient as gold,
Of earth in her garments of gold;
Nor ask of their meaning, nor wherefore
They charm as of yore, for behold!
The Earth is as fair as of old.
Sing songs of the pride of the mountains,
And songs of the strength of the seas,
And the fountains that fall to the seas
From the hands of the hills, and the fountains
That shine in the temples of trees,
In valleys of roses and bees.
Sing songs that are dreamy and tender,
Of slender Arabian palms,
And shadows that circle the palms,
Where caravans out of the splendor,
Are kneeling in blossoms and balms,
In islands of infinite calms.
Barbaric, O Man, was thy runing
When mountains were stained as with wine
By the dawning of Time, and as wine
Were the seas, yet its echoes are crooning,
Achant in the gusty pine
And the pulse of the poet's line.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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My Cousin In Milwaukee
Once I visited my cousin, in milwaukee, usa
She got boyfriends by the dozen, when she sang in a lowdown way
She was a positive sensation
The songs that she sang would never miss
My cousin was my inspiration
Thats how I got like this
I got a cousin in milwaukee
Shes got a voice so squawky
And though shes tall and kind of gawky
Oh, how she gets the men
Her singing isnt operatic
Its got a lot of static
What makes your heart get acrobatic
Nine times out of ten
When she sings hot, you cant be solemn
It sends the shivers up and down your spinal column
When she sings blue, the men shout, what stuff!
That baby is hot stuff
So if you like the way I sing songs,
If you think that Im a wow
You can thank my squawky cousin from milwaukee
Because she taught me how
(instrumental bridge)
When she sings hot, you cant be solemn
It sends the shivers up and down your spinal column
When she sings blue, the men shout, what stuff!
That baby is hot stuff
So if you like the way I sing songs,
If you think that Im a wow
You can thank my squawky cousin from milwaukee
Because she taught me how
song performed by by Ella Fitzgerald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Come Ye Heavy States Of Night
Come ye heavy states of night,
Do my father's spirit right,
Soundings baleful let me borrow,
Burthening my song with sorrow.
Come sorrow come her eyes that sings,
By thee are turned into springs.
Come you virgins of the night,
That in dirges sad delight,
Choir my anthems, I do borrow
Gold nor pearl, but sounds of sorrow:
Come sorrow come her eyes that sings,
By thee are turned into springs.
poem by John Dowland
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The Knight's Return
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
The were wolves mutter, the night hawks moan,
The raven croaks from the Raven-stone;
What care I for his boding groan,
Riding the moorland to come to mine own?
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
Long have I wander'd by land and by sea,
Long have I ridden by moorland and lea;
Yonder she sits with my babe on her knee,
Sits at the window and watches for me!
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
Written for music, 1857.
poem by Charles Kingsley
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My Longshore Lass
Far in the mellow western sky,
Above the restless harbor bar,
A beacon on the coast of night,
Shines out a calm, white evening star;
But your deep eyes, my 'longshore lass,
Are brighter, clearer far.
The glory of the sunset past
Still gleams upon the water there,
But all its splendor cannot match
The wind-blown brightness of your hair;
Not any sea-maid's floating locks
Of gold are half so fair.
The waves are whispering to the sands
With murmurs as of elfin glee;
But your low laughter, 'longshore lass,
Is like a sea-harp's melody,
And the vibrant tones of your tender voice
Are sweeter far to me.
poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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One Life
OH, I am hurt to death, my Love;
The shafts of Fate have pierced my striving heart,
And I am sick and weary of
The endless pain and smart.
My soul is weary of the strife,
And chafes at life, and chafes at life.
Time mocks me with fair promises;
A blooming future grows a barren past,
Like rain my fair full-blossomed trees
Unburden in the blast.
The harvest fails on grain and tree,
Nor comes to me, nor comes to me.
The stream that bears my hopes abreast
Turns ever from my way its pregnant tide.
My laden boat, torn from its rest,
Drifts to the other side.
So all my hopes are set astray,
And drift away, and drift away.
The lark sings to me at the morn,
And near me wings her skyward-soaring flight;
But pleasure dies as soon as born,
The owl takes up the night,
And night seems long and doubly dark;
I miss the lark, I miss the lark.
Let others labor as they may,
I'll sing and sigh alone, and write my line.
Their fate is theirs, or grave or gay,
And mine shall still be mine.
I know the world holds joy and glee,
But not for me, — 't is not for me.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Wanting The Moon
Not the moon. A flower
on the other side of the water.
The water sweeps past in flood,
dragging a whole tree by the hair,
a barn, a bridge. The flower
sings on the far bank.
Not a flower, a bird calling
hidden among the darkest trees, music
over the water, making a silence
out of the brown folds of the river's cloak.
The moon. No, a young man walking
under the trees. There are lanterns
among the leaves.
Tender, wise, merry,
his face is awake with its own light,
I see it across the water as if close up.
A jester. The music rings from his bells,
gravely, a tune of sorrow,
I dance to it on my riverbank.
poem by Denise Levertov
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I'll ask a Bluebird…
I'll ask a bluebird
To sing a summer song
Tones so lovely slurred
For life is coming along
Each day and night tender
Of love songs in the air
My thoughts to this surrender
In tunes of moments fair
I'll ask a thrush that plays
Its summer forest songs
Why each of them dallies
To a heart that longs
When breezy are the leaves
Of the wandering hour
With many thoughts of eves
For the meadow flower
Night of late shall come
To every summer singing
Growing on tincturing blossom
An end to their dreams bringing
For love shall fly away
Into another living wave
Where flowers in wind sway
With the new songs to crave
poem by Peter S. Quinn
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The Cruel Winds of Winter
Got up this morning, no sun in my eyes,
The house is so cold, no warmth to the fire,
My love is gone, he took all my desire,
And cruel winds of winter howled all night.
My love could warm me in the coldest time,
Bring the light of day to the darkest night,
As tears of my sorrow fall from my eyes,
The cruel winds of winter cry in delight.
Pull on my coat, keep the chill from my side,
I walk by the sea, the salt stings my eye,
The caps are all gray, like clouds in the sky,
And with those cruel winds of winter, I cry.
As tears of my sorrow fall to the sand,
My love is not here to warn my cold hand,
He’s gone like the sun from this harsh, gray land,
And only the wind seems to understand.
This endless winter has replaced his light,
My sweet love gone, no warmth in my sight,
I drift lost and lonely, no sleep I find,
Still those winds cry with me deep in the night.
My heart so heavy, life has no delight,
And the cruel winds of winter, torment my night.
poem by Teresa Dearing
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