September Dark
1
The air falls chill;
The whippoorwill
Pipes lonesomely behind the Hill:
The dusk grows dense,
The silence tense;
And lo, the katydids commence.
2
Through shadowy rifts
Of woodland lifts
The low, slow moon, and upward drifts,
While left and right
The fireflies' light
Swirls eddying in the skirts of Night.
3
O Cloudland gray
And level lay
Thy mists across the face of Day!
At foot and head,
Above the dead
O Dews, weep on uncomforted!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Related quotes
Tense
I know not
What is tense
I know
Tense has no tense.
Tense for tense
With no time
With no form
I am above tense.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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My Dog and I
My dog and I, the hills we know
Where the first faint wild roses blow,
We know the shadowy paths and cool
That wind across the woodland dim,
And where the water beetles swim
Upon the surface of the pool.
My dog and I, our feet brush through
Full oft the fragrant morning dew,
Or when the summer sun is high
We linger where the river flows,
Chattering and chuckling as it goes,
Two happy tramps, my dog and I.
Or, when the winter snows are deep,
Into some fire-lit nook we creep
And, while the north wind howls outside,
See castles in the dancing blaze,
Or, dozing, dream of summer days
And woodland stretches, wild and wide.
My dog and I are friends till death,
And when the chill, dark angel's breath
Shall call him from me, still I know
Forever friends, my dog and I.
poem by Norah M. Holland
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The Hill Pines Were Sighing
The hill pines were sighing,
O'ercast and chill was the day:
A mist in the valley lying
Blotted the pleasant May.
But deep in the glen's bosom
Summer slept in the fire
Of the odorous gorse-blossom
And the hot scent of the brier.
A ribald cuckoo clamoured,
And out of the copse the stroke
Of the iron axe that hammered
The iron heart of the oak.
Anon a sound appalling,
As a hundred years of pride
Crashed, in the silence falling;
And the shadowy pine-trees sighed.
poem by Robert Seymour Bridges
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Listening Back
There are no comrade roses at my window,
No green things in the lane;
Upon the roof no sibilant soft patter-
The lullaby of rain;
Without is silence, and within is silence,
Till silence grows a pain.
Within is silence, and without is silence,
The snow is on the sill,
In snow the window wreath’d instead of roses,
And snow is very still....
I wonder is it singing in the grasses,
The rain, on Russian Hill?
poem by Ina D. Coolbrith
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Doongalla
From recent rains the woodland path was greasy up along the wooded hill
And the freshening winds of mid afternoon blew with a wintery chill
And in Doongalla east of Melbourne the white cockies did call
In that quiet old mountain woodland where the stringybarks stand tall.
When I last was in Doongalla six or seven years ago
Across the wooded hillside the wintery winds did blow
And the currawongs were calling as through the woodland they did fly
And from memory I remember that too was in July.
The laugh like calls of the kookaburra in Doongalla's woodland ring
And around his invisible borders the grey shrike thrush whistle and sing
And the pleasant fluting of the beautiful crimson rosellas sweet music to the ear
In the woodlands east of Melbourne them one can see and hear
The chilly winds of the high country blow across the wintery sky
And the yellow robin is chirping on the sixth day of July
And the majestic stringybark gums touch the low lying clouds 'twould seem
In Doongalla by the Basin where Mother Nature reign supreme.
poem by Francis Duggan
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2: 20 P.M. Roxas
you are first
if you keep on searching, you will know more than what is necessary for tomorrow
you are the first to know and will tell those who know
to obey the dictates of silence for a while
there is no more argument possible in this
but only that silence that rifts what flesh is found in the bone
do not worry that much, there is no need after all
because i will be next
and i am not telling you
you will not be glad, but you will not be alone anymore
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Through Sufferings
This trail! !
This testing,
On this road;
Through sufferings,
Tense, dense, sense!
And like the picture of what you are going through now.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Ignoring Silence
We all relish in silence
at sometimes in our lives
and there are many kinds of silence.
There is the tense silence on battlefields
heard just before an attack begins.
The relaxing silence at the end of the day
when the world seems a million miles away
and then there is the ignoring silence.
This comes when people you want to talk to
but whom turn away and talk to someone else
leaving you feeling isolated in silence
not knowing what you have done
and hurting because your words will never be heard.
3 November 2010
poem by David Harris
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Attitude for justice
I am at ease to hate but tense when hated.
I am at ease to love but tense when rivaled.
I am at ease to seek but tense when rejected.
I am at ease to cuckold but tense when cuckolded.
Can there be attitude for justice?
11.0.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Early Works - Woodland Silence
The light that dawn brought
now fades as dusk returns
with it comes a soft breeze
that whispers to the trees
as lovers walk hand in hand
through twilights wonderland
the birds in the trees that sang
now rest their heads in sleep
as in the woodland silence
there is heard not a peep.
Date unknown
poem by David Harris
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By the Road to the Air Base
The calloused grass lies hard
Against the cracking plain:
Life is a grayish stain;
The salt-marsh hems my yard.
Dry dikes rise hill on hill;
In sloughs of tidal slime
Shellfish deposit lime,
Wild seafowl creep at will.
The highway, like a beach,
Turns whiter, shadowy, dry:
Loud, pale against the sky,
The bombing planes hold speech.
Yet fruit grows on the trees;
Here scholars pause to speak;
Through gardens bare and Greek
I hear my neighbor's bees.
poem by Yvor Winters
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Sizzla
Most wanted!
To the chill spot,
Change,
Mr. Postman,
Sizzla! !
Take me home,
Of the police,
Of the people,
Like the highlander;
Process,
The chill spot!
Coach,
Hill spot!
Hill top,
Take me home,
With the magic touch of love;
But not the killing spot.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The River Path
No bird-song floated down the hill,
The tangled bank below was still;
No rustle from the birchen stem,
No ripple from the water's hem.
The dusk of twilight round us grew,
We felt the falling of the dew;
For, from us, ere the day was done,
The wooded hills shut out the sun.
But on the river's farther side
We saw the hill-tops glorified,--
A tender glow, exceeding fair,
A dream of day without its glare.
With us the damp, the chill, the gloom
With them the sunset's rosy bloom;
While dark, through willowy vistas seen,
The river rolled in shade between.
From out the darkness where we trod,
We gazed upon those bills of God,
Whose light seemed not of moon or sun.
We spake not, but our thought was one.
We paused, as if from that bright shore
Beckoned our dear ones gone before;
And stilled our beating hearts to hear
The voices lost to mortal ear!
Sudden our pathway turned from night;
The hills swung open to the light;
Through their green gates the sunshine showed,
A long, slant splendor downward flowed.
Down glade and glen and bank it rolled;
It bridged the shaded stream with gold;
And, borne on piers of mist, allied
The shadowy with the sunlit side!
'So,' prayed we, 'when our feet draw near
The river dark, with mortal fear,
'And the night cometh chill with dew,
O Father! let Thy light break through!
'So let the hills of doubt divide,
So bridge with faith the sunless tide!
'So let the eyes that fail on earth
On Thy eternal hills look forth;
'And in Thy beckoning angels know
The dear ones whom we loved below!'
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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The winter eve is clear and chill
The winter eve is clear and chill:
the world of air is folded still;
the quiet hour expects the moon;
and yon my home awaits me soon
behind the panes that come and go
with dusk and firelight wavering low:
and I must bid the prompting cease
that bids me, in this charmed peace,
— as tho' the hour would last my will —
follow the roads and follow still
the dream that holds my heart in trance
and lures it to the fabled chance
to find, beyond these evening ways,
the morning and the woodland days
and meadows clear with gold, and you
as once, ere I might dare to woo.
poem by Christopher John Brennan
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La Fuite De La Lune
To outer senses there is peace,
A dreamy peace on either hand
Deep silence in the shadowy land,
Deep silence where the shadows cease.
Save for a cry that echoes shrill
From some lone bird disconsolate;
A corncrake calling to its mate;
The answer from the misty hill.
And suddenly the moon withdraws
Her sickle from the lightening skies,
And to her sombre cavern flies,
Wrapped in a veil of yellow gauze.
poem by Oscar Wilde
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Impressions II. La Fuite De La Lune
TO outer senses there is peace,
A dreamy peace on either hand,
Deep silence in the shadowy land,
Deep silence where the shadows cease.
Save for a cry that echoes shrill
From some lone bird disconsolate;
A corncrake calling to its mate;
The answer from the misty hill.
And suddenly the moon withdraws
Her sickle from the lightening skies,
And to her sombre cavern flies,
Wrapped in a veil of yellow gauze.
poem by Oscar Wilde
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The Recessional
Now along the solemn heights
Fade the Autumn's altar-lights;
Down the great earth's glimmering chancel
Glide the days and nights.
Little kindred of the grass,
Like a shadow in a glass
Falls the dark and falls the stillness;
We must rise and pass.
We must rise and follow, wending
Where the nights and days have ending, --
Pass in order pale and slow
Unto sleep extending.
Little brothers of the clod,
Soul of fire and seed of sod,
We must fare into the silence
At the knees of God.
Little comrades of the sky,
Wing to wing we wander by,
Going, going, going, going,
Softly as a sigh.
Hark, the moving shapes confer,
Globe of dew and gossamer,
Fading and ephemeral spirits
In the dusk astir.
Moth and blossom, blade and bee,
Worlds must go as well as we,
In the long procession joining
Mount and star and sea.
Toward the shadowy brink we climb
Where the round year rolls sublime,
Rolls, and drops, and falls forever
In the vast of time.
Like a plummet plunging deep
Past the utmost reach of sleep,
Till remembrance has no longer
Care to laugh or weep.
poem by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
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Midnight In Montgomery
(alan jackson/don sampson)
Midnight in montgomery, silver eagle, lonely road
I was on my way to mobile for a big new years eve show
I stopped for just a minute to see a friend outside of town
Put my collar up, found his name, and felt the wind die down
Then a drunken man in a cowboy suit took me by surprise
Waering shiny boots, a nudi suit and haunting haunted eyes
He said friend its good to see you, its nice to know you care
Then the wind picked up and he was gone
Was he ever really there
cause its midnight in montgomery
Just hear that whippoorwill
See the stars light up the purple sky
Feel that lonesome chill
When the wind its right, youll hear his songs
Smell whiskey in the air
Midnight in montgomery
Hes always singing there
I climbed back on my eagle, took one last look around
Through red tail lights a shadow moved slow across the ground
Off somewhere a midnight train is slowly passing by
I could hear that whistle moaning
Im so lonesome I could cry
cause its midnight in montgomery
Just hear that whippoorwill
See the stars light up the purple sky
Feel that lonesome chill
When the wind its right, youll hear his songs
Smell whiskey in the air
Midnight in montgomery
Hes always singing there
Hes always singing there
Hanks always singing there
song performed by by Alan Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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October
Sweet are the woodland notes
That gush melodious at morn from palpitating throats,
In anthems fresh as dew! Ay, they are sweet!
But from that dim retreat
Where Evening muses through the pensive hours,
There sometimes floats along
A more appealing song.
So, love, thy voice breathes a diviner music in the chill
Of autumn, when the glen is still
And Flora's gold all tarnished on the hill,
Than in the time when merry May calls forth her bashful flowers.
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Tz'u No. 18
To the tune of "Intoxicated in the Shadow of Flowers"
Thin mist, dense clouds, a grief-stricken day;
auspicious incense burns in the gold animal.
Once again, it is the joyous mid-autumn festival,
but a midnight chill
touches my jade pillow and silk bed-screen.
I drink wine by the eastern fence in the yellow dusk.
Now a dark fragrance fills
my sleeves and makes me spin.
The bamboo blinds sway in the west wind.
And I am even thinner than a yellow flower.
poem by Li Ching Chao
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